Work Text:
It's sometime past midnight when Niccolò hears the window open – so softly that it is hardly a noise at all, but a slight, barely detectable pause in the usual background sounds of the apartment. Which are few. Years ago he had chosen it for its quietness, for its certain level of luxury, yes, and for its proximity. Close to the newspaper, close to the best coffee in town (and this was all Libertà had been to him, not so long ago), and oh-so perilously close to The Sleeping Fox, which is why its proprietor is now slipping in through the living room window. (The apartment has no balcony. Once, he had considered this a shame; now he considers it a blessing.)
He can hear – not footsteps, no, but the conspicuous absence of footsteps, a change in the air with no obvious cause. La Volpe is...home, in as much as this is one for either of them.
Niccolò can no longer recall when, or if, they made this arrangement. The first time, he thinks, there had been an argument over something small, and that had ended in an irritable parting at Mario Auditore's house, and that had ended in an unexpected visit from La Volpe at three in the morning. He had carried along a lazily delivered warning that one of Niccolò's new interns at the paper was spying for one of the city's assorted corrupt politicians.
"How do you know that?" Niccolò had demanded, and La Volpe had granted him a half-smile.
"Your other new intern is one of ours," he had said, and curled up on Niccolò's favorite armchair, watching him.
Niccolò had cursed at him, written down the names, and fired both of them the next morning. He had fought with the Auditore brothers about it later that afternoon. They fought often, the three of them. He got the impression that they enjoyed it.
And there had been a time – hadn't there? – when he had enjoyed it. Mario could be convinced more or less, but sometimes arguing with Giovanni Auditore was like...like arguing with wildfire, and equally effective. Other times it was a sort of – political exercise, deeply rooted and deeply different philosophies clashing again and again until they came up with something that made both of them content enough not to want to strangle each other for the time being.
The pen is mightier than the sword, Giovanni had commented dryly once, toward the end of one of their debates. Niccolò had snorted. And you have both, he'd snapped. To his exasperation, Giovanni had laughed.
It had been fun, arguing with Giovanni. That is the word he was looking for. He has a habit of forgetting the simpler ones.
It had been fun. What a faraway concept that is now.
Niccolò hears the door to the study creak open because Volpe wants him to hear it, he knows. Whether that's out of courtesy or discourtesy, he is not certain. He does not turn away from the work on his desk, but lets his pen continue scrawling, words that flow almost absently from mind to page. For once it's not an extracurricular activity provided by the Order, and he wants to attempt to enjoy that. Whether the Order insists on lurking in his apartment or not.
For a moment there is again that strange sensation of sound removed, and Niccolò can picture Volpe settling himself in the armchair, perhaps with a book stolen from the adjacent shelf, or a sheaf of notes to sort through, or perhaps simply sleeping. None of them have managed a lot of that lately, and he can't bring himself to blame Volpe for taking his rest wherever he can. There are so few places left, these days, where you can close your eyes without immediately imagining a knife at your back.
But after a while, Volpe's voice drifts across, quiet and far away. "What are you writing?"
Niccolò's pen falters mid-sentence. Volpe has never asked him this before.
"A novel," he answers flatly, and finishes his sentence before turning around.
Volpe is not in the armchair. He is inspecting Niccolò's bookshelf, lifting book after book down, flipping through, and putting them all away again as though looking for something specific. For all Niccolò knows, he might be. Maybe he's hidden some sort of note to himself. Maybe someone else has.
"You write short stories," Volpe tells him, not looking his way. There is something stiff and strange about the way he is moving. He hasn't taken his coat off, and it drips gold around him, somehow managing to be unobtrusive wherever the shadows touch it. But his hood is down, and in the dim light of the desk lamp Niccolò can see his thick mess of dark hair. Cropped short. That's new.
"I can write long ones," Niccolò says, a little defensively. Whatever my damned editor may think. He turns around, putting his pen back to the page.
"Ma certo," Volpe responds, in that infuriatingly condescending drawl.
Niccolò's pen halts again, and he glances over his shoulder to see Volpe now leaning beside the bookshelf, staring expressionlessly toward the window. The short hair makes his eyes seem somehow more unreal. It suits him.
That cut, though...
"Come here," Niccolò says irritably, dropping the pen altogether. The chapter's going nowhere anyway.
Volpe tilts his head toward Niccolò curiously for a beat, and then he strides over, languid and graceful and altogether too much like his namesake. He leans against the far end of the desk, raising an eyebrow, and it is – it never gets exactly comfortable, having the full intensity of that violet gaze directed at you.
"Can I be of assistance, Doctor Machiavelli?" he asks mockingly. He's been insufferable ever since he found out about the doctorate.
"There's blood on your face," Niccolò accuses, and Volpe looks amused.
"Not mine."
"Yes, yours," Niccolò retorts, watching blood trickle down from the cut across Volpe's cheekbone, treacherously close to dripping on the new carpet. "For god's sake, do you not notice anymore?"
"I have been distracted," Volpe says loftily, reaching up and letting his fingers trail over the wound, smearing blood.
"You have been injured," Niccolò snaps, and stands up. "Why are you leaning like that?"
Another raised eyebrow, and a warning expression. "Because I am tired."
"Because you are injured," Niccolò says, glaring right back into that unnerving gaze, and Volpe rewards him with a scowl.
"What incredible observation skills," he responds, and appears to straighten with some difficulty. "Have you ever considered a second career?"
"A third, you mean?" Niccolò answers evenly. "I don't need anyone dying in my study tonight. This is brand new carpet."
Volpe scoffs. "Do you take me for an Auditore?"
Niccolò grimaces. Last week Mario had, as it turned out, been stabbed in the leg, except he hadn't seen fit to tell anyone about that until long after the mission was over and he had already practiced his own rudimentary medicine. Dr. Stillman had been unhappy. But then, she always is.
"A fall?" he guesses, noting the lack of any further bloodstains.
Volpe's scowl deepens. He is offended. "A fight."
Niccolò moves past him, toward the kitchen. Suddenly he wants – needs – a cup of tea. "You won, I take it."
He feels Volpe's eyes following him. "For now."
Which is ominous enough of an answer that Niccolò decides to stop asking questions. Volpe trails sedately after him, lingering by the kitchen counter and observing the mundanity of the tea-making process. Niccolò has roused his curiosity, apparently, although he's not sure how. He decides to ignore this.
He pours two mugs. This gets no comment, and Volpe does not take his until Niccolò's back is turned. They drink together at opposite ends of the kitchen table, neither speaking. Volpe's gaze is fixed outside the window. On the stars, perhaps, or the city lights, or the shadows below it all, or something else that Niccolò cannot, will never see.
And he is watching Volpe, the elegant angles of his face, the strange beauty of those eerie eyes, the impossibility of this – this storybook figure sitting in his own kitchen.
Yes, he is watching Volpe, and wondering if the cut will become a scar, wondering if the fight will become a battle, wondering if there is any fight that they will ever win for good. And he knows that Volpe feels his eyes, and he is too tired to care much at all.
When he stands up to set the mug in the sink – that will be tomorrow's problem; there are too many tonight – he feels Volpe follow, senses the warmth of him, catches the gold of his coat out of the corner of his eye. You only hear Volpe, only see Volpe, only feel Volpe when he wants you to...
He turns around, sighing, and smells blood and steel and city, all its wildness bundled up into this strange and maddening entity who...has recently gotten a haircut. Who, exactly, cuts La Volpe's hair, Niccolò does not know. Perhaps he did it himself. Niccolò can't imagine the man letting anyone that close to his head with any kind of blade. But the idea of Volpe wandering into a barber shop, striped poles and all, is enough to make him smile in sudden amusement –which Volpe himself, leaning again beside Niccolò, meets with a disapproving look.
"Why are you writing a novel?" he inquires, his voice warm in a way it so rarely is. It's enough to make the kitchen feel disconnected from the real world momentarily, floating in another, more impossible space. The warmth never quite reaches Volpe's eyes, but Niccolò lets himself look into them anyway. An indulgence. There is a fascinating light to them, if you can get past the way they strike right through you.
"To see if I can," Niccolò answers truthfully. He isn't sure he'd known that until now.
Volpe nods. He understands the impulse. "A longer form of lying," he comments. A slow smile spreads across his face. "It should come easily to you."
"This stupidity again," Niccolò mutters, without real rancor, and Volpe tilts his head silently. Combined assent and invitation. When Niccolò reaches out to brush his hand lightly through the shortened hair, Volpe's eyes close contentedly for just a moment. (There are so few places left, where you can close your eyes...)
Niccolò considers him, resting his hand at the nape of his neck. Blood and steel and city-wild, harassing him in his own kitchen for his supposed lies, a storybook figure with unreal eyes and an obnoxious habit of melting away into shadows when he's grown tired or bored of the conversation...
But only flesh and blood after all, once you reach out and touch him. It is always a surprise.
The violet eyes flicker suddenly alive again, too bright, and Niccolò isn't sure which one of them moves first. When their lips meet there is no urgency, no wild desire. They are long past that. (They are too old for that, Niccolò thinks. Or perhaps too cynical.) There is only a persistent, low ache of hunger, a need to prove to himself – this is real, the way Volpe somehow gentles beneath his hands, the way the blood of his wound smears onto Niccolò's face too. Flesh and blood, all too real...
Volpe is stiff – from a fall or a fight, Niccolò will never know the truth – but still he moves with all the grace befitting his name, and hums into the kiss when Niccolò's hands brush again through his hair.
"Did you cut it with a knife?" Niccolò asks, when they part, and Volpe takes a moment to comprehend.
"No," he murmurs, looking puzzled for once in his life. "There is a barber. One of the thieves."
Niccolò finds himself laughing aloud at that, and the puzzled look abruptly turns irritated.
"Go and write your novel," Volpe says sullenly. "I have work to do."
"Work," Niccolò repeats doubtfully.
"Sleep, then," Volpe answers, still pathetically sullen, and this time it is Niccolò who leans forward to kiss him. He isn't sure why. Perhaps Volpe had looked endearingly human, for a moment. And anyway, it is Volpe who deepens the kiss, presses him against the wall –out of, Niccolò suspects, sheer annoyance – and takes care to get in an actual bite before he breaks away. All right, yes, he's annoyed.
"Go tell your damned lies," he growls. "And I will sleep."
"How considerate of you," Niccolò retorts, rubbing at his lip, and Volpe doesn't respond. He disappears into the study, no doubt finding his chair – when, exactly, had it become his? – and curling up under his coat.
There are a lot of these arrangements, come to think of it, that Niccolò cannot recall ever making.
He sighs, puts Volpe's mug in the sink beside his own, and returns to his work.
A longer form of lying, yes. That's one way to put it.