Archive of Our Own ^beta

A cold and lonely place, this. And Tulles was familiar with such things. But the letter had promised her hope, and it wasn’t as if she had a cozy place to go back to. Indeed, after her near-miss with the law in Pont-du-fou, she didn’t even have a cold facsimile of a home.

But Hamlet still rang wrong in her head; even just the carriage ride sent up her hackles. Something in the worn finery disturbed her - or perhaps it was her own associations, but… the aura carried a seedy terror’s wafting, hovering in and out among the paths. She found herself shivering even through her coat.

There was a man at the end of the road ere the start of the street. Smooth dirt giving way to cobble. The carriage driver opened the door for her and she nearly stumbled. Sitting beside the man was a hunting dog, of which she wasn’t the most fond - but it was just a dog, and a man was just a man, and a town, she reckoned, stepping down to meet the fellow, was just a town.

All month it had been “It’s fine” and “I’ll handle that” and “It’s no bother.” There wasn’t enough of Vatteville to go around. Swamped - that’s how they felt now; constantly, inescapably swamped.

All they had were their nights. Even the most stalwart insomniacs in Hamlet were exhausted these days to the point of, if not sleep, then at least a period of inactivity. The doctor slept, too, of course… never as much as they needed, and not exactly in the most ideal hours, but - huh! - obviously not in the most ideal hours, or they wouldn’t be scuttling around Hamlet at this time of night.

Speaking of which - where were they, exactly? (All roads in Hamlet led to the cemetery, so that’s where. Out back, by one of the supply sheds.) Nothing much in there, Vatteville figured. Shovels. Maybe some pickaxes.

There was a segment of fencing around here where the wrought-iron had fallen from its low stone base, and the thought of sitting down was powerful enticing... but, of course, then there was the risk of falling asleep out in the open. And it’s not at all befitting of a doctor to actively seek out pneumonia - but - then again - their feet were so tired…

Fuck it! - and they slumped onto the rock like a seabird would a ship.

Their neck rolled side-to-side with a series of cracks and they half-sighed, half-winced. Pushed up, then fully removed their mask so their face could feel the air. It wasn’t freezing, but it was tangibly night; it was as if the darkness had a physical presence. Or perhaps that was just their exhaustion. One thing that had an unmistakable presence was the collection of headstones behind them - lurking.

“May I sit?”

Vatteville flinched forward, one hand already raising their mask back to their face.

Someone laughed at their back. One of the newer, then; still fresh enough to laugh so fully. The doctor half-turned, afraid to look the newcomer in the eyes.

She stepped briskly over the stone rise and sat. Vatteville considered envying her energy, but decided there was no point: all they felt was sorry that such vigor wouldn’t last.

“Oh, you’re the doctor, aren’t you?” Vatteville looked up to see her smiling at them with only one side of her mouth. “Everyone’s told me about you.” They looked away.

Vatteville couldn’t hold back a scoff. But, if she didn’t know them, then she must indeed be very new. She didn’t sound like a long-time resident. Even if her clothes were grungy and her hands rough, her voice betrayed a nobler upbringing distant from everything… here. It reminded the doctor of some of their supervisors at the university, almost comforting.

“All good things, one hopes - one could hope,” Vatteville stammered, realizing that the woman was expecting a response.

“All and only,” she replied. “Though I expect Dismas would have had fists to throw if anyone tried otherwise.”

At that, Vat couldn’t help but nod in agreement. Dismas and Reynauld both were loyal to a fault. “When did you arrive?”

“This week,” she said. She sounded pleased - perhaps at the fact that she’d managed to turn Vatteville into a conversationalist. “This will have been my third night. That must sound like nothing to you.”

“It does. And you’ve not been out?”

Vatteville looked up again to see her shaking her head. “I expect to, though, next time or the time after.” Of course. The Heiress liked to test the new recruits quickly, so as to weed out the weak.

“What brings you here so late at night, doctor?”

Vatteville found they didn’t really have an answer. The silence? The darkness? The cold?

“What - what about yourself?” They kept their gaze fixed firmly at a spot on the ground before them.

With a faint smile distorting her words: “Just… scouting.”

Vatteville recalled the silhouette of a shovel over her shoulder.

Suddenly there was an uncomfortable heat rising in their chest and throat, a stabbing pressure shooting up their spine as they went rigid; “Not--”

“No, never!” She cut them off, already having noted their change of posture. But it was not enough to rid Vatteville of the image of grave-robbing among the deceased mercenaries. Of a stranger’s fingers rooting through bones; lacing through skin that had once bled; skin they had once stitched back together-- “Don’t touch them, don’t--”

“I didn’t, I--”

Somehow, in the heat of the moment, both were standing, and Vatteville had both hands on the newcomer’s arms - and she was already moving forward to break their grip, and pushing the doctor back down by the shoulders - “ Listen! I would not disturb the Heiress’s fallen hires.”

No.

Of course, she wouldn’t. Vatteville stopped fighting her superior strength. She dropped her hands, sat back down. Their face burned - of course it wasn’t - wasn’t - of course she wouldn’t - most of those stones didn’t even have coffins beneath them - of course she wouldn’t —

“...I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

A long pause. “I was only reading the headstones,” she almost-whispered, sounding equally apologetic. “I wanted to know how many had come before me.”

“Right,” Vatteville gritted, both hands white-knuckled on the mask in their lap, eyes shut, face hot.

“I’m sorry.” She said it not in reference to her mistake.

Vatteville rose to their feet stiffly. “I, I-I shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have - assumed.” They were struggling to force the air up to speak in their excruciating embarrassment. “Good luck when you go.” Shoulders rigid like stones, unable to even look her in the eye, Vatteville stumbled back the way they came.

Bad mission this week. The new bounty hunter had perished by his own misguided hand - and besides that, Dufay had been stabbed, stressed, and poisoned nearly to his end. Judge was alright, though; kind enough to sit bedside while Vatteville ignored their own wounds to stitch up the dog’s master. Kind enough to guard their station as Vatteville dragged themself out and through the Hamlet back alleys for a chance at seclusion.

It was an ugly wound without even considering the fast-growing infection, the thing in their chest. A nice purple-red bash wound, torn to bleeding in some places and bruised all throughout. Nothing for it but to stitch up the holes; the infection wouldn’t kill them in Hamlet; nothing ever did.

Still, it was hot, and it stung like a collection of yanked barbs. Vatteville made it out behind the graveyard, but not to the stone ledge, instead dropping by the unpaved roadside like a beggar. Try as they might, they couldn’t find it in them to move those last few meters to the broken fence. Fine; it wasn’t like their torso wound could get any filthier.

The robes could be repaired whenever, they reasoned, pulling the fabric apart where the earlier blow had started to tear it. The injury seemed to steam in the evening air.

Fumbling at their belt, Vatteville made to thread a needle - or tried to, with hands ghostly and shaking from pain or shock or blood loss. It was like trying to throw off a strangler; each attempt was weaker than the last. Finally they resigned to their fate and lay back on the ground; they’d slept in worse conditions. What’s a few extra days’ worth of healing? Or maybe this really would kill them - Hamlet’s healing’s only exception - wouldn’t that epitomize the entire twisted affair.

“Doctor?”

Behind them, the source, and they sort of stretched up their head without lifting it. All they saw was a silhouette bounding towards them over the cemetery wall, but they knew the voice.

“Tulles,” they managed, trying to sound like they didn’t need any help. Since their first meeting, Vatteville had tried to avoid her; they didn’t like looking weak in front of anyone, least of all one of the newer party members.

Tulles knelt beside them. “You couldn’t tend to this at your station?” She was smiling, of course. The situation was a little absurd; true… but it was the least she could’ve done, to try to look a bit more miserable.

To her credit, it was a worried sort of smile.

Vatteville shrugged, awkward, lying down. “Station’s nearly full up,” they said roughly. It was a lie, but close enough to the truth, they thought. It was full up with… something. Perhaps more accurately, it was notably empty.

“And you haven’t anything to put on it?” Tulles’ smile faded as she took a better look at the wound.

“Limited supply,” they grunted, wincing. It was taking them over, that burning in their chest, making them almost nauseous with how high in their throat the heat reached.

“Soft, soft-“ she murmured, then put one arm behind the doctor’s shoulders and lifted them a little, propping up their head on her leg. “I have something, but it requires dilution - do you carry water?”

“Hh-- here—” Vatteville gestured and Tulles took the appropriate flask from their waist. Pouring in something from a vial, she made as if to apply it to the wound but stopped when Vatteville blocked her with a hand. They didn’t know why they did it - some unknowable part of the infection, it had to be, reaching its filthy tendrils up between their eyes and—

“It’s safe,” Tulles assured them; “I use this myself. I have a tolerance, so I carry it concentrated. That’s all.”

Still Vatteville hesitated, shaking fingers on Tulles’ arm. Their stare was empty. Wild.

“Or don’t you trust me, Vatteville?” she asked gently, her free hand taking the doctor’s from her wrist. At their name, something clicked back into place. Their hand fell to the dirt; Tulles let the tonic pour onto their chest.

Vatteville hissed, tensing at the sting, but once the initial pain was over they let their head fall back onto Tulles’ thigh in unabashed relief. That piercing heat had fled, leaving them with only the localized pain, nothing in comparison. Exhausted at the change of sensation (really, exhausted in general), they were only dimly aware of a pair of hands taking the needle and thread from their grasp and smoothly mending the flesh of their torso.

“There we are,” Tulles remarked to herself, lifting the doctor to a sitting position, letting them slump against her shoulder when they couldn’t quite hold themself upright. “Alright?”

Vatteville, deeply overwhelmed, stuttered out their thanks.

“It’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me. Plus, I believe I owe you from our first encounter.”

Vatteville laughed but it was barely a harsh breath. “I-I’m the one who - attacked you.”

Tulles shook her head, sending her hair brushing past Vatteville’s cheek. “For good reason. I should have been more conscientious. Would you forgive me?”

What a question! Another little exhalation, but they were too tired to answer, just repositioned their head on Tulles’ shoulder and hoped she would understand.

Tulles reached up a hand to pat their head fondly. “Well. I shall consider us even.”

She didn’t walk them home: Vatteville had insisted they could manage, and Tulles had fast deferred. Almost too fast, really, and Vatteville wondered if perhaps they had snapped at her - or, stupidly, whether she held them in ill favor. Which - she didn’t. Obviously. But it was an irrational worry and it stuck.

Dufay was awake in the back when they arrived, lying staring up at the ceiling. Stony-faced; angry to someone who hadn’t known him as long as Vatteville had. They sat at the end of his bed and he followed their gaze to the empty corner. Neither of them spoke but there was plenty of shared… grief? Could you grieve someone who isn’t dead or lost?

Vatteville whispered, unwilling to break the night’s quiet, “Xe did promise.”

Dufay rolled his head to glare - no, to look at them; his face was cold but his eyes were only dull, fever-soft, and there was no threat in that. “Y’think I can ever trust words?”

Of course not; the constabulary; Vatteville shook their head a little. They could feel his exhaustion permeate all layers: physical, mental… that deeper layer that could perhaps be called spiritual. “Can you trust xem?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. Vatteville took a cloth from their belt and wiped his forehead. “I want to.” He did want to; Vatteville could hear the desperation in his voice. They understood. Nothing felt safe at this time of night; something about the quiet and the stillness was unearthly-reflective and bitter. Some dark sentimentality hovered, oppressive.

They lowered their free hand to their new wound. It stung a little; the stitch-holes itched.

“Vat,” the houndmaster said quietly, “I can’t die.” He seemed to glow a moment as his fists clenched and unclenched; he was giving a speech; he was relaying a prophecy. “I can’t die while xe’s gone. You understand.”

They did.

“I can’t do this to you - but, Vatteville,” he said, like poetry, “please don’t let me die.”

That wasn’t a promise they could make and they both knew it. “You won’t die from this,” Vatteville said. At least they knew that much.

Dufay sighed like the doctor’s words might’ve actually reassured him, then sighed more sadly as he spoke. “I’m sorry I make love look like suffering.”

“It does that on its own,” Vatteville said, once more feeling the stitches through their robes.

“Xe made it seem so beautiful,” he whispered.

Vatteville drew their cloth across his forehead again. “It does that, too, itself,” they said, raising their hand to their cheek where Tulles’ hair had brushed it.

Though Vatteville didn’t make it a point to frequent the graveyard, they found their nightly walks were quickly becoming a habit. Often they only followed the outer wall, but on this night they had incurred a bout of melancholy, and thus found themself among the headstones.

Malleville’s always sang to them: that unassuming wooden cross had a presence. The coffin under it was empty but the idea of her haunted the place. A heady sadness, almost forceful, as if she imposed the mourning of her death even now.

Only four people had attended the funeral, Vatteville remembered, because those were the only four people who had known her.

Her little string of rosary beads was draped over the grave marker, swaying mournfully in the paltry breeze.

“Did you know them?” The voice was right next to their head.

Light—! Vatteville flinched so hard their hunched shoulders nearly blocked their ears.

Tulles’ hands rose defensively. “Sorry! Sorry. I - I forget I move more quietly than most.”

Forcing out a slow breath; “Yes, I knew her.”

Tulles swallowed, hands lowering. “I’m sorry.” She fiddled with her shoulder belt, biting her lip. “Who - who was she?”

They sighed. “Malleville; the first Vestal. She died a long time ago - must be close to seven months now.”

“Ah.” Frowning; “You must be one of the only ones to have known her.”

A nod.

“I’m sorry.”

Vatteville gave a heavy shrug. “I only met her a few weeks before she died.” She’d been so earnest, they recalled, and worried - so, so incredibly worried; petrified, even. They’d given her a pep talk in the stagecoach.

“Vatteville?”

“...Hm?”

“What do you remember about her?”

The phrasing of the question was so odd that Vatteville had to look Tulles in the face to try and suss out any hidden meaning - but her expression didn’t seem to be hiding anything. “She, um - she was afraid. In the stagecoach - we rode into town together - she was, she was afraid that she would let someone die.”

Tulles’ brow took on that sad little crease which only appears when a situation is so painfully ironic that the irony heightens the tragedy. “Light,” she whispered.

Vatteville let their chin fall to their chest, sucking in a deep, shaky breath. “She had these - these visions, like waking dreams, and - she would follow them, said that it was the Light’s will-- that was what led her to become a Vestal in the first place, her visions—” They paused to gulp air again. “And we were in the Warrens, and those - the cultists, with their incantations - and—” Light. It had been so long since they had thought about Malleville’s death. The last time had been before-- but never mind.

“She was trying to dodge,” they said, eyes squeezing shut, “but one of those dark pulses hit her - hit her wrong, somehow, and—” The effects had been nigh-instantaneous. More than anything, Vatteville remembered the sound of her falling to the floor, her mace scraping on the stones, the little shocked breath leaving her lips--

“She was already frantic, and she just - started talking , talking and - talking, like she couldn’t stop, like the words were being forced out of her, it was - awful, I’ve never seen - I’ve never seen anyone die like that. She was in the middle of a vision; she was describing the whole thing as it progressed, every detail she could convey.” The whole battle had paused; even the cultists had seemed to falter.

“She kept talking about the - about the rats. Waves and waves of rats, tearing at her, eating her alive; she gave us every - every moment. And then - and it was only a second but it felt, it felt like she talked for hours - but then she stopped, and she pressed her face into the ground, and in this awful gasping whisper she begged. ‘Please,’ she said - and then she died.

“I don’t know - I don’t know what she was begging for.” Vatteville hadn’t noticed during the retelling, but coming back into the present they unclenched their fists and found their hands aching. They bit their lip and folded their fingers together, easing out the tension.

Tulles was still silent, and, remembering her presence, the doctor looked over only to see her pressing a hand to her face, shoulders shaking.

Was she—? “I’m sorry,” Vatteville whispered, bowing their head, face flushing. “I didn’t mean to - I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s alright.” Her voice was thick with tears. “I’m so sorry. No wonder you attacked me that first night.”

“That was my fault,” they said, still very muted. “You didn’t do anything.”

“No, but I’m still sorry,” Tulles insisted, looking at them with her tear-stained face, all despair and guilt. “I thought this town was a shamble when I first came here,” she admitted. “I thought everyone here was either a has-been or a never-been. But I’m consistently proven wrong. There is a beautiful soul to this fetid hamlet that shines through no matter how much death and disquiet whelm the place. You’re - you’re part of that soul.”

Tears pricked at the doctor’s eyes but never spilled; they nodded slowly. “Thank you,” they said at length, trying not to stammer. “You’ll be part of that soul, too.”

She smiled weakly. “I hope so,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I always wanted to be part of something like that.”

Who would ever want to be part of this? Vatteville wondered. But the bitterness faded fast, replaced with a comforting warmth. “You will be,” they hoarsely assured her; then, reconsidering their past meetings, they corrected themself: “You are.”

Another late night with the unsorted piles of texts and drawings from Vatteville’s previous employer. It seemed as if each documented scrap left three new pages behind. But they had to get around to organizing their station sooner or later - rather sooner.

The doctor was half-asleep by this point, and not putting nearly enough attention to checking what they were looking at, so they found themself staring dead-eyed at a desk covered in anatomy sketches - intimate ones - when the entrance was tossed open.

They jumped, dropping a page they’d just lifted from the desktop. “Light—!”

“Sorry - I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Tulles said, grimacing faintly at the desk. “Have I caught you at a… sensitive hour?”

Vatteville had to look several times between her and the papers before the connection dawned on them. “Oh! No, no, um, I was only - just organizing the - it’s always a mess in here - trying to, um. Tidy up. A bit.”

Smooth.

“Ah.” She swung her arms a little at her sides. “It is… it is somewhat cluttered,” she said, taking in the station’s impregnable chaos.

Vatteville shuffled the morbid papers into a stack and propped their chin on both hands; “So, then, how might I be of service?”

“Oh,” Tulles began, brushing her hair behind her ear, shrugging, “I was just curious what your little tent looked like on the inside.”

“It’s not a tent,” Vatteville retorted, defensive on instinct. “It’s fortified and can hold twenty or more.”

“Twenty? How many beds have you got, then?” Tulles crossed her arms.

“...Seven,” Vatteville admitted, “but there’s extra bedding for - for a few more, at least. Did you come here only to laugh at my living arrangements?”

“No, I rather think I should judge your dress next.”

Vatteville usually stuck to trousers and a loose shirt when they weren’t working, and since it was late, they were barefoot and had a blanket around their shoulders. “Oh? Well, go on then, tell me what you think.” They stood to better show off the outfit.

Tulles thought about it, hand to her lips. “You look like a peasant camel,” she finally said.

Vatteville considered this. “Pheasant-camel? An odd combination.”

“No—” She caught Vatteville’s smirk; “You’re just being difficult.” Rolling her eyes, she proceeded to survey the station with a restrained curiosity. Vatteville considered their options and, deciding they weren’t uncomfortable with the way things were going, saw no harm in quickly retrieving the stack of documents and sorting through them.

One image made them pause - a fetus, viewed from left. They felt a sudden pressure in their throat; they recognized this drawing.

“Huh,” Tulles commented, having noted their uncanny stillness and stolen a look over their shoulder. “That’s actual size?”

“It was drawn from life,” Vatteville said, shaking their head to ground themself. “Or - well,” they frowned. “Not life. It was… well.” It wasn’t a topic anyone enjoyed talking about, so they cut themself off in case things got too dark, letting Tulles carry the conversation further.

“Ah.” She looked a little closer at the careful lines: “Did you draw it?”

Vatteville nodded, surveying the drawing and retrieving the memory. It took some effort - not much of that time wanted to be remembered. “It was… it would have been some years ago,” they said slowly. “She was, um, stillborn, too early, and - the family wanted an heir, and - you know how they are, nobles.”

Tulles nodded, grimacing. “Did they want you - to kill—? - the mother?” There was an unfamiliar edge to her words, a dreading and disgusted certainty.

“He tried to do it himself,” Vatteville said, “but he changed his mind, and sent the mother and corpse to us.” They remembered the mother’s face; pallid and strained and sad.

Tulles put one hand lightly on their arm; the touch was electric and Vatteville couldn’t stop themself from twitching away. “Sorry,” she blurted, dropping her hand. “That’s - I’m sorry. Um, a-and did you? Save the mother, that is?”

Vatteville frowned and traced their finger around the curled fists on the paper. “I would have,” they said carefully, “if not for her asking otherwise.”

Tulles drew a sympathetic breath. “I see.” She sighed. “I can’t blame her.”

The doctor looked at the drawing a little longer, feeling something rise in their chest. “Karina,” they whispered, the word forcing itself up their throat. More followed, equally unbidden: “That’s what she would have named her. The husband had a lackey come in and beat her half to death after the delivery, and then he handed her over to us when he decided to be - to be merciful.” Even Tulles winced at the poison in their tone.

“He himself died later that year,” Vatteville continued, the words spilling out like so much blood: “Treason. And then two years later it was his - it was his nephew, sent us his wife. Died in labor; we lost her child as well. And the rat had another woman by the next spring—”

“Soft,” Tulles said, breaking into their thoughts, unclenching their hands from the thin parchment, tucking the page into the stack. “You did what she asked of you.”

“I could have helped her escape,” Vatteville said. It was but one of many regrets they’d accumulated from their former workplace. “But for my employer’s unnatural perception, she could have - she might have made it.” They sighed. “You’re right that I did as asked - but what if I had done more?”

Tulles firmly shook her head. “How did they bury her?” she asked pointedly.

Interesting that she would assume Vatteville to know that, but once again she’d hit it on the nose: Vatteville had, in fact, secretly consulted both the hospital morticians and the people of the Church - though the funeral itself had been invitation-only. “With the baby,” Vatteville admitted, smiling sadly at the thought. They still owed those nuns for heckling the poor sap in charge of the embalming.

“That’s what she wanted, isn’t it?”

Vatteville nodded, impressed that she’d come to the conclusion so quickly.

“Then you did do more,” she concluded. “You’re always doing more. Didn’t I stitch you up just the other week for your self-neglect? Give yourself a little credit, dear.”

Dear? “I - you didn’t need to do that, you know; the - I would have recovered.”

Tulles seemed to shrink into herself and Vatteville immediately regretted speaking. “I know,” she said softly, “but I didn’t - you just - it was—” She winced and took a half-step away from them and something in Vatteville’s chest just pulled a little.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” they said, tripping over the words in the consumptive urgency to soothe her. “What I meant was - I - I appreciate the help. You didn’t need to help but you still - you did anyway. And I - it means a great deal.”

She nodded forcefully, like she was under a heavy sorrow or shame - her hands were fisted at her sides. Whatever it was, she bit it back, though not before taking a long moment to recover herself. Vatteville used this time to steady their own breaths, resting their palms on the desk and bowing their head, letting the air still them.

“My mother wanted to be buried with my younger brother as well,” Tulles finally said, clearing her throat with a little cough, “so I assumed - I assumed your, your patient, would have been the same.”

“I’m sorry,” Vatteville offered.

“It was a long time ago,” Tulles said dismissively, but Vatteville knew that didn’t really make a difference. “After that it was just Father and me - well, until he died, of course.”

“Sorry,” Vatteville said again, only to be waved off a second time.

“It’s no loss, believe me. I dug him up not two weeks later besides. Just like him, taking to the grave his most prized possessions. It’s a good thing I wasn’t one of them.” She gave a halfhearted, mirthless chuckle.

Frowning gently back; “Sounds like my former employer,” they said evenly.

Tulles snorted, still without humor. “I hope not. He ever lay hands on you?” Vatteville couldn’t help but wince; Tulles caught the motion. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me what he was like. I didn’t mean to be—”

“It’s fine,” Vatteville said. “He did, only, it was - he would, he would walk some ways off. He came up on you quickly, and then suddenly—” they mimed a shove; “and your head would be hitting the wall before you could blink.”

Tulles nodded as if she’d expected as much. “Is that how—?” Gesturing at their face. Absently, Vatteville’s hand lifted to brush the scars. They nodded. He’d been particularly furious and decided the only cure was the grinding of flesh on stone; the worst part of the recovery had been picking out each gritty piece of rock. “I’m sorry.”

“I stole some damn valuable papers from him,” the doctor said, smiling a little at the grim mockery of justice. “So, it’s not all bad.”

Tulles grinned. “Then we have a shared interest.” Straightening her ascot, she drew their attention to the red stone inlaid in its clasp. “My father’s. Had to tear his fingers off for this,” she said, almost proudly, but then her expression darkened. “He used to pour drinks on me,” she murmured. The smile fell from Vatteville’s face. “Sometimes he threw the glasses but what he liked most was pouring hot drinks down my blouse. It’s wretched.”

“Oh. Tulles—”

“Sometimes he would do it when we had guests over,” she continued, and Vatteville recalled how it had felt when they’d shared their past only a few minutes ago, like the words just couldn’t be stopped. “I would have to pretend it was an accident, even though both he and I knew otherwise. He would make me apologize for knocking his arm like so—” gently bumping Vatteville’s elbow; “He would make me bow to the guests, low so they could see past my neckline, all boiled-pink.”

The doctor’s lip curled in utter disgust; “It’s a good thing he’s dead,” they hissed. They looked up to see Tulles regarding them in almost wonderment.

“You would say that about someone’s father?” she asked.

Vatteville cocked their head - of course they would; why wouldn’t they? “He was awful to you,” they said. “I’m glad he’s dead and not mistreating you anymore.”

Tulles shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips; “I’m glad he’s dead, too,” she admitted cautiously, grinning further, “but you’d be amazed at how many people think me a sinner for that.”

Vatteville would have cocked their head farther if they were able. “I certainly wish Camus were dead; why wouldn’t - why would anyone - people really think that?” Camus being their former employer, of course. “What, do they expect you to like him?”

Tulles laughed like a song, shaking her head at them with warmth in her eyes. “You’re an odd bird,” she said finally. “Thank you, Vatteville. For listening.”

“I-it’s,” they stuttered uselessly, taken aback by her laugh - her smile - her. “It’s nothing - any time.”

She held out a hand, and after a moment to process the gesture, Vatteville shook it. They were hesitant - still a little shaken by the evening’s conversation, perhaps - but her eyes were so gentle and trusting that they couldn’t fathom not touching her, and in fact would gladly have discarded all boundaries for a chance to be enveloped in her arms.

It fucking figured their first venture in two weeks (their first venture with Tulles!) would be in the Warrens, Vatteville thought sullenly. They had two extra pairs of gloves in their belt and even then they doubted it would be enough to keep their hands clean. Nothing could keep out the pig-rot for long.

Vatteville and Tulles would be joined by Dismas, who had been off the roster for a few weeks and looked all the better for it, and one of the heiress’ fresher hires, name of Buron, a bullheaded old bastard with astonishingly good luck. Not a weak team; not at all - still, they worried. Even though Tulles was roughly caught up to most of the long-standing mercenaries by this point, that was in terms of skill, not experience. Vatteville didn’t doubt her abilities - far from it - but, all the same, the deeper sections of the dungeons were so much more taxing - they demanded such constant attention and skill - those venturing had to be lucky every time. And, certainly, Tulles was lucky - tended to escape scrapes without even a scratch, to Vatteville’s relief, but... even still; even still…

“What’re we doing, then?” Buron asked once the group had split off; the main road mostly cleared out. Being a bit hard of hearing, he almost always asked for a repetition of the week’s orders.

“Off to the middle levels of the Warrens,” Tulles told him. “Just… scouting.” She shot Vatteville a grin. It was a good thing they were masked; they could feel the blood rush to their face.

Buron huffed in acknowledgment. “I assume we’ll be trying to dodge.”

Vatteville mumbled an affirmation, more focused on compiling a mental list of supplies they would need from the Caretaker.

“Good, good. Yeah, we got a pretty nimble group. You keep out of it,” he said, nodding to the doctor. “Keep with the, the, the potions, an’ what-have-you.”

Vatteville didn’t need to be told, but they let Buron take point. It wasn’t as if they wanted to direct the party. They fell into step with Dismas as the group trudged to Supply.

“Doing well, Dismas?”

He nodded, then angled his head to them to return the question.

“As ever,” they answered, barely holding back a sigh. Dismas’ expression softened a mite, and he cocked his head further.

“Tired,” the doctor conceded. “But I haven’t been out awhile, either. ‘Tis to be expected - this line of work--” They shrugged. “Do you expect we’ll need a surplus of anything, given…?” They gestured up to Tulles.

Dismas took a turn at shrugging. He indicated a ‘no’ for extra food, which Vatteville agreed with, and suggested the usual, herbs and antivenom.

Vatteville sighed aloud, nodding. “As ever,” they repeated. “As ever.”

As it was, they left Hamlet a bit better-provisioned than everyone would have liked: “Do you suppose we brought enough of everything?” Tulles asked snidely.

“Hush; I’m carrying the worst of it,” Vatteville said. All those bottles had to be individually wrapped so as not to crack against each other, and the wrapping added an awkwardness to the weight.

“You’re not the one with three shovels,” Tulles complained.

“I’m not the one wearing a custom… shovel-sheath,” came the doctor’s retort.

“Oh, shut up,” Buron grumbled from the front. “I’m the one with the damned log.”

Dismas made a gesture as to where exactly Buron could put said log. That got at least a smile out of everyone.

The Warrens were nearest to Hamlet in terms of lateral distance, but the twisting paths and general dilapidation made it one of the tougher journeys. There was a longer route necessary to reach the deeper zones, as well, but although it was Tulles’ first time out this far, she didn’t falter nor complain. Vatteville, despite knowing her to be perfectly adept, couldn’t help but fret inwardly. Don’t hover over her - you’ll only disrupt the venture.

By the time they’d reached the proper segment of structure to search, Buron and Dismas had both gone tense with attention, the former poised for attack and the latter on guard to evade. Tulles, conversely, had loosened like a cat, flowing through the worn corridors like a thin shadow; she was so smoothly seamed into the background that Vatteville (even with the manic hypervigilance they now maintained) had to keep looking back to make sure she was still with them.

But, thus far, they needn’t have worried: Tulles was fleet-footed to a profound degree. In fact, as the group made their way back through the east leg of the dungeon, Vatteville quietly acknowledged that they looked quite worse-off than she.

“Thank you, I think,” she said, somehow still managing to grin.

“Ey, do we camp up here where we came in? Or can we risk pushing further?” Buron cut in, likely not even having heard the soft speech behind him.

“I have no problem continuing,” Tulles replied. “You two?”

Dismas shrugged; he was favoring his left leg after a run-in with brigands but Vatteville knew he’d pushed through far worse. “Could… go,” he agreed.

“Then it’s decided,” Vatteville conceded, having no preference either way. Though their mask had nearly been bashed in earlier; their condition looked worse than it felt. Besides, if everyone else was faring well, they might as well press on. Buron could always guard them while they fixed themself up.

“Aye,” he acknowledged, leading the group further into the torn walkways of the Warrens. “Vatteville, you make sure you’re breathing slow.”

Come to think of it - their lungs were working a little fast - maybe they weren’t as well-off as they thought. Vatteville did their best to calm their breath and heart rate over the next few steps. It helped that Tulles had partially dropped the stealth maneuvers, and her breathing was just audible; the doctor could match her slower inhalations.

Perhaps it was because of this distraction, or perhaps it was simply bad luck, but either way it was Vatteville’s foot which triggered one of those damnable saw-traps. Shot right out of the wall and into their left arm and side - so fast they reflexively stopped before they even realized what was happening.

Tulles couldn’t stop in time and bumped into their back gently - but hard enough to jostle the spike in their ribs and force a gasp. Flinching back, she didn’t waste time apologizing, instead taking the doctor with one hand on their waist and the other on the shoulder opposite, guiding them off of the protrusion.

“Shit,” they spat, wheezing from the pain and surprise in equal parts. “I hate this fucking place.”

“Are you—”

“F-fine,” they said, hands pushing hers aside to feel over the wounds. Superficial, really, but it was the shock of it that was the worst; the idea that this whole place was out to kill them…

Dismas and Buron had stopped at the sound of the trap activating, the former turning sharp with fierce concern. Vatteville patted his forearm once to indicate that, truly, the injury was only minor. Hesitantly, Dismas faced forward and continued; Vatteville found the pace as well. The whole time Tulles had kept insistently close and she maintained that hover-distance as the mercenaries continued, though - as it happened - her closeness made no difference.

The ghoul was lucky enough to crash from seemingly nowhere right into the middle of the party’s formation: facing Vatteville and Tulles, naturally. Still recovering from the trap, the doctor was too slow to react as the thing flung a human skull square into their chest, knocking them to the floor. Tulles took a hesitant step in front of them - protectively? Was she trying to gain footing…?

Dismas, as stunned as anyone by the creature’s sudden appearance, shot wildly; Buron tried to slam the thing with his shield but the ghoul remained unfazed. Tulles crouched and swung her hand pick into the ghoul’s leg; it might’ve done some damage, but, being so early in the fight, the move only served to enrage the monster. Tulles herself was flighty; Vatteville could see her hands, white-knuckled and shaking. Her unnaturally tense posture. This was the first time she had seen a ghoul, Vatteville realized, and shivered a little at the revelation. They didn’t envy her newness anymore - they didn’t remember the first time they had seen a ghoul, and they didn’t want to remember.

Cringing at the new pain through their sternum and ribs, the doctor dragged themself up off the floor, dusting bone fragments from their robes. “Stay focused-!” they grunted. “It’s big, only big - still an ugly beast like - like the rest of them—” They wanted to move, but the blow from the thrown skull had well and truly winded them, and they could only stand in place, head spinning, trying to regain breath.

Tulles wasn’t scared into inaction, though; she all at once forced the tension out of her body, slipping into the shadows and out of the ghoul’s primary hit range.

And then, of course, because the thing the ghoul was going to attack suddenly all-but-vanished, it bowed to every ghoul’s instinctive reaction to being surrounded by prey that fights back: it screamed.

Vatteville recognized the powerful breath the creature took in preparation and covered their ears just in time to block out the worst of that unearthly howl; the shriek like a thousand tortured souls, a whole hell’s worth of suffering - but the others didn’t move quite fast enough, to say nothing of poor Tulles, who had no idea what to expect—

Vatteville only relaxed their hands when Dismas’s gunshot snapped them out of it, the bullet hitting squarely in the beast’s left shoulder. Buron’s mace likewise landed, bringing the order back around again—

Dismas barked something like a question at them, and they nodded, shaky, fingers finding the proper vial automatically and tossing the thing over to him so he could whiff the stuff. He gave the thumbs-up, and Vatteville returned it weakly.

From behind them, Tulles drove forward with an almost inhuman speed, driving the knife into the ghoul’s chest - enough to send the creature reeling but not quite killing it, just barely not enough—

And it screeched with unholy fury as it struck back; it struck back hard , whole hand and all its claws tearing right through the woman’s shoulder as she tried to dodge back into stealth; she fell to the ground, not dying but so grievously and suddenly wounded that it was all she or Vatteville could do to reconcile this new image of her with the image that had been in her place only a moment ago—

Vatteville dove for her; caught her as she fell, letting themself hit the ground to absorb the impact. Dimly they saw Dismas slash at the ghoul with enough strength to send its head dangling from a few cords of muscle; dimly they saw the thing shudder, sway, and fall to the ground, still. The more pressing matter was Tulles, bleeding viciously in their hands, shivering. Crying without sobbing - too much movement would agitate the wound - biting into Vatteville’s cloak to keep quiet.

Dismas helped them both to stand - Vatteville could’ve gotten up on their own but the highwayman insisted - and he and Buron more-or-less escorted them to the next room (empty! thank the Light!), where Buron didn’t need to ask to know to set up a campfire.

Tulles had regained her self-control during that short walk, and sat upright on her own while Vatteville examined her. She no longer wept, but the doctor could feel her irregular breathing, her anxious heartbeat, as they peeled off her blood-soaked shirt and examined the flayed skin of her back.

“The wound - ‘tis mostly flesh,” they said softly, once they had finished appraising the area. “You can move your shoulder without too much pain, yes?”

Tulles nodded slowly, lifting her arm a little to show.

“Good. And it missed the neck - also very fortunate,” they mumbled. “I’ll only need to treat it and patch it up - it won’t heal out here, but as I expect you know, in Hamlet…” Just another thing unnatural about that little town.

“What… was it?” Her voice was dry and thin, not only from the pain.

Vatteville paused in looking through their satchel. “A ghoul. Not common, but common enough.”

Tulles’ shoulders hitched with her breath, but she held herself still. “That - that scream—”

“This will sting,” Vatteville warned, emptying a flask over most of the wound. “They scream to paralyze their prey with fear,” they explained, “so that they can strike it down at a close range.” They let their hand linger at the middle of her back a moment, feeling the heartbeat.

“It sounded like—”

“Don’t—” Vatteville winced. “They - it sounds different for everyone. Your - your fears.”

Tulles choked on a sob and lifted one hand to her face. “That’s not fair,” she hissed. “How is that fair?”

Some of the flesh had been stripped clean off, but the scraps that lingered could be stitched down. Vatteville took a deep breath to steady their hands as they began the needlework. They didn’t answer. It wasn’t fair.

Tulles stayed quiet as the doctor sewed up all that could be sewn, then as they cut a piece of thick, pliable cloth to tie over the rest.

“...There,” they said, running their hands over the dressing one last time, then down Tulles’ back a little, not knowing how to comfort her. “That will hold at least until we return.”

Tulles finally let her shoulders relax, her head dropping to her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Of course.” Vatteville packed up all of their supplies, looking up when done to see that the grave robber had turned to watch them without making a sound. She was still nude from the waist up, faded burn scars on proud display, but the doctor was more immediately concerned with her face and the tears that graced it.

Silent tears, tracked down her cheeks in the unavoidable Warrens grime. Her eyes were red and her jaw clenched; she averted her gaze when the doctor looked, but all the same she did not raise a hand to wipe her face.

“What…” her voice broke; she started again. “What does it sound like for you?”

Vatteville froze.

Tulles reached over with one shaky hand to cover the doctor’s still fingers. “Sorry,” she rasped. “You don’t have to - you don’t have to tell me, I just… I-I…”

Vatteville kept their eyes firmly shut, sucking in air through their nose. “I can’t,” they finally said, barely a breath in their lungs. It hurt to even say that much.

Tulles’ hand tightened on theirs. “It sounded like my father,” she said. “Vatteville?”

“Nnh?” They couldn’t speak; they couldn’t look at her.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry.”

Vatteville forced themself to nod, forced themself to break their train of thought.

“I’m sorry,” Tulles repeated, picking up her discarded shirt and wiping her face with it, then gingerly pulling it on. Vatteville likewise drew a fold of their cloak across their sweaty forehead. It was solidarity in gesture.

There was a moment’s pause for both to find themselves again, then Tulles spoke: “Are you alright - physically, I mean - are you - from the skull, and - and the trap?”

Vatteville nodded, though if they were honest, it felt like their chest had been set on fire.

“May I see?” She hovered a hand just over the doctor’s chest.

Vatteville hesitated, but, feeling guilty over not sharing their howl, reluctantly drew back their robes.

Tulles hissed through her teeth. “Light be merciful,” she whispered. The center of the doctor’s chest, where the skull had hit directly, appeared unmarred; the bruising showed in an erratic circle around it, all manner of purples and reds. Blood had smeared up their belly from the wound in their left side, making the scene even more gruesome.

Vatteville gave a shaky chuckle. “That is worse than I anticipated,” they confessed, drawing a finger across their chest and wincing. And the worst of the bruising was yet to come, those yellow-brown-blacks of underskin healing.

“Vatteville—! You couldn’t have tended to this first?”

“Not much to be done for bruises. Besides, you were bleeding.”

“So were you!” Gesturing at their stomach.

“You were the worse off,” they said. “I’m fi—! ...I’m fine.” They had made the mistake of patting their chest to show how ‘fine’ they were, and the face they pulled definitely didn’t help their case.

“At least let me sew you up,” Tulles said, reaching for her own knapsack. Vatteville sighed in resignation and started peeling the bandages off their left arm.

Once Tulles finished patching the holes in Vatteville’s chest and arm, and they each had eaten at least enough to feel sated, both were thoroughly worn down. The doctor curled up on their uninjured side after ensuring that Dismas and Buron didn’t require their services, and Tulles followed.

Half-asleep, Vatteville nearly didn’t register the familiar form lying down beside them. Lifting their head; turning blearily: “Tulles?”

She didn’t open her eyes. “Is this acceptable?”

Vatteville blinked. “Y...yes?”

“Perfect.”

The doctor lay back down. Somehow the presence at their back was both comforting and frightening. Their fingers found a particular scar on their chest, tracing the neat stitch-marks. Her father…

Vatteville bit their lip, shut their eyes, and took a deep breath.

“It sounds - it’s different things at different times,” they whispered, voice coming in short gasps. “My ghoul. Sometimes it sounds like - like—” they couldn’t. They couldn’t.

The figure behind them wordlessly turned over and draped one arm across their torso. The contact was overwhelming, but… not unpleasant. Maybe it was the injury, maybe it was the stress: Vatteville couldn’t bring themself to pull away. It was nice. It was something they’d never allowed themself to have. Vatteville fell asleep with her breath on the back of their neck, her heartbeat thudding through their chest.

Since meeting Tulles and coming to know her, Vatteville had developed a new hatred towards the little skeleton nobles that paraded about the Ruins - sure, the Couriers had always been a nuisance and a danger, but never until Tulles had they been so poignantly effective. If ‘effective’ was the right term - it made them sick to think about. Certainly, everyone had their weak point - Dismas couldn’t land a shot on a Madman for shaking; Baujot got headaches if a fish so much as threw him a glance; Vatteville themself could never get up fast enough if an attack floored them - and certainly, all of these had a wretched sort of history to them, but…

Well, simply put, Vatteville had begun worrying a little more about Tulles than everyone else. So when it came to those little tam-o'shantered devils, they made sure to get in as many stabs, bombs, and blasts as possible. Outside of battle, though, it was all they could do to keep Tulles happy - happy? No - comfortable? No--

Safe, they thought, feeling her quake under their hands as they wrapped a thick bandage around her front and shoulders, touching her chest as little as possible. They just wanted her to feel safe.

“It’s done,” they said, taking back their hands. “I’ll wait as long as I can to change it, but - I will have to, eventually.” It would almost certainly need to be changed twice that same day; the goblet-splash burns were superficial but always had terrible drainage - they doubted telling that to Tulles would make her feel any better about it, though, so they kept quiet. Fortunately, with Hamlet’s healing factor, the doctor estimated it would only take a couple of days to mend - and they could start changing the dressing less and less as it went along, especially once it peeled—

But that wasn’t really reassuring, not at this stage, not when Tulles was shaking so hard her teeth were rattling, burying her face in her hands like she was ashamed--

“Hey,” they whispered, just barely brushing her leg with their fingers, “come on. Let’s go somewhere.”

Tulles looked up at them, uncomprehending, eyes all dull with repressed panic. Vatteville held out their hand. “Did you know the monks keep a garden?” Pausing in case she needed a moment to process, they held stock-still as one unsteady hand eased itself into theirs. “We can stay here if you want,” they continued, smiling weakly, “but I would think you’d want out of this ‘little tent.’”

Her eyes showed a little flicker of recognition, and that was just enough for her to squeeze Vatteville’s hand and start pushing herself to her feet - the doctor helped, but from a reasonable distance, at least until she of her own volition put an arm around their shoulders. As worrying as her condition was, Vatteville couldn’t help but relax into the touch, lifting one hand to her back - not around her, just against. Tulles’ other arm remained stiffly locked in front of her chest: an automatic defense.

“Here,” Vatteville said, briefly pulling away to dive into a desk drawer for one of the open-front shirts. Gently helping Tulles into it and resuming their post at her side - they felt her arm return to their shoulders. It was - bittersweet, the gesture; trust and terror intertwined.

The walk was a slow, dull ordeal; Tulles was still unfocused and required careful guidance. Her silent, unsteady stagger kept Vatteville likewise mute in concentration - by the time they passed through the picket fence of the monks’ garden, it was all Vatteville could do to lead Tulles those last few yards to one of the low benches - recycled pews, worn paint in tattered floral patterns across the backs. It was warm and there were bugs flitting about - mostly bees, but also little flies and other things. A fat sparrow was shaking dust over itself in the path; it disregarded the human visitors entirely.

Vatteville helped Tulles sit; to their quiet displeasure she retracted her arm, folding it and the other in her lap. The doctor sat with a small space between them, but Tulles closed the distance without hesitation - almost moving Vatteville with the force of it. They smiled sympathetically and put their hand on her back; she let out a breath and relaxed ever so slightly.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” they asked in a whisper. “I brought back some of these plants, you know. From the nearby forest.” They glanced around to see whether they recognized any of the plants they could see. “And they get new plants all the time - I think there must be a secret society. League for… League in the Interests of Gardening by the Holy Tenements.” No reaction, even after Vatteville left a dramatic pause. They huffed in false offense. “I thought it was funny.”

Tulles reached across their lap with one short spasm and grasped their left hand, pulling it closer. The sudden motion made Vatteville flinch, but they returned their hand as quickly as they’d first jerked it away. “Sorry; panicked,” they mumbled, ducking their head in embarrassment. Though Tulles made no verbal response, her other hand lowered until she was holding Vatteville’s in both of hers, idly tracing the lines and veins and scars. It was frighteningly intimate.

“They’ve added - they have tomatoes now,” Vatteville said, distracting themself with the garden. “And - I think they’ve planted something in with the tomatoes, but I can’t tell from here.”

Tulles’ cheek dropped gently to their shoulder. She was still silent, but her back under Vatteville’s supportive arm was no longer so rigid. “It’s a shame they can’t plant some palm trees here full-grown,” they said, relaxing as they felt her breath over their neck. “Could tap wine from them. It goes sour in a day, you know. Can’t import it.” Damn, but they missed palm wine. “And climbing the trees in the forest isn’t the same as climbing a palm tree.” It just wasn’t. Something about the branches.

Tulles stirred against them; looking down, Vatteville realized it was a yawn. Cute. They felt their cheeks flush at the thought. But it was true; she was sweet like this - nestled against them, safe - Vatteville felt something tug at their chest. They hoped she felt safe - even if only relatively.

Tulles’ hands fell still just as she breathed that little sigh that carried the last of her tension, that sleep-heavy hum of contentment. Vatteville could have gasped. Something in that moment had been - had struck them - some gentle awe overtook them; their arms tightened around her - Vatteville could have been lit aflame for all the heat rushing to their face, but it was alright; it was more than alright.

“You’re beautiful,” they whispered, still blushing. Perhaps somehow they would work up the courage to tell her when she was awake.

“We always seem to meet under the condition that one or the other has sustained grievous injury,” she groused. Typical, to start complaining about the metaphysical nature of their interactions right as she goes under the knife.

Vatteville raised an eyebrow. “That is how I find myself in most my meetings.”

Tulles chuckled, then winced as the doctor probed the flesh of her calf, first with their fingers, then with forceps.

“Were they aiming low?” the doctor asked, forcing a smile. “Or did you just happen to kick up a knee at the right time?”

“I tried to jump out of the way.” Tulles grimaced. “It’s hard to dodge a gun with a spread like that.”

“I can see,” removing a pellet. “Under normal circumstances I’d have to simply leave these in you.”

“Oh?”

Vatteville nodded as they continued removing the shot. “Too risky: the infection chance, the blood loss - not to mention nerve damage.”

Tulles was clenching her fists at the pain, but didn’t hesitate to snark: “So I’m very - lucky, is what you’re s-saying.”

“We all are,” Vatteville said bitterly. “I know I’ve survived things no one should have - as have you; I was there, remember?”

Tulles braced her head against the support pole behind her. “That isn’t what I-- don’t talk like that.”

“And why not? I’ll survive many more; we all will.” That they would be so lucky. Lucky. Ha.

“Vatteville?”

“Hm?”

“You - are you alright?”

“Fancy you asking me that, in your state.” They didn’t look back up at her, returning to their work.

“I-I know, but… are you?”

Were they alright? Guinand was dead. Guinand was dead. Were they alright? Focus on the procedure.

“Vatteville—”

“Fine,” they said, refusing to pause until every piece of metal they could see had been extracted. There was blood all over their hands, and on their robes where they’d knelt before their patient. Peeling their gloves off: “That should be all or most of it.”

“Vatteville—”

They cut her off with a cloth dipped in antiseptic.

“That’s dirty,” she complained of the tactic, once she had recovered.

Vatteville smiled with no mirth. “Actually, I believe you’ll find it’s quite clean.”

She twisted her leg out of their grasp. “Stop,” she commanded. “I’ll not have you manhandle me like this. If you won’t talk, that’s your choice, but you won’t stop me from speaking as I please.”

That stayed their hand. After a moment, Tulles moved her leg back into place. “I know Guinand was one of the Heiress’s first.”

Vatteville slumped. No; Light; anything but this.

“You must have known her since she arrived,” Tulles continued. “Serviced her, as you do all the hires.”

Vatteville couldn’t hold back an exhausted sigh. “What of it, Tulles? I know everyone; I service everyone.”

“But you knew her.”

Stop. Stop talking. “I know everyone.”

She reached down and took the bandages out of their hands, wrapping the wound herself, leaving them with nothing to distract with. “Vatteville.”

The doctor slumped further, squeezing their eyes shut. “I could have saved her.” They could hear nothing until the gentle swishing of fabric as Tulles moved - lowered herself beside them, hands curving around their shoulders.

“It makes no difference,” she said softly. “How many times had you saved her already?”

Struggling to break her hold, Vatteville pulled further away. “Shut up,” they said - growled, even, almost spitting. “Shut up.”

Tulles let them flee, but kept one hand on their nearest arm. “Vatteville, how can you not think that you have done enough?”

“Because she’s dead,” they bit back; “because she’s d— she’s—” and their voice finally gave, leaving them just gasping, red-faced with furious grief. Guinand had been one of the first. Now it was just the oldest three and Dufay. They were all that was left.

Tulles squeezed their wrist with a sad smile. “You did all you could, Vatteville. You always do.” She gestured at her own wound for emphasis.

The doctor rested their forehead against the bench Tulles had been seated on, their eyes once again tightly shut.

“I can’t - Tulles, I can’t - we left her.” It hurt to hold that image in their mind: Guinand, alone, dead and rotting in some overgrown poison-hive - it hurt. “I can’t think about it.” How could they possibly explain?

She stayed quiet, moving closer to Vatteville again. “Vatteville,” she begged, hesitantly lifting a hand to their cheek. Rough, of course, from her usual line of work, but soft in concept, in emotion, softer than anything Vatteville had ever felt, and their hand went unthinkingly to hers, fingers intertwining. They didn’t cry; they cried so rarely now - but so nearly, that moment they spent with Tulles’ hand in theirs. But they sighed and released her.

“I know it was not my fault,” they whispered. “But I know that, of everyone, I have the skills to save.”

Tulles nodded, face pained.

“I, I can’t - the thing that hurts,” they continued, even though it made their chest ache, “is the - it’s the living, is all I think about; the way others might yet die - Guinand, she’s, she’s, Light, Tulles, she’s dead - and Dismas could die, and Dufay, and you—”

Before they could think further (let alone speak), they found themself pulled into Tulles’ arms. Such was the shock that they couldn’t even resist. “Vatteville,” she said, so intense it was almost scolding, “Vatteville.”

And they still weren’t crying but the feeling in their chest and throat was the same, that weight and tightness, like something was constricting their lungs - they couldn’t help but dry-sob at the lack of air. It took far longer to recover from this, too, than the last pause - longer to draw new breath, longer to stop their shoulders’ shaking.

And for all that time, Tulles just held them.

The tavern was always overheated, so some genius had suggested absinthe as the beverage of choice, and now all Vatteville could think was wow, Tulles looked stunning sitting as she was, glass in hand, seat leaning back, legs crossed on the table as if she was bored. Her hat was off by order of the dealer, but she wouldn’t have needed it - her neutral expression didn’t ever falter. Well - except each time she looked up to catch Vatteville staring, to which she would flash a grin that made Vatteville’s chest feel all tight and warm, breaking their concentration completely.

It was a good thing their betting funds were from the same pool, Vatteville thought, preparing to yield yet another pile of chips.

“Quit - dropping - your - cards!” The dealer used his dice stick to push up their hand - dice stick? They’re playing poker, had he brought the thing out for the sole purpose of correcting their hands? That’s fucking hilarious. “I’m about to have to drop you from the game for boozing,” he said, planting his hands on the table’s edge.

“Oh, don’t,” Tulles said through laughter. “They didn’t mean to; it’s only been a few drinks between us.”

“One’s too many for this ol’ crow,” he griped. “Fuckin’ lightweight.”

Vatteville bit back a grin and sat up a little straighter, which seemed to placate him. Then they shotgunned the rest of their drink, sending him slackjawed. Tulles couldn’t stop laughing.

“All in, blind?” she suggested on the next round, still giggling. “I’ll match.” She hadn’t yet looked at her hand.

“You’ve twisted my arm,” Vatteville said, pushing their chips forward. The dealer slumped in his seat, relieved. The other players looked almost furious; naturally, they all looked at their hands before acting.

And Tulles - after winning the round, of course - left the table when Vatteville did.

“I should play cards with you more often,” she chuckled as the pair left the casino. “I can’t believe even one of them stayed in.”

“You used me,” Vatteville whined, feigning hurt.

“Poor thing,” Tulles whined back, jingling the coins in her inner coat pocket, “however will you survive?”

Vatteville heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I’ll manage. Ah, if only some rich and beautiful noblewoman-turned-assassin would sweep me off my feet and cater to my every whim.”

“Off your feet, you say?”

“No, no, wait—!” But she was already scooping them up in her arms. “Tulles!” And they were both laughing again. They were outside now, had walked a ways out from the tavern nearly to the cliff housing the survivalist’s tent. It was mostly dark here, very quiet, and there was a breeze that was almost fresh. Tulles finally set Vatteville down, then sat on the worn foundation of one of the burnt-out shells of homes that characterized this particular part of Hamlet. Vatteville sat beside her, leaning against the broken cornerpost.

“But we should do that again,” Tulles said. She’d taken off her hat, and Vatteville had to suppress the urge to tuck her loose hair behind her ear.

“Mm,” they agreed. They could definitely fall asleep like this; they’d fallen asleep in less comfortable conditions.

“Oh, come now, you can’t be so drunk.”

A shrug. “Tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“You aren’t?”

Tulles’ smile faltered. “Well, no,” she said, “not really.”

Vatteville frowned, then sat up, swinging their legs over the foundation to match Tulles’ position. Wincing, they felt their throat tighten with embarrassment. If only there were a concoction with which to cure the mood.

“Not that this place isn’t dreadful,” Tulles continued. “But I am a lady. Unflappable, infallible, and all that. One must keep vigilant. Do you think me one to let myself decay with this place?” Her hand found its way to their back; hesitating only a moment, the doctor shuffled closer to her. “I worry about you - and the others, on the ventures. One must - one must be watchful.” She absently reached for Vatteville’s arm with her unoccupied hand; unthinking, they flinched away. She paused, withdrawing somewhat. “Are you alright?”

Vatteville tensed. “Yes. Apologies.” But when their shoulders didn’t relax, Tulles drew back further.

“Vatteville—”

“It’s - I’m only—” their throat was so tight it hurt to speak. “You shouldn’t have to worry about me,” they said, curling in on themself, forcing the words out. “I can look after myself.”

“Vatteville, darling,” There was a resigned tone to her voice that made Vatteville curl tighter. “I want to worry about you.”

“I know,” they hissed, almost completely doubled over. “I know, but it - it hurts to - I have to be self-reliant; have to - have to tend to everyone else--”

Tulles stood, causing Vatteville to immediately sit up in absolute panic. “You can’t, Vatteville; you can’t hold all of that by yourself. You have to let someone else--”

“But not you,” they gasped, gloved fingers suddenly reaching for her coat. “Tulles - please - I can’t—” But she was just staring down at them, face shadowed by her hat. Desperately: “Don’t leave—! ”

“Oh - no, I’m not—!” panicked edge to her voice, she took hold of Vatteville’s wrist with one hand, pulling off her hat with the other to reveal nothing but concern. “I’m not, I’m sorry, I’m not going to. It was merely to, to clear my head. I’m not - I’m not leaving.”

Vatteville’s hands slowly released the folds of her coat. “Right,” they whispered, shame burning on their face. “Of course.”

Tulles sat back down, letting her hand rest over Vatteville’s on the cool stone, a reassurance. “I want us to be able to depend on each other,” she said after a pause. “I just - I want us to share - something. Part of that something is, inevitably, the horrors we endure - but that doesn’t have to be all of it.”

Vatteville nodded weakly. “I want - I want that too,” they said. Their throat was all hoarse from fear.

“Then you must let me share it,” Tulles said, voice softer than a breath in contrast. “Listen to me. Permit me to worry about you. Please.”

Vatteville’s hand turned to capture hers in a vice grip. They nodded again, closing their eyes, feeling physically ill with the emotional maelstrom turning in their mind - though it was, at last, subsiding.

Tulles swapped out hands so she could pull Vatteville into a one-armed embrace, resting her chin against their head. “This is going to sound tremendously shallow,” she mumbled, and Vatteville could hear a tired smile in her voice, “but you’re very pretty when you cry.”

They hadn’t even realized they were crying, but sure enough, the hand they put to their cheek returned damp. “When did - when did that start?”

“I think it was when I stood up,” she said. “So, you’re very pretty when you’re afraid, then.”

“A blessing: I’m always afraid,” Vatteville said, not entirely joking.

“Hush,” Tulles said. “You experience a wide range of negative emotions.”

“And a couple of positive ones,” Vatteville added, “about once a week or so.”

They sat in silence, then; Vatteville found unparalleled comfort in the simple rise and fall of her shoulders. She seemed content with the arrangement as well, if her slow, even breaths were anything to go by. Listening to her heartbeat, Vatteville felt a warmth pooling in their chest, tugging at their stomach like vertigo; it was a fall they never wanted to land from.

“Tulles?”

“Mm?”

“Is it - could I - kiss you?” They could feel the blush spreading on their face.

Tulles pulled away in surprise. “I… I don’t believe anyone’s ever asked me that before.” There was a guarded look in her eyes; Vatteville didn’t regret asking, but they didn’t expect a positive answer, either.

“Not that I’ve never kissed,” Tulles said quickly, perhaps a little defensively, “but I don’t think I’ve ever been asked.” Vatteville frowned, and she waved a dismissive hand. “Not that I didn’t want to, necessarily, I mean - though there were some occasions… oh, I’m butchering this. It just caught me off-guard. But,” she continued, wincing almost imperceptibly, “I would prefer if - not somewhere intimate; not on the neck or the mouth or anything; not that you can’t - if you want to - I just--”

“You can say ‘no,’” Vatteville cut in, gently. “That’s why I asked.”

“Sorry.” She ducked her head. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

Vatteville hummed into her sleeve. “It’s fine,” they assured her, muffled. “As long as I can keep close.”

Tulles shifted so she could pull them into her lap, her arms loosely draped over their shoulders, one hand threading through their hair. Nice. Warm. “Please do keep close,” she whispered.

Vatteville smiled to themself, eyes closing in contentment. “You’re… good,” they murmured; either drink or exhaustion or emotion - or all three - had loosened their tongue; they pushed their head against hers affectionately. “You deserve so much.”

She buried her face in the crook of their neck, which was such an intimate and tender gesture Vatteville almost started crying again. “I don’t deserve you,” her voice vibrated through the side of their jaw. Light, but it was gentle. Vatteville turned a little and wrapped their arms around her.

“You do,” they said. “We deserve each other; don’t we?”

Tulles’ breath hitched in a way that made the doctor straighten to look at her. “I don’t - I don’t know what I deserve,” she confessed.

“Worry not,” Vatteville drowsily advised, holding tighter even as they relaxed again in her arms. “You have me, regardless.” They felt her smile into their neck.

“You know - you know I care deeply for you,” she said, very fast as if she was afraid.

“Mhm.”

“Even if I don’t - if I can’t - the, the kissing--”

“Mm.”

She mumbled something that might’ve been an apology; Vatteville just lifted one weary hand to brush over her hair. Soft, they thought, if a little unkempt. How fitting.