Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A sharp, quick knock on the door made him jump in his seat.

He hit his knee on the underside of the table he was seated at, causing the faded mirror in front of him to topple over and hit the ground with a loud clatter. He cursed under his breath as he leaned down, attempting to pick it back up without losing the hold on the strands of his hair, halfway braided, woven between the fingers of his other hand.

The knocking sounded again, more persistent, and he had no other choice but to yell out from under the table: “Yeah?”

The door to the captain’s cabin creaked open, and the face of one of the crewmen appeared in the crack.

“Sir,” he said, as his eyes quickly took in the scene in front of him. He swallowed audibly, but other than that, kept a straight face. “Captain requests your presence on the deck as soon as possible, sir.”

“Of course,” Flynn replied, finally managing to retrieve the mirror, “You can tell him I’ll be right there.”

The crewman nodded quickly and pulled back into the shadows of the hall, closing the door after himself.

Flynn ran his free hand down his face with a heavy sigh. He placed the mirror back on the tabletop in front of him, then proceeded hastily to finish the braid he was working on, tying the end of it with a thin, dark green ribbon. He stared at his reflection for a couple of moments, but couldn’t help the anxious feeling pooling deep in his gut. A few strands of his hair had already managed to slip out of the braid, and he attempted to stuff them back in, but to no avail. The closer they had sailed towards the western shoreline of Eastern Kingdoms, the warmer and more humid the air had become, which in turn had taken a direct toll on his hair; making it, for the first time in his life, curl annoyingly on its own accord. And no matter what, or how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t get it in order.

Fantastic timing, as always.

He gave up on his attempts to fix the hairstyle, worrying he might ruin it even further. He glanced into the mirror for the last time, then ran his fingers briefly down his jawline to inspect the close shave he had somehow managed to achieve that morning, without cutting himself even once. Deeming it quite decent, he smoothed his moustache for good measure, then pushed himself away from the table and off the chair.

He grabbed his Admiralty uniform coat from the backrest and quickly pulled it on. The wool was thinner than his favourite, though sadly, former leather coat, but it was the first piece of clothing he had done by a tailor especially for him, alongside a pair of matching, woolen trousers and a couple of formal, deep sea satin shirts. The Admiralty coat was dyed dark blue and adorned with golden buttons, that matched the delicate, golden embroidery that ran along its cuffs, lapels and collar.

He was reluctant to wear it at first, certain that just one of the buttons was probably worth more than his entire former outfit. But he figured that being an Admiralty-employed captain simply went with a set of privileges and it would be a waste of resources not to take advantage of them.

His favourite part of the outfit, though, was the tricorne that came with it, made from thick, cured leather and stitched together with a golden thread.

He couldn’t afford a proper one for the majority of his life, and he remembered envying the Proudmoore Academy recruits terribly, in times when he was younger and still living off various street jobs that more often than not included all kinds of thievery. He probably wouldn’t have believed back then if someone had told him that in a couple of years he’d have not only a proper tricorne of his own, but also an actual Admiralty title to go with it.

The act of putting the hat on his head had become some sort of sacred ceremony to him, however brief it was.

He lifted a hand to his forehead as he stepped out onto the deck, shielding his eyes and giving himself a couple of seconds to adjust to the warm brightness of the early afternoon sun. He had spent the past couple of hours trying to get himself to look as presentable as he could manage, which had proven to be exceptionally problematic, as he not only had to work against the constant sway of the ship as it cut through the deep sea waves, but also against the tremble of his own hands. He couldn’t even tell exactly how long it had taken him to fasten all the buttons of his new dark blue navy coat. He couldn’t recall a time in his life when he had felt just as nervous.

“Land-ho,” Tandred informed him, glancing briefly over his shoulder as Flynn joined him on the captain bridge. He stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, facing the land mass ahead, that had started to slowly sketch itself against the cloudless sky. “The winds are in our favour, we should be able to reach Stormwind before nightfall.”

Flynn hummed in acknowledgement, then stepped closer to the side of the deck and rested his hands on the wooden railing. He squinted at the gradually darkening shape on the horizon, trying to make out at least the barest outline of the city. But so far it only appeared as a bunch of ivory white specks against the dark greens and browns of the mountain range ahead. He barely registered that his fingers twitched slightly on the cool, salt-rough wood.

He felt, more than noticed, Tandred stepping forward as well, to stand beside him by the railing. A gentle, warm gust of sea breeze hit their faces, ruffling Tandred’s blonde hair and ruining Flynn’s carefully-woven braid even more.

“What’s wrong?” Tandred asked him softly, though Flynn noticed a glint of benign amusement in his eyes. “I haven’t seen you since the early morning change of watch. Don’t tell me that a couple days more at the sea than your usual island-hopping is enough to make you seasick,” he paused and dragged his gaze all over Flynn’s attire, narrowing his eyes slightly at the ribbon tying the end of his braid, “Also, what’s with… all of this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so… well-tended to.”

Flynn gave him a pained look, but stayed silent otherwise. That didn’t discourage Tandred in the slightest.

“I’m sure the Alliance king will be thrilled to meet you, but I’m also pretty sure that formal hair updos weren’t mentioned anywhere as mandatory during the audience,” Tandred continued, this time with easily audible playfulness in his voice, and nudged Flynn’s side with his elbow. This didn’t get a reaction from him either, and the Kul Tiran kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on the horizon. Tandred’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he finally managed to connect all the dots. Flynn finally looked away from the horizon, alarmed by the prolonged silence, right in time to see a broad, smug grin stretch across his friend’s, and his captain's lips. Flynn gave him a slightly doubtful look.

“Unless,” Tandred said, pointing a finger towards him, “unless you’re hoping someone else will be thrilled to see you. I must admit, that’s certainly something to hope for, because honestly? I’ve never seen that man thrilled about anything, ever.”

Flynn sighed heavily. “Are you quite done?”

Tandred let go of the shit-eating grin he was sporting in favour of a softer, slightly apologetic smile. The two men stared at each other for a while, until Flynn sighed again and returned to watching the horizon, and Tandred followed his line of sight. Comfortable, though slightly strained, silence fell between them.

“How long has it been?” Tandred asked quietly after a while.

Flynn ran his hand down his face, smoothing his moustache again with his slightly trembling fingers. He was silent for a couple more seconds, as he gathered his thoughts.

“Eight months.”

“Isn’t that when the armistice was signed? You haven’t seen each other since?” Tandred pressed on, with a slight disbelief audible in his voice. Flynn shook his head.

“There were probably a lot of things that required the Alliance Spymaster’s attention after the war had ended. That’s what I reckon, at least. I never asked, I just assumed he wouldn’t be interested,” he explained.

“So what’s with the sudden change of heart, then?”

“We… we wrote letters. To each other,” Flynn admitted after a pause. He didn’t miss the slight upward twitch of Tandred’s eyebrows. “He mentioned that there were ongoing talks about the exchange of naval forces, to further strengthen Kul Tiran allegiance to the Alliance, and provide something from the Alliance in return. He asked whether I’d be interested in captaining one of the ships, and soon enough, you came around and asked me about the same thing.”

“Well, you’ve got the official papers now, and I know that you’re capable, so it seemed like the most obvious choice,” remarked Tandred.

“I don’t know, it just… seemed like an invitation? A vague one, I admit, but everything is vague with him,” Flynn continued, slightly more exasperated than before, “all I wanted was to see him again. I’ve been over the moon with the idea that it would actually happen, but now, the closer we get to the shore, the more I doubt that I’ve actually read it all right.”

“Well, there’s one way to find out,” Tandred quipped, but his grin faltered slightly at the sight of Flynn’s resigned expression. “I mean. The exchange is supposed to be a formal event. I’m sure he’ll be there, and I’m sure you’ll get a chance to talk properly,” he patted Flynn’s arm sympathetically.

“See, that’s what I’m worried about,” Flynn said bitterly. “Taelia used to say that I was constantly bothering him while he was stationed in Boralus. I know she was joking, but at the same time, he wasn’t particularly direct in showing me that he was interested, either. What if he was just being polite? And I’m just a nuisance, following him around like a barnacle stuck to the underside of the keel.”

“You said you’ve managed to keep in touch anyway. And for all I know and from what Jaina has ever mentioned, he’s not known for engaging in activities unrelated to his work at all. So I think it’s safe to assume that he doesn’t consider you a nuisance,” Tandred tried to reason, noticing how Flynn’s posture tensed visibly more and more with every passing second that he spent thinking about his meeting with the Spymaster. “Besides, I’m sure you’re bound to attract a lot of looks, including the one you’re hoping for. Especially looking like that, and with a title of such importance in front of your name.”

Flynn scoffed, giving him a sour look. Tandred could only shrug sheepishly, as if he wanted to say “What? I’m trying.”.

“Come on, let’s get below deck. I’ll fix your braid if you’re inclined,” he said instead, and when Flynn made no move whatsoever that would indicate his compliance, he added: “Don’t force me into making it an order,” and pulled the sleeve of Flynn’s coat gently, though intently, to get his point even further through.

Flynn pushed himself away from the railing with a heavy sigh. He chewed anxiously on the inside of his cheek, still visibly lost in thought, worrying about all the possible outcomes and what-ifs regarding the nearing encounter. He almost tripped on the stairs leading below deck, and if it weren’t for Tandred’s steady arm against his chest, he would have come tumbling down straight onto his face.

Tandred looked at him doubtfully, but the bright glimmer of amusement was once again present in his sky blue eyes. “Tides, you’re hopeless.”

*

Chapter Text

The news about the ceasefire spread all over the city like a wildfire. It reached Flynn in Snug Harbor, as he sat by the counter, slightly sullen, over his untouched pint. Cheering erupted all around him, engulfing him like a tidal wave; a deafening roar that incorporated voices of all races, coming together in a well-deserved celebration. It was to be expected, after all. No war lasted forever, and with Sylvanas gone, it was only a matter of time until the fighting would be called off. What bothered him instead was the way in which it became known to him.

He had been on Wind’s Redemption to submit expedition reports just mere hours before, even making small talk with Shaw in the passing. And yet the Spymaster hadn’t felt the need to inform him about the upcoming Alliance exodus. He couldn’t call Shaw his friend, unfortunately, despite his best efforts over the past couple of weeks their relationship remained strictly professional. Especially on Shaw’s side. But still he hoped that their… acquaintance was at least slightly meaningful to the older man. It seemed that he was mistaken.

People drank, laughed, shouted and sang all around him, but he kept his place by the counter, entirely unmoved by the overwhelming commotion, staring at the slowly dissipating foam on the surface of his ale. He decided to remove himself from the tavern soon after, leaving a couple of coins beside his full mug. The chilly evening air prickled at his heated cheeks as he made his way through the harbor, and the news, an obvious blessing to every single inhabitant of Boralus, tasted bitter on his dry tongue.

He stuffed his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat as he walked, and lifted his shoulders to shield his neck from the chilly evening breeze. He felt a pinch of frustration prod at him, as he realized that, ironically, he had to pass by Redemption again to reach Middenwake and her quiet, forgiving, though probably cold at this hour, captain cabin. The Alliance vessel loomed over the wharf, strangely judgemental as he walked under her bowsprit, and even though he desperately fought against it, his thoughts still drifted towards one of its inhabitants. He thought about the first time he had seen the man, a little more than a year ago. How intimidating he had seemed at first, but at the same time how Flynn had been immediately drawn to him, in some way. He bit on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to feel the metallic tinge of blood on his tongue, and thought bitterly that he was way too sober for this.

There was always a certain… aura of utmost professionalism around Shaw, and he didn’t seem like he’d be willing to spare even a minute of his precious time for someone like Flynn. He had a war to lead, after all, and Flynn had been greatly aware of that. So he had kept his thoughts to himself, initially, but it still didn’t stop him from hanging out on the deck of the Alliance man-of-war for a bit longer than necessary, or letting his eyes linger on the Spymaster’s lean form, as he stood with his back to him and his hands on the mission table, or when he discussed something with the rest of the war council.

It was supposed to be just a simple crush. A passing appreciation of the man’s physical features. He had plenty of crushes, after all, with men and women alike, and they had never caused him any prolonged trouble. Besides, the current object of his interests happened to be the Spymaster of the tide-damned Alliance, and a man seemingly quite a bit older than him. Disregarding their other, equally vast, differences.

But then the heist had brought them, and Flynn couldn’t even recall how many times he had thanked the Tidemother for it, on a first-name basis, well, almost, but it still was much more than he could have ever hoped for. It had given Flynn a bit more courage to approach the Spymaster more often, and to his pleasant surprise, Shaw had actually allowed himself to be approached. Not only had he acknowledged Flynn’s presence on board of Wind’s Redemption, but also began to inquire about the progress of the expeditions or, though on a bit more rare occasions, even made smalltalk about seemingly irrelevant things like whether the weather happened to be good for sailing at that particular day. And with each passing day it became obvious to Flynn that the feelings that the Spymaster’s presence invoked in him reached way beyond any definitions of a plain crush. Beyond anything he had ever experienced, for that matter.

Days passed and these, however brief, interactions with Shaw had become the sheer highlight of his day. They required a lot more effort on his behalf to maintain, but he had found himself more than willing to keep it going. To an indifferent bystander Shaw might have kept his distance and remained professional, but Flynn had managed, somehow along the way, to attune himself to the Spymaster’s reserved demeanor. He had learned what to look for and where to search for the manifestations of his approval: the little upward twitches of his mouth under his moustache at yet another one of Flynn’s witty remarks, or the slightly warmer looks Shaw had given him each time he came on board. He had been ready to give the Spymaster all the time in the world if he so desired, if only it meant that he would gradually open to Flynn more and more.

The tip of his leather boot caught on the edge of the Middenwake’s gangplank and he cursed under his breath, throwing his arms forward to frantically attempt to regain balance. He managed to grasp the top of the wooden railing and stay upright, but his heart still hammered violently against his ribcage. He couldn’t tell whether it was because of the sudden prospect of his face meeting the cold, salt-soaked planks or his thoughts still swirling languidly around the Spymaster’s persona.

He crossed the deck in a few brisk, deliberate steps. The dark silhouette of the Wind’s Redemption lingered in his peripheral vision, but he refused to pay it any more attention.

The captain’s cabin was, just as he suspected, slightly chilly, but nevertheless provided a good shelter from the gradually strengthening wind and everything else that happened outside, in which he had no intention to participate. He reached into one of the cabinets for something stronger to drink, out of mindless habit than anything else, but the whim dissipated the moment his fingers closed around the cool bottleneck. He pulled back with a sigh. It wasn’t like there was anything else left for him to do that evening.

He dove back into the cabinet and pushed the bottles to the side, fishing for a matchbox that wasn’t just an empty, cardboard piece. The second item that he looked for was an oil lamp. He settled it all down on the sturdy, though mostly empty table. The matches were somewhat wet from the constant humidity that accompanied life at sea, but after a few moments of struggle he eventually managed to light one, and the lamp with it. The cabin became engulfed in a warm, flickering glow, and though it wasn’t enough to properly and entirely illuminate the space, it was just right to slowly begin to soothe Flynn’s uneasiness.

He shrugged off his coat and kicked off his boots on his way towards his bunk, paying no attention to where the pieces of clothing had landed. He would pick them up tomorrow when dressing up, anyway. He unbuckled his belts and tugged at the worn leather until it slipped through the loops at his waist. It wasn’t something he had cared about before, but in recent months the metal buckles had begun to annoyingly poke at his stomach when he slept, so he opted for taking them out beforehand.

The thin mattress was pleasantly soft against his back, as he stretched himself over it on his back, with his hands under his head and his legs propped against the wooden wall of the cabin. The gentle sway of the ship, accompanied by the rhythmic creaking and groaning of the wood and rigging provided a comforting background noise, and soon Flynn felt the exasperation, that buzzed inside of him for the majority of the evening, begin to slowly melt away. Still, despite it all, he was unable to just stop thinking about the Spymaster.

What he hadn’t taken into account, as it turned out, was that they didn’t have all the time in the world. He had been so absorbed with acquiring Shaw’s approval for the past couple of weeks, that it had apparently slipped his attention that the entire setting was just temporary.

The war was over. The armistice was soon to be signed, and the Alliance forces would gradually sail out of Kul Tiras, leaving behind empty docks and noticeably less-packed inns and streets of Boralus. And their Spymaster would inevitably leave with them.

He had no idea how he could have been so naive to think that Shaw would consider him as anything more than just yet another of his subordinates. That he held him on his list of acquaintances on a high enough place to at least inform him that their ways would soon part.

He closed his eyes tightly and rubbed at them with the heels of his slightly shaking hands. He could feel his face heat up in shame and frustration. The strange unrest started to bubble inside his chest again, and he struggled to keep it subdued. Tides, how had he gotten so horribly attached? Especially to a man that wasn’t particularly keen on reciprocating his affections. He wasn’t that type of person to dwell on his feelings or emotions for too long; he was more accustomed to going with the flow and basically not caring about anything. Much. Most of the time.

It felt like he was on the very verge of losing something profoundly important, yet something he didn’t quite entirely possess. Like hot sand falling through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to hold onto it. And soon all that would remain was the phantom feeling of its warmth on the rough skin of his palms.

An end to a relationship that hadn’t even started.

He willed himself to stop thinking at all, before he stumbled upon some particular revelations that he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to acknowledge. He stared at the dark ceiling of the cabin instead, until his eyes began to hurt. Agitation still didn’t allow his mind to rest, but his body felt impossibly heavy and pilant; exhausted after yet another day at the sea.

It wasn’t long until the distant, muffled hum of the wind dancing around the Middenwake rigging lulled him into a shallow, dreamless sleep.

*

The signing of the armistice brought the demand for Azerite to a rapid decline, and having nothing but time on his hands was something Flynn wasn’t quite accustomed to. Finding something to occupy himself with was considerably troublesome, especially in addition to the fact that he had to put conscious effort into keeping himself from venturing anywhere near the Alliance flagship.

Out of spite, mostly.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t keep feeling sorry over the Spymaster’s lack of reciprocation to his feelings, as well as his inevitable and quickly approaching departure.

Truth be told, he really hadn’t been deliberately searching for information. But overhearing a thing or two here and there, as he dragged himself all over the city without any actual purpose other than not having Wind’s Redemption in his range of vision, wasn’t particularly difficult either. After all, the ceasefire and the Alliance finally leaving Kul Tiras seemed to be the only thing people talked about all over the tide-damned Boralus.

He didn’t want to stand out with his, albeit faked, indifference. And so he might have inquired, out of pure will to be polite and keep up the conversation, mind you, about some specific pieces of information. Like, for example, the exact time when the mooring spot adjacent to Middenwake’s, though a tad more valuable thanks to its direct connection to the Market, would finally become unoccupied. If anyone asked, he’d reply that possession of this type of information was useful to him in case he wanted to ask Cyrus about the possibility of relocating his beloved sailboat to somewhere more convenient.

In reality, he hadn’t been able to convince even himself that that was the case, let alone anyone else. If anyone had actually asked, that was.

His next excuse was that the date he had obtained would mark the remaining days during which he still allowed himself to ruminate on his unrequited affections. He’d have his time to get over it and before he’d decide to do something stupid, the last remaining unit of the Alliance fleet would be gone, and with it gone would be Mathias Shaw. Out of sight, out of mind.

Besides, the Spymaster had had his chance to say goodbye. And if he hadn’t taken it, then it was none of Flynn’s business. He wasn’t going to make it any easier for him, if he happened to change his mind.

The plan seemed foolproof to him. In theory.

In practice three days later and with the last remaining bits of his dignity thrown overboard, he found himself pushing through the unusually busy Tradewinds Market towards the harbour.

The late morning air was still surprisingly brisk. The wind blew towards the sea and there wasn’t even a single cloud on the bright blue sky. Perfect weather for sailing.

Flynn grit his teeth and stubbornly pushed forward, ignoring the merchants and buyers crowding around him.

The Alliance soldiers, dressed in shiny blue and gold plate, were all bustling about the wharf, loading crates of provisions and equipment on board of Wind’s Redemption. Flynn could also notice a few champions in their flashy, mismatched armor, apparently choosing the naval transport over the portals that had been available a few days ago, courtesy of the Lord Admiral. None of them was who Flynn looked for, however.

He picked a secluded, shadowy corner, from where he was able to get a decent look at the wharf without being particularly out in the open and leaned onto the side of a nearby building with his arms crossed inconspicuously in front of his chest. His height proved to be quite an advantage, but he still had to crane his neck to be able to see anything above the crowd.

He almost began, against his better judgement, to worry that perhaps he had missed a crucial piece of information and the Spymaster had left Boralus earlier on another vessel. But just about then the familiar glint of sunlit, red hair caught his eye. Its owner stood on the Redemption’s quarterdeck and overlooked the preparations below from a slight distance, mirroring Flynn’s approach. Luckily to Flynn, though, Shaw didn’t really attempt to hide from the view.

There was someone by his side, a lieutenant probably, as he was wearing a slightly more ornate armor than the majority of the soldiers. He was talking to Shaw, or rather - telling him something, as the Spymaster didn’t seem particularly interested in the conversation judging by the look of blatant disinterest on his face.

It only reminded Flynn of all the times Shaw had looked on him with favour.

He let out a heavy, resigned sigh. What a miserable, sentimental fool he was, hiding in the shadows and staring from afar. But that was what he came for, wasn’t it? To get a last look at the man. Commit his features to memory, before he left for good with their paths never to cross again.

His narrow waist and squared shoulders, and the way he stood on the deck with his spine perfectly straight and his hands clasped behind his back. Or the slightly less frequent times, when at the end of the day he took on a slightly more relaxed pose and leaned on the mast, facing the sea. Or Middenwake, which was what Flynn liked to think.

Then, of course, his short-chopped, trademark red hair. All the layers and straps of his leather armor, that hugged his lean form in the most flattering ways. The constellations of freckles on the uncovered skin of his face and arms, and Flynn could only imagine all the other places that they adorned. That ridiculous, yet incredibly charming moustache. And the ever-observing, bottle-green eyes….. that were now staring directly at him.

Flynn’s heart stopped in his chest and he suddenly forgot how to breathe. He felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold, sludgy harbour water over his head. It had never crossed his mind that he’d expire at such a young age, but he had to admit that it was spectacularly ironic. He had spent his last moments ogling the Alliance Spymaster, right before his second-most crucial organ decided to betray him.

His second thought, or rather, a frantic instinct that kicked in during his most vulnerable moments, was to bolt. But Shaw was already excusing himself and pushing past the noticeably offended lieutenant, and his eyes never left Flynn’s, even for a moment.

Both his fight or flight responses flared at the same time, and he was left frozen in place, like a prey cornered by the predator. His muscles wouldn’t budge, straight out refusing to obey the conflicting inputs. There was a solid, stone wall behind him and an impassable mob of people in front, so escape was out of question anyway. All he could do was to stand uselessly and watch as Shaw made his way through the crowd towards him. Someone tried to get his attention as he passed by, but he paid them no mind. Instead he kept staring so intently at Flynn, that Flynn wasn’t even sure that the other man had blinked at least once in the past couple of minutes.

“Captain,” Shaw greeted him as he approached, “What brings you here at this hour?”

His voice was well-measured and professional as ever, though it did sound a bit more strained. His face was just as well-guarded, but the strange expression in his eyes was still as vivid as before. Flynn’s heart skipped a beat once again, as he noticed a hint of hastily stifled confusion and perhaps… hope?

He cleared his throat nervously, quickly considering his options. He could always outright lie, but it was hard to come up with a believable excuse when Shaw’s green eyes pierced through him like that. Besides, he had always found himself being subconsciously open and honest around the man. He reminded Flynn of a riptide, an unassuming current, that pulled him in the moment he stepped too close.

“I, uh--” he began, then immediately cringed inwardly at how terribly rough his voice sounded. He cleared his throat again, trying to get a grip on himself.

Whatever would be the outcome of this conversation, it wouldn’t matter. Shaw would be gone anyway, and so would be his opinion on Flynn, whatever it was like. He had already been caught basically red-handed, and he knew he had nothing to lose. That was partially why he had decided to come to the harbour in the end, but still… Tides damn it all.

“I heard that the Alliance was to depart Kul Tiras today. I came to see you before you left.”

He braced for the impact, but was instead exposed to a look of pure, unbridled surprise on Shaw’s face. With eyes widening, and his eyebrows lifting towards his hairline and even a few wrinkles forming on his forehead. It lasted a mere split of a second before Shaw promptly regained control over his facial expression, though with slightly more effort. Flynn had never seen him display any sort of emotion in such a profound way.

“You came to see me,” Shaw repeated, and though his voice once again sounded indifferent, it was as if he wasn’t sure he heard Flynn right. “Why didn’t you come aboard, then?”

Flynn raised his hand to scratch at the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I did consider bidding you a proper farewell, but last time we spoke you didn’t seem inclined to even tell me that you were leaving. I figured you didn’t want me around, so I didn’t want to interfere,” he replied earnestly.

He searched Shaw’s face, trying to get something, anything from his carefully guarded expression. Something that would tell him that he wasn’t heading somewhere dangerous, from where there was no turning back. But the Spymaster stayed silent, watching him, waiting for him to continue.

Flynn took a deep breath. And against his better judgement, he spoke again: “I guess I just had to see you for the last time. It’s not like I’m going to ever get another chance, after all.”

Though Shaw stared at him for just a couple more seconds, it felt like an eternity. He eventually rolled his shoulders stiffly and broke the eye contact by turning away and looking to the side. He lifted his hand to rub at his moustache and his mouth underneath and his eyes glided across the harbour, somewhat unfocused. An unreadable mix of emotions went through his face, one blending into another, each lasting less than a blink of an eye.

Flynn felt his stomach drop.

That was it. That was the boundary. He hadn’t simply crossed it, he came barreling right through it, shattering into tiny splinters.

He was just about to open his mouth and apologize for his admission, but then Shaw’s green eyes were back on him. Cautious. Searching. Flynn couldn’t recall if he had ever seen him look so vulnerable.

“I didn’t think you would consider that piece of information important,” he said slowly, carefully. Flynn realized he’s testing the waters in exactly the same way he had done just moments ago. That he was waiting for Flynn’s reaction, observing his face for even the slightest contraction of muscle.

“I must admit, I was kind of wounded,” Flynn said, intending it to sound playful enough to break the tension between them, “I kinda thought we were getting along quite alright.”

But Shaw wasn’t fooled by that, of course he wasn’t. He saw right through it, and his eyes narrowed briefly when he sensed the underlying bitterness to Flynn’s words.

“I apologize, Captain. I didn’t mean it to--,”

“Oh, come on. Water under the bridge, yeah?” Flynn interrupted him, before Shaw could finish the apology. Though he had to admit, hearing the words from the Spymaster’s lips did feel quite rewarding. Especially after the past couple of days that he had spent taking turns being offended at him and mad at himself. “I’m here now. And you got off your post to come talk to me, too. So if we’re on the same page, then let’s not end this on a bad note, alright?”

He extended his right arm forward, palm up and looked expectantly at Shaw.

The Spymaster hesitated only for a moment, as if he didn’t quite understand what the gesture was supposed to mean. But then there was a flash of understanding in his eyes and Flynn felt his heart seize in his chest when he noticed the sharp edges of his face soften gradually, and the tense muscles around his eyes relax.

Shaw took off his right gauntlet and grasped Flynn’s arm with his bare hand in a warm, strong, though not uncomfortably so, grip.

Flynn beamed at him with the most charming grin he could manage, and watched in awe as Shaw’s mouth twitched upward in a small smile in return. They stared at each other for a few blessed, long seconds, each of them unwilling to be the first one to let go of the other’s hand. Flynn’s heart felt as if it would burst out of his ribcage any moment now.

Tides, he’d do anything just to see Shaw like that more often.

For the rest of his days, preferably.

But then a shrill whistle echoed through the harbour and the moment was thoroughly and immediately gone.

Before Flynn could even register properly what was going on, Shaw was already withdrawing his hand and pulling the gauntlet back on in a swift, though slightly jittery movement. His face was once again a taut, impassive mask, and the only remaining trace of how soft his expression had been just a second ago was a faint glint of warmth still visible in his eyes.

Wyrmbane was waving his plate-covered arm towards them in a wide, sweeping motion, apparently urging Shaw to return on board of the Wind’s Redemption. The Spymaster turned around and signed something back in quick, though precise motions.

Right. The ship was ready to depart. They were leaving.

“Think of me fondly from time to time, yeah?” Flynn said, desperately trying to ignore how pathetic that came out. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway.

Shaw’s gaze snapped towards him. A deep frown appeared on his face and he ran his eyes up and down Flynn’s form with a strangely conflicted expression on his face.

His hands flew up towards his belt and he began to quickly, almost frantically, unbuckle one of the two leather scabbards at his waist, that contained the twin daggers he carried around. Flynn stared at him, dumbfounded, until Shaw was done a couple of seconds later. The Spymaster looked impossibly tense, to the point where Flynn could notice a slight tremble to his form, when he presented the dagger to him on his outstretched palms.

Flynn blinked up at him, confused, unable to process what the action meant, or what he was supposed to do with the weapon.

Shaw sighed, visibly exasperated.

He pushed the scabbard into Flynn’s hands, closing his fingers around it with his own, leather-clad ones. He made sure Flynn’s grip on it was steady before he looked into his eyes for the final time.

“Keep a good hold on that, would you,” he said, with a voice filled with so much intent that Flynn’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers brushed briefly along Flynn’s forearm as he pulled back. “And please, don’t be a stranger.”

And just like that, the Spymaster was gone, blending into the crowd at once, before Flynn could even wish him fair winds on his journey. Or ask about the meaning of his abrupt gift.

He watched Shaw board Wind’s Redemption. They were apparently waiting just for him, because as soon as he stepped on the deck, Wyrmbane started yelling commands to the crew, ordering them to leave the dock. The sails fluttered as they took in wind and the flagship promptly began to drift away from the wharf.

Shaw turned towards him and Flynn’s fingers tightened on the dagger subconsciously, pressing the scabbard tighter to his chest. The Spymaster was no more than a blue and gold silhouette on the quickly departing vessel, but he could still make out his features vaguely. He stood attention, and raised his hand to his forehead in the most proper salute he could manage. Shaw hesitated for only a split of a second, before responding in kind, in his typical, methodical and perfectly executed way.

He stood on the wharf for another hour, watching the ship until it disappeared below the line of the horizon. He kept clutching the dagger to his chest the entire time, as if it was some kind of exceptionally valuable artifact.

It was, in a way. Though it still slightly baffled him, it was nevertheless a piece of Shaw that the Spymaster had decided to share with Flynn.

He thought about everything that had happened. How genuinely surprised Shaw had looked by Flynn’s admission that he had wanted to meet him before his departure. How warm and soft his hand felt in his own, considerably larger and rougher palm. How breathtaking he had looked when he finally had let go of his professional façade, even for a little while.

However brief their interaction had been, it still was more than Flynn could have ever hoped for. It should’ve left him in a better mood than the strange, hollow melancholy he felt instead.

Perhaps it would be different, if only his ability to feel whole again hadn’t boarded the ship alongside the good Spymaster.

*

He felt like getting a drink. It only seemed fitting, considering how emotionally exhausting the day had been to him.

Alcohol used to be a source of comfort, a way to wind down after a stressful day at the sea. It dulled his mind and helped him relax his sore muscles, and he generally preferred the merry, crowded atmosphere of a tavern to a cold, lonesome cabin on Middenwake. The drink was usually just a pleasant bonus.

The problem was that, even though he felt like getting a drink, probably for the first time in his life, he didn’t actually want to.

He had walked along the entire Mariner’s Row and back three times already, but it just wasn’t enough to help him calm his erratic mind. Middenwake felt too constricting, the inns he had passed by were too loud but then, once again, the slowly emptying streets of Boralus seemed too quiet for some reason. All the places he considered to spend his night in felt just wrong. And for a quite obvious reason to him: they all lacked one specific asset. An asset that was probably already miles away from the Kul Tiras shore, out in the open sea.

Last night he had sworn to himself that after he had seen Shaw leave, he’d never think of him again. Tonight he couldn’t believe how terribly he missed him already. And how terribly that hurt.

The idea that Shaw didn’t find his presence annoying, but found it rather desirable instead was making him more dizzy than no liquor had ever done before. It seemed that the prospect of not seeing the other ever again had acted as some sort of catalyst for them both, pulling them out of their comfort zones and urging them to open to each other a little bit more.

Recalling the events of the morning only made him realize, with a considerable amount of bitterness, that if he had gotten over himself quicker, he might have actually had a chance pushing their relationship beyond a plain, work-related acquaintance.

He had asked Shaw not to forget about him, but Shaw, once again a step ahead of him, had provided something that would undoubtedly make Flynn think of him instead, every waking moment. As if the Spymaster hadn’t already made himself at home in Flynn’s thoughts.

He kept pinching himself every so often, just to remind himself that it had all actually happened and that he wasn’t in an alcohol-induced delirium.

He had thought that whatever feelings he had for Shaw were just a plain crush, and that they were unrequited. And though he still had no idea what the elusive Spymaster really thought of him, the steady weight of his dagger, stored securely in the deepest pocket of Flynn’s coat, proved that Shaw actually possessed a certain fondness for him.

It took him two more laps before it became cold enough that he had no other choice but to seek shelter somewhere. Middenwake seemed like the most obvious choice, now that the cool air calmed him a little. After all, he was quite convinced that no amount of ale, and no amount of social interaction would make him feel the way seeing Shaw smile did.

Though the cabin provided him with wind protection, it was still uncomfortably chilly inside. He made a mental note, as he closed one porthole after another, to remember not to open them again if he decided to vacate the ship for an entire day again.

He lit up his faithful oil lamp then dove under the table to fetch a couple of logs for the stove. He didn’t use it often, as he wasn’t used to spending longer periods of time on Middenwake when she was docked, but when needed, it provided a practical source of heat to warm his cabin or boil some water for a cup or two of coffee. He even managed to acquire a bunch of steel pipes of various shapes, that he fixed near one of the portholes to direct the smoke from the small chimney outside of his cabin, so the fire could stay on during the entire night without him needing to worry about the smoke suffocating him in his sleep.

Once that was done, he carefully took out Shaw’s dagger from his pocket, slipped it out of its scabbard and placed them both on the table, before shrugging off the coat and draping it over the backrest of a nearby chair. He then slid the chair back and settled himself on it, so that the dagger was lying innocently right in front of him. He leaned over the table, reaching for the oil lamp, and brought it closer so he was able to take a proper look at the weapon.

The blade was in pristine condition, without even a single scratch or mark on the polished metal. It had only one cutting edge - made out of some sort of hard, white metal, which contrasted starkly with the golden cross-guard and ornaments that adorned the opposite side of it. The edge glimmered in the dim, flickering light, but when he carefully ran his thumb along it, it didn’t immediately cut through his skin.

Weird. He expected that someone like Shaw would always make sure that his weapons were properly sharpened. Especially considering the overall state of the dagger.

He moved his fingertips further - across the Alliance lion head crest in the middle of the cross-guard and along the handle. The grip was wrapped in a stripe of shiny dark blue fabric, that was smooth and cold to the touch, but when he took it in his palm, it nestled securely against his skin without slipping. The pommel was golden as well, with three small sapphires embedded in it. An elegant, golden loop ended the weapon and a strip of the same blue fabric was tied through it.

He carefully took the weapon in both of his hands, tilting it a little until the blade caught the light. He ran his eyes over it again and again, memorizing its shape and details. The golden elements and a few sparsely but deliberately placed sapphires decorated the weapon just right, keeping it in the middle between functional and ornate. It was surprisingly lightweight and elegant, but the way its edge reflected the flame proved that it could be, and probably was, deadly.

All features of the dagger seemed to precisely mirror its owner’s. A perfect fit.

He wondered how many targets had been slain with it. How many blows had the cross-guard caught, preventing the slender hand that wielded the weapon from injury.

But then again, it was impossible for the blade to stay in such unmarred condition, especially considering how frequent it must’ve been used. Unless it wasn’t the weapon Shaw used during work.

Unless it was something more.

He vaguely remembered something he had overheard a while ago in one of the taverns, not long after the first Alliance vessels had docked in the Boralus harbor; an exchange between two rogue champions, in which one of them boasted to the other about a particular set of daggers he had recently acquired. There was, apparently, some sort of custom among mainlanders, that when a member of a class order hall accomplished something considerable or reached a certain rank in the organization, they were rewarded with an ornate set of weapons of their choosing; to serve as a reminder and speak of their achievements. From what he had heard, some preferred to use them in combat, some kept it as a precious souvenir not worthy to be stained by the blood of their enemies.

The state of the weapon he had currently in his hands seemed to fit the latter.

He put the blade back on the table, then leaned back in the chair and crossed his hands in front of his chest. He could feel his heartbeat speed up at the conclusion that had started to sketch itself in his mind.

Shaw had given him something personal. Not just a weapon, but an item tied to some kind of personal memory.

Still, he had trusted Flynn to keep it safe.

Though he had no idea what was the purpose of him having the dagger, the thought that Shaw considered him worthy was impossibly flattering and it made his heart swell with fondness. Considering Shaw had kept the other one, the set was probably of a great value to him. Which meant he would probably want the one he gave to Flynn back at some point. Which, in turn, meant there was an actual, quite probable prospect of them meeting again sometime in the future.

He rubbed his hand on his rough-shaven cheek absently and his brows furrowed, as he recalled for yet another time the sequence of events that had taken place in the morning.

It certainly seemed like a promise, of some sort.

He desperately tried not to think ahead, to ignore all the implications that came with him being in possession of the dagger.

And yet, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. The future looked considerably more bright than it had seemed the night before.

Chapter Text

The air was surprisingly warm for that part of the year and smelled like the last days of summer, on that particular morning exactly two weeks after the Alliance fleet had departed from Boralus.

Flynn was making his way through the harbour, planning to visit the Harbourmaster’s office before he set off on a journey around the nearby islands for the day.

Even though he was no longer involved in procuring Azerite for the Alliance, he decided to keep the expeditions going, though their purpose shifted significantly more towards tourism than war effort. It didn’t bring him as much gold as before, but it kept him somewhat occupied, which had become his main interest of late.

He still dropped by Cyrus’ office from time to time, mostly to say hi to Taelia, though if he was lucky, the Harbourmaster still tended to ask him for a favour or two, for which he rewarded him justly with appropriate payment. The jobs, however, were less frequent and significantly more boring than what he had used to do when the Alliance was around.

He barely managed to step through the threshold, his hand half-way raised in a merry greeting, before Cyrus’ outright murderous glare stopped him right in his tracks.

The man was sitting stiffly behind his desk with his thick arms crossed in front of his chest. His entire frame, almost as wide as the desk itself, complete with a deep frown on his weather-beaten face made quite a menacing sight and Flynn felt his stomach attempt a half-hearted, though nevertheless alarmed, somersault.

“What did you do,” came the Harbourmaster’s rough, audibly irritated baritone.

Flynn blinked, confused, and took a shaky step back towards the entrance, through which he had just come in. He had done many things in his life, some of them being more questionable than others, but he couldn’t quite figure which one of them Cyrus was referring to at this particular moment. One could never be too careful, though, so he decided to play his most reliable, though slightly derogatory card.

“What did I do,” he said, trying to sound as clueless as he could manage.

He could hear Taelia snort somewhere beside him, but when he glanced towards her she was standing with his back to him, trying to disguise the snort as a sudden coughing fit.

One of Cyrus’ bushy eyebrows twitched slightly, but it was the only indication that he had actually registered Taelia’s reaction. The rest of his face was just as impassive as before. Having made sure Flynn was once again focused on him, he extended his right hand forward and pointed at something lying on his desk.

Flynn’s eyes followed the movement of his arm. His confusion mixed with curiosity when he realized that Cyrus was pointing to a sleek, white envelope placed right in front of him. He stepped forward cautiously to get a better look.

The front of the envelope was indeed signed with his name and surname, in thin, elegant lettering and blue ink. Below it, he could make out Cyrus’ office address written by the same hand. Above the writing there was an ornate post stamp printed with a stylized image of the Stormwind cathedral, and to the left side of it the paper was stamped with a crest he recognized immediately. He suspected the wax seal at the back of the envelope bore exactly the same symbol.

“If you’ve stolen something from them, and they now want it back with interest,” Cyrus began, wagging a thick, hairy finger at him. The rest of his threat, however, was interrupted by another snort from Taelia’s direction, which sounded suspiciously like a muffled “yeah, their Spymaster’s heart”. If Cyrus had heard it too, he didn’t comment on it, keeping his eyes on Flynn the entire time. “I hope you have enough gold stashed in these coat pockets of yours, because I’m not going to pay a single copper to bail you out.”

Flynn briefly considered being offended at the accusation, but he quickly let the affront go. Only the guilty defended themselves, or something like that.

“What does it say?” he asked instead, inclining his head towards the envelope.

Cyrus leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms on his wide chest again. “Why would I know? You’re supposed to be the recipient and I’m not in the habit of reading mail that isn’t addressed to me specifically. I thought you’d know what sort of business the Alliance might have with you, considering that you are no longer working for them.”

Flynn blinked up at him. What was the purpose of this entire farce then, if Cyrus didn’t even know what the letter was about?

“Well? Open it,” Cyrus prompted, lifting his eyebrows at him, “I’m quite curious about what you’ve done this time that the Spymaster himself decided to write you a personal notice.”

Flynn was about to reach for the envelope, until the Harbormaster’s words made him freeze in place. The Spymaster?

Mathias Shaw had sent him a letter?

He snatched it from the desk without any further hesitation. Just as he expected, the envelope was sealed with an SI:7 crest, and above it, along the upper edge of the envelope, he could see the sender’s address written in tiny, though nevertheless elegant lettering, confirming that the letter had indeed come from the Spymaster’s office.

Flynn struggled with tearing the envelope open, and Cyrus raised his eyebrows at him dubiously, which Flynn gracefully ignored. It certainly didn’t help that his hands were shaking, all of the sudden.

He noticed Taelia stepping closer to the desk. She peeked over his shoulder curiously, trying to get a glimpse at the contents of the envelope.

Flynn pressed it protectively to his chest, shielding it from her eyes. “Easy now, I’m quite sure that’s private.”

“Oh, come on,” she complained, pulling at his arm, “How come you’re getting correspondence from the Alliance Spymaster and neither of us knew?”

“To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know I was getting anything either. That’s why I’d prefer to take a look myself, first.”

He finally managed to open the envelope and stuffed his fingers inside to retrieve the folded piece of paper. He skimmed his eyes across the page, but couldn’t immediately read the words that covered the entirety of it from top to bottom on both sides, as they were written in the same elegant and narrow cursive as his name on the front.

It was enough, however, to immediately make his brain cease working as his eyes caught on a very specific phrase at the bottom of the page.

Yours sincerely,

Mathias Shaw

Yours.

He couldn’t tell whether the lighting in the office dimmed suddenly, or if he was seeing dark spots in front of his eyes. It took him a significant amount of effort to force control over his body again. He placed the letter back into the envelope hurriedly and stuffed it inside one of many inner pockets of his coat.

“Well, good news is that it’s not an invoice,” Flynn stated. The obvious and utterly derogatory way in which his voice cracked, however, gave no doubt how much that inconspicuous piece of paper had affected him. Bad news was that he had no idea what it was, either, and he was too distracted by the sheer existence of the letter to be able to focus on it properly.

Both Taelia and Cyrus were staring at him now with visible concern.

He took a few, cautious steps back.

“Oh wow, would you look at the time. Funny how quickly it passes in good company,” he said, not even bothering to look at anything that would actually provide him with that information, “It was nice seeing you both this beautiful morning, but if there’s nothing else that needs my attention I’d rather get going.”

And before either of them could ask anything more, he simply turned on his heel and bolted right out of the office.

There was already a group of Tortollans waiting for him on the dock in front of Middenwake when he returned, and he remembered bitterly that he had promised one of them a tour around the islands a while ago. He didn’t expect an entire... herd of them, though.

Well. The letter had to wait, then.

He mustered one of his bright, charming smiles and invited them on board. The day hadn’t even started properly yet, and he already desperately wished for it to be over.

*

He had used to complain about many things that tended to happen during expeditions. It annoyed him immensely that there was always something. Vyrkul, dragons, pirates, mogu, burnt sails, leaking hull, every single time. He had desperately wished back then for an expedition without there being a tide-damned something.

He realized now, why so many people had told him to be careful what he wished for. Not necessarily in that setting, but still.

It was probably his first, and last, expedition where literally nothing happened. The weather was mild, the wind was mild, the waves were even milder, and he was stuck aboard Middenwake with a group of Tortollan pensioners, who were just as mild in every single aspect.

He normally lived for a good story, and where he would usually be more than inclined to listen to the vast assortment of stories that the Tortollans were more than happy to provide, this time, however, their monotone, creaky voices did nothing but annoy him terribly. It was hard for him to keep a decent grip on the plot for more than five minutes, before his thoughts subconsciously drifted towards the letter stored safely in his pocket.

It took them ages to reach one of the smaller archipelagos, and Flynn was at the brink of actually fetching the oars to propel the vessel forward manually, because the wind was almost non-existent. His clients, however, had all the time in the world and were more than happy to admire the views at their own pace. Which was slowly. Impossibly and agonizingly slowly.

The rest of the day went just as slow. When they finally returned to Boralus it was already late, late afternoon and in all honesty? He was simply grateful that it was over. He accepted his payment (in gold and parchment, the latter of which the Tortollans apparently carried plenty whenever they went) and bid them goodbye, and as soon as they disappeared around the corner, he could finally relax his facial muscles.

He was naturally a cheerful and sociable person, but everyone had a limit. His, apparently, was at eight plus hours locked on a boat with a group of aging and overly-familiar humanoid turtles.

Having procured and consumed a makeshift supper made out of some leftover bread and smoked meat, he wiped the table meticulously off the remaining crumbs and at long last, finally, reached inside his coat to retrieve the envelope.

It felt like opening a present on Winter’s Veil.

His fingers trembled slightly with anticipation, as he slid them inside the envelope and took out the letter. He unfolded it with great care, cautious not to tear it or bend the corners accidentally. His eyes were immediately drawn to the lower corner of the letter, where Shaw had placed his signature, right under his most favourite phrase, at the moment. He read it once more, just because it felt good.

Yours, sincerely.

He recalled Shaw telling him not to be a stranger, but he never would’ve thought that this would be the way they stayed in touch with each other. It was quite romantic, in fact, the more he thought about it.

He eased himself comfortably back in his chair and began reading from the very start.

It was a bit hard for him to get used to Shaw’s handwriting, but the more he read, the easier it came to him. Just like befriending the Spymaster himself; it was a bit daunting at first, but with enough enthusiasm and determination he found himself enthralled with the way the letters swirled and flowed across the paper.

An hour later he had reread it so many times he could almost recite the entirety of it from memory.

It didn’t contain anything spectacular, and it wasn’t like he expected any revelations from the Spymaster. He hadn’t expected anything, in fact, so the fact that the letter even existed was a greatly welcome surprise to him.

Shaw mostly wrote to inform him that the Wind’s Redemption had safely reached Stormwind and that the voyage had passed in relative peacefulness. He mentioned it was quite difficult to him to get used to sleeping in his own, unmoving bed after spending almost a year on a flagship, though he didn’t find it particularly unwelcome. There were also a few more bits about the differences between his former Stormwind life and what he got to experience in Boralus, and though he never mentioned that he disliked it, overall it was obvious that he was happy to be back on the home soil. The rest of the letter contained general and slightly vague information about how the relation between Kul Tiras and Stormwind was to work during the time of peace, as the Alliance still considered them a formidable and useful ally, and were ready to provide whichever means necessary to allow all nations to thrive after the war. The letter ended with an inquiry about Flynn’s health and whereabouts, as well as Shaw’s wish to hear back from him as soon as it would be possible.

Flynn could almost hear Shaw’s voice read the words out loud in his mind. The professional and methodical way in which the letter was written, which was again, so much in Shaw’s style, didn’t discourage him in the slightest. What mattered to him instead, was that Shaw had decided entirely on his own to share another piece of his personal life with him.

And Flynn couldn’t be more grateful for that.

It was already dark outside when he finished reading Shaw’s letter, so he had to lit up the lamp to be able to proceed with what he had in mind. It was probably impossibly late as well, but he was too excited to go to sleep yet.

He pulled out a piece of parchment from the pile that the Tortollans had provided him with and fetched an old bottle of ink and a quill. The ink was a little bit dry, and the quill had seen better days as well, and it had been a while since he used it. He wasn’t illiterate, he knew how to read and write, but it was all… sufficient, so to speak.

All he knew he had learned either on his own, or among the many pirate crews he had been around in his younger days. He had a few books, of course, trinkets from his journeys and gifts from Cyrus and Taelia, and frankly, he had read them all a couple of times. But when it came to writing…. There hadn’t simply been a need for him before to write longer paragraphs and his most recent experiences with said inkwell and quill mostly required him to just fill out the paper forms that the Alliance provided him with.

He was powered with sheer determination, however, and the idea that he was about to reply to Shaw’s letter was enough to keep him going.

He had to scrap the first three drafts, as the first piece of parchment got immediately ruined with a huge, wet ink blot, and with the remaining two he was too self-conscious about his frankly, grotesque penmanship, especially compared to Shaw’s flawless cursive.

There was so much he wanted to tell Shaw, but at the same time he was aware that the Spymaster wasn’t particularly interested in every single detail of his life. So he tried to keep his own wording in a similar style to Shaw’s, trying to mimic his professional and courteous manner of speech. He scribbled a few sentences about the current events of Boralus, and a few more about how his life had changed since the signing of the armistice. Then it was simply polite to mention what Cyrus and Taelia were up to, and since he mentioned them, it was only fair to say that Tandred was fine as well. And then, obviously, he simply had to tell Shaw about the most boring day of his life, and how his letter had actually prevented his, very probable now that he thought of it, death from literal boredom.

Two hours later he had three pieces of parchment filled from both sides in front of him, and all that was left was to carefully copy Shaw’s yours sincerely, making sure the first word was slightly bigger than the one that followed of course, then place his well-practiced, dashing signature below it.

He blotted the pages dry and blew on them for good measure, until he was sure the ink wouldn’t bleed. He stacked them on top of each other and folded them neatly, setting them on the edge of the table to be placed in an envelope and sent the following morning.

And though his letter was still very much unsent, he was already counting the days until another envelope addressed to him and marked with an Alliance post stamp arrived in Cyrus’ office.

Chapter Text

The sheer size of Stormwind was overwhelmingly bigger than Flynn had imagined.

He had obviously heard tales about its vastness and splendour, but he doubted his brain had been capable of imagining it properly before, as it even had trouble processing all the sights around him now.

The pristine, ivory city overlooked the bay, sprawling on top of the sunlit cliffs further than his eyes could reach. It rose high above him and it almost seemed as if the highest point of the cathedral tower scraped against the sky. The complex architecture descended into the harbour in cascades, reaching towards the sea level in terraces and marble flights of stairs carved into the stony cliffs. Numerous buildings nestled one by one on each layer, varying in sizes and shapes, but they all seemed to follow the same style; mostly plain, with just the tiniest amount of detailed ornaments, though it was obvious it had been built with the purpose of sheer functionality, rather than looks.

The sight, that stretched in front of him, was simply overwhelming. He had spent all his life in Boralus, a city more inclined to bite far into the sea than exist among the clouds. And to think that Master Mathias Shaw was the man who kept the entire city in the palm of his hand…

“Look alive, captain,” Tandred said, walking up to stand next to him on the wharf. He eyed Flynn cautiously. “You’re not going to faint, are you? Sure looks like it, though.”

Flynn shook his head, though he had to admit, he did feel slightly dizzy. He wiped his sweating palms on the front of his woolen trousers.

“It just feels strange not to have the ground move under my feet,” he replied. He tried to sound convincing, but the slight, doubtful rise of Tandred’s eyebrows proved that it didn’t work. “The view’s nice, too.”

Tandred’s face lit up in an easy, soft smile. “Agreed. Boralus is nothing like this, isn’t it.”

The rest of the ships were already docking beside them. Commands rang out in the air, and the harbour soon filled with Admiralty sailors crowding on the wharf and the sound of their cheerful voices, grateful to finally greet the solid ground after so many days at the sea. They stood with their heads tipped backwards and mouths open in awe, stunned with the view of the city just as much Flynn was. Just like him, most of the sailors hadn’t left the safe Kul Tiran coastal waters before.

Their voices, however, the soft rustle of the sails being lowered and folded and the sharp drag of rigging against the wood soon became just a background noise to Flynn. His gaze slipped across the harbour, searching for anything familiar, as he felt his heart hammer against his ribcage anxiously.

Their arrival had already managed to attract a considerable gathering of Stormwind residents. People crowded around them, though a slight distance away, watching the newcomers curiously and admiring their magnificent ships, so different to the vessels they were used to that normally occupied the docks.

He felt Tandred tug gently at the sleeve of his coat.

“Looks like they were expecting us, after all,” he said, pointing his chin in the direction of one of the terraces with an enormous statue of a lion standing in the middle of it.

Flynn could notice a bit of commotion there, as a group of blue and white armored guardsmen pushed through the crowd. Even though he couldn’t see exactly who they were escorting, as the bright, afternoon sun made his eyes water if he looked for too long, the answer soon became obvious.

Anduin Wrynn, the king of Stormwind and leader of the Alliance, seated atop an ivory white steed, was making his way towards the harbour. There was another rider beside him, a dark-skinned man with curly black hair and a mount of an equally dark coat. It was easy to tell that he wasn’t human, yet Flynn couldn’t quite tell what race he was. His features looked slightly elvish, with pointed ears, slender face and sharp cheekbones. His slightly slanted eyes, unlike any elf he had ever seen, glowed red.

Flynn jumped up slightly, startled, when Tandred elbowed him between the ribs. “Stop staring, it’s impolite.”

As if anyone would pay him any mind.

He rolled his eyes but tore his gaze away from the royal entourage anyway. He glanced over the crowd once again, pulling at the edge of his sleeve anxiously.

Tandred, as always, seemed to see right through him.

“Don’t worry, he will show up,” he told Flynn, patting his shoulder gently. “The king is here, and he’s probably obliged by a work contract to follow him around.”

Flynn gave him a tired look. “Was this supposed to be reassuring?”

The blonde Kul Tiran just grinned at him and shrugged sheepishly.

“I mean, suit yourself. Standing on opposite sides of the harbour and staring at each other seems like an entirely valid social interaction to me,” he clasped his hand onto Flynn’s back with slightly more force than necessary. “Alright, mate, good luck. I probably need to go talk to the king before anything of political importance commences,” he stepped forward, turned on his heel and gave Flynn a double thumbs-up, then promptly made his way towards the heart of the harbour before Flynn managed to flip him off.

Flynn watched him until he disappeared out of his sight, melting into the crowd of Admiralty sailors.

The sun was unrelenting against his back, warmer and brighter than what he was used to, and he searched the area around him for some sort of shelter. A line of trees were planted across the entire width of the harbour, like some sort of visual barrier between the wooden docks and the white cobblestone in the heart of it. He stepped under one of the trees, leaned on its thick trunk and crossed his arms in front of his chest. The tree provided enough shadow for him to be able to observe everything that took place in front of him without the need to constantly shield his eyes from the sharp sunlight.

Minutes passed and the Spymaster was still nowhere to be seen. Flynn knew Shaw was skilled in keeping stealth when he didn’t want to be seen and besides, it wasn’t like he expected him to jump right into his arms the moment he set his foot on the Stormwind wharf. Despite that he was unable to ignore the bitter disappointment that lodged itself in his throat.

They exchanged numerous letters during the past eight months, after all. They were all, of course, very much decent and whatever they shared between themselves didn’t venture anywhere beyond polite acquaintance, but nevertheless, he was allowed to peek into the daily life of the Alliance Spymaster. To which he replied with opening himself wide at once and allowing Shaw to take a look at whatever he pleased in return. It wasn’t much, and it probably wasn’t important, but he had been ready to give Shaw all that he was and all that he owned, if he so desired.

They usually wrote about their plans for the upcoming weeks and updated themselves on whatever had changed since their last letter, but it was all entirely casual. Apart from his first letter, Shaw didn’t mention a lot in relation to politics or his work, and Flynn hadn’t felt particularly inclined to ask.

Time passed relatively quickly as Flynn found himself in Cyrus’ office every single morning, living from week to week, waiting with anticipation for every single envelope that had come his way.

It all changed about two months into their penpal agreement, when Shaw had first raised the issue concerning the exchange of naval forces between Alliance and Kul Tiras. It was something that the Lord Admiral and the Alliance king had apparently come up with, to further strengthen the bond between the nations, even during the time of peace. Part of the versatile Kul Tiran fleet, along with the crewmen and appropriate amount of tidesages, was to be relocated to Stormwind and in return, the Alliance was to provide them with a flotilla of heavier armored vessels enhanced with gnomish technology.

Shaw’s inquiry, however, was more focused on whether Flynn would be willing to captain one of the Kul Tiran ships on their journey to Stormwind.

Oh, and he was more than willing, as the prospect of actually seeing Shaw again had made him agree in an instant. The only problem was that as an ex-pirate, he had no legal, state-issued document to prove his skill in captaincy. Oral confession from a friend, sadly, didn’t count. Even though said friend was the youngest brother of the Lord Admiral herself.

Proudmoore Academy had been always just out of reach for him, even though he had dreamed of becoming one of its recruits for more nights than he could possibly count. He hadn’t been able to afford the tuition for the vast majority of his life, but even if he could’ve, the Academy wasn’t particularly inclined to accept someone like him into their ranks, born and raised on the streets.

Not even a week after he explained the problem to Shaw, the Spymaster actually procured him a personal permit that would allow Flynn to officially enroll at the Academy and that all payments were to be handled by the Alliance royal fund.

The note that accompanied it simply stated that it was a matter of utmost importance and security, and Alliance was in dire need of a highly competent captain to assure that the naval exchange would take place without interruptions.

He spent the entire following night simply holding the permit in his hands, reading it over and over again, desperately trying to convince himself that the document was real and it wasn’t going to disappear into thin air anytime soon.

Six months later, having finished all required courses and passing everything he needed to pass with flying colours, in his hands he held, instead of the permit, a proper, Admiralty-issued captaincy license along with an Alliance-stamped work contract, that promised him much more than the, quite generous if he did say so himself, remuneration.

The pay, however, was meaningless to him. He had accepted the job for one, very specific reason.

The reason, however, was still nowhere in sight, so the only thing left for him to do was to focus on everything else that was happening in front of him.

The king was in the process of dismounting when Tandred approached him. Anduin’s face quickly lit up in recognition, so he must’ve realized the resemblance between him and Jaina. He nodded politely and offered his hand and Tandred promptly took it, introducing himself and the rest of his fleet. The dark-skinned rider dismounted as well, keeping himself close to the king’s side, just as before. His glowing eyes scanned the area around them with guarded distrust, as if searching for any possible threats. The way he stood also spoke of defensiveness, with one leg extended forward a little, ready to shield the king from any kind of abrupt attack. A personal bodyguard, perhaps? He wasn’t armed, though, and his rich and embroidered outfit didn’t look particularly sturdy either. Anduin seemed entirely at ease as well, despite his companion’s closer-than-professional proximity, so perhaps there was a more familiar relation between...

“Nice dagger you’ve got there.”

Flynn’s head jerked to the side, startled by the sudden approach.

An elven woman stood beside him, just a few steps away, close enough for her voice to be heard by him, without attracting the attention of any nearby bystanders. He had no idea how he hadn’t noticed her around before, especially considering how… distinguished she looked. She was almost as tall as him. Taller, even, if the tips of her ears were to be considered. She was considerably slimmer than him, though, and at least half his width. She had pale blonde hair that spilled in waves from under a crimson, embroidered hood. It kept her face in half-shadow, making her astute, green, glowing eyes stand out even more. Massive, spiked pauldrons shielded her shoulders and a pair of equally spiky legguards covered her legs all the way up to her thighs. The rest of her armor was kept in the same style, blood-red leather adorned with delicate, golden embroidery and glowing, green gems. A pair of ornate daggers was strapped to her waist.

A rogue, then. He still couldn’t comprehend how she had managed to slip past him unnoticed, especially in that, well, ridiculous attire, but then again Shaw’s armor was just as flashy as hers, and he still managed to make it work.

It wasn’t important, though. What bugged him more was why would she approach him only to comment on his weapon? Of course, he had it strapped to his waist alongside his faithful cutlasses, but the dagger itself wasn’t easy to spot, as it was well-hidden under his coat. No one had really asked him about it before.

Unless she somehow knew that he wasn’t its rightful owner.

His eyes snapped up towards her face.

She regarded him with a polite, through slightly smug expression. “Did our good friend Spymaster leave it at your place after one of your adventurous escapades?”

Flynn’s eyes widened at the implication. He stood up straight, feeling his blood rush to his face and hum in his ears. Obviously, she was familiar with Shaw, but how dared she…

“We didn’t--,” he blurted out, but immediately backtracked as she lifted one of her elegant, long eyebrows, visibly entertained by his scandalized reaction, “He didn’t leave it anywhere. He gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you?” her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but the expression was quickly gone, replaced by a look of outright amusement, “Now, that’s certainly a fine piece of gossip. Congratulations, when’s the wedding?”

A deep frown appeared on Flynn’s face as he tried to comprehend the stranger’s behaviour. He didn’t recall ever meeting her, and yet, somehow, she seemed to know exactly who he was. He felt both agitated and intrigued by her words. He desperately tried to connect all the seemingly unrelated dots together, but so far he was only pretty sure that she was just straight out mocking him for some reason.

“Why do you elf folk seem so inclined to speak in riddles?” he huffed out, trying to distract her from how uncomfortable her words made him. He squared his shoulders and stood a bit more straight, trying to at least appear more confident. “I’m not sure what made you get that idea, but we’re not getting married. I highly doubt he considers me anything more than a work colleague, if anything.”

She stepped closer, watching him curiously with her slightly narrowed, glowing eyes. His throat suddenly became as dry as sawdust, and he swallowed with effort.

“Oh. You have no idea, do you.”

“Idea about what?” Flynn asked weakly. The exchange seemed like some sort of game for her, and she visibly took a lot of pleasure from toying with him. He lifted his hand to nervously tuck a loose, curly strand of his hair behind his ear. “You might wanna fill me in on that one, lady, because I’m quite at loss here.”

She moved quicker than his eyes could register. She stepped behind him and grasped his jaw between her slender, gloved fingers, twisting his head to the side. He tensed immediately and attempted to wrench himself from her hold, but then a glint of auburn hair in his line of sight made him immediately cease all his further protests. He’d recognize it anywhere, in any given circumstance.

Shaw.

He was standing on one of the side terraces that overlooked the harbour. A small group of his operatives were gathered around him, and he explained something to them, gesturing in quick, methodical motions. They were hidden in the shadow of a nearby building and mostly shielded from sight by the Stormwind citizens in front of them, and the bright sun made it almost impossible to spot them. Unless someone knew where to look.

Flynn felt the elf’s breath on his cheek, as she leaned in over his shoulder. Her grip lessened slightly, when she realized that his eyes were fixed on what she wanted him to see.

“Take a good look at the weapon he carries,” she said quietly.

Oh, he had taken a good look at it. He couldn’t even count all the evenings he had spent examining the weapon and committing every single detail of it to memory. Shaw kept with him the other one, obviously, which he carried now strapped to his waist… Flynn felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. His hand lifted subconsciously to his own waist and his fingers closed around the scabbard, making sure the dagger was still there.

“He’s got… only one. The other one.”

He could’ve taken any other pair, instead of carrying a single weapon that would make him significantly more vulnerable. He was at work, after all, and he had to be ready for combat, no matter how improbable it seemed. Then why would he deliberately put himself at such a disadvantage…

He heard the rogue hum quietly in approval.

“Exactly,” she told him. He released his jaw and stepped back, giving him more space. Flynn turned around, with a look of utter puzzlement in his eyes, and she motioned him to follow her. They moved a bit further from the crowd, closer to the vacanted ships.

She watched him for a while with an unreadable look on her face, before her eyes narrowed slightly at him. “Now, listen carefully, captain,” she told him, with a way more serious expression than the smugness that was present on her elegant face before.“The dagger that’s currently in your possession isn’t just a random paper knife that the Spymaster carries around for aesthetic purposes. This particular set was commissioned by Mathias’ grandmother, former leader of the organization that he is currently in charge of, when she gave up her position so her grandson could take her place.”

She searched his face, making sure he was following. He nodded slowly, processing her words. So that was the memory embedded in the weapon, the one he had spent countless evenings imagining. He had known from the beginning that the dagger was important to Shaw, but he hadn’t had the slightest idea how much.

“I’m quite certain that there isn’t anything that he would consider more valuable than these two daggers,” she confirmed his suspicions, pointing her chin towards the weapon at Flynn’s waist. “And yet, for some reason, you show up carrying one of them and without the slightest idea on its meaning.”

Flynn was about to open his mouth to explain himself, but then the rogue waved her hand sharply, cutting him off. Her expression changed into something way softer than before, and for the first time since she first looked at him, she seemed to regard him with actual kindness.

She watched him for a moment, then shook her head. “I have no idea why he thought you’d understand. Other than that he was just so smitten by you, he had somehow forgotten that not all rogues share the same customs.”

“Look, I was trying to understand, I am trying now, but how can all of this be relevant to me?” Flynn said, throwing his arms to the sides in a helpless gesture.

The rogue was silent for a few more seconds.

“There’s a certain unspoken tradition that goes with it, especially among Stormwind rogues. And though it’s rather uncommon nowadays, the rogues who still respect it consider it rather meaningful,” she spoke slowly, watching Flynn’s face carefully. “If a rogue considers a certain individual important to them, they tend to offer them one of their twin weapons. That relationship can have various undertones, but it is always someone that the rogue holds exceedingly dear in some way. If the other person accepts, they offer their own weapon in return,” she paused to give him a slightly alarmed look. “Do you follow, captain?”

Flynn stood on the dock in front of her with a stunned expression on his face. He didn’t reply, but the way he clutched the dagger in his slightly shaking hands showed that he was beginning to realize what she was trying to convey to him. The idea that formed in his brain was making him dizzy, as if he was once again on a ship, wrecked from side to side by a violent storm. He looked at her with wide, slightly glazed eyes, waiting for her to confirm that it actually meant what he thought it did.

She stepped forward and pushed at his shoulders gently, until they were both facing the heart of the harbour again. Flynn’s eyes drifted immediately to the place where he had seen Shaw before. The Spymaster was done giving orders to his operatives, and was now standing by the marble balustrade near one of the staircases. He was slightly less hidden by the shadows, but still careful not to step into the open. A ray of sunlight caught in his hair, making the auburn strands look as if they were ablaze. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest as his eyes observed the harbour below him, as if he was searching for someone.

Just as Flynn had looked for him before.

“Whatever you make out of it, it’s yours. I just hope that you’re not mistaken,” the rogue spoke beside him, quietly. Flynn glanced at her, but her glowing eyes were still fixed on the Spymaster’s form. There was a strange, slightly somber look on her face, but it was quickly gone as she blinked and her gaze shifted to him. Her hand tightened briefly on his shoulder, before she let go entirely. He took a few, hesitant steps forward, but when he looked over his shoulder she was already gone.

The Stormwind king was still speaking to the Admiralty sailors gathered around him, and their attention seemed to be entirely occupied by his presence. The tides were in his favour apparently, at least this time, as it allowed him to pass along the edge of the harbour without bringing too much attention to himself. He made his way along the edge of the harbor, not letting the Spymaster out of his sight until he had no other choice but to push through the crowd. He kept clutching the dagger against his hip hard enough for his knuckles to turn white.

Flynn knew his attempts on getting closer to Shaw unnoticed were destined to fail from the very start, and it was only a matter of time before Shaw finally noticed him. He longed for it just as much as it made him anxious. He was used to acting and then dealing with the consequences, so anticipation was something entirely unfamiliar to him. An uneasy, nauseating feeling swirled in his stomach, and he didn’t know whether it was caused by the mob of people around him, the humid and warm weather, or just the prospect of finally talking to Shaw after all these months they had spent apart.

He barely managed to stumble out of the crowd at the bottom of the staircase when he noticed, just as much as he felt, Shaw’s eyes finally fixing on him. He felt his heart swell in his chest, and it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. He felt impossibly full of a feeling he couldn’t quite name, but the intensity of it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

The elf’s words rang in his brain like a distant echo. He was almost shaking with how nervous he was, but at the same time he couldn’t help the wide grin from spreading across his face. He took a few, hesitant steps up the staircase, waiting for the Spymaster to finally acknowledge him.

Shaw didn’t budge. He just stood by the balustrade, just as he had been standing before, and simply watched him, his expression as impassive as ever.

Flynn felt his smile falter.

So the elf was leading him on. He should’ve suspected as much. Why would some stranger even care about his wellbeing and social status, all of the sudden, anyways. The bitter disappointment made his stomach lurch uncomfortably and he swallowed with effort. How could he even be so stupid, so full of himself, that he considered even for a split of a second that Mathias Shaw, out of all people, would actually think of him with affection…

Except that.. apparently he did.

After a moment of hesitation, which Flynn had just realized was Shaw actually convincing himself that it was indeed Flynn waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, the Spymaster practically launched himself from the balustrade and towards the Kul Tiran.

He didn’t actually run, but it was as close as he could get while maintaining public place decorum and his dignity. The indifference was quickly gone from his face and his eyes filled with exactly the same kind of intense emotion that Flynn had recalled for so many nights over the past months, since they last parted their ways in Boralus.

A sharp inhale caught in Flynn’s throat at the sight. He took off his Admiralty tricorne and pressed it to the front of his chest with trembling hands, just to have anything to hold on to that would keep him grounded. He didn’t trust his knees not to buckle under his weight, had he dared to take even the smallest step forward. His own body once again betrayed him in the presence of the good Spymaster, and he could only stand and watch with fondness as the older man approached him.

Flynn’s surroundings swirled in his peripheral vision and Shaw finally coming to meet him was the only thing his brain could process, though it also came with considerable effort. It really did feel like a dream. He had dreamt about this so many times after all, but this time the Spymaster was standing right in front of him, very much real and a mere arm-length away. He regarded him with an expression of unbelievable softness and affection, unlike any other expression Flynn had ever seen him display, towards anyone.

They looked at each other for a few long moments. Flynn could see his own uncertainty and nervousness mirrored in Shaw’s eyes, as they both were apparently well aware of the importance that their next actions would hold.

Shaw was the first one to finally relent and break the tension. He reached forward, agonizingly slowly, and ran his hand down the lapel of Flynn’s coat, attempting to flatten and straighten it out. His eyes never left Flynn’s.

“It’s a pleasure to finally see you, captain,” Shaw spoke, and Flynn’s heart melted at the warmth in his voice.

“The pleasure’s all mine, to be honest,” Flynn replied weakly, too anxious to do or say something that would ruin the mood entirely. “And it’s Flynn to you, by the way.”

Shaw smiled gently at him, soft and genuine, with the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“You look good, Flynn,” he said. He kept his hand on Flynn’s coat, leaving it to rest against his chest. “The journey from Boralus went well then, I take it.”

“Better than expected, yes,” Flynn tried to match Shaw’s level of decency, even though his mind and every other part of his body wanted nothing but to take the entire Spymaster into his arms and press him against his chest and keep him there for the next couple of minutes.

Or hours.

Preferably, days.

But there was only so much he could do, as they stood out in the open, surrounded by so many people. He was aware that Shaw wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection, but he was also aware that he apparently struggled just as much as he did to keep his hands off him.

So he settled on reaching for Shaw’s hand and peeling it off the front of his coat, then taking it between his own much bigger hands. He could feel Shaw trembling slightly against his skin. His expression seemed to soften even further at Flynn’s touch.

Flynn desperately thought of something to say, something that would convey the immense longing he had felt during the past months, or the unfathomable relief he felt at the moment, from simply, finally, being at Shaw’s side. He had never been much of a poet, despite his, well, disputable, ability to sweet talk his way out of various circumstances, but in one of the exceptionally rare moments in his life, he eventually decided to simply tell the truth and hope for the best.

He swallowed, trying to work against his suddenly too-dry throat.

“Tides, I’ve missed you terribly,” he admitted, hoping that it at least didn’t sound too pathetic. “All that time I had thought I was a nuisance to you, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, you’ve proved me wrong. Only to leave right after.”

Shaw’s smile faltered slightly, and a glint of sorrow flashed in his eyes. He squeezed Flynn’s hand gently.

“Believe me, if only it had been possible, I would’ve stayed,” Shaw said. “The circumstances were, however… unfortunate. I was glad you at least agreed to keep in touch, as inconvenient as it was.”

“Inconvenient?” Flynn couldn’t help the slightly nervous, though impossibly fond laughter that bubbled in his throat. “Mate, I lived for your letters. I’ve read every single one of them so many many times I could recite them all from memory.”

A dreadful thought passed his brain for a second that it might've been too straightforward. It was quickly replaced with another wave of relief though, when Shaw’s features softened again, and the sorrow disappeared from his eyes.

“Yours were something I looked forward to as well,” Shaw replied, and though his words were just as reserved and professional as ever, his voice was filled with nothing but warmth and fondness. He exhaled softly, and his eyes shifted across Flynn’s face, taking in his features. He was quiet for a while, but Flynn could feel that there was something else he wanted to say. A slight frown appeared on his face, and he appeared to be thinking over his next words.

“I’ve always prefered to work in peace and quiet,” he admitted with a sigh, “and yet, somehow, when I returned from Boralus, suddenly all familiar places seemed too quiet. Too empty. I took pride in how perfectly organized my surroundings were, and how everything happened exactly the way I planned it. But after a while, I found myself annoyed with how predictable everything was. I found myself longing for something that would break the routine again.”

He brought his other hand up to cover Flynn’s, his expression suddenly turning serious.

“I got used to you, Flynn. I took your presence for granted, but it was only when I came back to Stormwind that I truly realized how valuable it was to me. How lonesome it had suddenly become, not having you around.”

Had Flynn been a bit more brave, he’d have kissed Shaw right there and then. He had kissed many people before, after all. Some people he knew, some people he didn’t, drunk and sober, and it had never been a particularly troublesome action for him to perform. But there was something about the man in front of him… Something that held Flynn back from doing just that, despite everything they had shared with each other so far.

He brought Shaw’s hand against his ribcage and flattened it there, slipping it under the lapel of his coat, with only the thin, smooth linen of his shirt separating his skin from Shaw’s palm. He desperately hoped the way his heart thrashed against his ribs would be enough to show the man how he felt about his words.

“Good thing I decided to come after you, then,” Flynn said, smiling despite his throat constricting painfully with emotion, “Though I’m curious how long it’ll take you to get annoyed with me.”

Shaw shook his head, but Flynn could see a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth under his carefully-styled moustache.

“Quite the contrary. You’ve been the only thing in a good while that doesn’t annoy me,” Shaw replied, with a hint of amusement audible in his voice. “Do you mind if we moved somewhere less… crowded? I’d rather not share you with anyone else anymore.”

Flynn felt his cheeks heat up, and he couldn’t really tell whether it was because of Shaw’s words or the way his hand dragged down his chest when he withdrew it from under his coat. The Spymaster motioned Flynn to follow, and he went without a single thought of hesitation. He doubted he’d be able to refuse the man anything, especially in his current state.

Shaw carefully navigated them through the crowd and out of the harbor, guiding Flynn with a gentle hand on his shoulder, that sometimes slipped lower, to lightly wrap around his waist. Though his every touch was just as subtle and inconspicuous as the Spymaster himself, Flynn was still perfectly aware of them all. It made him feel as if there were butterflies fluttering in his stomach, like he was some sort of lovestruck teenager again.

They had barely managed to enter one of less-packed and more secluded alleyways that branched out from the harbour and towards the main part of the city, when the golden glint of Shaw’s lone dagger at his waist caught Flynn’s attention, reminding him of what the mysterious elf rogue told him about.

If Shaw’s behaviour so far was all the confirmation he needed to prove that the Spymaster actually shared his affections, there was one last thing he needed to do to settle the matter once and for all.

“How long are you planning--,” the rest of Shaw’s question was cut off abruptly, as Flynn stopped in his tracks and pulled at his arm, spinning him around until they were facing each other. A look of puzzlement crossed Shaw’s face, and he opened his mouth to ask another question, but all his words died in his throat, as he saw Flynn reach towards his belt.

He unbuckled one of his cutlasses and laid the blade out on his outstretched hands, offering it to the Spymaster, with his head slightly bowed.

Shaw watched him, stunned.

“You asked me about something, last time we talked in Boralus,” Flynn said, refusing to meet his gaze out of sheer panic that despite everything, he might still have read him all wrong. His arms trembled from the tension in his muscles, and he struggled to keep them still enough not to drop the weapon. “I wasn’t sure what you meant, back then. But I think I know, now. And this is my answer.”

Silent, agonizing seconds stretched torturously into infinity and he was still too terrified to look up, keeping his eyes fixed stubbornly on the cobblestone between them. But then there was a soft, bare palm against his cheek, urging him gently to lift his head. He obliged, mostly out of instinct than anything else, but before he could fully comprehend Shaw’s reaction, the Spymaster took his face between both of his hands and pulled him roughly into a fierce kiss.

The cutlass clattered to the ground as Flynn brought his arms up to wrap them tightly around Shaw’s waist, pressing him so close to himself that he almost lifted the other man entirely off the ground. Shaw threw his own arms around his neck and clung to him desperately, as if Flynn was the only thing keeping him upright.

The kiss lasted for a few long moments, but it was still not enough for Flynn, even when his vision blurred and the ground swayed under his feet from the lack of air and the sheer idea that Mathias Shaw was actually right there, in his arms, kissing him.

They had to pull away eventually, too breathless to continue, and the moment Shaw’s lips left his he already began to miss the way they felt.

Shaw pressed his face into Flynn’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. He wasn’t quick enough though to hide the brilliant, crimson blush blooming across his freckled cheeks, and it was more than fitting for Flynn to declare that sight as his most favourite on the entire Azeroth. He was more than eager to reciprocate the embrace. He propped his chin on top of Shaw’s auburn head and kept him as close to his chest as possible. Shaw smelled like sun and coffee and shaving cream and the memory of it immediately lodged itself in Flynn’s brain, right beside the feeling of docking at home port after too many days at sea.

They stayed like that for a couple more minutes, until Shaw pushed himself weakly away from Flynn’s chest. He bent down and picked up the forgotten cutlass, then strapped it to his waist, matching the side to which his own dagger was secured to Flynn’s belt.

He looked up when he was done, and his eyes caught Flynn’s. He hesitated only for a moment, before he stepped closer and rose to his tippy toes, then pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of Flynn’s mouth. The gesture, however brief, was no less affectionate than the kiss they shared before.

Flynn leaned into it instinctively, but it was over as soon as it began.

“Come on, now. I believe we both have a lot to discuss,” Shaw said, with his own mouth just mere inches from Flynn’s and Flynn, drunk on his closeness, could only nod uselessly in return. Shaw took his hand once again and pulled him after himself, though his gait was a bit more brisk than before.

They passed through one alleyway after another and Flynn, in all honesty, just couldn’t care less. Every single mote of his body was focused on the man in front of him and nothing else. Shaw kept glancing over his shoulder at him from time to time, as if Flynn’s hand in his own wasn’t enough to convince him that Flynn was actually following right behind.

“So, how long are you planning to stay in Stormwind?” Shaw asked eventually, as they finally reached a district of older-looking, white brick buildings with red-tiled roofs. His grip on Flynn’s hand didn’t falter even for a second.

“I don’t think I was given an official deadline, yet,” Flynn replied, “So it's all on you, I reckon. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

Shaw stopped at that and glanced at him over his shoulder, with his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. His expression quickly turned into an outright smirk and he spun on his heel, before stepping in front of Flynn and crowding him into the stone wall of a nearby building until Flynn’s back was flattened against it.

Shaw leaned in, then paused, just mere inches from Flynn’s face, close enough that Flynn felt his warm breath on his lips. He lifted his hand to tuck a stray strand of Flynn’s hair behind his ear.

“Let’s start with getting you to stay until breakfast, hm?”