( closed ) googles "song lyrics about spas"

[champions]

WHO: Marisol & Nikos
WHAT: RECONNAISSANCE and SPY WORK about the NECROPOLIS (not remotely, at all)
WHEN: a time, a place
WHERE: Antiva
NOTES:Marisol is the worst

Ah, home. It was a relief to be Antiva again, even if it was to be only brief. She had contacted her Uncle Ruy on behalf of Araceli and the Inquisition, and in return had requested a visit. They are only on the way to the visit, and she may not have mentioned that aspect of the journey to Nikos. Truthfully, she won't make him visit her uncle, dread pirate, but then... she might. Surely a pirate lord would fit well with his ideologies of people who give up family privilege.

Surely.

Anyway, here they are, wrapped up in hot towels on two beds within whispering distance of one another if they are careful, masks being slathered on their faces, and cucumber slices placed over the eyes.

She told him that if they were careful while they were here, they might overhear information invaluable to finding out more about who ordered the Necropolis disaster and orchestrated it - blackmail material, mostly. And if they do, that would be great, but actually she lied. This is just a cousins bonding day, because Nikos needs to learn about self-care.

"Remember," she says, relaxing into the steam, "whatever we want to use for leverage needs to be good."

As if he needs coaching on spy work.

Comments

[exsecutus]

Nikos likes Antiva better than Kirkwall. And he theoretically likes pirate uncles better than his regular noble uncles, though he only has the latter, and would need to borrow Marisol's if he wanted the former. Which he doesn't, really. And he will be irritated when he finds out he has been roped into anything of a family reunion, even if it is on the side of Marisol's family that he does not share.

Nikos likes Marisol best of all of his relatives, which is why he is tolerating this at all. There is something about the indulgence of a spa that rubs raw against everything he stands for.

But. Nikos is in Antiva for his cousin's sake, and for the sake of the information that they will overhear. He has a packet of papers to deliver to Malandra, on behalf of Caspar--who he has not told Marisol about. Nor does he intend to. The steam unknits the muscles of his shoulders. The attendants did away with the worst of his stubble, before they would put the mask on him. That was unpleasant. He is a bad shave.

"Thank you," he says, in a flat undertone. He can't see her--the cucumber--but he knows where she is, and can direct a scowl toward her that she, likewise, will not see. "This is my first time."

His shoulders have unknit a little more. This is unfair.

[champions]

Even when one's eyes are closed, it is possible to feel the warmth and know you have stepped into sunlight. Nikos' scowls had a similar effect. She smiles serenely, basking in the radiating displeasure, smug and self-assured in the knowledge that soon it will be eclipsed.

She made sure to request a mask that smelled amazing. Softening and cleansing for the skin, yes, but she did not trust Nikos to endure a bad smell for the sake of beauty and find it relaxing. No, this is a mixture of rose, lavender, honey, of so many things to soothe and brighten the complexion. It is blissful.

Marisol does not talk about the mask, because she knows better.

"I am here to support and nurture you," she replies, as if that was not a flat undertone, and her comments were not totally unnecessary. Ah, this is so nice. She wiggles her toes a little, enjoying the warmth of the towels and the steam, and sighs contently. "We should look into information trading done via encoded skin treatments. It sounds like something Orlesians would spend a lot of money on."

[exsecutus]

Nurture is a dirty word to Nikos, who spent his childhood wriggling away from the weight of his father's comforting hand and his mother's embraces. He has never wanted to be nurtured, and he is too old for it besides. Nor is it something he would deserve. Who nurtures the poor? Charities are performative bullshit, with a thin sprinkling of the genuine that allows people to fool themselves of their own goodness.

Grudgingly, he snorts.

"The fucking Orlesians would spend money on jars of runny monkey shit, if someone told them it was in fashion for it to be dabbed on the face." It feels good to discuss shit in these hushed and expensive halls of relaxation. The steam feels good, too, he thinks, as an afterthought. "I doubt it's anything they've thought of themselves. What would the code be? Two parts lavender, 'meet at the second hour of the day', four parts lavender, 'meet at the fourth hour'..."

[champions]

Okay, she makes a slight face at runny monkey shit, just because what a visual to bring into this serene and beautiful place. Dryly, "thank the Maker that this is not an Orlesian spa."

And thank the Maker that she is too content and comfortable to be truly thrown by the mention. "They could suffer for hours, uncertain of the quantities and proportions used, but too proud and elite to ask for clarification. Just steeped in their Grand Game, having a crisis over lavender."

Honestly, that sounds very entertaining. "And then there could be more elements. A foot massage could mean that someone is on the run, or that they need to run."

[exsecutus]

Nikos' smirk puts furrows in the sticky mask spread over his face. He very much likes the idea of Orlesians looking like fools, trying to divine secret meaning. Too proud, too elite--it all checks out.

They should shut up and listen. The spa, when they had entered, was mostly empty. They were earlier than most of the usual patrons, the attendant had told them, as she led them down the warm corridor. It is better, always, to arrive first, to set up and establish yourself before the arrival of a target. Surely by now, time has passed enough that they are no longer alone, but Nikos does not hear the murmur of any conversation just yet--only a quiet and prolonged hiss of steam, as water is dumped over coals somewhere to his left. He resists the urge to peel back a cucumber slice and look for himself. If there is no conversation, there is nothing to listen to. Staring around like a lunatic won't help him any.

"And a full-body massage?"

[champions]

"Seduction would be too obvious. A full body massage should mean shackling someone so their entire body is immobile. Or perhaps the full body massage is a metaphor for thorough investigation."

She is serene, under her cucumber slices and towels, but is happy to play at listening for a moment as she stays quiet, and then sighs, faintly frustrated. ("""Frustrated.""" She doesn't give a fuck that there's no conversation to listen in on, they have so much more pampering to go through.)

"You know, this would be an ideal opportunity for me to ask you about Caspar, if I were being terrible."

[exsecutus]

Nikos swallows anything he'd have added to the joke, in order to sharpen his ears and listen. Nothing. Footsteps, softly padding on damp stone. Water sloshing in a bucket. A servant, passing by. His sigh is genuine, as sharp and as frustrated as Marisol's.

Or so he believes. Which is what makes her abrupt turn all the more surprising. Caught off-guard, his fingers flex, sends tension up his arms. His frown digs new furrows into his mask.

"How fortunate for me there is nothing for you to gain by being terrible. Only things to lose." If this were anyone else, that is just where Nikos would end it. Because it is Marisol, she gets the benefit of a few words more.

"And there is nothing to tell."

A very few words more.

[champions]

"And you know you are far too precious for me to chance, so I will spare you the voice of concern and the offer to talk whenever you need to."

Just to be clear. She is very considerate, that way.

And, still the worst; she moves one of her arms, just enough to enable herself to lift up one of the cucumber slices, and drops it back down with a quiet breath that carries just a hint of impatience, before she settles back down, heroically overcoming the emotion that she is in no way actually experiencing.

"Is that good or bad?"

[exsecutus]

Nikos feels, momentarily, the sort of chill that a rabbit must feel as it enters the first step toward a snare. Like a rabbit headed for a snare, he doesn't know what the chill means. Later, if he thinks of it, perhaps he will realize that this was a trap all along, but--like a rabbit, caught in a snare--it will be a realization that comes a moment or more too late.

"I don't know," he answers, tersely. "Good, I suppose. No word means he's still alive. If he weren't, I would hear about it."

This was all much easier to do by letter. The telling, that is, about Caspar. Nikos' favorite topic, and his least. It was especially easier to do it not during a spy mission.

"He was in Seleny." For Marisol's sake, he gives up that bit of information. Grudgingly. It's outdated, anyways, and can't be used against them--not that Marisol would, but someone around them might, even inadvertently. "Ever been?"

[champions]

"Seleny? Of course." With an air of drama, exaggerated absurdity. "I am everywhere and nowhere."

She waits a long moment, and taps her finger against her thigh. She would really love a smoke right now. The warmth of the smoke against her lunges and her throat, heat against the cool of the day.

Probably not appropriate for the venue. Unfortunate.

"I have people there, if you'd like me to make inquiries." A pause, and then, "it must be very difficult."

[exsecutus]

"It's not."

It is difficult. And it's not difficult. Both are true at once, two disparate truths that should be tricky to straddle, but Caspar manages it; for Caspar, Nikos manages it. Nikos flattens himself against the table, like being lower will make her overlook him, or at least miss his tells. Marisol knows him too well, and he sighs, irritably. It blends in nicely with the hiss of steam, as warm water is dumped over coals.

"It's a part of who we are. The work that we do. There's nothing to be gained by complaining about an essential component, of-- anyway, I don't want inquiries made. I would make them myself if I thought they would be answered with any useful information. Why are talking about Caspar?"

He raises himself on his elbows as he says this, a few seconds from plucking the fucking cucumber slices off of his eyes so he can glare more clearly at her.

"I'm not-- I don't need help. I'm not sad about this."