Chapter Text
“Don’t forget: No Scratching!”
Brent did his best. The warm evening air made his arm sweat below the bandages, sending the scabbed edges of the wound into a fever of itching. He tossed and turned late into the night, then woke up scratching. He had managed to make it bleed -- and overslept. Brent groaned, and grabbed for a long sleeved shirt to hide the evidence. Sunlight was streaming in.
Her bed was pristine, evidence Lyra had not returned that night after her Hot Date. He found her hunched over a cup of coffee in the dining hall, face showing both wretched pain, and cat-got-the-cream level smugness by turns. Brent slid onto the bench opposite, waving to the bar-maid. The establishment Orrig’s client had put them up in was unusually smart, even by city standards. They actually had table service.
“Where’s…?”
“Orrigs at the front desk, talkin’ to the owner.” Lyra’s tone was flat as she eyed her cup. “Ugh. I ask for a pick-me-up that hits like an Orc, and they give me this!? Shoulda just gone back to the dive bar.”
Brent waited. No more information was immediately forthcoming. The barmaid arrived, buzzing with more energy than the pair of them combined. He placed his order.
“And where’s…”
“Thistle? You missed her. Picked up some food and scurried back to her room.”
“Oh.” His heart sank. Lyra gave him a sideways look.
“Funny though. She asked after you too.”
“....she did!?”
“Yeah. Wanted to know if you were awake, you need your bandages changed again.”
“Right.” He tried not to let the sting show. Lyra’s eyes were glinting at him dangerously, and he sought to change the subject. He was already regretting sitting near her. “So….good night?”
“Awwww, yiss. This hard-ass mercenary babe likes a taste of the finer things in life. And, my lady is the most fine you ever did see.”
Brent had not needed to know that. Lyra paused, then grinned. “But enough about me. How goes the courtship of Sir Brent?”
“...”
“Aw come on. All those cosy one-on-ones. Soft healing touches. You mean to say the flower of passion remains in bud!?” Lyra cackled. He contemplated throwing his bench at her. “Have you seen under her hood yet?”
“No.”
“You’re not even trying! Fortune favours the bold. Or some sh*t.”
Perhaps the entire table.
“Kitchen’s cooking pancakes. You could take some up to her, maybe forget to knock, catch a glimpse…”
“I would never do that!!”
The metal fork he was holding, snapped in half. Brent blinked the black rage away from his eyes as Lyra blinked at him, then at the pieces of fork. “....Okay, Gods, okay. I’m just winding you up, alright? Sheesh.”
She was answered only with death glares.
“Seriously. I’m not going to try snatch a peek either. Wouldn’t work anyway. Gal wards her room.”
That was news to Brent. “She does?”
“Er, yeah, I’d stake my cut of the loot on it. Take it from someone who dates her own gorgeous Mage. If she wants privacy, she can get it.”
A soothing thought, that Thistle didn’t have to worry about being intruded on all of the time. Brent felt his anger ebbing away accordingly. Lyra watched him a moment longer, then sighed. “Gods, you are far gone.”
And with that, the anger was back. Lyra held up her hands in submission. “Okay! Okay! But for the record, I totally get it.”
“Yeah?”
“That sweet vulnerability thing she’s got going? Adorable. Even moreso knowing she’s strong enough to take the three of us apart.”
That was certainly true. Although Thistle made it hard to remember just how powerful she was. Brent was also certain that, outside of evil spirits and monsters, she would set herself on fire rather than hurt a fly.
“Thank you Brent. You’re a good friend.”
He didn’t feel like a good friend. He had lashed out and yelled at her over the Cave-Elf mess, now he kept scratching and messing up his wound.
But he had managed to talk to her and not make a complete fool out of himself. She had told him about the Echo, and it felt like he might have helped a little bit. So that was something, Right?
Lost in reverie, he jumped when the barmaid reappeared at his shoulder, now laden down with his order. He had broken his fork, so dug in with his knife and spoon.
“Orrig’s rules say no dating colleagues.”
Brent knew that of course. It had never mattered before given the selection available. He wasn’t sure whether Lyra was warning or threatening him to bring it up now. She looked at him, askance. “And I don’t wanna see Sweet-Flower get hurt. So what happens if what’s under the hood doesn’t fit the dream? You dump her?”
“No.” Brent growled through his bacon. The temptation to throw the table at her was back. Although he was painfully aware she had power over him at that moment, with the Orrig-Threat hanging in the air. “I…I don’t care what she looks like.”
The moment stretched. Then Lyra beamed and broke it with a exaggerated knock-back of her coffee. “Well then! I graciously accept my role as Wingman. Wing-Elf?”
“Uh.”
“Don’t worry, Brenty. I am an expert.”
“Expert in Vot?”
“...Archery! Yes! I was offering Brent here some lessons.” Lyra gasped. Brent choked on a sausage. Orrig was looming over the table. He had no idea how much the Orc could have heard. “Always helps to broaden the skill set. Some ranged skills, bit of woodcraft, perhaps he won’t get nom-nom-nommed on by the cave-elves next time.”
“Hmmmmmmmmm.” Orrig droned, then leaned over to pick up the broken fork. His brows lowered further at Lyra. “Dis is on your tab.”
“What…? Brent broke that!”
“Because you provoked him.” Orrig’s tone was flat. Brent chuckled as Lyra fumed. “You vill return to yesterday’s contracts. Get scrips signed. Only then, I can bill.”
“Fine. Fine, Dad. M’tired with sitting around in this dump anyway.” Lyra scowled. Pushing her chair back angrily, she flounced to the door. Before turning to flash Brent a thumbsup. And a wink.
Brent wasn’t sure what he had agreed to.