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joz-yyh · 1 year

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Rust - Ch. 6

SUMMARY: A “how they got together” and “where they are now” fic in which I detail how Damian and Tardif meet and consequently fall in love. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: EXPLICIT (for violence / sexual themes)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant / (Crusader x Highwayman -> established relationship) / (Grave Robber x Plague Doctor -> established relationship)

WORD COUNT: 7,493

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Very important note, but this chapter contains another FLASHBACK.

I’ve been meaning to explore other ships/characters while Damian and Tardif are off doing their own thing so that means I’ll be adding in the Reymas sidestory I previously posted as well as some cute Grave Robber x Plague Doctor content.

There will also be a FLASHFORWARD towards end where I tease upcoming events. I’ll be sure to mark this segment appropriately.

Reynauld drags Dismas out for some quality time and smutty hijinks ensure. Audrey tries to dig up dirt on Tardif and Damian’s relationship by inviting the flagellant out to the cove for some one-on-one girl talk. The bounty hunter returns, but it’s not the same way when he left.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

“Hmm,” Reynauld mutters, gauntlet-clad fingers curled under his helmet in reserved contemplation.

His blue eyes survey the capricious wares of the nomad wagon, gold and silver chains strung up in a row, display boxes of brooches and other acquired oddities arranged beneath.

Presented with such antiquities, Reynauld by no means claims to be as knowledgeable as Josephine, but over time, he’s picked up a few tricks of the trade, appraising each of the pieces laid out before him, weighing their rarity and purpose.

“Just pick something already,” comes Dismas’ insurgent groan, his words swiftly accompanied by an impatient upheaval of his arms into the otherwise peaceful air.

You’d think the knight was downright torturing him, but then again, the highwayman was especially weak to boredom.

“Perhaps, I’ll check back another time,” the knight says, addressing the demure fortune teller running the shop.

“Seriously,” Dismas asks, his arms an inverse of the gesture he made before, incensed fingers spread open in a hollow fist by his knees.

The swordsman unfurls from the wagon window, having been bent into an investigative hunch whilst he perused the counter.

He raises a speculative eyebrow at his companion, the look of Dismas’ dark eyes telling him that he was being an insufferable pain.

“You drag me all the way out here just to spend all that time window shopping and now you’re not even goin’ to buy anything,” Dismas surges, the vein in his forehead giving a poignant twitch of anger.

The Romani woman smirks, resting her chin on the splay of her ringed fingers as she watches the lovers bicker like an old married couple. This is by far the most entertaining thing she’s seen all day.

The knight nods to himself, having made up his mind, “Yes, I really do think it’s best that I wait.”

In an expression of his inner turmoil, Dismas tilts his head back and heaves out a long, throaty groan.

Reynauld ignores him, bidding adieu to the raven-haired shopkeeper, their business concluded.

She winks at him in return, blowing a kiss and wagging her long nails, “Don’t keep me waiting too long, handsome.”

Dismas shoves his hands into his pockets as they set off towards the barracks, shoulders tense with aggravation, the fur on his jacket coming up to cover his wind-blown ears.

“Still can’t believe you made me wait all that time just so you could–” Dismas cuts himself off, recognizing the glimmer of treasure.

“Oh, you sly dog,” the highwayman whistles, regarding his partner with astonished pride, pulling down his neckerchief to showcase the shit-eating grin plastered across his scarred face, “You didn’t!

"I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about,” Reynauld says, the fluctuation of his tone much too fake and effervescent to be considered innocent.

“C'mon,” Dismas chuckles, nudging his elbow into the knight’s arm and wagging his eyebrows suggestively,“Confess.”

“The item had already been discarded when I discovered it,” Reynauld says, explaining the appearance of the inconspicuous trinket.

Dismas can spot bullshit from a mile away. Takes a thief to know a thief.

“Uh-huh, whatever you say sticky fingers,” Dismas jives, giving the crusader a smug look, the pronounced scars on his face seeming to extend his smirk even more.

Reynauld risks a glance, taking in the gold fillings that alight the man’s smile, making it more dazzling than it already is, just one of many endearing traits hidden behind the mask of his red scarf.

“It’s value would be better served to fund the church,” is the knight’s assertion, the gravelly baritone indicating that he was becoming annoyed with his partner’s games.

Dismas expects as much. Reynauld was running on a short fuse whenever his credibility was called into question.

“Oh, speaking of church, you went on a mission with that new guy, right? The one that flogs himself half to death. How was he? You two hit it off,” the thief asks.

The knight turns to the highwayman, burning with jealousy, the emotion tangible behind the slots in his helmet “Why the sudden interest in him?"

Dismas snickers to himself, facing forward now to avoid the fire in his partner’s eyes, "Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he’s the new thing in town and the folks here don’t have enough to gossip about. Figured you might have the inside scoop on him.”

Rey deadpans, growing more frustrated with each passing minute, “Day by day, we stake our lives against corruption and yet you say there’s nothing more pressing to talk about other than a stark raving lunatic?”

“Yes,” Dismas replies with a shaky uncertainty, posing the word as a question.

Reynauld makes a caustic sound of disgust,“I thought it was surely a joke when I heard the Order accepted the aid of such extremists. It’s disgraceful. Unorthodox.”

Dismas’ eyes widen, caught off guard by his friend’s uncanny ferocity, especially when it came to a fellow believer of the Light.

“So… you’re not a fan then,” the highwayman concludes.

Reynauld barks out a laugh.

“Hardly,” he jests, voice aimed skyward, the exemplative sounding much louder when he realizes that his motley companion is not laughing along with him.

“Is it not the same for you,” the knight asks, fixing his partner with a perplexed look of surprise, his criticism hanging heavy in the space between them.

“Well,” the squirrely man drawls, shrugging his shoulders, “I haven’t really met the guy and I am not one to judge. Wouldn’t want to make assumptions. Haha, that holy book you keep trying to drill in my brain must finally be rubbing off on me.”

Reynauld stops dead in his tracks, but Dismas doesn’t catch on until a few paces later, reciprocating the action once he learns that he’s left the other behind.

A possessive kind of stare is brewing behind the darkness of the swordsman’s helmet, one that worries the highwayman into thinking that this light-hearted teasing of his has gone a bit too far, crossing some invisible line in the sand.

Dismas returns to the balking crusader’s side, ducking around him playfully to show he meant no harm.

“Don’t worry, big guy, you’re the only churchboy I am after,” the thief reassures him, putting on a lopsided smile, giving the knight a light jab against his pauldrons.

Rey doesn’t budge, not even a twitch of good humor, a prosecution of sins unrectified. With an aura of predatory malaise, the knight advances on him, gripping a fistful of his jacket, enough that the gunman can hear the threads squeak from the strain.

The red-nosed bandit is lifted, boots nearly gliding off the ground as he’s dragged along by the collar.

“H-hey! Rey,” Dismas tries nervously, breaking out into a cold sweat, “barracks are t-that way.”

“I know where the barracks are,” the knight declares, leading the smaller man towards the stone bridge with determined, self-righteous steps, “We’re taking a detour."

Dismas feels a knot twist his stomach, not daring to resist as he’s led past the gray cinderblocks of the abutment and down through the small ditch of grass.

There might have been a thriving river here at one point, but like most things in this backwater town, it’s long since dried up.

Safely hidden beneath the arch of the voussoir overpass, the swordsman finally releases him, shoving him towards a collection of old supply crates growing musty from the elements.

The highwayman reaches out to stop himself from collapsing into the mud, gloved hands hugging onto either side of the wooden box.

Despite Reynauld taking him by the scruff and distributing him here, Dismas finds that he’s the one panting from exertion, pinpricks of warmth crawling up his neck, his cheeks burning red.

Pinching his eyes shut, he collects himself with a few deep breaths, flipping himself around to confront the overzealous crusader.

The knight is already standing so close, knee to knee with their bodies almost touching and Dismas shrinks more firmly against the sharp angle of wood at his back.

"What exactly is going on inside that big head of yours,” the highwayman teases, a heavy blush upon his face, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re looking a bit jealous crusader.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say the moment that the words leave his mouth, but he wasn’t thinking with his mind anymore.

“The Light demands recompense. I’ll be taking it from you,” Reynauld decrees, hands tugging at the belt that secures his surcoat into place.

Dismas’ telltale heat intensifies, his body well-versed in the heady string of events, his cock swelling inside the confines of his trousers.

The knight pushes his partner down, the smaller man’s back completely molded to the square block of wood, the boards giving a disruptive creak from the added pressure.

Dismas doesn’t protest when a gloved fist pries at the belts on his vest, spreads it open none too kindly, his shirt following the same fate, the fabric pulled from his trousers and pushed under his chin.

The outlaw shivers as the cool night air penetrates his feverish skin, his intentions fraying and exposed, groaning with anticipation.

The visor on Reynauld’s helmet is raised, dark brown locks of hair hanging above crystalline eyes, the man’s beard grazing over wiry muscle as he leans down to suckle an overt nipple.

Dismas gives a hearty tremble then a hiss, Rey’s teeth and tongue working the nub into an unbearable hardness while the other is fondled mercilessly with his thumb.

“Mmrmph, Rey,” gunman begs breathlessly, head tilted back, eyes closed as he concentrates on the sensation.

“Careful Dismas, you’re beginning to echo,” the taller man teases, his words both a warning and a command as he reaches for the highwayman’s belt and all of it goes straight to the ex-con’s groin.

There’s a clatter of something or someone coming from the pier above, jostling them both out of their blissful ministrations.

Rey puts a gloved hand over his lover’s mouth, not trusting him to stay quiet even under these circumstances.

Their uninvited guest is none other than the town crier, sloshing about with a bottle of booze, singing off key as he stumbles along the railway. Strange how they hadn’t heard his approach before, but they listen tentatively now, the trickle of something being spilled off the side of the bridge.

Reynauld meets Dismas yearning gaze, pressing a finger to his own lips in a bid to remain silent and the damned gunman decides it’s a good idea to lick his palm.

Dismas both loathes and loves his decision because his partner grunts, thrusting their clothed bodies together in reparation, the hand against his face squeezing tighter to seal his tongue away.

The drunkard above relieves a startled, “huh,” as he spins around, looking for the source of the noise, but finds the path clear. The hefty weight of footsteps and the clank of glass resumes, continuing onward, the sound of jumbled lyrics gradually fading away.

“You conniving little street rat,” the knight reprimands, taking his hand away so the other can speak his amends.

Dismas just grins at him, mischievous, wanting to continue where they left off.

“Should’ve left you at home,” Rey says more sweetly, “This is what I get for bringing you along.”

The religious sod holds out his hand, letting the trinket unravel from his fingers to dangle above Dismas’ bare chest. Before him spins a silver band fashioned to a convergence of twin guns, pinned by a pair of hawk wings.

It’s almost too much for Dismas’ lust-buzzed mind to comprehend.

"Huh? But didn’t you say–”

“I know what I said,” declares the knight in that deep reverberating voice of his, so solid and firm, just like the rest of him,“It would be better spent on the church. Don’t make me regret giving it to you."

The swordsman is breathing heavily, sweat collecting on his brow, a morbid glare in his bright eyes, though there’s another more tender emotion swirling behind it.

Dismas’ ink-set pupils twinkle in that special way that the crusader lives to see, a characteristic only meant for intimate exchanges like these.

"Well, shucks crusader. I didn’t know you cared,” he taunts, angling his head down in that sultry smolder he knows the other man can’t get enough of, arching one of his dark brows in a clear challenge for more.

“Don’t play with me Dismas,” Reynauld warns, spitting into his free hand, “you should know by now what happens when you do.”

He spreads the meager globs of saliva with a few languid pumps of his hand, erection slick enough to fulfill its purpose, positioning himself against his partner’s core, adding another drop onto where the two of them meet.

“Mmm, yeah … yeah I do,” Dismas moans, biting his lip, eyebrows flicking up to his hairline as he feels that hot length press between his legs ,“why do you think that I ahhhh– by the Light Rey–”

It’s painful and he’s under-stretched, but Dismas doesn’t care, he wasn’t willing to wait. He latches onto his lover’s hips as that holy lance drives into him, moaning out just how much he wants this.

“Yes, I love it when you fuck me just like that,” the ravenette sings, the discomfort a hazy afterthought.

Right now, this glorious knight in shining armor was his and the rugged ex-con wanted to wear that fact like a brand, to feel the touch of their bodies long after the spell of desire has cooled.

“Dismas, what have I told you,” the knight whispers, an azure gaze beholding him with incorrigible fondness.

“That you love me,” the highwayman says, grinning ear to ear.

Reynauld shakes his head with a soft chuckle.

“Yes, and what else,” the knight insists, running his hand through the greasy strands of unruly black hair.

“Rey, please,” Dismas begs, needing him to move, wrapping encouraging legs around his waist.

In nostalgic reverence, the knight trails his fingers down to the scars on his lover’s mouth, those harsh lips parting to grip the digit between his teeth, biting at it lightly.

“You’re too reckless,” the swordsman reminds him, pulling his hand away to retrieve the spoils of tonight’s excursion. “Will you wear it,” the knight asks, trinket captured in his fist as he trails the blunt edges of it over the sharpshooter’s agile front down to his lithe stomach.

“Hmm,” the gunman hums, dizzy with pleasure, the chill of metal raising the hairs on his skin. “Yeah, ‘cours I will. But only if you promise to fuck me again, just like this,” Dismas breathes, grateful to feel the man inside him, the savage friction of their flesh better than any vice he knew.

“It would be my pleasure,” Reynauld says, a kingly smile on his lips as he leans in for a kiss.

Dismas melts under those holier-than-thou lips, forgets about being chaste as his muscles relax around the generous length that splits him open with each hallow thrust. He pulls the man in closer, hands grasping at the back of his helmet, needing more of that abstained tongue and voice, wanting everything this man would give him.

Later, when both of them are sated and dressed, Dismas looks down at the necklace Reynauld had given him, marveling at the pendant in his hand and the charming resemblance it held to his own set of pistols.

The highwayman walks a little closer, their shoulders brushing as he leans his head onto the metallic chrome of a battle-worn spaulder, their hands clasped between them, silver and red embracing each other tightly.

He promises never to take it off.

——–

Knee-high boots step stealthily around the abbey, pilfering hands guiding the cunning grave robber along as she skirts the concrete at her back, eyes peering around the corner of the penance hall.

Strangely the flagellant is outside his pious chamber, knelt down next to a series of graves bearing the names of clergymen, tending to the onset of spring weeds.

Nothing beautiful lasts in Hamlet. The colorful blossoms of flowers are a luxury rarely seen and aside from the few modest patches of turf marked by trimmed hedges and somber statues of saints passed, the Abbey doesn't have much of a garden.

The silent sleuth stands to her full height, this scene calling for a more personable approach.

"Hey, Damian," Audrey calls, gentle and grounded, waving at him sweetly as she steps through the teasings of grass.

The holy man jolts at her presence, a decade of people watching telling her that his mind is miles away, deep in thought.

"Audrey, good to see you," Damian replies, twisting around to meet her casual demeanor. He discards the overgrowth of roots in his hand, brushing the soil from his robe as he rises to his feet.

Her sharp eyes notice the vibrant yellow of plucked dandelions and the delicate white of queen anne’s lace placed upon the crowns of these simple headstones and she feels a distant pang of sympathy.

"What brings you here? Have you come seeking the path of Light," he says, smiling.

Audrey shoots him a saucy grin in return.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but that's not why I am here. You get points for persistence, though,” she giggles softly, the sound warming her throat.

The holy man deflates when he hears this, his altruism giving her too much credit if he truly believed she would ever devote herself to a lifestyle of prayer and prudence.

"Then, how is it that I can help you,” he asks, his countenance suffering, looking more ragged at the disappointing news.

Damian really shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, but there’s something else eating at him, Audrey can tell by the grimace hiding just below the surface, the slack of his seemingly gracious front.

"Would you be so kind as to accompany me out to the cove? That is, if you're not too busy," she asks, her upturned fingers pointing at what remains of his apparent yard work.

“As humbled as I am to hear your request, wouldn't it be wiser to have a group of us go," the priest suggests, leaning further towards suspicion.

So, the flagellant is not as dim-witted as she heard, but then again, the shrewd thief didn’t make it very hard for him to figure out her motivations were far from noble.

"This isn't exactly an official mission," the lady explains, "You know all those slimy fishmen we made into sashimi last week? I got it on good authority that the tide is about to wash up a hoard of treasure from their vault."

Having no interest in wealth and riches, Damian doesn't look any more convinced by her proposal.

This called for a change of strategy.

Her direct approach might have been a bust, but maybe some open-ended honesty blended with a bit of flattery could steer the conversation in her favor.

"OK, you got me,” she says, holding her hands up in arrest, “I know you'd just use your share for charity anyhow, but if it's just split between the two of us, we won't have to divvy up the profits let's say … any more than 60/40."

Damian sighs in disappointment. This request of hers reeked of greed and selfish intentions at best.

"C'mon pleeeease," she begs, the brim of her hat casting a shadow over her sniveling face, "There's no one else to ask and you're so good at making all the bad guys bleed."

The flagellant had allowed the ex-matriarch to plead her case and while he disagrees with her ideology, he doesn't want the woman traversing the arduous dens of merfolk alone. Should anything untoward happen to her, whether it was in the name of profit or not, he would feel wholly responsible.

"Very well," he sighs, acquiescing, already regretting his decision, though he knew this burden was one he had to shoulder til the end.

"Excellent," She cheers, clasping her hands in delight, crocodile tears suddenly extinguished in light of her success, "Shall we be off, then?"

"I will meet you at the crossroads," Damian says, his gaze now turned towards the church, pensive as the sun shines its beacon over the campanile, "I must let the abbot know of my absence."

—--

Reposed against the sturdy trunk of a tree, Audrey waits in the dark stretch of woods just off the beaten path, safely hidden from view.

Though the streets had been reasonably quiet (as it normally was after a gentle tide), she wasn't about to stand out in the open with a target on her back, trail bereft of carriages and foot traffic be damned.

The grave robber kills time by giving herself a manicure, wheedling the sharp edge of her dagger under her fingernails, somehow never getting them completely free of sediment, the black rings of soil forever embedded into her skin.

With a flicker of movement from up the way, the hood of Damian's holy saunter comes into view. His approach is not the most soft-footed, nor is the rattle of his flail, but Audrey's keen ears picked it up all the same.

She pockets the knife, glad that this boorish interlude was over, striding up the hillbank to meet him.

The flagellant stops, the cloak of illusion fading before his eyes, the rogue's impressive skills of subterfuge making her appear out of nowhere, the environment bending to her candlestein whims.

"About time you showed up, holy man," Audrey jeers, prickly, "Don't you know it's bad manners to keep a lady waiting?"

"Apologies," the flagellant huffs, not willing to dive deeper into the matter.

She clicks her tongue at his reluctance, scoffing at his frowning face.

"One of these days, I am going to get you to lighten up around me," the grave robber asserts, arms crossed in a sassy, cockeyed pose.

He gives her an injured look in return, unable to commit to such a possibility in the foreseeable future.

"OK, let's just put a pin in it for now," she resigns, bleakly tagging it on a metaphysical bulletin board.

"Anyways, you ready to go,” the woman asks, dropping a hand onto her hip, the other raised to usher in their departure.

The flagellant solemnly nods his accord and Audrey grins, leading the way.

The grave robber lets the silence hang between them for a few more paces, her lure not working as perfectly as predicted, but Damian was here, an unwitting informant, and that's all she really needed.

The holy man is not quite walking evenly beside her, but trails slightly behind and it's probably a smart move on his part, though pure vigilance wouldn't stop her from springing a trap if she truly desired, indeed one was already set.

According to her sources, the gruesome newbie never shuts up, an endless stream of religious chatter and unwelcome blessings, but so far the flagellant was not at all the intrusive nuisance she'd been led to believe.

Could it be subjective? Or perhaps this was a phase, an after effect of whatever has been weighing on his mind.

Audrey must debunk such discrepancies, her investigation far from over.

The grave robber clears her throat, parsing the air for a segway of idle chit-chat.

“Given that we have a bit of a walk ahead of us, mind if I ask you something," she broaches, an impish smirk playing out on her ruby red lips.

“If you must,” he replies with a wince, playing along, but bracing himself for the worst of what she could ask him.

Best to cut right to the chase then.

"So … you and the bounty hunter, huh," she ventures, casually dropping the sensitive topic as easily as striking a fuse.

Dread builds like lard in his stomach, the holy man's cadence becoming jittery, head downcast as he processes her incriminating words.

The flagellant had had an inkling about this "off the record," outing, and now the full scope of her conniving plot was clear. This trip was merely a pretense to delve into his personal affairs and satisfy her own curiosity.

"The bounty hunter and I what," he inquires innocently, head tilted towards the clouds.

"Exactly what I meant,” she insists, “What is it about him that's got you chasing the man out into the night like a lovesick puppy?"

Damian withdraws, sinking further into himself, reliving the sequence of events.

Audrey has all the necessary tact for subtly, but being blunt was so much more fun. She blames such proclivities on Dismas. The highwayman was just as prone to mischief and drinking as she was, their late night benders fueling their shenanigans to new heights, egging each other on with evermore daring stunts.

It might have worked against her in this instance, the holy man becoming more reserved.

“Just making conversation,” Audrey adds, shrugging, lowering the stakes.

“He has great potential," Damian muses, finding his answer, "I hope to illuminate his path."

It sounds too safe, too rehearsed and Audrey isn't buying it.

"Uh-huh, suure," the grave robber drawls, her voice dripping with apparent sarcasm, "Care to try again? Except this time, give me the uncensored version."

The hooded man fixates himself with the ground beneath his feet, fingers rubbing along his lip in contemplation.

"He ... ," the flagellant begins, assessing and reassessing his words with a scowl, "he may also be ... a bit … c-cute."

The mere mental image alone shaves years off of Audrey's life. That man had no business being associated with the term, "cute," or any synonym remotely resembling it.

"Wa–wa--wa–wait, wait, wait – are we talking about the same guy here," she asks, completely mortified, "Mister short, broody and mysterious? You think that that's … cute?"

"It's his helmet …," the flagellant goes on to explain, the woman's bombardment of questions making him flustered over his own point of view, " it ... reminds me of an owl. Birds are ... cute, are they not?"

"You can't be serious," she breathes more to herself, mouth agape, utterly dumbfounded, "I've met cadavers more personable than him."

"Perhaps," Damian concedes, forcing a smile that's gone as quickly as it comes, running a hand between the spikes of his collar, gripping the tension in his neck, holding onto it like a tether.

Conveniently, they've arrived at the beach, Damian having no trouble transitioning to the amorphous terrain, walking barefoot as he is. Audrey, on the other hand, struggles to navigate through the shifting sand dunes, fit for more rugged landscapes.

Such petty trifles are soon forgotten, the blonde bandit spotting a bountiful chest washed up near the sea shore.

The woman stops, turning to her companion with a smirk.

"Race ya," she wagers, before taking off like a bullet, the force of her sprint kicking up peels of sand.

Damian is left at the start, barely registering there's been a bet before he finally makes a move, the grave robber more than a good lead ahead and he doesn't have the heart to try besting her.

Approaching the finish line, Audrey gives a celebratory little twirl, looking behind her to see where the competition stood. There was no contest, her agile strides assuring her first place, slamming her hand down on the soggy trunk in a sweep of victory.

"C'mon, what was that," she teases, a little out of breath, but not too disappointed with the results, "you let me win."

"The treasure is rightfully yours," he says, catching up to her.

"How about I give you an extra 15% as a consolation prize," she offers, laughing at his expense, "Since you were such a good sport."

"Why, Audrey," he jokes, sounding coy, "how uncharacteristically generous of you."

The stab of his comeback makes her flush, though she can't be too mad. She did invite him to loosen up earlier.

"Yeah, save it church boy," the woman snips, walking around towards the latch of the chest, "You telling me you've never wanted to buy anything just for yourself?"

Damian's cast shadow spills over her as she lifts the lids, the sparkle of gold inside just as brilliant as the sun dancing on the waves.

"I only take what is necessary to survive," the flagellant tells her, looking away from the crate of spoils and towards the ominous cliff rocks that mark the cove beyond, crossing his arms.

"Your self-sacrificing nonsense is killing me," she pouts, her body wilting dramatically against the doubloons inside, piling them closer to her breast in comfort.

"A life of piety can be incredibly fulfilling, if you let it," he counters, getting defensive, thinking his companion could afford to be more frugal.

"I’ll take your word for it," Audrey scoffs, preferring her life just as it was, finding a beautiful silver hand mirror amidst the loot.

Getting an idea, Audrey rakes her gloved hands through the heaps of gemstones and gold, seeking necklaces, bracelets and earrings.

She dresses herself in a glamor of jewelry, strings of pearls poised around her neck, a few larger carat rings to hug her lonely fingers. Fit for a ball, the grave robber admires her new look in the mirror, an ugly reflection of her past staring back at her.

Audrey frowns, lowering the looking glass back into the chest, along with the jewels, locking the contents away.

"Anyway, real talk," Audrey says, quick to change the subject, "Are you going to tell him?"

"Hmm," the morbid priest exclaims, not following her train of thought, concentrating on their surroundings and the gentle rise and fall of the tide.

"The bounty hunter. Did you tell him how you feel," the bandit asks, sitting herself upon the sealed trunk, hands spread leisurely at her sides, legs crossed in the sand, "Did he say he's got a thing for you too?"

Damian goes quiet, fidgeting with his collar to quell his nervousness, but such actions only give him away.

"I already have made my intentions known as best I can," he admits, tone despondent, "though it matters not,” he says more quietly, frustrated in his attempts, but still refusing to give up.

"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself," the grave robber says, trying to raise the man’s confidence, "Tardif is a tough nut to crack. Give it time. l think you have a shot at winning him over."

Eyeing the flagellant from top to bottom, Audrey grins wickedly at how perfectly suited these two single bachelors were. One man so in love with pain while the other is in love with causing it. A match made in heaven.

"You certainly have the right kind of body for a guy like that," she concludes, clicking her tongue, firing off a finger gun and a wink.

Damian seems to be bursting into flames as he considers this, his whole body going a shade redder than usual (which was saying a lot).

"May we please drop the subject," the man pleads, averting his gaze and rubbing at his neck again, his collar feeling too tight.

"What's the worst that could happen," she continues, her lips ignorant of his request, carrying on with a lackluster shrug of her shoulders, "He strangles the life out of you for daring to ask him out on a date?"

Damian chuckles modestly, remembering how almost every encounter with the bounty hunter had usually ended with him being tied up or pinned down. He swallows thickly at the prospect, growing hotter at the thought of that man’s hands around his throat.

"I’d bet you'd let him, wouldn't you," suggests her incriminating alto, watching him stew below the brim of her hat, pressing for more tawdry responses, entertaining as it was.

"Hmm," comes the bemused hum and Audrey's not sure if it's an affirmation or not, but she's already got all the evidence she could possibly need, even without his outright confession.

"Then, how about this? You helped me out today so I'll put in a good word for you," the gentlewoman offers, mischievousness abound as she rises to her feet.

"Audrey," he warns, a resounding petition, "You will do no such thing."

"Not that you could stop me," she reminds him, more than capable of playing cupid on her own, "but if that's what you want …"

"Yes, it is. Thank you," he says in relief, more grateful for this act than the 15% commission she had offered him earlier.

Audrey's arms hang out at her sides, marking his loss, her match-making expertise denied. "Well, if you really want to thank me," she taunts, always the betting type, "then show me how much treasure you can carry, hot stuff."

"More than you," he grins cheekily, happy to exchange this feat of physical labor for her discretion.

"That's the spirit," the lady thief cheers, patting him on the shoulder as he bends to lift the heavy coffer now bound for Hamlet.

Audrey gives the holy man a head start as they make their way back, strolling behind him as she reviews her findings, coming to the conclusion that the flagellant wasn't such a bad guy to be around.

Odd, certainly, but no less so than the bounty hunter and while they were all guilty of at least one undesirable quirk or another, Damian was simply more transparent about his shortcomings.

Spying an "enemy" about to disrupt their path, (more like a harmless crab minding it's own business) the thief springs into action. She snatches up the scuttling crustacean (a carapace of relatively normal size), hurling it back into the ocean before Damian's toes fall victim to it’s pincers.

---

Para sighs, a self-dejected tragedy spoken from behind the changing wall.

"Can't believe I left my lab for this," the intellectual whines, groaning as they brace themselves against the trifold panel, Audrey cinching the corset around their waist a notch tighter.

“Hey, I let you play mad scientist all morning," the ex-aristocrat tuts, pulling on the well-worn strings mercilessly, "Now it's time for you to play fancy dress up with me."

With great effort, the shape-wear flattens against the plague doctor's ribcage, their waist line so tightly constricted that they've broken a sweat. “Are you trying to kill me,” the brunette snarls, gritting their teeth, “What part of this is supposed to be fun?"

"None of it," Audrey affirms with a grin, having the same inane tradition practiced on her more times during her debutante life than she can count, "Not for you, dear. This is all for me.”

The grave robber ties the final knot, securing the shape wear into place (not that her girlfriend's petite figure needed slimming), but this was less about cosmetic enhancement and more about formalities.

“OK, time for the dress,” Audrey declares, brimming with excitement. She strips the mannequin of the velvet gown, a beautiful bliaut of emerald and gold filigree, a perfect compliment to Para's exceptionally dark hair and pale skin.

“Turn and hold onto my shoulders. Then, I’ll have you step into it,” the grave robber instructs, ruffling the neckline as she lays the frock open on the floor, pooled around their feet.

Para does as they're told, watching on as their thin legs are swathed in yards of elaborate fabric, the blonde handmaiden admiring the white undergarments and the matching bustier as she rises up to adjust the fit on the arms, smoothing out the sleeves to accommodate her girlfriend’s much daintier shoulders.

The erotic shiver climbing through boxy-shaped hips doesn't escape Audrey’s notice, the presence of her warm breaths making goosebumps appear on a porcelain neck as she rounds out the gown, buttoning it up at the back.

"There,” the thief exclaims, running her hand over the bodice, “let's see how the front looks on you."

"Why am I doing this again," Para whines, their soul threatening to leave their body, crammed inside a gilded prison as it was.

"Cuz I told you Damian had a thing for Tardif and I was right,” Audrey eagerly reminds the brunette, “Now you gotta pay up.”

Stiffly, the tomboy turns to face their girlfriend, arms held comically out to their side, compensating for a hoop skirt that wasn’t even there. The plague doctor still tries to hunch, though the fabric is fighting to keep them upright, their posture slightly improved. Despite this, the dress runs a little long, (understandably, since it once belonged to Audrey), but the seamstress could easily tailor it to match a hem of shorter height.

"You look stunning in dark green," the blonde remarks, her breath stolen by such untapped beauty. Para is a vision, a romantic tableau if only they would allow themselves to be styled with these splendid accessories more often, Audrey soaking in the portrait of regality for all it’s worth.

"Thanks, I hate it,” the scholar grumbles, shattering the charming fantasy, “Can I take it off now?”

"Not til you have a drink with me," Audrey declares, removing the wide bifocals from Para’s nose, basking in the rare sight of their frank, unfiltered face. The appearance of fine lines and bruising under their tired eyes spoke of an taxing work regimen and some much needed recreation.

“Aaaudreeeeyyyy,” Para wails, extending her name like a berating curse, “How many times do I have to tell you I can’t see without my glasses.”

The scholar blinks, squinting helplessly, their whole equilibrium off balance, wriggling hands out in front of them for depth of field.

“Shhh, darling you’re just near-sighted,” Audrey reminds them, depositing the spectacles in her jacket pocket for safe keeping. “Here, rely on me,” the blonde says, grasping a small hand inside her own, heralding the plague doctor towards the opposite side of the study.

Para sighs, trudging along at a snail's pace, “Alcohol is going to set back my workflow. I've been experimenting with a contagion and I am so close to devising a–"

The plague doctor cuts themselves off as they’re released, stranded in the carpet of the foyer. Audrey's disappearance is followed by the clink of crystal, the grave robber’s fuzzy shadow no doubt retrieving a set of drinking glasses and a long-necked bottle from the cabinet, fixing the mopey scientist with a look when she returns.

"Fine," Para agrees, rolling their head back with the power of their scoff, knowing Audrey would not budge, "one drink.”

"Marvelous,” Audrey chirps, setting the glasses down on the lace doilies of a mahogany coffee table, “I'll pour!"

Somehow, one drink has turned into two and then three.

Para is now wedged into the corner of an antique couch, their face flush and propped up on the pedestal of their hand while Audrey, conversely, is laying supine in their lap, being fed sweets like a queen.

The grave robber’s hat had been thrown lucratively sometime during the second drink, her ascot as well hangs loosely around her collar, boots stripped so that her long legs could spread themselves out on the cushions. A numbness creeps into the scholar’s legs, the bandit's head nestled comfortably on them as it was, and Para shuffles to instigate blood flow, dropping another chocolate into the waiting mouth below.

"We should invite Josie over,” the blonde thief muses, savoring the rich taste on her tongue, “And Missy… and Margie.”

Para sighs, their introverted tendencies put off by the thought, "You know how I am about large gatherings."

"But I like them," Audrey whines, pouting up at her unmasked girlfriend through long wisps of hair.

"Yes, you do," the scholar agrees, their head drooping further into their hand, adverse to the memory.

"C'mon, it'll be fun," Audrey assures with a drunken giggle.

Suddenly, the blonde bandit is up, wrapping arms around her girlfriend’s neck in excitement, eager to share her stupendous ideas, "There will be tea and gossip and lots of fancy cakes!"

"Oh, joy…," the plague doctor drones, none of these bribes sounding quite as appealing to them.

"Pleeeease? If you do this for me, I'll get you that thing you want,” the thief offers, her green eyes teasing in the lamplight, “You know, that thing you've had your eye on now for a while now."

Para’s ragdoll expression perks up, suddenly interested in what this favor could mean for their research, "Can you really pull it off?"

"Mmm-hmmm," purrs Audrey, nodding with a goofy smile, "If I can win the flagellant over, I can win anyone over, darling."

"OK," Para agrees, much more enthusiastic about the idea of a get-together now, "We’ll throw a party, but only if you can convince Bigby to come.”

"Deal," Audrey squeals in delight, throwing her hands legs out in celebration, sealing their wager with a kiss.

--- FLASHFORWARD*

Damian keeps himself busy, fulfilling whatever minuscule task is asked of him, always listening for news, clinging to hope that the bounty hunter will one day return.

Too many moments pass, the flagellant entertaining the idea of abandoning everything, renouncing his solemn duty in a quest to retrieve the stubborn ox, going so far as to ask Paracelsus what they knew, but even they can only offer conjectures towards a wayward soul’s absence.

Toiling with emotions of longing and grief, Damian decides to visit the cabin once more in solace. He breaks inside, climbing through the boarded windows, the axe he finds stuck in a tree an accomplice to this forced entry.

The flagellant can’t remember why he's come back to this place, not when he’s consumed by memories, his fits of turmoil climbing higher, becoming more manic, berserk. He means to find some clue, a direction, believing it must be there if only he scours for it hard enough.

The blonde spends half the day looking, noting that Tardif had not parted with all of his belongings, some things forgotten that perhaps would not have been if he had truly left for good.

Such emptiness, such wishful fallacy causes him to seek the absolution of his flail. So engrossed in his punitive discipline, he doesn’t notice the clatter of something at the door, not until an explosive bang brings lucidity to his senses.

Instantly, Damian is on his feet, reaching for the latch, knowing in his heart who it must be on the other side.

The wood slams open like a crack of thunder, the winds strong and howling in the night sky, the shadow of the man standing before him nothing short of a ghost.

Tardif.

The bounty hunter is stripped to tatters, armor shredded in more places than the flagellant can count.

Half his helmet is missing, though his skull is still intact, crimson streaking down his face like war paint.

Damian doesn’t have to ask what happened, the unspoken question is reflected in every feature of his face, fear for his partner's life contorting it even further.

“Let … my guard … down,” says the gruff voice, refusing to reveal more whether it would be to his benefit or not.

The stubborn mercenary shuffles closer, a weak hobble that goes completely limp, his legs giving out as he collapses forward, losing what strength he had left to stand.

The flagellant scrambles to catch him before he hits the floor, holding onto his mangled shoulders, taking the brunt of his weight into his possession.

Tardif leans into him, having nowhere else to go, letting the blonde gingerly guide him down.

"I-it's OK now," Damian stutters, trying to convince himself of his own reassurances, "I-i've got you."

Laid out on his back, head cradled safely in his partner's hand, the mercenary's eyes close, grateful to finally rest, though his labored breaths say otherwise.

Damian knows the damage done to his fallen comrade is great, but he must find the worst of it, the scourge of his condition. He cannot waste his energy on effigies, clutters of imitations that mimic a grim fate if there was any chance of saving him.

Pale fingers start with the head wound, a ghastly blossom, deep and circular like a leeche's bite. It's serious, but not what ebbs at the bounty hunter's life.

Following the trail of blood, treading down his neck and jaw with feather light inspections, the flagellant is marveled by the miracle that Tardif still clings to consciousness despite the depth of pain.

"Stay with me," the priest urges, his voice weak with worry, yet tempered with resolution.

Instead of a grunt, Tardif manages a feeble huff, growing weary, head lolling in Damian’s grip.

The flagellant wants to redouble his efforts, move swiftly, but he needs the focus of a stable hand, passing over the integrity of Tardif’s overworked heart and the streams of lacerations with forced moderation. He reaches the girdle of the brute’s utility belt, blood caked so heavily against the gambeson one would think it was carved from red stone, perceiving the mortal wound beneath.

“I-I need to remove this,” Damian tells him, shaking terribly, his voice like broken glass as he looks over his partner's convulsing body, torn apart by injury.

“No,” demands the bounty hunter, his voice wet and garbled, hacking through another spasm of blood.

Even through the harsh battery of torn speech, Damian understands, but that doesn't mean he will listen.

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joz-yyh · 1 year

Text

Rust - Ch. 7

SUMMARY: A “how they got together” and “where they are now” fic in which I detail how Damian and Tardif meet and consequently fall in love. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: EXPLICIT (for violence / sexual themes)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant / Grave Robber x Plague Doctor

WORD COUNT: 5,416

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Damian needs to enlist the aid of a fellow hero if he’s going to overcome the nature behind Tardif’s surreptitious injuries. Everything has it’s price, even life itself and Audrey's is last person you want as your enemy.

Feels like this chapter fought with me every step of the way, but I didn't want to keep putting it off until it behaved so this is as finished as it's probably going to get. Lots of injury, spells and wound care. Hope ya'll enjoy!

Damian stalks his fingers along the severed object embedded in Tardif’s abdomen, the shape of it round like a tusk. He doubts the foreign gouge can be removed conventionally, needing a razor’s edge to cut the gear off of him if he wants to see how deep it runs.

The sheer size of it is worrisome. If this was truly some relic of a creature's tooth or claw, it must've come from something massive and the flagellant cannot place it's origin to any of the foes he knew, wonders what kind of mess Tardif had gotten mixed up in order to end up like this.

“Perhaps you’d be more agreeable to the infirmary," the flagellant presses, anger lines forming on his face, this better to accept than the sadness gripping hold of him.

Even if he assembles some crude means of transport to drag Tardif through the woods, the man had lost too much blood and would not likely survive the trek back to the sanitarium.

“Not … gunna be … poked and prod at," the bounty hunter protests, grumbling weakly, "ye can't anyway. It's ... it's... holdin' everythin' in."

“Holding everything in …,” Damian echoes, his frantic mind steadily piecing the euphemism together.

He can’t remove it, not when it’s the only thing keeping his partner's insides from falling out.

The flagellant no longer cares about being thorough. He gets to work healing what flesh he can, only getting so far before he's repelled, an unseen barrier protecting the object and the eviscerated organs surrounding it. Perplexed, but no less persistent, the morbid priest tries again and again to mend tissue, cauterize veins, and each time he is met with the same unfortunate result.

No ordinary opponent could have done this. A force of darkness so strong that even an oversized piece of shrapnel could command such power spoke of something incredibly evil.

"Tardif, what was your enemy,” Damian insists through a grit of teeth, “Describe it to me.”

"Don't know," the brute churns out, panting with the effort it takes to speak.

"Now is not the time to–” Damian starts, an exhorted cry, but the bounty hunter’s garbled bark interjects him.

"Couldn't see the damn thing," the brute growls, running himself ragged.

The flagellant shakes his head, eyes widening under the shroud of his hood, stumbling upon a realization that devastates him.

“I can’t heal this,” he admits, feeling useless and hating every part of himself that brought them to this point, “There's dark magic here. We need Alhzared."

"Great," Tardif offers sarcastically, fatigue weighing him down, sinking further into his partner's grip, “why didn’t I think of that.”

"I will be quick," the flagellant promises, withdrawing himself from around the bounty hunter, laying him down as considerably as he can.

"Survived this long. What's another 30 minutes," the brute jokes, understandably more irritable than usual as he shifts to lie on his side, bereft of his partner's scaffold of limbs and the comfort it brought.

"Try not to move," comes Damian's propelled instruction, fearing that the stubborn ox would make his condition worse if he lurched around too much.

"Then, don't take too long," the bounty hunter retorts, holding a hand over the hole in his stomach, plugged as it was with the worst kind of cork.

“I won’t,” the pale man pledges, already out the door, his steps beating like swift wings as they carry him into town.

—---

Damian clambers into the barracks, his sprint jostling some of the other heroes from their slumber, knocking into a bed frame, jumping over another's mattress so not to slow himself down.

He's met with resounding groans of annoyance, the squeaks of box springs and the rustling of sheets, but the hasty messenger pays them no mind, finding that the occultist resides the farthest away, against the back wall.

Candles provide a beacon to the pitch blackness, a projection of rotating lights, constellations of stars hung upon tapestries and Persian rugs.

The flagellant skids to a halt once he enters Al's niche, the mystic sitting amidst a collective of pillows, absorbed in meditation.

"Tardif in danger," the priest heaves, having no time for proper sentences being out of breath as he was, "please, help."

The magician inhales deeply, regarding his visitor with sage patience, "The stars spoke of darkness on the horizon. Now I see what form it takes.”

The flagellant cares not for cosmic mythos, not now, not at this moment. He needed action. Every second was another wasted.

"Please, I will do whatever you ask," the flagellant begs, frantic to get moving, "There is no time. He is dying."

"Yes, cursed with a very slow and painful death, I imagine," the mediterranean man nods, opening an enlightening eye, "I warned him not to underestimate the Otherside. See what suffering it brings."

Damian doesn't appreciate that remark, lets it show on his face, not that the other man is bothered by his offenses.

"Will you help us or not," the flagellant insists, unable to quell his anger despite being indebted to this man's eldritch expertise.

“I am not a monster," Al declares, rising from the floor, taking up his effigy from the wooden dias in the center, “I will aid you, but at great cost.”

“I will pay it," Damian vows without hesitation.

“Oh, I have ways that will ensure you do,” the occultist warns, holding out the skull artifact, addressing the holy man with careful instruction. "Place your hand in the flame."

Damian looks down at the haunting relic, sees that it's wick is yet unlit.

"What fla–," the flagellant asks, cut off by a supernatural gust of wind that circles the room, snuffing out what traces of light there was.

"That flame," the mystic explains, a knowing smirk curling beneath his mustache as his spectral phantasm burns brightly, vacant eye sockets flaring eerily along with it.

Damian scowls with uncertainty, the doubt only lasting a moment when he considers what he must do, whose life is at stake.

As soon as his digits are within reach, the flame blazes, his hand consumed within an explosion of pyromancy as if the ghastly fire is alive, sensing his intent.

The flagellant pulls back, the fire making him feel deathly cold as it trails up his arm, turning his skin blue, illuminating the tissue and bone within, but there comes no pain.

“The contract has been made,” Al tells him, the candles returning to their normal steady glow, the skull talisman as well appears as nothing more than a harmless costume prop.

Al chuckles, a cocky triumphant grin, "I didn't expect a warrior of Light to be so quick to offer their soul to my great benefactor, but we thank you for your sacrifice."

Had he really done as the mystic said? Damian looks down at his hand, turning it over. There was no evidence of a pact, no burns, no marks that he could see. One could easily say the seance never happened.

"Come, we must fetch Paracelsus as well," the occultist instructs, calling his attention, “Follow me.”

"Y'LW'NAFH N'GHFT," he chants, gesturing with his hand as a conflagration of sigils appear, manifesting a swirling vortex of time and space.

—

Damian steps through the portal, the Otherside swirling with a darkness blacker than night. The colors are different here, a spectrum of light that functions independently, colossal shadows set against a backdrop of infinite universes.

There are whispers of a language he cannot understand, sounds fading in and out as they traverse through a dimension that has no set physics or rules, a perpetual weather of tumultuous thunder and poisonous smog.

The pulsing tunnel surges, the passage collapsing as he's spat out someplace new, almost familiar, ears popping as they adjust to the temporal displacement. Damian can hear himself talking, the words melting into each other as time stretches on, warping around him before flattening out into something legible.

"Paracelsus, we need your help," the blonde calls out, the distortion closed off, streamlined into the present.

It's dark here too, a bedroom, two lumps hidden under the valley of white sheets arranged in an explicit position. Feminine shrieks follow their candid arrival, an akimbo of limbs, lovers racing to untangle their bodies, rearranging them into something more appropriate for an audience.

Audrey's head is the first to pop out of the sheets, a disgusted sneer on her face as she covers her nude chest in the available linens, exposing the dip of her back as she lights an adjacent table lamp.

"What do you think you're doing,” she demands, a frazzled mess, the grave robber’s spiteful appearance the most feral Damian has ever seen it get.

The priest seems to be in the same state of shock that she is, his face twisting into a portrait of anguish when he remembers why they're here.

“Please," Damian implores, his voice a rusty nail, the words even harder to pry out, "Tardif is dying. We need Paracelsus.”

An unkempt bob of hair pokes out next to Audrey, the doctor in question also in a state of undress, their modest frame slumping against the headboard, pulling the sheets up to their nose.

The grave robber snarls heavily, nursing her sudden migraine. "Really, you have the absolute worst timing," Audrey huffs, glaring at the flagellant in particular, this transgression being the single biggest inconvenience he's made towards her.

"What's he doing here," the grave robber growls, jerking her head in the direction of the shadowy figure lurking behind Damian.

"Me," the magician inquires, coming forward, his kurta illuminated by the yellow lamp light, "Why, I am the taxi," Al explains, a brown hand posed over his chest in introduction, his dignified nose turned up in scholarly pride.

The bandits' green eyes meet enigmatic copper as the two rivals stare at each other, Al reveling in her misfortune while Audrey's hand searches for the dagger stashed under her pillow.

A sentient tug at Audrey's side distracts her, the threads going taunt as Paracelsus inches toward the edge of the mattress, trying to remove themselves from the embarrassing ordeal.

"Quit staring, you perverts," Audrey barks, gripping the first thing her hand lands on, throwing her pillow at the pair of peeping tom's, "give us some privacy."

"Apologies," Damian insists, letting the projectile hit him with solemn remorse (though he would have gladly accepted her dagger as well). He faces away afterwards, gripping the forward bow of his neck.

"Yes, quite," the middleterranean man concurs, doing the same.

Eager to get dressed, Para grabs their discarded robe from off the floor, using it as a limp shield in place of the sheet.

"I'll get my things," the plague doctor says, retrieving their bifocals from off the accompanying side dresser.

Once her girlfriend is safely out of the room, away from their prying eyes, Audrey lets the true extent of her frustration known.

Wrapping the sheet around her, she stands, tucking a wrinkled corner under the fabric at her arm like one would a strapless gown.

"I am so going to pay you back for this," Audrey hisses, her penetrating stare boring holes in the back of Damian's cowl.

"I beg your forgiveness," he tells her, voice aimed towards the wall, "I would not have imposed had I any other choice."

"Save it," the grave robber snaps, thoroughly annoyed, "my night's shot because of you."

The snubbed noblewoman isn't completely unsympathetic. Audrey couldn't imagine how she would react if Para was the one in danger, but that doesn't mean she can't still be mad about her spoiled romance.

If only they knew what pains Audrey had gone through to set this whole night up, if the opened bottle of champagne and the adorning flower petals scattered throughout the room were of any indication.

"Make yourself useful and pass me that bottle," the grave robber orders, hand held out in a clear signal to hurry up.

"Need you a glass, my lady," Al suggests, retrieving the half chilled bottle from the bucket of melted ice.

She snatches it out of his hand, the two men watching as its contents are swallowed down in one long draught, her throat bobbing with the effort.

"What do you think," she growls, wiping at her mouth, seeing no reason to be mannerly.

Para is surprisingly quick, properly geared up in no time at all. It's a good thing too, Audrey is liable to start cracking skulls (possibly with the now empty bottle) the longer she stays in the company of the two party crashers.

"Let's go. I am ready," Para declares, a sturdy medical bag at their side, stripped clean of their earlier embarrassment.

Another rift opens, a swirling galaxy fed by the haunting incantations pouring from the occultist lips, the archaic skull glowing a fierce carmine red.

"You only need think of the place and it will transport us," the magician explains, looking at his hooded counterpart, awaiting his cooperation.

"Do you not control it," the priest asks, recalling that there was no such stipulation before.

"In order for the spell to work, it must be a place I've visited in the past," the mystic reveals, his face a grim, cryptic mask, "yet you are the only one who knows of our destination."

Damian nods his accord, reminded of the occultist’s surreal flame, the way it devoured him, how the sensation still stalks the heckles of his neck.

With a deep inhale, he closes his eyes to focus, reliving the horrific events, a disturbing reel of Tardif spread out on the floor in a grievous scrawl of blood.

"Ah yes, there we are," the mystic cheers, his eyes widening in awe as a rustic image comes into view, the haziness of the conduit sharpening into a clear reflection of a shanty wooden shack.

Damian's eyes open to witness the spectacle for himself, his heart restless, teeming with an unfulfilled desire to be back by his partner's side, advancing toward the gateway without a second thought.

"Wait," the occultist cautions, impeding any further mistakes, "we must join hands before we step through."

The priest is about to question the dodgy amendment, but the plague doctor beats him to it.

"Must we," Para complains, wilting like a dead flower, their entire body crumbling along with the weight of their luggage.

"Only if you prefer being lost to the void," the occultist warns, raising a speculative brow, waiting with a proffered palm.

With a scrub of aggravation, the scholar reluctantly finds Diamian's hand, grasping it weakly with their glove, their mask held down in coerced defeat.

—-

Tardif expected a rescue. What he didn’t expect was a wormhole tearing up his living room.

The bounty hunter shields his eyes as the vortex flickers in between existence, three individuals manifesting in violent flashes of light and peels of phlox wind.

"Glad ye could make it," Tardif greets them, smiling weakly, relief washing over him now that reinforcements had finally arrived. "They brought ye too," the bounty hunter asks, surprised by the plague doctor’s attendance.

"Alhzared said it was necessary," the flagellant explains, stepping between the other two healers to behold the mercenary's state of being with his own eyes.

The two men turned lovers exchange a heartfelt look, Damian seeking amends for the egregious delay, Tardif offering his own disguised conciliation before it's broken by a ripple of pain.

It's a short-lived reunion, Al kneeling down beside the wounded warrior, a contemplative hand curled around his pointed chin. He surveys the severity of the mercenary's condition, guiding his skull idol along the man's body, the empty eye sockets of the ancient relic pulsing like miniature explosions of neon dynamite.

"This is old magic," the mystic muses, the invisible wavelengths matching his own sinister aura, "like my confidant's."

"Oh, goodie,” Tardif jokes, not at all impressed, tired of the continuous string of bad news, “won the fuckin' hell lottery.”

"You done yet, Al," Para growls, knife in hand, their malice just as deadly as the blade, "I am ready to gut him."

"Indeed, something else already has," the occultist remarks, indicating the stinger rending the greater half of the huntsman's abdomen.

"A pity that," Para remarks, lowering their weapon, "could always add another and make them twins."

And here, Tardif thought (albeit foolishly) that they were going to prevent his murder, not finish it out. Similarly, Damian hopes they're joking, blowing off steam as the plucky surgeon so often does (usually at his partner's expense).

Perhaps the doctor is not as stoic about the humiliating blunder as they let on, that the jilted breach of their and Audrey’s relationship had finally caught up, made them more reactive to the jeers and eager for revenge.

The flagellant is ready to intervene should he have to, but for the moment, such feuds are withheld in a silent truce, all eyes transfixed on the magician as he raises his hands skyward, the skull effigy floating above his reach.

Slowly, the stinger is extracted, sigils winding in the air, turning like cogworks and cranks, rearranging the vital flow of energy until the two are separated, free entities once more.

Al wraps the uprooted tusk in cloth, depositing the blood-soaked trophy into his satchel, intending to repurpose it's residual magic into something more archaeologically sound later.

The mystic performs another ritual, reaching further into his range of spells, his restorative techniques always among the more difficult ones to wield.

This powerful gambit was an unreliable cast at best, it's efficacy based more on the blind temperament of the cosmos than it did intrinsic skill, but a sovereign ally when it did land an effective hit.

Today's results are not the worst he's seen, but they are certainly not the best. Most of the bounty hunter's flesh is mended, newly constructed tissue webbing together to fill in the severed pieces, though his skin is still graphic and gaping, incomplete and patchy like a neglected wound.

Tardif erupts in a shrill scream, his limbs jagged and tragic, a crooked frame of deadwood branches.

The dark magic that was once tied to him has gone, it's numbing effects along with it now that the giant suture was removed, a significant portion of pain diluted for a time, but no longer.

"My turn," Para remarks, brandishing their dagger with concerning furor, "Damian hold him down."

The holy man stares, deadpan, in disbelief, "Surely, you'll give him something first," he insists. As much as the flagellant hailed favors of brutality, he did not wish it on others, especially those he cared about.

The bounty hunters' cries escalate, illustrating his affliction, his wild thrashing seeking loose quills of mercy.

"Oh, you're no fun," the plague doctor remarks, the flagellant maiming their excitement with his protest, "hold this."

The holy man doesn't shy away from the blade, fingers wrapping around it’s sharp edges while Paraclesus digs through their supplies for gauze and alcohol.

Finding a sizable hole in one of the mercenary's pant legs, the scholar disinfects the bloody window of tan muscle, injecting him with a sedative.

Slowly, the bounty hunter relaxes, his cries of woe dying down to an uncomfortable grumble, his body twitching with vapid aftershocks.

"There,” Para scoffs, disposing of the used needle, “happy now?”

"Thank you," Damian says, truly grateful for this small clemency, knowing how long his partner must've burned in the fires of agony without the sweetness of release.

The scientist takes the dagger back, using it to cut away at what remains of huntsman's belt and gambeson, giving themselves more room to work.

"Read his pulsepoint,” the doctor instructs, taking up a surgical needle and thread while the flagellant plays nurse, “Count the beats. Tell me if it changes.”

Damian follows their directions, pressing a thumb against the brute’s wrist, a steady thrum drumming back, watching as the surgeon sews up what thews of cleavage the occultist had missed.

Skin is closed in neat little rows, an impressive track of black stitches that are bound and then cut, a poultice spread over the ligatures, a layer of bandages following soon after.

"Done," the plague doctor declares, their gloves thoroughly soaked in blood, face mussed with sweat beneath their mask, "Lets clean him up and move him to the bed."

—-

Damian lays a damp cloth over his partner's naked brow, hoping it's cold comfort will bring him some relief.

The bounty hunter is resting now, having persevered through this trial of flesh and bone, Paraclesus stealing glances at them whilst organizing their instruments.

The priest has not left Tardif's side since they had arrived, doting on the oversized lout every chance he gets.

Usually, the plague doctor wouldn't concern themselves with such observations, but despite everything that had happened in the last few hours, the scientist finds they are not as angry as they should be.

Perhaps after this, Paracelsus could do with showing Audrey more affection, set aside more time to make up for what was so rudely interrupted.

"If he starts to develop a discoloration of the skin, alert me immediately," the medic says, examining their patient from behind Damian's figure.

The holy man hadn't realized they were watching, too lost in a swell of emotions, catching himself flinch because he decided to grasp onto Tardif's hand.

"C-checking his p-pulse," the blonde explains, minimizing his touch, his body language a tight clamp of shoulders and knees.

Paracelsus doesn't comment on it, approaching with black bag in hand, bestowing upon him a small tube of pills.

"They're painkillers," they say, giving the capsules a light shake to draw his attention, "700 milligrams each. Give him one per day."

Damian nods dutifully, receiving their tutor with a courteous smile.

"I'll be back to check on him tomorrow," the plague doctor advises in a civil monotone, "He's going to be tired and sore for the next few days. Let him sleep it off."

Their business concluded, the plague doctor gears their beak in the direction of the occultist's emollient stoop.

"You ready, Al," the medic asks, tired exasperation creeping into their voice.

"Yes, quite," the mystic agrees, his loitering form pushing off the wall, having had enough festivities for one night.

"Thank you," Damian implores, the strength of his empathy palpable as he bids the heroes farewell, "both of you … for saving him."

The two convey their acknowledgment before a cosmic rift consumes them in a swirl of gothic mist.

—-

Para's mask is askew, a stethoscope fitted to their ears, listening close to each of Tardif's deep breaths.

"Your heart sounds good," the medic informs him, packing the device back into their bag, "if you care."

The wounded man grunts, giving them a nonchalant shrug. "Knew that already," he garbles, having lived through enough close calls that he's learned to read his own body without someone running interference.

"I prescribe bedrest for a week at least," they say, optimistic that their bull-headed patient will listen, but unsurprised when he doesn't.

“Unless you'd rather die from pride,” the plague doctor scoffs, finding his machismo discrediting to their own profession, "in which case, do whatever you want.

Not about to let all their hard work go to waste, Para sticks him with a syringe, squadering any temptation he might have to cater to his ego.

Tardif can't watch as the needle pricks the skin of his arm, Paracelsus juicing him up with another shot of morphine. The bounty hunter is no stranger to being cut, but he did have an aversion for being jumped by tiny sharp objects.

A ball of cotton and medical tape are sealed over the puncture mark, the bounty hunter rubbing his fingers across the skin beneath it in irritation.

“I’d die from bedrest,” Tardif snaps, the hairs on his arms bristling with hostility.

“I am sure Damian would keep you company,” The plague doctor retorts, a cheeky accusation that renders the inflated brute immediately silent.

He knows the flagellant did it to save him, but the bounty hunter is reminded that two more people have seen his face, that he would have to trust Al and the doc to keep his secret. It's exactly the kind of risk he doesn't like to take.

“Then it’s settled," the plague doctor exclaims, taking advantage of this self-imposed obedience, smacking their clothed thighs in emphasis. "I'll mix up some more tonic to help you sleep.”

Tardif grunts half-heartedly, his selective hearing only discerning the bribe of melatonin.

“Paracelsus,” the brute grunts, suddenly struck with something to say now that his friend was about to depart.

“Hmm,” the scholar hums, staying their leave.

After several begrudging seconds, the man finally manages a weak, “Thank you.”

Their beak dips in a curt nod, facing him fully with a strict enunciation for certain keywords, “You can thank me once you're healed. Until then, rest.”

With that, the medic meets Damian on their way out, the man anxiously awaiting their report.

"How is he," the holy man asks, keeping his voice low, a whisper.

Para sighs. The flagellant could have just as easily sat in for the checkup and saved them the trouble, but he was insistent about giving Tardif his privacy. Forget that the priest would hang onto his every breath whenever he was asleep.

"As well as can be expected," the scholar says, having nothing noteworthy to add other than Tardif's poor attitude being an enemy to the healing process, but they weren’t about to tell him that. "Did you get the herbs?"

"Yes," the holy man declares, holding a small bouquet of them in his hand.

"Grind them with the mortar and pestle,” the herbalist informs him, “Then, stir it into his tea once a day until the supply runs out. It'll lower his chances of infection."

Damian nods in response, ready to carry out this task as thoroughly as he did everything else.

"I'll leave you to it, then," they say, finding the occultist waiting for them near the door.

As the two supporting heroes are transported away, Damian is left alone with his thoughts.

He stops by the counter to set the herbs down, occupying himself with pacing back and forth, whittling grooves in the cabin floor because every time he makes an attempt to visit the bedroom, he always thinks better of it and turns back around.

"No use hangin' out by the door," the bounty hunter grumbles, a mild invitation cloaked in sheer practicality.

Looming just out of sight, ripe with hesitation, Damian gasps lightly. Even with the wall dividing them, Tardif still knew he was there, waiting on the other side.

The priest keeps his head bowed as he plods into the bedroom, the cowl seeming to eclipse his whole face, fearful of what emotion his presence would have on the bounty hunter.

"H-how are you fairing," parses the flagellant, hovering outside the bed, keeping his distance as they exchange platitudes.

He's nervous. Tardif can see it in his every move.

"I've had worse days," the brute shrugs, a lame smirk tugging at his lips with no humor to accompany it.

"Paracelsus said you should stay in bed," Damian reminds him, trying to play along with the levity, force a smile, but it doesn't keep. "I meant to take care of you, change your bandages."

This time, Tardif is the one who bows his head, his gaze fixated on the sheets pooling in his lap, the clench of his own fists that rest there.

"Guess ye have the gift of prophecy," the bounty hunter scoffs, now staring at the wall ahead with a moderate degree of contempt.

Damian frowns, inclining his neck, clearly befuddled by the insinuation.

"Ye don't remember," Tardif asks, surprised, angling his focus towards the absent-minded priest. "In the weald," the mercenary continues, the occasion forever branded onto his memory, "when ye held a knife to me, tottin' leeches and bedrest?"

Ah, that. A scarred mouth opens to speak, then closes again. He can't seem to stop his shameful eyes from drifting toward the floor, jagged fingernails digging into the muscle of his right arm, clutched in punishment.

"I did not mean--" Damian finally starts, but the bounty hunter is quick to correct him.

"Heh, I know," he chuckles weakly, "Bad joke."

The flagellant isn't laughing. If anything the somber daze surrounding him grows deeper, more profound.

Damian risks treading closer, the brute turning to meet him, receptive and curious of his intentions.

A bloody hand reaches out as the taller male leans over the mattress, thumbing across the faint sheen of sweat collecting on the crest of dark brows.

Tardif is on the tail end of a fever, the priest can feel traces of it as he threads each tousled strand back into the damp plume of raven-colored hair.

Mismatched eyes close amidst the gentle pandering, the brigand becoming a meek disciple under these ministrations, letting his partner bless him with whatever tender ritual he wished.

Damian swallows, the action audible in the heavy silence. These informal gestures of trust fill him with such unabashed longing he can barely contain it.

"Let me get you something to drink," the blonde says, giving himself an excuse to pull away, mask his own desire for closeness just as another hair falls out of place.

A callous hand grasps at his wrist, warm and grounding as it tacitly holds him there.

"Just a little longer," Tardif asks, ruining the flagellant with those words, that beautiful aching smile.

This alone was enough to say what went unsaid, that Tardif still wanted him near.

The dam breaks, Damian's composure along with it as he falls to his knees, Tardif's hand now cradled in both of his, pressing them to his head like a crucifix in prayer.

"Where did you go," Damian sobs, a desperate slew of questions borne from his troubled mind, "Why did you leave?"

Tardif feels shame claim him as he considers the answer, letting precious seconds tick by, unable to voice what his partner wants to know because he's not ready to admit it, not even to himself.

"I feared the worst," the blonde continues when the other will not, his repressed feelings stripped bare, "I-I prayed for you I–"

"It's not important," the mercenary deflects, a curt grind of teeth. His insides squirm with a self-loathing sickness, knowing Damian weeps because of him.

"Of course it is," Damian insists, finally looking up from his own tortured lament, "I–I …!"

He's too afraid of what comes next, his throat closing too tightly around the words, leaving them there to trickle down and die.

"Later …," Tardif mumbles, growing weary thanks to the plague doctor's potent syringe, "… too tired now."

Damian goes quiet, blinking one last band of tears, nodding in obedience.

"Lay beside me," the bounty hunter tells him, slouching with disoriented cognition, shifting to make room on the bed.

Damian hesitates, weary of upsetting his partner's wounds even as Tardif tugs on his hand to join him.

"But your–"

"It'll help me sleep," the bounty hunter explains, distantly, his eyelids already getting heavy with the abetting cocktail of drugs in his system.

As awkward as it is, the flagellant doesn't let go of his lover's hand as he climbs into bed, mindful that none of his other body parts touch Tardif's, his scarred back curled towards the edge of the mattress.

As Damian lies there, he listens, waiting for heavy breaths to even out, squeezing at the thick fingers clasped in his, proof that this man was still here with him: real and alive.

Perhaps, it is out of mere reflex, a lucid dream that his gesture is returned, but the flagellant doesn't care, he smiles all the same as he presses a surly hand to his lips, kissing the backs of tattooed knuckles.

He swears he catches Tardif smiling too, the sight filling him with a weightless salvation, a sense of belonging, knowing that this angel of death and carnage had come back to him.

The priest's eyes fall shut, meaning just to rest them, but before he knows it, he's already fast asleep.