Chapter Text
The salt stings his still slightly open wounds, but it’s still nice, almost soothing, almost. He lays silently in the salt bath, his hand lightly clenching where his chestplate was, that feeling still slightly there. …It’s going to be put back on soon.
His eyes are open, looking up at the stone ceiling above. His head feels better, or it’s getting better at least. His head still isn’t fully there though.
Lord Asher hasn’t asked him anything yet or said anything to him as he rested.
That soon changes as he hears footsteps echo against the stone tile.
Lord Asher.
He quickly sits up, back straightening, to show respect, “Lord Asher,” He gives as best of a bow as he can from his sitting position.
“At ease, Strike,” Lord Asher orders before sitting down beside his second-in-command. He’s quiet for a moment. His veil is now off, a rare moment for most as his pink eyes stare at Strike. “What happened?” His tone is a bit softer than before(to Strike anyway).
“I made an error on my mission, Lord Asher,” He answers, trying to keep his voice steady as he continues, “I got caught by two of those rogues you ordered me to watch. I fought back, but I still lost.” He tried to keep this as impersonal as possible–business-like–like always.
It’s better this way.
“I fell unconscious and woke up at the Miniforce’s base in a cell. They tried to get my guard down, but I never fell for it.” He stops after that–that is what happened.
Lord Asher stays quiet, just listening to him, looking at him with an unreadable expression, like usual. After a few moments of this, he suddenly moves one of his hands to gently cup the side of his commander’s face, the motion causing Strike’s whole body to turn frigid, tensing up.
“Don’t be so curt about it, my commander,” Lord Asher says. His voice is calm, collected, almost gentle. Still currents before a storm.
“Repeat it to me again.”
Strike pauses, still tensed up to the hand, before a solemn nod. He then begins explaining, quicker than last time.
His words are still a bit curt, but he tries to at least explain it with some added certainty.
He’s not really used to speaking like this. It’s weird to be allowed to speak so… emotionally or even partially. But, he’s trying anyway, it’s what his Lord asked of him, even if forced habits die hard, especially those that were only recently disbanded mantra…
So he explains what happened again with less curtness this time.
“The rogues caught me due to my error and they were the ones who ripped off my chestplate, Lord Asher,” He pauses for a slight second before continuing, “I was weak though and passed out. I woke up in the Minifoce’s base. I don’t know what happened between those.” He goes quiet after that, shame eating away at him.
Asher’s hand remained on the side of his face, but the longer it remained, the less tense Strike got. It seemed fine.
“And yet you still remained strong,” He remarks, almost sensing that shame, his hand slowly and gently moving down to his chin.
He begins to lean toward Strike, their heads almost touching each other, “Like usual. You are very durable.” His words are nearly breathed down upon Strike before kissing him.
And the two remain like that for a couple of seconds before Asher pulls away from the kiss, yet his face remains by Strike.
He stays quiet before finally saying something that’s barely above a whisper, yet the words still impale their target, “You still need punishment for your failure…”
Strike’s breath cuts short, his body immediately tensing up again. Something begins to squeeze around his shoulder, almost to keep him in place.
Why wouldn’t I be getting punished…
“I–” His voice was too quiet, almost shaking. It was wrong, so he stopped.
I should’ve known.
“I understand, Lord Asher…” The second attempt was better. It still wasn’t perfect.
I’m–I’m so stupid–GULLIBLE! A FOOL!
“I know,” His response is short–his face unreadable–like always.
Fools deserve it…
Fools like me deserve it.
------------------------
It’s quiet.
The only sign of life is shallow breathing coming from one of them.
Blood drips from wounds, the mind is too hazy and clingy to understand whether it’s new wounds, reopened wounds, or both.
His chest is moving up and down slowly and heavily, the breaths are coming from him–his mouth–his gills.
The air is tinted with melted metal, burned rubber, and copper.
It hurts–He hurts. Yet, all that shows is his hand curled up and shaking on the ground, almost trying to ground himself.
There is only one person by him, and that is Lord Asher. He is curled into Lord Asher, or, more specifically, Lord Asher curled him into himself.
One of Lord Asher’s gloved hands is wrapped around Strike’s shoulder(like before…). The other one is firmly pressed against the newly sealed chestplate. It’s still hot, still shimmering off that smell of melting metal, copper, and burnt rubber that’s wafting into the air, that previous feeling long gone.
They’re both used to it. This smell, this line-up, this dynamic–This everything is usual.
It has always been like this in some capacity though. Some things have changed as the years have gone by of course, but what doesn’t change?
His vision and his breath slowly get even again after time keeps ticking since it stopped.
The silence is soon ended by Lord Asher beginning to speak quietly.
“I know it hurts my commander. It hurts me to see you like this,” His tone is gentle, almost soft–like a knife wrapped in a fluffy and warm blanket–leaning on disappointment, “But, you know that I only do this for your own good. You had brought this upon yourself.”
Guilt and a hot shame begin to emerge in Strike’s mind, lapping over the aches of his bruising body. Strike couldn’t see Lord Asher’s face from his position, but even he knew that there was a look of disappointment and sadness on his face–or his own version of it.
Lord Asher was right, he’s always right though. If he hadn’t been captured, if he hadn’t failed the mission–If he hadn’t let his guard down–he wouldn’t be in this situation. He wouldn’t have forced Lord Asher to have him! HE WOULDN’T–
I wouldn’t be such a failure…
“I’m so–” His almost croaked words are swiftly interrupted by Lord Asher firmly shoving his grayish-green hand over his mouth. Strike quickly tensed up more at that swift movement, hoping that it was just him who heard the accelerated breath and heart–that panic.
“Shush. I know,” He says, his tone remaining gentle. His hand remains over Strike’s mouth for a few more seconds before sliding down to the side of his face…Like before…
“I know,” It stays quiet after that, his hand remaining on his face. After a few seconds of it remaining, his tenseness decreased a bit, but it didn’t all go away. He’s still tensed up.
His breath and heartbeat also begin to slow down a bit. His breath is still too narrow though, and his heart continues to pound… He needs to calm down.
Get it together! Lord Asher doe-
“You can stay here if you prefer,” Lord Asher suddenly says, shaking Strike out of his thoughts.
His heart beats.
What?
His mind is confused.
He never does this…
Lord Asher continues, his voice still gentle, turning soft.
“It’s so that at least someone can tend to your wounds,”
His heart skips a beat almost immediately onto that remark.
Strike remains quiet for a couple of seconds before saying something, “Thank you, Lord Asher,” He says, his tone remaining quiet.
“You are very welcome my commander.”
He loves me…
Those are what Lord Asher’s words meant to him.