Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You’re starting to hate this city.

You can’t seem to take more than five steps in Baldur's Gate without stumbling over some new personal crisis, religious conspiracy or political intrigue that threatens to derail your mission to, oh, merely save the world.

The party is back at the Elfsong for the day, and the only things on your mind are a hot bath and a strong drink. Maybe even a wank, if you could find any privacy. Your rooms are full with children and animals, agents of both the infernal and divine waltzing in and out daily without even a by-your-leave. You love all of them dearly—well, except Wyll’s barely tolerated patron—but at the end of the day you’re simply exhausted by everything. Longingly, you consider dropping coin at Mamzell Amira’s and asking for someone to massage your aching neck and curl up with you to just sleep for an hour or two. 

But there’s no rest for the wicked.

Pushing past the front doors, you’re about to trudge up the stairs to your floor, when you spot a familiar face drinking at the bar. His face is half-turned to you, but you would recognise the handsome bastard anywhere.

“I’ll see you all later,” you say to your team, waving them off. “Get some rest, everyone.”

Shadowheart raises a cool eyebrow at you. “Where are you off to? You’re mostly healed, but you need to rest as well.” Fortunately, you’re a rogue, and you need much less continuous rest than your fellow spell-slingers.

“Going to see a man about a horse,” you quip, then shake your head at her concerned scowl. “I saw someone I want to speak to at the bar. I’ll be down here, if you need me.”

“Alright, but come see me later about your shoulder. I need to make sure it’s been set properly,” she declares, before turning to leave.

“Perhaps there’ll be mutton chops tonight,” Karlach muses out loud, as she takes the stairs two at a go.

“I hope they serve a good red with it.” Wyll trails after her, with a smile.

You check your clothing first—only a minimal amount of gore on the hem—and walk over to the long bar. Rugan is there drinking alone, draining a tankard of ale in determined mouthfuls. You move around and stand in his eyeline, so as not to surprise him from behind. “Is this seat taken?” you ask, with your hand around the bar stool.

There’s a beat before he recognises you. “It’s you!” He cries, slapping a hand on the counter. “Tav! Sit down, sit down. It’s been bloody ages.” You shuffle into the seat and try to catch the attention of the barkeeper.

Next to you, Rugan raises his drink and announces to the room, “Everyone, look! This is the one that delivered my soft and downy bum from a pack of gnolls!” Predictably, none of the other patrons in the busy bar spare him even a sidelong glance. He laughs, almost bitterly, and drains the rest of his drink.

His shouting, however, seems to have done the trick of attracting the staff. “One dark ale, and another one for my friend—charged to the rooms upstairs. Thank you,” you say, as the barkeeper takes away the empty tankard.

Order secured, you finally have a moment to look closely at the man in front of you. He looks more drawn than when you last saw him in Waukeen's Rest, but his blue eyes are still as bright and inquisitive, taking in the measure of you, even as you do the same. His undercut is freshly cropped and neat, and his armour is clean—positively spotless compared to yours. You surmise the following: he’s been in the city long enough to find a barber, hasn’t gotten into a fight recently, yet looks almost miserable about it. An interesting combination.

“So, you made it. And you’re staying at my local. Why haven’t I seen you until today?” he purrs, his vowels stretching out languorously. You realise that probably wasn’t his first drink.

“It’s good to see you too, Rugan,” you reply. “As to the why—I’ve been running around town ever since we arrived. This is the first time I’ve gotten a chance to have a drink while they’re still serving.”

“Well, it’s my lucky day, isn’t it, running into you?” He winks at you, and you have to laugh at that. Your drinks arrive in short order and you both toast to your health. The strong ale is exactly what you needed, after your long and terrible day in the city sewers.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, mate. Tell me, what’s been happening with you and your crew?”

You scrub at your face with your sleeve. “It’s a very long story, and I don’t know if you’ll even believe the half of it.”

“Try me. I love a good yarn, and besides, listening is the least I could do, after you’ve saved me from drinking alone.”

You tell Rugan the story of your rambling journey to the Gate from where you parted ways: winding through Rosymorn, then looping back through the Underdark and passing through the Shadow-Cursed Lands, summarising judiciously as you get closer to the present day, and omitting the bits about the Emperor and the Netherbrain and the gods and the Dead Three’s Chosen as far as you can, to avoid causing an existential panic. You’re superstitiously certain that if you utter the words “Gortash” or “Bhaal” in this bar, someone will appear to start a bloodbath in front of you and ruin your evening. As far as Rugan knows, you’ve just had extremely rotten luck crossing the Sword Coast.

Still, it feels good to share what you’ve been through with someone else, whatever parts you can. Rugan is an attentive listener, nodding along and gasping with delight at the best fights. (“Githyanki space monks? Oh, I see, murderous githyanki space monks.”) Between the shaggy dog story and the alcohol, he begins to relax, and starts to look like himself again—confident, charming, at ease. You had forgotten that everything about him was a distraction. 

You shift in your seat, hoping that the warm flush on your chest hasn’t spread to your face.

“Bloody hells,” he says, softly, at the end of it. “And I thought I’d been having a hell of a time. Goes to show what you know. Well, fuck me.”

You had both switched to liquor at this point. Mid-way through your tale, Rugan ordered a bottle of Highsun liqueur (“On me, I insist.”) and you take a fortifying sip of it now.

“Rugan,” you ask, gently, “Where’s the rest of your crew? Why were you drinking alone when I met you?”

His face has the soft openness of a man who’s been inebriated for a while, but hasn’t noticed it yet. He shakes his head. “They’re gone, Tav. I’m the last one left.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, automatically, and he nods. It’s the curt nod of a professional, who’s seen it all, and hates himself for still feeling anything.

“What happened?”

Rugan pours himself a shot of liquor before beginning. He looks at the bottle, while addressing you. His tone is deceptively mild.

“We’d returned to Baldur’s Gate to find new management among the Zhentarim in the city. They promptly turned us all over to the Steel Watch. Justice for that caravanserai and the kidnapped duke, apparently.” He tosses back the shot, and gives a wry laugh. “Funny that we’d get done for the one bit of mischief that wasn’t ours.”

Another faction you have to contend with in the coming days. You file that knowledge away. “Why is management working with the Steel Watch?” you probe, hoping he can give you any hint on how to negotiate or deal with them.

“No idea, but whatever they’re planning has impressed the powers that be at Darkhold, judging by the reinforcements.” Ah, I wonder if this has anything to do with Bane, you think, numbly.

Anger seeps into his voice, but he forces himself to continue, as if by saying the next part plainly, it will hurt less. “Either way, the new management didn’t want the Watch looking our way, so the others were served up on a platter—an offering. The old hempen jig—hanged.”

And that’s that then. Why should you feel sorry for the Zhentarim? They’re thieves and assassins, and trade in flesh and dark magic. But sitting beside you is just a man who’s lost his friends, and is trying to drink himself into a blind stupor with the first stranger he meets to cope.

He pours two more shots, and offers one to you, silently. Libations for the fallen. You take it, keeping your eyes fixed on him as you drink it all in one go this time. You lick your lips as you set the glass down.

It takes a moment before you dare to ask, “How did you manage to get away?”

Rugan’s smirk is rueful. “How do you think? I turned informer. Fed every lie and accusation back to them.” His posture changes, as he affects a sycophant’s tone, “Yes, sir, I saw them do it all. ”

“I showed loyalty, so I got to walk away, as a—what’s it?—a cautionary tale. A company man to the end,” he drawls. Then the air seems to go out of him in a rush. “Gods, lass, what a shite story; you shouldn’t have to listen to this old man’s moaning. Tell me more about the space monks, again.”

‘Mate’ at first, and now, ‘lass’? You blink. “You’re not too old,” is the only sparkling comment your exhausted brain provides, so naturally, it's the first thing you blurt out.

Rugan looks at you, incredulously. Then he throws his head back and laughs, and laughs. After a brief moment of shock, you’re laughing as well, the both of you braying with laughter, slapping your hands on your thighs and shaking. You’re laughing so hard because if you stopped, you’d start crying on account of the awfulness of this world, all the stupid, petty power struggles that have hurt everyone you met on this journey, trapped them, twisted their devotion, and continued to take. 

You are all just pawns in a cosmic game with no clear rules, and with gods that play lanceboard with mortal lives. All of your companions that you care for, and, yes, even this Zhent. It’s bleak and it’s horseshit and you’re so tired. You’re definitely drunk. You just want to lay down and not think for a while.

Eventually, you both calm down, the last bit of laughter trickling out of you. You sigh, and wipe your eyes on the back of your hand.

He leans over. “S’good then? My not being too old and all.” His knee is warm against yours. How long has it been there, pressed up against you comfortingly?

“Rugan,” you say, very properly, careful not to slur your words, “I’m drunk, and so are you.” 

“I’m not drunk, I’ve been drinking,” he protests.

“You are drunk, just so,” you say, imperiously, and he holds his hands up in defeat. “And I am very tired. And I need a bath. I was going to have a nice person at Sharess’ do that for me.” Rugan’s eyes widen at the confession, but he doesn’t make any clever comments. “But now we’ve had this lovely chat and all the time I’d planned for that has gone by. So now, I will walk you back to your rooms.” In your mind, this is all very fine logic. You start to get out of your chair, slowly, because the bar has begun to sway a little bit.

“I could wash your hair for you,” he offers, with a rakish smile. “Tuck you into bed after. If that’s all that you wanted?”

You take a moment to consider this. Rugan can handle himself. He isn’t a damsel in distress. And he’s removed enough from your world that he won’t be a complication before the inevitable end; not someone you might have to watch get kidnapped or maimed or cut down.

“Yes to the hair washing and sleeping. I reserve the right to decide on anything after,” you decide, out loud.

“That’s fine by me,” he says, as he gets up to pay for the bottle.

You leave a hastily scrawled note for your friends with the barkeep, telling them you’ll be back by morning. Playing the gentleman, Rugan offers you his arm, even though you can tell he’s working hard to keep himself walking in a straight line, having imbibed a fair deal more than you. The both of you go tripping out into the cool night, leaning into each other and whispering loudly.

“Which way?” You hiss. It’s important to be quiet, because it’s nighttime.

“Just down the street. It's not as fancy as the Elfsong, but it's clean and safe.”

“I’m not worried. You're here to protect me.”

“Lass, I've seen you fight. Between the two of us, you are by far the most dangerous person on this street.” The way he says dangerous is low and sweet. It makes it feel like a compliment. You preen a little.

“I’ll show you my dagger, too, if you ask nicely,” you coo. Your whole side is pressed against him now, pining his arm between you both. Rugan is warm, and it's very nice. 

“I’m quite certain that's supposed to be my line.” He shakes his head, but his eyes are sparkling.

===

Rugan goes to speak to the innkeeper when you arrive, as you rock back and forth on your heels in the common room, squinting at the stag’s head mounted over the fireplace. He collects you with a laugh, and guides you up the stairs.

Somehow, you manage to make it up to his room without incident. You stand in the middle, surveying the space. The bed is large enough for the both of you. Best of all, it's private, with a door that locks and its own washing area. 

Behind you, Rugan is shedding his leather cuirass, bracers and boots, putting away his armour with practised care and efficiency. He's down to his linen undershirt and trousers, when he walks up to you, crowding your space. Presumptuous man. Then again, you are in his room in the middle of the night.

“Bath first? Or some wine?” he asks.

“I was thinking, maybe a kiss?” you say, stepping closer to him.

His arms are around you now. “Aye, that I can do.” His mouth on yours is sour-sweet and herbal. You lick into it, tasting the Highsun you shared. Rugan hums in approval.

You moan into the kiss, as he carefully manoeuvres you against the nearest wall. When was the last time you'd been kissed like this, slow and insistent, the hot press of a strong body against yours?

The kisses are getting deeper, greedier. Rugan runs his hands up and down your sides, slipping under the weave of your light armour, hooking his thumbs in your belt loops, and pulling you close. Flush against him, you can feel the firmness of his thigh parting yours.

There's a knock at the door, and your mind snaps back to reality, alert for danger. 

“Your bath, sir,” comes the muffled voice from the hallway. 

Assassins don't usually knock, your brain supplies, unhelpfully.

Rugan shakes himself, almost unwilling to pull apart from you. “One moment,” he calls out. To you, he gives one more indulgent kiss, before going to answer the door.

The two young men at the door fill the tub in the corner with hot water from buckets, quickly and methodically. Rugan tips them and they scamper off.

You marvel at the tub, half-full and steaming gently. It's just about big enough for one. “Is this for me?”

“Of course. I said I would wash your hair, didn't I?”

You have to be naked to get into the bath, you realise. Rugan watches you come to the conclusion, barely holding in his amused laugh. Very well. You can put on a show, if you want to. Carefully, and as gracefully as you can manage, you remove your layers, one by one. You unbelt your daggers, laying them on top of the pile. When you're down to just your chemise, Rugan is watching you with nearly black eyes, pupils blown wide in the dim lamplight, but he's still standing on the other side of the tub. Just watching you, as if he wants to eat you whole.

You shed your last layer. Entirely bare, and with as much poise as you can muster, you step into the water and sink up to your chin. You sigh, as the tension leaves your body, little by little.

“Doesn't that feel nice?” he says, coming to kneel beside you, running his fingers through the water to test the temperature. 

“Mmm, yes,” you agree. He tilts your chin up for a kiss and you happily oblige.

You tip your head back to wet your hair and luxuriate in the warmth for a long moment, the sound of the world dampened by the water around your ears. Rugan has a sliver of soap in hand when you resurface, lathering it between his wet palms.

Wordlessly, he begins to shampoo your hair, massaging your scalp with one hand as he supports you by the neck with the other. His strong hands feel amazing. Idly, you wonder where he learnt to do this so well, and you're tempted to ask him. But the moment feels unbearably intimate, so you both remain quiet, as he works his fingertips deftly into your crown, your temples, the nape of your neck, along the muscles where you carry so much stress, from your jaw down to your shoulder. You shudder from how much of a relief it is, and bite back a moan, melting into his firm hold, as he works out the knots in your neck.

You run the soapy washcloth across your skin, scrubbing the last of the dirt and sweat of the day away. Below the swirling, soapy surface of the water, you run a finger down your cleft to clean yourself, finding it already slick. Gods, you were well and truly fucked. If Rugan notices, he doesn't say anything, still focused on washing your shoulders and your upper back.

“All done,” he says, shaking the water off his hands. “Stand up and I'll rinse you off.”

Gripping the sides of the tub, you rise to your feet, feeling the bathwater sluice off you. Rugan tips the reserved bucket of clean water over your head, and you gasp at the chill. Your nipples begin to pebble. His eyes are dark and hungry again when he helps you out of the bath and wraps you in a large towel, but he only kisses you, gently.

You towel off and lay down in bed, sleepy and relaxed from the bath. Rugan sheds the rest of his clothes and climbs in next to you. You're skin to skin, touching beneath the covers, but nothing more. You turn to look at him, sensing that he's holding himself back.

“Rugan?” You trace the side of his face, questioningly.

“I'm Zhentarim, but I'm no brute.” His deep voice is nearly a rumble in the space between you both. “If a beautiful woman wants to come to my bed, by all means. But I won't do anything that she doesn't ask for.”

Oh.

You reach for his hand and interlace your fingers with his, feeling the sword calluses on his palm and fingers. You move it to your breast and hold it there, right above your heart, which you're certain is beating faster now. “Consider this me asking. Rugan, please, you've been so sweet to me. I want you to make me feel good tonight.” You move closer to him, until your noses are almost touching. “I want to make you feel good as well.”

“Sweet lass,” he murmurs. “Come here.” His lips are on yours again, his warm hand cupping your breast, running his thumb over your nipple, stroking back and forth like a cat's tail. The drink in you makes everything soft and hazy, each lazy sweep like a soft sunburst, blooming against your skin and in your core. You sigh against his mouth. 

Taking his time, he kisses down your neck, between your breasts and trailing down your stomach, calloused hands still massaging your breasts and playing with your nipples, tweaking and rolling them between his fingers expertly.

He nudges your legs apart and they fall open for him. Grabbing a pillow from the top of the bed, he slides it under your hips. He inhales sharply when he strokes your folds and finds you already soaking, whimpering under his touch.

“You’re so wet already for me, sweetheart,” he says, and the endearment goes straight to your head. He gathers your moisture on his fingers and rubs circles around your clit, slowly. He slides two fingers inside of you, and you part for him easily, dripping from the attention he's been giving you all evening.

Bracing himself on his free arm, he leans over and laps at your swollen clit, as his thick fingers fill you up, finding the sweet spot that sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck,” you curse, expressively.

He chuckles against your aching cunt, and keeps up the pace. It doesn't take much; you haven't touched yourself in so long, and Rugan is far too good at this, reading your gasps and whines, fucking you relentlessly with his fingers and working at your clit until your climax steals over you, hard and sudden, and you feel the bottom of the world fall out from underneath you. He keeps his tongue and lips on you through it, until you have to push him away, overstimulated and panting.

He runs the back of his hand over his mouth, now red and shining from servicing you. He looks utterly debauched, the knot of his hair falling loose from where you tugged at it, grinding yourself against his face. Your gaze drops down to his length, hard and beautiful and weeping, and your mouth begins to water. You now understand why he's so damnably cocksure all of the time, since this is what he has to work with.

As if sensing your intention, Rugan wraps a hand around his shaft, stroking himself slowly, spreading glistening precum down his length. Putting on a show for you.

“Let me suck your cock, please,” you whine.

“Just a taste—I won't last long in your gorgeous mouth,” he says, kneeling on the bed and holding it out for you. No hands, then. Obediently, you curl up against him and brace your hands on his hips for support, then swallow him down as deep as you can.

Now it's his turn to curse and swear, as you bob up and down his length, looking up at him from below your lashes.

“Tav,” he hisses. You don’t stop moving. “Sweetheart,” he moans, and you keep holding your breath for as long as you can, saliva dripping out the corner of your mouth and down your chin, as you hollow your cheeks and feel him nudge the back of your throat. When you come up for air, both of you are gasping.

He pulls you up for a kiss, holding you tightly against him. You both taste like each other, musky and salty-sweet. You wind your fingers in his hair, and pull the rest of the half-knot free, scratching gently along the downy slope of his undercut. He shivers against you. “I want to be inside you,” he whispers, pressing hot kisses to your jaw. “Would you like that?”

You nod feverishly. “Rugan, I needed you inside me yesterday.” 

He laughs, low and deep, and the sound makes your belly flip. “Where would you like me?”

Instantly, you know the answer: you want him above you, pressing you down into the sheets with all his weight, a solid wall of muscle to fuck every last thought and worry from your mind. 

You reach for the pillow from before and slide it underneath you, canting your hips up. Rugan takes the hint beautifully, kneeling in between your thighs and pushing your left leg up to your chest, gently testing your flexibility. You wrap your hand around the back of your left thigh, and your free leg around his waist, coaxing him forward.

He drags the head of his cock against your folds, once, twice, before thrusting into you. Your head falls back at the sensation of his cock burying itself in you in one smooth motion. Rugan presses a languid kiss to your lips, slow and unhurried, as he gives you time to get used to the delicious stretch. The angle of your hips and your leg make it feel so deep, so sublime. You clench around him, and he groans into your mouth.

He pulls out and works himself in again, with short, careful strokes that do nothing but fan the flames in your belly higher. “Your cock feels amazing,” you whisper, hot against his ear. “Please, please hurry up and fuck me.”

“Sweet hells, the mouth on you, Tav,” he groans.

On the next stroke, he bottoms out fully and you wail, seeing stars behind your eyelids. “Just like that! More, please!”

You clutch his broad shoulders, burying your face in his neck, holding on for dear life as he moves against you, setting the punishing pace that you begged for yourself. You feel your mind grow blissfully blank. For a moment, you wonder if the Emperor has gone into permanent hiding, too embarrassed to ever make a sound again.

Then, Rugan pushes your right leg up to your chest as well, and the angle changes again. His pubic bone is grinding against your clit and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, the one that his fingers found so easily before. You yelp and moan and writhe on the sheets, and the bastard has the cheek to grin at you, even as he's sweating and gasping. “Should I—keep going—like this?” he rasps, between forceful strokes.

The sound your bodies make against each other is thunderous in the quiet room, matched only by your heavy breathing and the hammering of your pulse in your ears. You feel sudden wetness all around your thighs as something twists and gives inside you. You grab his face and kiss him fiercely, as your orgasm rips and rolls through you. Rugan fucks you through it, heedless of the sensation, his mouth sealed over yours, drinking in your moans and your cries.

“Inside,” you tear your head back and gasp weakly, as his thrusts grow harder and more erratic. “Come inside me. Fill me up.” Your pleas and filthy encouragement are enough to send him over the brink as well, slamming into you and spilling inside you with a low cry.

For a long while, you lie there, floating, suspended. You could close your eyes and drift away forever, at peace. Slowly, you feel the sensation return to your body in fragments. The low roar of blood still in your ears. The weight of the body above you. The slippery wetness between your thighs. 

You run a shaking hand through Rugan’s messy hair, half-expecting him to start snoring. Instead, he lifts his head slowly and leans over to give you a long kiss, before disentangling himself and sliding off the bed.

He returns with the washcloth, free of soap and wrung dry. You clean yourself off, exhausted, eyeing the growing wet patch on the bed underneath you with some dismay.

“Don't worry, it will dry by the morning.” His husky voice is shot to pieces, now mostly vocal fry. You did this to him, you think, smugly.

He takes the soiled cloth away, then motions you over to the dry side of the bed.

You roll over and he slides in next to you. Wrapping you up in his arms, you both manage to fit on mostly dry terrain. You attempt to protest the cuddling on principle, but just barely. Rugan’s body is a warm, solid mass against you, stronger than any spell. You blink slowly in the lamplight, trying to focus your eyes; sleep settles over you, between one breath and the next.

===

Drinking often makes your sleep broken and fitful. You wake in the early hours of morning, to see the lamps have been switched off. Thin, blue-grey light is seeping in through the curtains, barely illuminating the room.

Rugan is lying with his face pressed against the back of your neck. His breathing is even but shallow. You will yourself to stay still and pliant; mercenaries usually sleep lightly, and if you move too much you might stir him.

After several minutes of careful breathing, your brain is still too wired to allow you to fall back asleep. You sigh inwardly. Slowly, you roll yourself over. Rugan's eyes are half-lidded, but his face is sleep-soft, his parted lips slack.

You consider what you know about this man, a near stranger that held you and washed your hair and made you forget who you were for a while last night, forget your reluctant hero's mantle and your terrible quest. You consider the breadth and depth of your feelings.

He looks beautiful like this, in the cold, pre-dawn light.

Then, he blinks, and you watch him come awake. It feels a bit like magic, the way human beings wake up, when you're observing them closely. He recognises you, and smiles blearily.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says.

You smile back, cautiously. You think that he might pull you into a kiss, or reach for your breasts or arse and try for a quick tumble. You might let him, but he's content to watch you with sleepy eyes, as he stretches.

“Where are you off to today?” he asks, quietly.

“Off to see a man about a horse,” you reply lightly, and he chuckles, voice still gravelly from sleep. You couldn't very well say, I'm off to find the temple of Bhaal, the literal God of Murder.

You’ve always hated pillow talk. Better to rip the bandage off cleanly. “Rugan, I—enjoyed last night, but I might not be able to see you again so soon.” You wince inwardly at how trite you sound.

Because tomorrow morning I might be dead, turned into artwork on the pavement by cultists. Because Orin might be wearing my skin like a coat. And then I would have failed, and the whole city would be turned into mind flayers.

“Aye?” His tone is equally light. “Does it have something to do with that horse of yours?”

You hate this. You hate speaking in thieves' cant and riddles. You massage your temples and try to find the right words to get through to him. “Some friendly advice—and you didn't hear this from me—” You clear your throat. “As of yesterday, the Stone Lord is dead, and so is Roah Moonglow.”

If he wasn’t before, he's fully awake and present now, upon hearing those familiar criminal underworld names. His eyes narrow, but he remains silent, listening to your clipped words.

“The Guild and Nine Fingers already move to consolidate and reassert their power once more. Pick a side—I hope for your sake, you pick the right one.”

He shakes his head. “I've been Black Network for as long as I remember. I’ve been loyal. Few bumps in the road don’t change that.”

“Hang loyalty.” You push yourself upright, pulling the covers up with you. “Put aside that senseless devotion and listen to me,” you hiss, suddenly angry, so angry and anxious for him. 

The fragile calm of the morning is splintering. Rugan draws himself into a seat as well. You’re both sitting upright in bed now, facing each other. You try to keep your voice even, but your breath hitches in your chest. 

“There’s more at stake here than you know. The gods and the hells themselves are involved.” You scrub at your face, helplessly. “Please, you need to—to keep yourself safe.”

He purses his lips; you see years of survivor's instincts warring with his company loyalty on his face. “You and your crew are dealing with something bigger than this, then? Bigger even than Gate politics?”

You nod, throat tight, but unwilling to risk revealing any more than you already have.

He swears under his breath. “And all the things you told me last night over drinks—the dark places you’ve been, the monsters you’ve been fighting—there's much more to it that you aren't saying, isn't there?”

“Yes, and I'm sorry, I can't.” 

You exhale through your nose. You rest your head on your knees, wondering if you made the right call by telling him what you did.

His hand is warm as he strokes your back, like you are some sort of terrified animal that he’s trying to soothe. “Thank you for warning me. Not many would have done the same.” 

Gradually, you feel your wild anger recede. When he’s certain you’re calmed, Rugan lies back down again, staring at the ceiling.

“I reckon, when all this is over, either we'll both be dead, or things will simply continue on as they always have,” he says into the quiet, apropos of nothing.

You bark a laugh. A harsh, ugly sound. “That’s a truism, if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Suppose it is so, my clever lass.” You don’t flinch at the fondness in his voice.

“If Baldur's Gate is still standing, trade will return, and along with it, the old smuggling routes down through the coast. I'll be here, doing what I do best. If that’s the case—I'll meet you back at the Elfsong for a drink at the bar.” It’s the closest thing to a promise that he’d ever dare to give, or that you would accept.

You have maybe an hour before you need to head back to the others. You could get up now, get dressed, and dive into the frenetic, breakneck pace of your day. Or you could stay a while longer, and try to get some more rest.

You settle down, and curl yourself up against him. Rugan strokes your hair softly. 

“I’ll hold you to that drink,” you whisper.

“Aye, sweetheart, so will I.”

===

Chapter Text

pencils on paper, 2024