Chapter Text
After clearing a fair amount of distance between themselves and the demons, the Thundermen realize their previous plan of returning to the school is no longer feasible.
They’re gathered around a small fire, recuperating after riding the pegasi for nearly an hour who now lie asleep on the other side of the small clearing they’ve made camp in. Each Thunderman looks a varying degree of exhausted--Fitzroy the worst off by far, with Argo coming in at a close second. The Firbolg looks neutral, but the subtle dip of his head every few seconds is a clear enough tell for the other two that he’s also pretty wiped. Nobody’s said a word in quite some time, each lost in their own thoughts and physical ailments. Argo feels the subtle weakness left in the wake of Fitzroy’s necrotic burst and inwardly wonders how this will affect him in the coming days. The Firbolg tries, in vain, to pick the demon skin off of his hands--vivid memories of staring death in the face flashing through his mind. And Fitzroy is just...staring into the fire. Almost boring a hole in the flame itself with his steady gaze. The silence is not unwelcome, but it carries a particular heaviness no one can seem to shake off. That is, until Fitzroy says:
“We can’t go back.”
The other two stir at his voice, the neutral tone foreign to them. Fitzroy sounds sure--uncharacteristically sure, with none of his usual energy or bravado. He sounds as sure as one feels on the brink of death; like this is it, this is all they have and so they might as well admit it. Argo looks to Fitzroy with a concerned frown.
“What makes ya say that?” Argo asks, hoping he could maybe insert some reason into such a concrete statement. Even if he knows, in the very back of his mind, that Fitzroy is right. That whatever life they had at the school prior will never be theirs again. Fitzroy continues to stare into the fire as if Argo never spoke, his body hunched and his arms crossed atop his legs.
“We’re being hunted,” Fitzroy explains. “Hieronymous--or, the fake Hieronymous, rather--isn’t going to stop here. He’ll keep sending more demons to find us, and those demons will keep terrorizing our friends and ruining our city. He won’t stop until I-- we are captured, and then who’s to say what will happen after that? If we aren’t brutally tortured for our insubordination, we’ll surely be killed. And all of our work will be...for naught.” Though his body stays still, Argo can see the subtle clench of his fists as he speaks. The imagery he lays out sends a chill down the other men’s spines; thoughts of how badly this could escalate rushing through their heads. “We can never return to Last Hope.”
“W-Well, I mean, surely we could return eventually, yes?” Argo reasons, nervously running a hand through his hair. “If not to continue our schooling, then to--to fix what’s goin’ on at the school. We have the apple! How else is Higglemas supposed to fix his brother? We--The school needs us !”
“The school needs bodies , it doesn’t matter what bodies those are.” Fitzroy’s response is cold, clamming Argo up immediately. “I don’t trust Higglemas any more than I trust his demon brother. For all we know, we could be playing into the hands of the wrong imposter. I’m not risking my ass for some dumb fucking dog.” His sudden movement startles the other two as he reaches for Argo’s knapsack, quickly rooting through it until he finds what he needs. Before Argo can utter a word of protest, Fitzroy fishes the apple out of the bag along with a notebook and pen. He flips to an empty page and begins writing.
“We...cannot return?” The Firbolg finally speaks up, sounding the most unsure of his own words in a while.
“No, we cannot,” Fitzroy mutters, his note complete. He tears the page out and folds it into a small square, jabbing the top of the square through the stem of the apple. Then he takes out his falconer’s glove and whistles, long and low. The three wait for a baited breath before the flap of wings is heard above them. Leon, in falcon form, lands on the glove and looks to Fitzroy. With his other hand, he presents the apple-note combo to Leon.
“Take this to Higglemas, and make sure you are not seen.” Fitzroy instructs. Leon looks at the apple and makes a head movement similar to a nod. He hops down Fitzroy’s arm until he can grasp the apple with one claw. Then, he looks back up to Fitzroy, head cocked to one side. Fitzroy sighs and pets Leon’s head with one finger in one swift motion. “I am...sorry that this is all we can do for you, my friend. But we need to disappear. When you return to your human form, you...you must tell everyone we are dead , do you understand?”
The question shocks the entire party, Argo staring open-mouthed as the Firbolg’s eyes widen underneath his mess of hair. Leon stares at Fitzroy for a long moment, taking in the grave expression on the half-elf before nodding and taking off. The three watch him fly off into the night’s sky, following his form until he is consumed by inky blackness. Silence follows for a tense moment until Fitzroy stands, brushing dust off his tattered pants.
“W-What are you doing?” Argo chances a question, nervous and unsure and maybe a little panicked following the finality of Fitzroy’s death declaration. Fitzroy starts rooting through his own bag, pulling things out and strewing them about the clearing.
“What does it look like I’m doing? We need to disappear , Argo,” Fitzroy retorts, his tone clipped. “I’m faking my death.” After tossing some of his items about the area, he then turns to his own clothes, ripping off sizable bits of his shirt and cloak and leaning over the fire to singe them.
“But...we are not dead. We are right here.” The Firbolg states, not yet grasping the situation.
“Not for long,” Fitzroy mutters, tearing off part of his pant leg. “We need to leave the demons with enough evidence that we’ve been taken care of; that some creature from the wilderness came in and attacked us in our sleep. I suggest the two of you start following in my footsteps because we only have a few more hours of night left before they find us again.”
“A-Again?” Argo asks, still trying to force some reason into the already spiraling situation. “How do you know they--”
“--Do you honestly believe an hour’s worth of flight is going to give us that much of a head start?” Fitzroy cuts him off, now stopped in his movement to look at Argo plainly. Argo ignores the stir in his stomach at seeing the scattered bits of bare chest. “They’re still tracking us, Argo. While we ‘rest’, those demons have already found our scent and are tracking us to this very location. We need to give them a reason to stop tracking--to permeate this spot with enough of our scent so they can assume the deed has been done. This other stuff is just proof of a struggle.”
“But, what about...the pegasi? They...will know.” Firbolg mentions, looking over to the trio sleeping not far off. “They will...look for us. They will know we were not killed, yes?” This seems to pause Fitzroy for a moment, who follows the Firbolg’s gaze to the pegasi as he taps a finger to his chin. Inspiration strikes him and he turns back to the Firbolg.
“You have to tell them to leave,” he states. The Firbolg turns his head in confusion, causing Fitzroy to huff. “The pega--your friend , tell your friend they need to take their little group and get out of here. You don’t--You don’t need to lie to them; tell them we need to fake our death so the demons leave us alone, and that if they stick around ‘till morning there’s gonna be a shitstorm waiting for them to deal with.”
“B-But, why must we be gone? There must...be another way to--”
“--I don’t know why this concept seems to not be getting through to the two of you, but this is over .” Fitzroy’s voice intensifies, a spark shooting out of his fingertip as he leans in to the other Thundermen. From this angle, Argo can see the telltale signs of a rage about to burst--the locked jaw, the veins popping on his neck, the white-knuckled clench of his fist, the static field lifting his hair--and stiffens. He scoots closer to the Firbolg, subtly pushing the two of them away, in case their friend’s patience finally snaps.
“We’re dead , okay? It’s over ,” Fitzroy continues, gesturing to the three of them with one hand. “Fitzroy, Argo, and Master Firbolg are dead as of tonight and we’re never coming back . We got mauled by some bear--o-or monster, or I don’t give a fuck . And now we’re dead , and the whole world could mourn us for all I fucking care because so long as we’re gone the demons can’t keep hurting innocent bystanders--which, might I add, includes the school , the town , and the whole world . As long as our bodies are presumed cold and lifeless, we can ensure that no one else meets our same fabricated fate. So you two can either help me , or leave . Because I’m done risking my ass for old dipshits who have been lying since day fucking one. ” His anger is palpable in the air around them, making the hairs on the trio’s arms stand on-end and filling the two with a pit of fear. Fitzroy seems to suddenly realize this and takes a deep breath, steadying his emotions until they no longer tap into his magic. He sags, collapsing back onto the dirt and leaning his head in between his legs to clutch at his hair.
“I...I’m sorry, that was--that was...it wasn’t my intention to scare you two.” He mutters, his voice small but genuinely his. “I just...I’m so sick and tired of being stuck in the middle of bureaucracy and business and--fucking war that I never asked to be a part of and I...I’m sorry…” Silence hangs in the air following Fitzroy’s words, and it seems like the moment is done.
That is, until Argo stands and begins tearing off parts of his sleeves.
Fitzroy looks up at him, confused, and then his gaze turns to the Firbolg when he begins tearing at his clothes, too. “Wh-Wha--”
“--Well, you said it yerself! We died! Might as well make it look the part, eh?” Argo explains with his typical vigor and liveliness. The Firbolg nods at this and stands, slowly walking to the pegasi to commune with Breeze Through the Willows. Fitzroy watches for a moment, stupefied, before allowing a small smile to form on his face.
They make quick work annihilating the clearing. Tearing chunks in the earth, scattering items all around, and shooting misfired spells into the bark of trees. The final piece to this puzzle comes at the end of a dagger--three slashes made in the Thundermen’s arms so they could soak the area in their blood. The pegasi fly off at the break of dawn, leaving the area a demolished, blighted mess.
The demons find it in the early morning reeking of death and destruction. After checking every inch of the place, the dim-witted demons presume exactly what Fitzroy had hoped--some animal made its way in, fought, and ultimately devoured the three. They returned the way they came, content with this information, even if their boss would not be the most pleased.
Some miles off, in the opposite direction of the demons, the Thundermen repair their tattered clothes, clean their wounds, and head West towards a new life.
---
The Firbolg is used to walks like this.
Coming from deep within the woods, where his clan lived and thrived amongst the tall trees and mossy ground, to the prestigious establishment of Hieronymous Wiggenstaff’s School for Heroism and Villainy was a long and tiresome journey. He walked many days, unsure of a direction but confident in each step he took, until the school came into sight. Relieved and weary, he slept for two whole days before groundskeepers found him and took him to Admissions. From there, his application (written on a stained piece of parchment he clutched tightly in his giant paw) was reviewed and accepted. That was the day he met Argo and Fitzroy, coming right from Admissions to the tiny room he spent the first semester in. A day he’ll never forget, no matter what tries to take his memory away next.
There are many differences between these two walks, though.
The first being the company. They talk very little that first day, Fitzroy walking in long and fast strides a few feet in front of them for most of the day, clearly running on the adrenaline of his paranoia. Argo keeps pace with the Firbolg and tries his best to lighten the mood, but gives up soon after. They rest late that night in a cave and leave at the first signs of morning. Now, a few days into their journey, they keep pace with each other, talking about everything and nothing all at once. Argo tells winding stories of his youth at sea, with Fitzroy adding clever remarks every now and again that make the Firbolg chuckle. The Firbolg describes the flora and fauna around them, their connection to the greater functions of the earth they walk on, and he is surprised at how rapt his compatriots’ attention are to his stilted words. It fills him with a sense of warmth--of brotherhood. He’s always felt connected to Fitzroy and Argo in this way, but the journey they walk together has only further cemented the Firbolg in this clan.
His clan: The Thundermen.
The second difference is, unlike the Firbolg’s first journey, there is no destination in mind. The three have discussed what they may be looking for in terms of a new area; where it might be easier to blend in. But, by this point, the three have decided that the first town they see is where they’ll start. So each step is uncertain, and every mile is new. The forest stretches for many days on-end. It aids in allowing the Thundermen to find food and shelter quickly, but it is burdensome in its endless quantity. Their map was burned in the fire when they destroyed their things, and not a single one of them have been out this way to know where they might end up when the forest breaks. It leaves the Firbolg uneasy--not enjoying the aimlessness of this journey--but he finds comfort in his brethren. The other two seem to find comfort in the Firbolg as well; always appreciative of his knowledge of foraging and traversing. He keeps Fitzroy from eating a poisonous mushroom, and directs their path around a turbulent river so they wouldn’t have to attempt to traverse through it. In the past, the Firbolg has often wondered whether or not he was pulling enough weight in their trio. But now, with this unknown journey, he knows his assets are just as important as the others.
Just like a clan should be; providing strength where the others are weak, and allowing the strength of others to boost you up when you are weak.
The Firbolg smiles as they settle down to rest, one night. This time, it’s in a soft bed of moss, the stars twinkling softly above their heads. Fitzroy seems to notice the Firbolg’s mood and asks, “What’s got you in a good mood, friend?” The Firbolg looks to Fitzroy and Argo (who also looks to the Firbolg now) and his grin grows.
“Nothing. I just...feel like I found clan.” He states simply. The other two furrow their eyebrows at this statement, silently prodding him to continue. “You two...are like clan. We are brothers.” They look surprised at this, but it is not an unkind surprise. It is a happy and welcome surprise, like when you get a gift from a loved one on a special day. Argo laughs, looking back to the sky with a grin.
“Well, I never had a sibling, so I hope I can do the role justice!” He says. Fitzroy smiles and settles down onto the ground near Argo.
“I mean--I would say I view you sort of like a brother, Master Firbolg. This one ,” he shoves at Argo playfully, who swats his hand away with a laugh, “is more like a thorn in my side. But, we, uh...well, I appreciate that. This journey has certainly brought us closer as a company, eh? And they said company retreats never do anything for group camaraderie.”
“Sure, if ya wanna call ‘running from the demon headmaster who wants us dead’ a company retreat, then I’d be inclined to agree!” Argo jokes, making the trio laugh. They banter for a few more minutes before exhaustion settles in. They say their goodnights and drift off to their respective slumbers.
And for once in his life, the Firbolg does not dream of his old home. He dreams of his clan and the future they’ll find together, and smiles in his sleep.
---
Eventually, the scenery around them begins to change.
The trees thin out in their multitude and have less and less foliage. The ground becomes harder and drier than the previous lush, mossy beds they walked along. The rivers are gone, replaced by endless stretches of dry dirt. The harmony of crickets and frogs makes way for the long notes of cicadas under the scorching sun.
They emerge from the remains of the woods to a dry, arid desert.
And, in the distance, they spot the silhouettes of buildings.
“Would now be an ample time to make a ‘I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore’ reference?” Argo says, staring with the other two at the far-off town.
“What the fuck is a Kansas?” Fitzroy asks. Argo sighs and shakes his head.
“Y’know what? Never mind.”
---
They spend the rest of that day in the remaining woods, making the decision to traverse the final miles before the sun is at its zenith so as to prevent dehydration and overexertion. They settle in the shade of a large boulder, eating their rations of berries and rabbit meat they cooked two nights prior. The previous vigor they shared is lost, replaced by a tension that’s been stewing under the surface the entire journey. This is their first town; their first chance at a new life.
Their last night as Fitzroy, Argo, and the Firbolg.
“Well,” Fitzroy breaks the silence, hours later, as they sit around a small fire. Their setup gives the trio a sense of deja vu from that very first night. Luckily, Fitzroy doesn’t look as frustrated, just nervous. “I suppose we should start...coming up with new identities. Anyone, uh...given it any thought?” The Firbolg prods the fire with a stick in lieu of replying, while Argo shrugs.
“Are we certain we need to change names?” Argo asks. “I mean, we’re pretty far from the school ‘n everything. I’m certain none’a these folks even know what Wiggenstaff’s is!”
“We can’t be sure of that, though,” Fitzroy explains. “I mean--the Firbolg grew up in the middle of fuck-all nowhere too, and even he knew of the school.” The Firbolg nods affirmatively, which Fitzroy gestures to pointedly. “See? Plus, there isn’t a guarantee that the demon prince doesn’t have spies all the way out here. I-If we’re made to believe he was able to, just, step in and have everyone be okay with it; it can be assumed he has a pretty heavy number of spies incognito. They could be anywhere .” Argo huffs, crossing his arms.
“I think that’s just yer paranoia talkin’, Fitz.”
“So what if it is!?” Fitzroy retorts. “It’s not like I wouldn’t be justified in being hesitant to walk into this town without a plan in mind! Besides, we’re supposed to be dead , remember? Even if they wouldn’t know us, word might...I don’t know, spread? Spread beyond the confines of this desert town? And maybe get back to Last Hope, where everyone has presumed us dead? Then what do we do, Argo? What do we do then!?”
“ Alright !” Argo shouts, turning away from Fitzroy. “ Fuck , you don’t need to be like that, ya know!? This is hard on all of us!” He gets up, stalking off to breathe, as Fitzroy bristles. The tension bakes them more than the residual heat of the earth, and the trio falls into silence. Fitzroy angrily whittles away at a stick with Argo’s dagger while he’s off sulking, and the Firbolg continues to sit and prod the fire. Eventually, Argo returns and plops back down with a huff.
After another hour of tense silence, Fitzroy speaks up again.
“I’m sorry…” he mutters, keeping his eyes trained on his task. “I...I know this is hard, I just. I took it too far, and I will admit that. I...I’m sorry, Argo.” Argo looks at Fitzroy, the gentle glow of the fire lighting the barbarian in a way that is both beautiful and sad. He sighs, scooting over to place a gentle hand on Fitzroy’s shoulder, who jumps at the contact. His head snaps up to look at Argo, the space between them reduced to a measly few inches. Argo isn’t sure whether it’s the heat that is making Fitzroy’s cheeks tinge red.
“I-It’s okay, Fitz,” Argo says, patting Fitzroy’s shoulder so the contact isn’t awkward. “I, uh, I shoulda been nicer to you about it. Yer just tryin’ to keep us prepared, and I should’ve been more receptive to your feelings too…” Fitzroy stares for a second after Argo finishes, almost like he’s transfixed by something before the words register in his mind.
“I--Thank you…” Fitzroy mutters, unsure of why his stomach is swirling so viciously. Was it something he ate? The pair remain in this moment until the Firbolg chuckles. The noise breaks their trance, causing Argo to awkwardly move his hand back to his lap and scoot away from Fitzroy, who equally as awkwardly turns away to the Firbolg. “What’s so funny?” The Firbolg smiles mischievously and shakes his head, returning to tending the fire with another chuckle.
“Ah, is...firbolg joke, you would not understand.” He vaguely explains, not budging even under the scrutinous eyes of his friends. Fitzroy rolls his eyes and decides to drop it, returning to his whittling. Argo stares into the fire before an idea dawns on him.
“What about Nott?” Argo asks, seemingly inspired. Fitzroy furrows his brows.
“Not what?” He replies, to which Argo shakes his head.
“Not ‘not’, Nott!” He clarifies (in some sense of the word). The other two stare at him just as confused. Argo sighs. “N-O-T-T. Nott! Fer my name! Kinda sounds like the end of mine, Argonaut. Naut, so Nott!”
Fitzroy makes a disgusted noise and shakes his head. “That’s ugly, why on Nua would you want to be called that?”
“Well, does anyone else have any suggestions?” Argo retorts teasingly. Fitzroy stops whittling his stick to think this over, looking at Argo for a long moment for inspiration.
“Maybe Aaron?” He suggests, “It’s innocuous enough, has enough of the letters from Argonaut to not feel weird in the mouth. Actually sounds good to say.” Argo rolls his eyes but is unable to deny that Aaron does sound better than Nott.
“I suppose yer...right about that,” Argo secedes, to Fitzroy’s delight. “Alright, so I’m Aaron. Aaron….uh, Kennedy. Aaron Kennedy? Is that anything?”
“It’s certainly a name,” Fitzroy replies, and it’s enough of an affirmation that Argo cements the name in his mind. “Hm, I suppose for me I could...maybe use my middle name?”
“You have...name in middle?” The Firbolg asks, the concept baffling. “Why need name for middle? You...are already Fitzroy.”
“It’s just, like, an extra name, I guess? My mother liked it, and the Maplecourts have a history of long names that have some familial significance. Heritage and the like, you understand.” Fitzroy explains, not quite sure if the Firbolg does understand. Given the death grip he suddenly has on his hair, he does not.
“This is ridiculous! The con-cept of a name is already mystery, but more name is apparently...needed to sig-ni-fy person!? Why is that so!? What is purpose!?” The Firbolg wails, images of statistics and accounting classes flashing through his mind. Fitzroy, panicked, leans over and pats the Firbolg on the back, in the hopes it soothes him. Argo tries not to laugh at the whole situation, but lets out a snort that makes Fitzroy glare at him in annoyance. That action sends Argo into hysterics, as the trio devolves into banter and discussion of the importance of names.
By the time they’ve settled into bed, three new identities have been formed.
Fitzroy Jean-Paul Maplecourt becomes Roy Fitzgerald. Argonaut Keene is now Aaron Kennedy. And the Firbolg?
...Well, they’re just gonna call him Bud and hope that catches on.
---
That night, Argo finds himself unable to sleep. The anxiety of working under a new identity, plus the excitement of finally seeing another person mingles in his gut and courses energy through his veins. Even though he should be tired, he feels the most awake he’s been in weeks. The stiffness of the ground underneath him is no help, either. Making him toss and turn even more frequently, so as to not wake up with any sore spots.
Eventually, he gives up on sleep and decides to keep watch (though they haven’t had anxieties of anyone following them for quite some time). He sits up and stretches his back, sighing contentedly when his spine pops a few times. With that settled, he looks around at their tiny campsite and immediately notices Fitzroy is gone.
The Firbolg sleeps in a mound, looking similar to a clump of mossy dirt, but Fitzroy is not next to them. Panic immediately shoots through Argo as he quickly stands, using his keen rogue senses to perceive his surroundings. It doesn’t take his roguish abilities to notice the light a handful of feet away, illuminating the back of the half-elf as he crouches over the miserable excuse for a stream. Argo slowly and quietly makes his way over so as to not startle the Firbolg awake.
When he gets close enough, he can see Fitzroy take Argo’s dagger to his own head, using it like a razor to clean the back of his head. His hair had been getting long throughout this journey, irritating the barbarian and forcing him to keep it in a bun or high ponytail most of the time. Judging by the clumps of hair on the ground, he seems to have cut off a decent amount, making the length a half inch above his shoulders. What he looks to be doing now is giving himself an undercut in the back, shaving nearly to the skin the hair on the lower half of the back of his head. It’s a messy affair, given the dagger, but it’s...surprisingly clean. A decent look on the half-elf.
(A little hot, if Argo is being honest. But, he’s a rogue, so he’s obviously not being very honest)
In his staring, he fails to notice the slight decline of the stream, so he slips and loses his footing with a muffled shout. He lands in the stream, immediately pushing himself out of the muddy water to see Fitzroy staring back. He expects to see the half-elf petrified, maybe halfway through charging up a spell or readying the dagger to throw in his face. Instead, Fitzroy has his mouth hidden in his hand, shaking with silent laughter. Argo feels a flush flood his face, but he decides to ignore it and lean over to see if the Firbolg heard that. Luckily, the mammoth of a man can sleep through anything, so they’re good.
“You, uh, you needed a little dip, huh?” Fitzroy asks, his voice barely above a whisper and wavering with laughter. Argo gives Fitzroy an unimpressed look, sending him into silent hysterics.
“Yeah, sure, buddy. Just got up to take a little dip, y’know how it is.” he replies flatly, unable to maintain his cool when he sees Fitzroy practically fall over with his silent laughter. It cracks a smile across the genasi’s face, giving him a few laughs as he pulls himself out of the murky water to sit beside Fitzroy.
Once his silent laughter fades, Fitzroy sits back up and looks to Argo. “Can’t sleep?” he asks with a knowing smirk. Argo nods, which Fitzroy returns in kind. “Yeah, me too...It’s weird, isn’t it? Knowing that tomorrow, we’ll...just be new people…”
“Yeah…” Argo trails off, looking back at Fitzroy. He looks weighted by something--his shoulders hunched down and his posture leaning over towards the stream--and sadness hides deep in his sea-blue irises. Argo feels like he should say something--a piece of advice, an understanding pleasantry, an admittance that Argo understands far more about Fitzroy than he realizes--but he holds off. Regardless of new identities, he still feels sworn to his secrecy. The Unbroken Chain was his mother’s burden to bear, and so now it will be his. The things he knows about Fitzroy were taken in hopes that it would protect him, though all it has seemed to do is leave too many awkward pauses between the two when they’re alone. Still, Argo fears what their friendship may be if he admits to his deeds, so he remains silent. Even if that silence wedges them farther apart.
“Want me to cut your hair?” Fitzroy’s voice pulls Argo from his train of thought, who quizzically looks at Fitzroy. He’s holding the dagger out towards Argo, offering. Instinctively, Argo reaches up and runs his hand through his hair, leaning away.
“W-Why? Does it look bad?” Argo asks, concerned. Fitzroy seems confused by this before realizing something and shaking his head.
“Not at all! I just--you know, with our new identities and all, a change of look might be beneficial! For, uh, getting into character and--I realize that was rather sudden, but you seemed lost in thought and I-I just.” He moves the dagger away from Argo, nervously fiddling with the handle and turning back towards the stream. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“No, no! Yer not offendin’ me!” Argo immediately attempts to recover, leaning back towards Fitzroy and holding a hand out. “I-I just--it was unexpected! I haven’t cut my hair in...gods, years? Longer back than I can remember, if I’m honest. I dunno if…” he trails off, uncertainty laden in his tone. Truth be told, the only reason he’s yet to cut it is because he doesn’t know how . Shebrie was in charge of managing his head, and the last time she cut it was before…
“It’s fine, Argo, you can say no.” Fitzroy saves Argo from yet another spiraling train of thought, looking back at the genasi with a soft, understanding smile. That smile does something to Argo; makes his limbs shake and his stomach tie into knots. He looks at that smile and sees nothing but kindness and care; a smile Fitzroy so rarely gives to others. Like a precious jewel, and he offers it to Argo like it’s a measly pebble. Argo would do anything for that smile--more than he’s willing to realize.
He feels safe and impulsive and far too warm as he breathes out, “Okay.” That smile briefly leaves his face as Fitzroy tries to figure out what Argo is talking about.
“Okay what?”
“Cut my hair.” Argo says quickly, hoping to chase the high of that smile for just a little longer. Fitzroy huffs out a laugh, confused but amused, and stands. He goes behind Argo and gently pulls the hair tie loose, wearing it on his wrist as he carefully pulls through his waves. The sensation sends shivers down Argo’s whole body, making him close his eyes and tilt his head back slightly.
“How, uh...how short were you thinking?” Fitzroy asks after pulling through a few knots.
“Dealer’s choice,” Argo simply replies, humming peacefully. Fitzroy looks down at Argo for a moment, judging the genasi’s state of mind, before shrugging and carefully holding his hair in one hand.
The process, as a whole, is quite relaxing. Fitzroy doesn’t say much as he cuts, carefully passing the dagger through every strand with a precision unexpected from such a wild-magicked barbarian. Argo keeps his eyes shut the entire time, content in feeling the sensation and little else, occasionally responding to Fitzroy’s questions about length and style. Eventually, Fitzroy asks Argo to turn around, and when he does so he finds Fitzroy kneeling right in front of him. He carefully holds Argo by the jaw, coercing his head to turn one way as he cuts the hair on the side of his head.
Argo keeps his eyes open during this whole part, subconsciously drinking in every minute detail of the half-elf’s face as his focus remains on his hair.
Eventually, Fitzroy puts the dagger down and leans back to admire his work, a pleased smile spreading across his features.
“I think that’s it!” Fitzroy announces, clapping his hands together delightedly and gesturing for Argo to turn around. He does so, peering into the stream to look at his reflection, and gasps at what he sees. He should’ve been able to feel how short it was by weight alone , but seeing it so short really cements in his mind the decision he made. The top of it is a little longer than the sides, allowing him room for styling, but the sides are practically gone. He starts to feel all around his head, webbed fingers barely passing through hair in the back. Despite the length, he still looks good; Fitzroy chose a style that suits his face shape well.
“I-It’s great!” Argo stammers, barely able to speak in his excitement. “Fitzroy, I-- Thank you , this looks--I-I look-- wow !” He watches Fitzroy come up beside him in the reflection of the stream, giving Argo another one of those sacred smiles. His heart skips a beat at the look Fitzroy is giving him--soft, gentle, hiding something beneath the surface that Argo is desperate to find. He places Argo’s dagger on the ground next to the genasi and pats his shoulder.
“Well, I’m glad you like it,” he says, honey-sweet and warm. Argo’s hands itch to reach up, to grab the hand on his shoulder and hold it. But he restrains the urge, letting Fitzroy’s touch linger for a moment before pulling away. Fitzroy’s arms go up in a stretch as a long yawn passes through him. “Oh, goodness, I...I best be heading to bed now. Goodnight, Aaron .” Argo snorts and turns around, watching Fitzroy leave with a wave and a smirk.
“Night, Roy !” Argo whisper-shouts, listening to Fitzroy’s quiet laughter as he walks back towards the Firbolg. He waits until the sound of footsteps is far enough off, then sighs and flops onto his back.
Truth is, Argo is painfully aware of his feelings for Fitzroy. They’ve been lingering within him since they met, and have only grown to be more bothersome the more he’s gotten to know Fitzroy. What started as simple attraction became infatuation before completely merging into an all-out crush. The half-elf is just so... different . He’s new, exciting, unlike anyone Argo has or ever will meet (and he’s met quite a number of folks, in his day). He hides so much beneath the sheer facade he touts that only continues to pique Argo’s interest, secretly relishing in every genuine thought or emotion the barbarian expresses. He wants to know Fitzroy, inside and out. Not for the Unbroken Chain, but for the sole privilege of being a person Fitzroy trusts enough with that information.
But that reason alone is why Argo is certain he can never say anything. Because Fitzroy doesn’t trust him--hasn’t for a while. At the school, he carried himself differently when he was alone with Argo. Like he knew, deep down, that Argo was hiding something. That, of course, ended up being accidentally confirmed while Fitzroy was cursed; but that conversation they were supposed have just...never happened. Primarily because they’ve been on the run ever since, but Argo isn’t even sure how he’d bring it up now . And what good would it do to break the trust he has with Fitzroy now, when Argo and the Firbolg are all Fitzroy has?
So he’ll remain quiet, probably forever. Or until someone comes along to pull his focus away.
Though, as the genasi cards another hand through his newly-cut hair, he’s certain a person like that doesn’t exist.
---
Argo awakens to a gentle prod of the shoulder, having fallen asleep beside the stream after having his hair cut. The Firbolg has many questions as to why his friends decided to change their looks overnight, and the two do their best to answer as many of them as easily as possible during breakfast. The sun is just barely peeking above the horizon when the three finally leave the forest for good, abandoning any signifiers of their old life in the stream with their hair. This leaves Fitzroy to clumsily explain why he’s been wearing fake glasses the entire time during their walk to the town, giving the other two quite the laugh.
They reach the town a little after 10 AM, dusty and sweaty and ready for a new life. The residents eye the trio warily as they make their way further in, scanning shop names and residential spots hoping to find a hostel or saloon. It is increasingly evident that this town receives very few visitors, judging by the looks and whispers that follow the Thundermen, and certainly not visitors that look like they’ve been walking for weeks on end. Fitzroy ignores the whispers and swallows his pride; he’s got a lifetime of experience being the outcast, and he’s not about to let some curious passersby scare him off. The Firbolg, already a hulking nine-foot mass, is used to stares. He understands he is a rarity in most places and tries to not let the scared looks in children’s eyes discourage him. It does make him sad, though, but that’s par for the course by now. Argo is the least aware of the looks, rapidly turning from left to right to look at all the businesses they pass by. Growing up on the sea, Argo was a stranger to every seaport city they visited, so he’s never felt strange in situations like this. Shebrie taught him to be confident in himself and to love the world as it loves him, making him the source of positivity for the other two to siphon.
Eventually they pass by the sheriff’s office--stated plainly by the sign on the building that says “Sheriff’s”--and someone finally stops them. He’s an older man, around his 50’s, with tanned skin that sports a number of lighter scars. His hair is dark brown underneath his wide-brimmed sheriff’s hat, and he has kind brown eyes. He’s on the shorter side, big but with considerable muscle in his arms. He wears the typical sheriff’s attire--button-up shirt, jeans, gold-star-plated belt, holster for a flashlight and a wand, and cowboy boots with shiny spurs.
“Woah, there, fellas!” He calls out, the Thundermen turning to face the man as he steps down off the porch of the sheriff’s office to address them. “The whole town’s been buzzin’ ‘bout you three, why dont’cha stop and chat with me for’a moment?” The confrontation was inevitable, but it still puts the three on-guard as Fitzroy steps forward just a bit.
“Of course,” Fitzroy replies, casually slipping into the voice from his youth. The changes are subtle to the ear, but to Argo and the Firbolg they’re massive . His shrill, nasally tone flattens--not losing its pitch, but rather the peaks and valleys his tone dips into. He also loses that bravado that always layers his speech, sounding much more casual and calm. Along with that, his speech is slower, giving less attention to the harshness of his consonants and spending more time on the length of his vowels. This obviously isn’t a practiced accent--it’s an innate vocal pattern Fitzroy’s been choosing to hide with extra trinkets and trifles. The way he turns to it so easily in front of a stranger tells Argo more about Fitzroy’s life than any letter.
The son of a caravaner, after all.
“We don’t get many visitors ‘round these parts, what brings you three in here?” The sheriff continues, sounding not in any way offended or defensive. Just simply curious. Fitzroy sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his feet.
“Well, me an’ my friends here are on...a bit of journey,” Fitzroy explains, reciting parts of their practiced lie so as to not leave the Firbolg in a compromising situation. “We’ve been lookin’ for a new place to settle down, start workin’ to build our business, and the city just wasn’t cuttin’ it for inspiration. We wanted to go out and find somewhere we could call home for a while, some place we could work and feel like our work is makin’ some sort of difference. You get what I’m saying?” The sheriff nods, seeming pleased with that answer.
“Ah, a couple’a young men lookin’ for work! That’s exactly what this town needs!” he says with a laugh. “Pardon my manners, I forgot t’introduce myself! The name’s Jasper. I’m the Sheriff, if y’couldn’t tell by the badge and the hat already!” He tips his hat politely. “What’re your names?”
“My name’s Roy,” Fitzroy introduces, giving a slight nod of his head. “My genasi friend right here’s Aaron, and that big fella is Bud. Pleased to meet ya, Sheriff Jasper!” He sticks his hand out for Jasper to shake, the other two following suit with their own polite smiles. With pleasantries out of the way, Jasper eyes the three up and down and shakes his head.
“Fantasy Jesus, y’all look like you’ve been hit by a tornado! You just come here with the clothes on yer backs?”
“‘Fraid so,” Fitzroy replies, solemnly shaking his head. “Got ambushed by a couple’a vagabonds a ways back, been traveling bare-backed ever since.” Jasper shakes his head and tuts, immediately taking the bait by taking pity on them.
“Damn bandits, they been hangin’ around the outskirts of our town fer years. No matter how hard we try to catch ‘em, they always find a way…” Jasper trails off, reaching out to hook an arm around Fitzroy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you fellas follow me and I’ll get y’all set up with some new clothes? Courtesy of the Sheriff’s Department of Dust Field!” He leads the three down the street, seemingly scaring away any prying eyes with his presence beside the newcomers, to the tailor’s shop. There, he lets the trio go through the various button-ups, vests, and jeans whilst chatting with the owner (a stout, balding man by the name of Elliot). Eventually the boys settle on their outfits, thanking Sheriff Jasper for his kindness as he leads them to the shoemaker next. Each Thunderman gets a brand new pair of cowboy boots to correspond with their outfits.
With their clothing acquired, the sheriff continues to lead them, sharing bits of history and information on the town of Dust Field with them along the way.
“Now, I’m sure you can assume the name’s origin comes from the dry desert we are surrounded in, but what if I told ya that wasn’t the case?” Jasper explains, gesturing as they go along. “The town was actually named after its founder, Dustin Scritchfield. He, of course, is dead now; but him and his husband traveled here and settled in so nicely they drew a whole herd of people out to the middle of nowhere! The name is a play on words, actually. Dustin Scritchfield--take out the ‘in’ and the ‘scritch’ and you got Dust Field! Equally representin’ both the area we live in and the man who allowed us to live here!” Fitzroy nods along, having silently made the decision to lead the group through the early days of public relations with the locals. Better to set a good example than to let their cover accidentally be blown.
“‘S fascinating stuff, Sheriff Jasper.” Fitzroy replies. “Say, where is it that you’re takin’ us to?”
“Someone who might be able to help you fellas out,” Jasper explains with a smile. “We ain’t completely unused to visitors, even if y’all gave us a bit of a start. I know someone who’ll be able to house ya for a while for very little, since y’all got robbed I’m imaginin’ y’all don’t have much in terms of money.”
“Not a scrap of silver on any of us,” Fitzroy responds easily.
“I figured. Jenny’s real understandin’ of that--will probably just ask for work in exchange for yer lodging, until you can start makin’ enough to afford a place of yer own.” Jasper says, just as they approach two big buildings on opposite sides of the street. One is a saloon, named Bustin’s Bar, and the other looks to be some kind of apartment building. On the steps of the saloon is a woman, probably no older than thirty, with red hair done in a braid down her back. She’s sitting next to another woman (mid to late twenties) with remarkably pale skin and faded pink hair. They’re holding hands and laughing, which makes the smile on Jasper’s face grow fond.
“Hey, Jenny! Got a coupla fellas who need ya!” Jasper calls out, startling the two women. The pale one makes eye contact with the Thundermen and immediately enters the saloon, while the redhead--presumably Jenny--stands and puts her hands on her hips with a smile.
“Ah, so these are the folks I been hearin’ so much about!” Jenny states with a laugh, meeting Jasper halfway to greet the boys. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Jenny Parker-Ross, proprietor of Bustin’s Bar and owner of Parker Lumber, along with the apartment building across the street.” Jenny is a broad woman, with powerful arms barely contained in her flannel. She stands at a good six feet tall, but she doesn’t bother to crane her neck up to look at Fitzroy. She’s fair-skinned with a healthy smattering of freckles and a wide, bright smile. She sticks a hand out for Fitzroy to shake, who is briefly shocked at her strong grip.
“Pleasure is all ours, the name’s Roy,” Fitzroy goes through the introductions one more time, allowing the other two to say hello and shake Jenny’s hand. Jasper stands by and watches this all happen before turning to Jenny.
“Jenny, these folks are here for business. They wanna work! But they got robbed by bandits on the way into town, so they ain’t gotta lick of cash on any of ‘em. Y’think you can give ‘em some lodging, for the time being? I told them you’d likely want some labor in return, and they’re eager to get goin’.” Jasper explains, Jenny thoughtfully nodding the whole while. She considers the trio in front of them, sizing up each one individually.
“Hmm…” Jenny mumbles, bringing a hand to her chin to rub at it. “I suppose Lyra’s been needin’ another hand at the bar, and I could put these two big boys to work in my shop…” She drops her hands with a laugh. “Aw, who am I kiddin’? I’m not a monster , of course y’all have a place to stay with me! I got plenty of empty apartments in that ol’ building, I’m just gonna need some work from ya in order to pay for the lights n’ things!” The sheriff lets out a deep belly laugh, leaving the three to awkwardly play along.
“We really appreciate that, Ms. Parker,” Argo speaks up, to which Jenny waves him off.
“Please, it’s Jenny! Also, not a miss--haven’t been a miss since last summer!” She says, pointing a thumb towards the saloon. “My wife was the one who snuck off earlier. You’ll have to excuse her, she’s a bit awkward around strangers, but once you get t’know her she’s a gem.” Her voice turns fond at the end as she fiddles with the wedding ring on her left hand. A part of Argo aches for that kind of honest love, and he pointedly avoids looking at Fitzroy.
With that settled, Jenny shows the trio to their apartment, where they can shower and change and come back to the saloon for a hot meal, on the house. She informs them that they can take today and the next day to themselves, that she’ll have them working bright and early Monday morning. It occurs to the Thundermen, at this point, that they’d completely forgotten about time during their journey. How long have they been gone? Days? Weeks? Time begins to blend when so much of it is spent doing the same task.
They each bathe and change into their new clothes before promptly taking a nap. The apartment is a two-bed, two-bath with a spacious living room and kitchen area. The apartment is also furnished, with one full-sized bed in one room and two twins in the other. The Firbolg elects to sleep on the floor of the living room, leaving Argo with two beds while Fitzroy bolts to claim the full-size. The three rest comfortably for the first time in a long time, and by the time they wake up the sun has gone down.
Several plates of hot food await them on the kitchen counter, a note from Jenny simply saying:
Didn’t realize you boys needed so much rest! Guess you must’ve come from far away, huh? Well, anyway, I hope you enjoy your dinner. I didn’t really know what you would like, so I gave you a little bit of everything! Feel free to stop by the bar when you’re done, if you feel up to doing so!
Signed,
Jenny ;P
Food is quickly passed around and scarfed down; this marks the first real, genuine meal they’ve had since before their real-world assignment. Very little is said between them as they eat, each acclimating to the new space in their own way. There’s been no talk of this being a permanent situation--scratch that, there’s been little talk of this situation at all . Save for deciding what they’d do when they got there, no one has discussed if there’s any possibility of returning to the lives they once led. There’s too many factors to consider in the span of one dinner, so the topic has been left untouched.
“I...think I will stay,” The Firbolg says after they’ve eaten, staring down at his empty plate blankly. “Here, I mean. For...the night. You two may go, if you wish.”
“Whaddya mean?” Argo says with a frown, before remembering the note left with their meal. “Oh! You mean to the bar . Yeah, sure! You can stay home if you don’t wanna, Firby!” He smiles and gets up from the dining table, taking a few of the plates to the sink to wash. He assumes they’ll be needing to return these, eventually. “I was thinkin’ of poppin’ over there for a bit, actually! You know, chat up the locals, get some insight, maybe get a couple of complimentary ‘new people’ drinks.” The last bit is said with a wiggle of his shoulders as he turns on the sink and scrubs at the dishes. “But if you wanna stay here with the Firbolg, yer free to do so, Fitzroy! You’ve been takin’ a brunt of the communications work, and as our CCO I thank you for yer service.” Fitzroy smiles at that and does a few bows from his chair.
“Why thank you, thank you,” he says, getting a laugh out of the two. “But I think I will go, if you don’t mind the company. I need a drink, after the, uh... life we’ve had recently.” He stands, retrieving the rest of the plates to bring them over to Argo. Argo feels the warmth of Fitzroy on his side as he leans over to put the rest of the dishes in the sink, and his knees nearly go weak at the contact.
“I’d always mind your company,” Argo breathes out, until he realizes what he said. “Or--I don’t mind yer--I-I want you to come with me! Yeah, that’s what I meant!” Fitzroy chuckles, a sensation Argo can feel because of their proximity. With all the dishes collected, Fitzroy walks back to the living room and flops on the couch, his legs dangling over the arm of it. Argo curses himself for missing the warmth and makes quick work of the dishes.
After digesting for thirty minutes, the two wish the Firbolg a good night and head over to Bustin’s Bar.
---
Though the town is small, the bar is packed. It seems like the saloon is a beacon for the residents, cramming into every possible booth and seat to share some drinks and some laughs. Jenny and Lyra are both behind the bar, chatting with patrons and passing out drinks, but when Jenny spots the pair she hops over the counter to greet them. Her hair has gone from a braid to a bun, a few fly-aways sticking out as she bounds over and gives the two a solid hug.
“Hey, you two made it!” She cheers, pulling away to slap them both on the shoulder. “Where’s that big fella? Too tired?”
“Bud’s not really too big on crowds,” Fitzroy replies, his casual accent peeking through once more. “But we’re awful grateful for you leaving us dinner.” He looks to Argo, subtly moving his head to continue.
“Oh, yeah! Thanks so much, Jenny! Food was phenomenal , really great stuff!” Argo adds on, giving a chef’s kiss with one hand. The action makes Jenny laugh, though Fitzroy subtly eyes him in a “are you fucking serious” way. She worms her way between them and throws both arms across their shoulders, walking them towards the bar and gesturing to her wife with a nod of her head.
“Aw, flattery will get you everywhere , lemme tell y’all now. Whaddya two wanna drink? It’s on the house, since I know y’all’re pretty strapped.” Jenny says, stopping them right at the bar so she can hop back over the counter. Fitzroy orders straight whiskey, producing a flask from seemingly nowhere and handing it off for her to fill. Argo orders his usual: gin and tonic, twist of lime, with extra lime. The two receive their drinks and begin chatting around.
Argo learns an awful lot that night. First and foremost being that Fitzroy is actually a force to be reckoned with in the drinking department. He sips straight whiskey without so much as a squint, and when shots start getting passed around he takes them like a champ. Argo, on the other hand, knows how he gets once the tequila starts going around and sticks to his gin and tonic. He also learns about the two women running the whole operation.
Jenny is a local, as is evident from her accent. Lyra, on the other hand, is not. Jenny wasn’t wrong in her assessment of her wife; Lyra keeps to herself for most of the night, until she is coerced by her wife to talk to the newcomers. Her voice is one of an out-of-towner; slightly Northern accent with a relatively flat tone and fast pace. She talks like she’s always on the verge of being cut off; and though she tries to keep herself emotionless, her moments of energy show the truth of the person she hides underneath. Argo also learns--from a few subtle cues as well as Lyra saying so--that she’s a changeling; a fact that she does not shy away from. Her pale skin and naturally almost-white blonde hair are the usual tells for changelings, though she’s admitted to changing a few of her more self-conscious features to make her look like the woman she is now. She explains that she ended up in Dust Field by mistake; that she was supposed to get off at a different train stop, but then bandits raided the train and she had to escape the train early. Her and her rat (“possum-sized rat son” are Lyra’s exact words) Ferdinand then wandered the desert until they found Dust Field, and--evidently--her soulmate. The two are very much in-love, as is evident in literally everything they do, and the interactions fill Argo with a mix of joy and longing.
Fitzroy clams up around the changeling story (for some reason), but is able to bounce back when conversation moves to Lyra’s pet. The two talk pet care for a long time--long enough that Argo orders two more gin and tonics before it’s over. Then, the bar surges with life again, and the two women are forced to focus on their jobs. Fitzroy and Argo stand around the bar for a little while longer, chatting with a few of the locals who come up to them, but eventually Argo sees Fitzroy stand and start to make his way towards the door. Argo wishes the old man he’s been chatting ships with a good night and follows his friend’s path.
By the time Argo worms his way through the crowd and out the door, Fitzroy is already seated on the stoop of the apartment building, sipping from his flask and staring at the dirt between his feet. Argo makes his way over and leans on the building beside Fitzroy, watching him cap his flask.
“I been meanin’ to ask, where’d you get that thing, anyway?” Argo asks, gesturing to Fitzroy’s flask. Fitzroy looks up at Argo, then to his flask. He runs a thumb over the smooth detailing on the face of it with a small smile.
“It was my father’s. Mom gave it to me before I left for knight school; said I ‘probably wouldn’t need it', but it’s never too bad to keep around,” Fitzroy says, his voice soft. He doesn’t revert back to the way Argo’s used to hearing him talk, the rustic tone of his voice a gentle croon against the muffled noise of the bar. Argo feels his heart thud in his chest and ignores it.
“I’ve never seen you use it, though! Hell, before tonight, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink !” Argo states with a laugh. Fitzroy doesn’t join him, continuing to stare down at the ground as he unscrews the lid again.
“Yeah, well, maybe if you stuck around past seven you would’ve.” Fitzroy’s voice is bitter as he takes another swig, pulling the rug out from under Argo’s mood immediately. Suddenly, Argo can feel the weight of the world back on his shoulders, as tension builds between them. Argo kicks at the dirt beneath his feet, dirtying his shiny black boots.
“...Are we really gonna have this conversation right now?” Argo starts, not surprised when Fitzroy angrily whips his head around.
“What, would you have just--just preferred I’d forgotten everything? Would that make you feel better, Aaron ?”
“You don’t have to be a prick about it, Roy --”
“--Oh, I’m being the prick about it! I see, I see. So the guy who’s been sneaking around this entire time gets to tell me I’m being a prick, okay--”
“--Look, I dunno what you want me to say--”
“--You could start with why you know so much about me.” Fitzroy spits out, huffing as he looks at Argo with a mixture of anger and hurt. “You could start with that b--because the last time I checked, roommates don’t start digging through other roommates’ personal lives just for the hell of it.” And suddenly, there it is: the elephant. Argo stares back at Fitzroy, chewing the inside of his mouth with the fervor of a rabid tiger, as he considers his options.
There’s a right and wrong thing to do here. There’s a knowing and an unknowing. The only problem is, Argo isn’t sure which pairs up with which.
“I--I had to, okay?!” Argo gets out, eyes clenched shut. “I-I’m involved in a secret organization, a-and they asked me to get information on you because--b-because I don’t know ! They’re working to restore balance to the universe or something and my Ma was a part of it and she’d never be a part of something if it wasn’t good and so when Jackal came to me I just said yes because I wanna make my Ma proud, but then they gave me the assignment an-and I didn’t know it was going to be about you , and they didn’t tell me why but I made them swear that whatever I told them wouldn’t be used to hurt you ‘cause I care about you a-an--and I just...I had to...I’m sorry…”
Argo pants and pants, eyes still clenched shut as he comes down from giving that whole spiel. The only sounds between them are Argo’s own breaths and the cheers of people from across the street. When Argo finally chances a look at Fitzroy, he sees the half-elf standing, white-knuckled grip on his flask. There is a deep hurt set in the lines of his jaw as he stares at the genasi, the air beginning to crackle with electricity.
“Well, look where that fucking care got us,” Is all Fitzroy says, throwing his flask down on the ground before charging inside. Argo stares at the flask in the dirt, wincing when he hears the door slam, and waits for his breathing to return to normal.
Cautiously, he reaches down and picks up the flask. He inspects it for a moment before unscrewing the cap. He takes a long, long drink--nearly finishing the whole thing off, but he leaves just a little bit in the bottom.
He savors the sensation of cool metal against his lips, willing his mind to picture the man whose lips touched it prior. The alcohol burns, but it barely holds a candle to his searing guilt. When the deed is done, he screws the lid back on and stands in the cool air.
Argo savors the moment--his last, honest moment with Fitzroy--before making his way back inside.