faderift | closed ||

Entry tags:

closed ||

WHO: Caspar Perakis & Nikos Averesch
WHAT: a tearful reunion while waiting for some intel
WHEN: NOW. but at night.
WHERE: Darktown, where all romantic reunions take place.
NOTES: nah

"You're a fucking idiot," Nikos says, to the love of his life.

They have exchanged letters, written in code. Do not come to Kirkwall is a pretty clear directive, even after it is decoded. And yet Nikos had known, as he folded that last letter, that Caspar would come to Kirkwall anyways.

He can't, in words, explain why he wanted Caspar not to come. Part of it is maybe that Kirkwall positions Caspar too close to two people Nikos is not eager for him to encounter. He loves Marisol; he's related to Kostos. And Caspar is a different part of him that exists elsewhere, and always has. Better that it stay that way.

Kirkwall is also where Nikos was sent, to work. And when you are somewhere in the field, working, and suddenly the the head of the organization takes an interest in your particular corner of field and comes calling, it feels like a failure. In their line of work, failure often means cutting your losses and getting the fuck out of town. So it's not proper failure. And Caspar isn't the proper head of a proper organization; Caspar is, in fact, much more than that. For one, he's not Nikos' supervisor. They are, probably, equals, among other titles and pronouns and things. But Caspar is the one who smiles, who talks, who inspires, who makes people want to attend to what he has to say. Certainly it worked on Nikos. Still does, if he were to be truthful.

He is not letting it work on him today. In Darktown, in the back corner of a very dingy tavern, in a booth tucked into a nook with a low and greasy lamp hanging over it, Nikos has his arms folded over his chest and his arse half off the bench and a frown settled so deep on his face it looks as if it has stuck that way. Which would imply that his mother's warning has finally come true.

Crumpled on the table is a note that Nikos had discovered just today, written in that personal code. Two words, only: Broken Dog, and then the little symbol that Caspar uses in place of his name or his initial. Found stuffed under Nikos' door when he woke up this morning, setting the tone for the whole day.

Nikos has been at this table since the afternoon. He has plans, later--a handoff of the names of Van Markham supporters. He should be waiting there, staking out the site. Instead he has been here, drinking bad wine, since this afternoon. The sign outside--two halves of a dog, no written name--had been an obvious indication of where he is to meet Caspar, who is sidling up to the table now as if they were still schoolboys meeting for a drink after their last class. He looks well, which Nikos confirms in a glance. He looks fantastic, even in a bulky cloak. He wants to kiss him as much as he wants to punch him.

He settles instead for shoving the crumpled note across the table, so that it falls onto the seat of the built-in bench that Caspar will sit on.

"My contact expects me within the hour," he says, in a very low tone. "My contact expects to meet one man. You could have shown up earlier. Or not at all, as I suggested."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"It's good to see you, too," he says, and any sarcasm in it is too fond to counteract the statement. Caspar palms the scrap of paper as he slides onto the bench and leans forward onto his elbows, closing some of the gap between them. He looks as unbothered and casual as Nikos looks annoyed, which is to say: very unbothered.

There are a lot of reasons that Nikos won't be happy with his visit. He's known him long enough that he'd subconsciously compiled a list of objections as soon as he'd made the decision to come; and, admittedly, piecing together Nikos' complaints has never taken much detective work. The first thing out of his mouth is business (well, technically second), and there's the inevitable sense of stepping on toes — one that he isn't about to make better.

"Your contact's information is likely outdated." Not by much. By one day, by one conversation, by one petty decision on behalf of a few rich Antivans. He offers it up like a friendly suggestion, not a correction. He's not playing boss. He's just passing notes, running errands. He could've sent someone else with the update — would have, normally, and he's aware that running his own errands is unavoidably suspicious.

Instead of admitting as much outright, he slides his foot across the floor, lightly shoving at Nikos' boot. Just like meeting for drinks after class, right?

Nikos' mouth relaxes a little, at Caspar's sarcasm. Tightens again at his news. He crosses his arms over his chest again, more tightly this time. Shoring up his defenses against Caspar's charm.

"Marvelous," he says, sour enough to imply that he means anything but. "Two weeks of bargaining for outdated information. I love this."

This is nothing new, and certainly it isn't the first time Nikos has maimed and bargained and spied for a tip that was rendered useless nearly immediately. Information is always in flux, newer and better tips. The only consistency is how inconsistent it can all be, like spring rain, or an old man trying to take a piss. That's exactly the sort of metaphor that will keep Nikos from grabbing Caspar by his good strong chin and kissing him.

Well, that and the fact that physical affection in public makes his skin crawl. He doesn't, tellingly, pull his foot away from Caspar's. He doesn't press back, either, but he doesn't pull away. A big concession.

"And by that am I to assume that you're my new contact?"

Caspar smiles, partly because of that big concession, partly in an effort to take the edge off the predictably inconvenient news.

"For now." There's a brief pause as a woman leans between them to deposit drinks on the table, one for Caspar and a fresh one for Nikos. Plying Nikos with drinks isn't actually his favorite tactic, or necessarily a tactic at all — except that you can't exactly sit in a tavern in Darktown and not drink. His focus barely leaves Nikos, and it's back on him in full as soon as she steps away.

"Contact is a bit limiting. I'd say partner."

Because they're equals on the job, sure, and it's sort of appeasing on that level. It also feels significantly more permanent. A contact delivers information and goes on with their business; a partner sticks around to help digest that information, make decisions. And while he isn't trying to be insufferably vague, this isn't really the place to talk specifics.

"Mm," says Nikos, dryly. Partner.

He reaches for his drink first, once the woman has gone. Takes a drink first, too, because of course he does. The taste of it is pretty poor, but it's better than nothing, especially as he's more than a few in.

He can feel himself thawing. Partner has done a great deal to do it. That one stupid word, and Caspar sitting across from him, and a drink in his hand. As bitter as he is, as he's known to be, there are small things that can make Nikos something like happy. As reluctant as he was to have Caspar come here, there is some spark in him that has kindled, already, at the sight of him. Looking at Caspar has always been a little like looking at the sun.

Which means that Nikos forces himself to look into his cup instead.

"You shouldn't join up." He takes another drink, quick. The Inquisition, he means. Better not to say it aloud. "It's limiting."

And someone should be on the outside. He wants to ask about the information that Caspar has. He wants to take him by the collar. He curls his hands around his cup. Swallows the questions. This isn't the place for passing details back and forth, and--he doesn't want Caspar to stay, in Kirkwall--but even so. There will be time, later.

It's a fair point, and it's one of the reasons he's put off this visit for so long. Caspar takes a small drink, thoughtful, leaning back into the uncomfortable chair.

"It's essential." That sounds very dramatic. That isn't unusual for him, but this is Nikos; he tempers it with a look, apologetic. "Unfortunately."

The Inquisition's got its fingers in too many pots, whether they mean to or not. And with everything going on in the north — he leans forward again, and while the movement's smooth, it's about as restless as he visibly gets. He wants to be out of this tavern. He wants privacy, for more reasons than just tactics.

"Where are you staying?"

Like he doesn't already know.

Nikos had lifted his eyebrows at the dramatics dropped into in casual conversation. He leaves them there, raised and judgmental, even when Caspar walks it back a little bit.

"The Gallows. Where every member of the Inquisition stays, unless they've arrived with enough wealth and connections to set themselves apart in comfort, living in a mansion somewhere." Marisol. Nikos takes another drink of wine to ease the pain of having a loved one who participates in that sort of shit. He's not had so much to drink that he misses the tint of barely-there urgency present in the lines of Caspar's body. "Seeing as you had a message to me delivered there, I'll assume you're asking as a cloaked way for an invite you back."

So. He looks, frankly, at Caspar, before he drains his cup. "Shall we?"

He wants out too. He wants privacy. Caspar, to himself. His intel and him. Laying bare secrets, confessions. Nikos doesn't offer a hand, when he stands. His gaze lingers just a little too long at Caspar's mouth, expression clearing infinitesimally.

He's never found Nikos' critical looks particularly daunting — more charming, usually. That's mostly the case here, and the raised brows and very accurate call-out of Caspar's pointless question get a slight smile, affectionate and amused.

"Clever as always." More like stating the obvious. He wonders if the comment about wealthy recruits is a jab at someone specific, but it doesn't really matter, and he doesn't ask. Instead he takes a short drink and stands up, flashing a broader smile as he catches Nikos' gaze.

The trip to the Gallows is more quiet because they've got nothing to say in public than companionable, though it's sort of that, too — they've spent enough time laying low for this to feel routine, even after months apart. Once they're at the docks, he finally slants Nikos a look; his expression is reserved, but it's one Nikos knows. Teasing.

"The reports don't do it justice."

Reports as in Nikos' condemnations? The ones claiming the Inquisition is a terrifyingly efficient threat, or the ones calling it a hot mess? Probably all of them.

And now, at last--

At last because they've come all this way together in trim silence, walking more or less side by side. At last because it is finally just the two of them standing together at the edge of the docks, facing toward the Gallows at this present moment, a moment separate from the miserable crowds of Kirkwall proper that they pushed through, and separate too from the few others that are gathered behind them, waiting on the ferry. At last, because Nikos does know that look, that Caspar is wearing in this moment, and he would never admit it to anyone but it is one of his favorite looks on Caspar, and because buried in Nikos is something like humor, running toward grim and clipped and sarcastic but nevertheless appreciative of Caspar's stupid dry remark--and ultimately because Nikos really, really has missed Caspar, really does love Caspar, so much that it makes him angry sometimes--

All this is to say that now, at last, Nikos looks over at Caspar. His expression has cleared again, and yes, fine. He'll smile.

Sort of. It's reserved, too, but it's one that Caspar knows just as well.

"If you wanted a poet to send reports," he says, and leaves it hanging. "There were enough of them lounging around."

Way back when, he means, back when Nikos wasn't the only one hanging on Caspar's every word. All manner of people, men and women. And Nikos, tight-lipped, glaring from the back of the room.

"It's a shithole. Which is why I said don't bother. Among other reasons. But you're a pigheaded fool, so," now they're here, and Nikos gestures toward the slumped mass of the Gallows, which awaits Caspar's presence. His favorite fool.

Admiration and affection aren't as slow-boiling in him as they are in Nikos, but it's still novel to be reminded of how much he appreciates that look — reserved, familiar — and the dry, sideways criticism that passes for humor. Nikos gives him that restrained smile, and he responds by flashing a much broader smile of his own, as if he's just caught Nikos red-handed at something. Something being caring, and that's sort of the case. The rest of the case is that it's just good to see Nikos, and it's even better to see him away from a crowded tavern and, presumably, slightly closer to legitimate privacy.

"Ah, but I'm your favorite pigheaded fool." Mind-reading. The Gallows is a shithole, though. It's instinct to give the scene an assessing once-over. The state of the buildings across the way, the boats, the people waiting to cross. It's haphazard, and it isn't exactly impressive, but it seems functional enough. Absently, "You could've at least arranged a private boat."

You know, with all that advance notice he gave.

The force of Caspar's smile is like looking at the sun after a long period of darkness. Nikos should be used to it by now. He isn't. Perhaps it's the separation that has made him weak to it, leaves him feeling like part of him is burning.

Nikos should be able to say something to Caspar by now. He isn't a poet. He is thirty years old, and he has spent nearly half of his life in proximity to Caspar, in obsession with Caspar, looking at Caspar and thinking about Caspar so, by now, he should be able to speak to Caspar. Instead he feels the burn of feeling flush into his face, and he doesn't know how to say what he feels, and wordlessness sours into frustration, which curdles to anger--which means Nikos looks down, quickly, at his boots, lest Caspar catch greater sight of emotion that he can't release in words.

Two seconds, to collect himself. Because, after all, he is thirty years old, and has learned a little control. And then it's easier to be snappy back at Caspar, as long as Caspar is looking at the Gallows and no longer turning the dazzling brunt of himself right on Nikos.

"You could have advised me of your stupid plans, with transparency and a stricter timeline." With all that advance notice indeed. "The ferry is more economical. As far as I know, we don't spare coin for luxury." And he knows exactly what he's doing when he adds, "Give me one good reason that we would have spared coin for a private boat."

Tell secrets, make out. They're about the same, in terms of what Nikos is into, what he likes to see Caspar use his mouth for. He fixes his eyes on the approaching ferry and does not look at Caspar.

Telling secrets and making out are, of course, both of his good reasons. Not necessarily in that order. Nikos' frustration is palpable, and were they already on a boat or back at Nikos' rooms, it'd be easy to vent it in ways other than pretty words. Now, not so much. Caspar isn't exactly against making a scene, but he knows when not to.

He still shifts his weight, leaning imperceptibly closer to Nikos. A small comfort, even if there's still plenty of perfectly appropriate space between them. He shifts his focus out across the water, following Nikos' lead and allowing him to stew without audience.

"Impatience."

That covers both. Sort of. The small crowd behind them starts to move forward as the ferry docks, and Caspar steps forward, unhurried, giving Nikos another look.

"You can get boats without coin, you know."

Friends of friends of friends, and all that. Then again, asking for friendly favors has never exactly been Nikos' main talent. And all ribbing aside, it's clear that Caspar is perfectly fine with the ferry; it's just harmless, pointless talk to fill the space before they can speak plainly. Technically, the ferry's better — easier to get a pulse on the mood of the Inquisition, even if he'd also technically rather be getting a feel for Nikos' pulse.

If anyone was, in this moment, feeling Nikos' pulse, they would think him afflicted with some condition. His heartbeat vacillates between thready and too-quick by abrupt turns, especially when Caspar leans that much closer. The warmth of his presence, very real: Nikos could reach out and grab him, if he wanted to. He thinks, again, how he very much wants to.

Impatience is a very nice word for this feeling. The war in Nikos is all emotion and desire and sentimentality, feelings, versus how he very much does want it to get out that, if one were to translate Nikos' inner feelings to a physical material, the weight and force of those feelings would be enough to sink a small fleet of ferries, never mind the single sad ferry that they are stepping on to.

"You can get boats without coin," he corrects. The ferry is low and shallow-bottomed, with three rows of benches like a rough outdoorsy classroom. The floor of it pitches and rocks as people begin to fill in. Nikos moves straight to sit, stiffly, at the back, as close to the end of the bench as he is able. "As I have seen it, you can get most anything without coin, and to make it worse, you blithely assume the same power has been gifted to everyone, but it hasn't. Congratulations on your ability to work miracles."

Caspar takes a seat next to him, close enough to touch — because it's a crowded ferry, filling up quickly. Only reason, of course. He turns towards him and leans in a bit, though the gesture's still well within the bounds of familiar rather than intimate. Easy to take as friends or friendly business partners, which they are, technically.

"Thank you." As if Nikos' remark was an honest compliment, though his tone's too cheeky to be taken seriously. He's watching Nikos now, not the towers or the water or the other passengers as the ferry pushes off with a deep, slow rock. His attention's easy, though; fond, casual. This isn't business — it's simple catching up.

"Did you ever imagine you'd end up living in a templar's tower?"

As he is working to acclimate to the direct force of Caspar's attention and proximity, Nikos can only give a non-committal grunt in response to that jokey word of thanks. The murmured conversation of the rest of the crowd on the ferry, the sluice of the boat's progress as the bow cuts through the dark water--it all provides a good blind for conversation. He thinks, again, about taking Caspar's hand, but there is no blind that could veil that, short of an actual blind or veil, so he doesn't.

Instead, he dares to look back at Caspar. Manages a kind of half-smile.

"I was born a toff, as you well know. Thought I'd live in a mansion. In a garden shed on the grounds, if my lord proved in a particularly generous mood the day we divvied up the holdings. Somehow I never once considered the life of a templar as an appealing alternative. Always hated them. As I understand it, my current room was last occupied by a member of the Order known to be disturbingly monastic. It will be a pleasure," too rich a word, so he is careful to say it deadpan, "to profane it a little."

With Caspar, he means. Obviously. So obvious he leaves it entirely unsaid, and by force of will, manages to hold his gaze. Caspar is being unfair, playing to Nikos' weaknesses, giving him that smile, so he has to reclaim ground.

"Only a little."

He echoes, thoughtfully, as if in agreement and with none of the weight the subject requires. He seems slightly distracted, though the cause of his distraction is entirely on topic. He's considering Nikos as a proper toff, making a genuine effort to fit into high society without making waves or offending gentle ladies, which is entertaining enough on its own. But then he's imagining Nikos the templar, which is so wildly outlandish that it's hard to sincerely call it appealing, but—

"Do you suppose they've left any uniforms? Storage, perhaps."

Nikos, staring moodily down at the water, now turns his attention back to Caspar. It's a slow shift, with plenty of comedic timing. The prow of the boat cuts through the water, filling the silence with a quiet rush.

The thing about Caspar is, he might be serious. Or he might be trying Nikos' patience. Or simply joking. And Nikos, looking at Caspar, does not know which it is, or even which he would prefer.

"I worry about you," he says, eventually. Which is, tellingly, neither a yes or a no.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

closed ||

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

zombie noises

zombies back in indiana

hi cavill was annoying so i have a new pb. SURPRISe NIKoS...........

ok but i love him

guess what i love yOU

plurkblushemoji

throws self respect into the garbage

good riddance also I'm so happy

8^)

(^B

an important month late tag

an important answer to the important tag