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By the looks of the sun, it's coming on six in the afternoon, and still, Flynn hadn't seen the Spymaster leave Old Town for a second.
Sure sure, the man's busy and all, spymastering and the like, sure sure the Horde does this and spies do that, but it's peace time dammit, and Flynn found himself lacking a partner to bother and maybe cuddle.
Such a ghastly, drastic state, to have no hand to hold, sends the captain sauntering through Stormwind, cursing the annoying swivels of streets and alleys, backing out of the Dwarven District and to Old Town after confusing the two together. He had the needed clearance to get to the SI:7 base thanks to his very important partner, and he tips his bottle of wine he'd carried to the agents standing post as a cheers when he passes. Shaw has to be around here somewhere, he wagers, so long as Wrynn didn't need him, and he spends his time meandering about until he finds him.
Flynn supposes he should have expected this, but truly, he thought to find Mathias in his office buried in paperwork. Instead, the man was in the training grounds, daggers in hand, repeating the same fluid movements of attack, practicing each refined strike as if he'd done them a thousand times. A man of his caliber had the movements down, poised, deadly, efficient, and though Mathias was shorter and slimmer than he, he had muscle in all the right places, pulled taught like a wire with the bulk mostly in those shoulders and arms. Flynn approaches slowly, leaning against a large dummy as Mathias makes three perfect strikes in the air, no loose movements or room for failure. He envisions where each of those would have landed on a person: wrist, liver, jugular.
Flynn lets out a low whistle, prompting the Spymaster to finally acknowledge his presence, if briefly.
"Evening, Fairwind," Mathias says casually, hardly winded as he resumes his movements.
"You told me you were busy today." Flynn accuses lightly, eyebrows raising just slightly as he continues to watch.
"I am."
"Playing with knives there, mate. How long have you been at it?"
Shaw flips his blade and swings it upwards. That could have been anyone's throat. "Couple hours now."
"Here I was worried you'd received more terrible news from your spies, trapped hopelessly in piles of reports," Flynn says dramatically, pressing his free hand to his chest. "Or worse, that that Lor'themar fellow had written the most embarrassing poem yet — actually, by the way, is he publishing yet?"
"That's not the kind of intelligence I'm collecting, and I haven’t heard from Lancer on that yet anyhow." Mathias says plainly, sheathing his weapons to stretch. "But fortunately, reports have been easier to handle these days. Very little happening around the world for the time being."
Flynn feigns offense. "So much free time, and you didn't save any for me?"
"Like I told you before, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays, I'm all yours," His eyes close slightly as he stretches his triceps. "Rest of the days are for work."
Flynn could make a bad joke here, but he opts to refrain. "Slashing the air like a madman doesn't seem like the kinda work that puts food on the table."
"Contrary," He finishes, moving to one of the weapon crates nearby to retrieve throwing blades. "I keep my skills sharp, keep myself ready and honed. While it may seem to you like I'm wasting time, all of this adds up. Armistice or not, I can't allow myself to fall out of shape. I will be needed again soon."
He hurls a dagger across the range and towards a target, the blade striking the red bullseye with a satisfying sound, and suddenly, Flynn wanted nothing more than to watch him do this for hours, observe his perfect form and practiced throws -- it was like poetry in motion.
But his stomach growling reminds him of the reason he'd come here to prod at the spy. He gently sets down the wine bottle to the grass and pushes himself off the dummy, sauntering lazily around the Spymaster to observe the weapon crates around. Though Mathias doesn't acknowledge Flynn getting closer or rummaging through the training equipment, Flynn knows well enough that the other man was certainly paying attention. Perhaps it was just that, that level of attention to every detail in surrounding that made it all the more amusing to poke and bother the spy — nothing leaves Shaw's sight, nothing goes unnoticed, every shenanigan is carefully logged in the Spymaster's head at all times.
"I'll tell you what, mate," Flynn begins, retrieving a set of practice wooden daggers and swords from a crate. "How about we make a deal, mm? How about we duel, spar a bit — if I win, I get to take you out to dinner and you leave this practice range. If you win, I leave you alone for the rest of the day."
Shaw had thrown another knife and it hurtles towards the target, landing just slightly off center as opposed to the other perfectly lined up shots. He turns now, fully acknowledging Flynn and looking to him with what seems to be curiosity, bewilderment perhaps, and something that Flynn couldn't quite put a finger on.
"Duel me?" Mathias says, and Flynn swears there’s the faintest hint of a smirk there. "I'm afraid I'm sending you home early, then."
"Big words from someone who slashed air all day and not a real lug.” Flynn tosses the training daggers at Shaw, who catches them swiftly. “See, you’ve never fought me before.”
Mathias flips the wooden daggers in his hand, furrowing his brows. “Yet you chose the safer route,” He says, clacking the daggers in reference to its material. “Afraid I might nick something in our little skirmish?”
“Oh, I’d just rather not risk accidentally cutting your pretty face just before dinner.”
Mathias brings the dagger to Flynn’s chin, tilting it up. Oh, he’s definitely smirking. “No offense, but you wouldn’t land a scratch.”
“Ooh, I love it when you get all arrogant — shall I fetch a duel flag? Do you guys carry them here?”
The spy rolls his eyes, stepping away to allow suitable space, already readying himself for a fight. Duel accepted. “Don’t bother. How about just count us down, see which one of us can really put their money where their mouth is.”
Don’t make a bad joke . Flynn grins, shrugging his big coat off and tossing it elsewhere before readying himself, hoisting his training swords out. Shaw’s eyes trailed over the weapons, no doubt formulating a plan to counter them.
“In a real fight, your heavy coat would protect you from cuts and slashes, Fairwind,” Mathias comments, and Flynn realizes that those eyes are trailing beyond just his swords. “Already you’ve left yourself exposed.”
“Have I? Maybe I just didn’t want it in the way.” Flynn tilts his head, flashing a winning grin. “Or maybe I want a way to divert your attention. I know you can’t resist a peek.”
“It’s in my job — not a detail is to go missed.”
“Mm.” Flynn shifts his feet in the grass, one sword held out, the other further back. “Three…”
Emotion is wiped clean off the Spymaster’s face, intense green eyes fixated on the captain.
“Two…”
Two daggers versus two swords, the latter wielder having the additional height and weight over the former — the odds are in his favor.
“One…”
Flynn’s the first to charge, launching himself with a stronger force and speed than Mathias had expected. His first sword comes swinging overhead, narrowly blocked by the spy crossing his blades and catching the weapon before striking his head. His eyes flick down, watching as the second sword follows just shortly after, threatening to strike his side. Mathias brings a dagger down from the crossblade, forcing the sword away as he jumps back, putting suitable space between him and Flynn’s weapons.
But the Kul Tiran’s just getting started; Mathias quickly finds himself just narrowly blocking the thrusts of each sword threatening his abdomen. With every heavy swing from each direction, the spy parries and darts away, the idea of retaliating almost entirely out of the question.
Keep your distance, Shaw’s old training repeats in his head. He circles the other man, careful to stay light on his feet. Flynn takes that moment of respite, cracking his neck before hoisting his blades up in that ready position, his right sword extended out.
“Am I what you expected, Spymaster?” Flynn drawls, mirroring Shaw’s movements like a prowling lion. He makes a few false starts, halting his sword mid thrust to psyche the other man.
“Everything I imagined,” Mathias says easily, holding his crossed blades outwards in anticipation. “Are you going to be a tease or keep going?”
The grin is the only thing that warns him of the wide arc that swings towards Shaw and whistles through the air. The spy flips his daggers, shifting his hold on them to an icepick position and rolls into the grass, narrowly avoiding the large swing. As he planned, the second sword retaliates, but Mathias is ready for it, already on his feet and closer to the swordsman. He brings his forearm to crash with the one holding the swinging sword, breaking the structure of the captain’s stance by forcing that arm outwards. The dagger drags out against Flynn’s arm as he brings them down, effectively rendering the arm useless and forcing Flynn forward to an awkward position. Shaw’s other dagger comes up, and he brings the point of the dagger to the nape of Flynn’s neck, the Kul Tiran practically bent forward in the action.
“Point,” Mathias says proudly, letting go to allow the man up.
“How the hell …” Flynn straightens up, shaking himself off and pointing his sword at Shaw. “That’s one out of three. Again.”
The spy rolls his eyes, but not without a grin. They don’t count down this time, and instead, Mathias is taking the initiative, making quick steps like a dancer towards Flynn and giving him too little space to maneuver as the rapid strikes of the daggers threaten to claim another fast earned victory. The best Flynn could manage was parry and pray, the length of his swords making it harder to counter the sheer speed of the spy.
Flynn takes an unsteady step back, prompting the spy to unleash another flurry of strikes against his blades, his arms threatening to give out from the force of each impact. Flynn grits his teeth, bracing himself as he pushes forward, forcing his swords out and breaking Mathias’ guard. He swings his swords overhead and down, anticipating the crossblade tactic, swords caught in the X of daggers, but this time, he’s ready for it. With his second sword, he wrangles it free, forcing it between the daggers in his own cross, and with a heavy step, he forces both daggers out of Shaw’s hands, clattering elsewhere to the ground.
Flynn winks, intending to bring the tip of his sword to Mathias’ throat, only for it to be dodged and his forearms struck with rapid punches, the bastard evading his strikes. Even unarmed, Mathias wasn’t ready to go down, and as the captain pursued him, he’d managed to avoid fatal strikes.
However, evading swords means distance, and Flynn takes advantage of the retreats Mathias was forced to make, pursuing him until the spy was backed into a wall, crashing into it harshly. Flynn closes the gap between them, relishing just for a moment that look in the spy’s eyes as he brings the swords in a cross pressed against his neck, holding him there.
“You’re enjoying this,” Mathias says, and the fact that he’s winded doesn’t escape Flynn for a second. “Though, if this were a real fight, I’d have my concealed knife at your flexor tendons by now.”
“Oh, so you weren’t just happy to see me then?” Flynn leans forward enough to brush past the spy’s cheek and ear. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy seeing me win.”
“Out of three.” Mathias replies, but his voice is almost quiet, and Flynn isn’t forgetting it for a second. They break apart, allowing a moment to recuperate and for Mathias to retrieve his weapons again. Both of them felt the energy of their final little round, eagerly repositioning in anticipation.
“What are you hungry for, lobster?” Flynn says aloud, twirling his sword in hand. “Oh, on second thought, I heard this city serves a mean sirloin, we should grab a bite of that.”
“I already have a lunch set out in my office for later.”
“Oh, you say that as if you’re not interested in something nicely cooked. I’ll bet all you have back there is a lousy sandwich.”
“Jerky too.”
“Oh, jerky , I should have known! Trying to win for jerky —”
“Like I said, Flynn —” Mathias moves too fast for the captain to properly track, Flynn only barely whirling in time to stop a blow to the neck. “— I was working.”
“Hey, hey, I wasn’t ready!”
But Mathias continues the momentum, and he quickly has one of Flynn’s arms bent awkwardly, crossed daggers wrenching the sword out of his hand. He stumbles back, waving his other sword to keep the spy away from him.
“One of the first rules we learn -” Mathias says, almost openly grinning as he flips his daggers. “- is that we must be ready for anything.”
“Dirty!” Flynn tosses his sword to his dominant hand, carrying himself more like a swashbuckler. “I rather like this side of you, Mattie.”
The spy charges again, one blade aimed for Flynn’s face, the other parrying the retaliatory sword. Flynn managed to duck his face away in time, twisting his body until he was safely away from Shaw and able to strike.
He swings his sword to the right — parry. Diagonal cut — parry . Thrust — dodge . Overhead swing — parry —
His sword is caught in that damn crossblade, and Flynn can feel the pressure Shaw puts on him, daggers scissored between his sword and attempting to wrench this one out of his hand as well. Flynn wraps both hands around the weapon, stepping forward with the intent of overwhelming the Spymaster, forcing his daggers back.
“Keep this up babe and I’ll figure out all your moves,” Flynn says, managing to press his weapon enough that the blade teeters further towards Mathias’ face. “I did always want to see your dagger work up close.”
Mathias’ guard breaks, and Flynn leaps at that opportunity as he feels the pressure give way; he swings his sword down, but the spy has other plans, his hands quick as they reposition themselves at Flynn’s wrists. Shaw’s left hand forces Flynn’s outwards, the sword useless as the other dagger comes out to the man’s neck. Flynn thinks fast, dropping and rolling to evade the blows coming for him, but he finds himself unarmed as he hobbles up to his feet.
Ah.
Mathias is most certainly enjoying himself now with the tables turned on him. Flynn balls his hands to fists and catches Shaw’s wrists on his forearms, managing to block each strike that was powerful enough to leave bruises later. A dagger comes towards his gut, and he catches that wrist, looking up in time for the second swinging straight for his face. Flynn’s free hand reaches to catch Shaw’s other arm, feeling the Spymaster squirm under his grip. As trained and professional as the other man may be, the fact still lay that Flynn was physically bigger, and he had no problem exploiting this as he twists, twirling the both of them until Mathias was suddenly off his feet and flying to the grass.
Mathias lets out a harsh cough on impact, but leaves no room for Flynn to feel guilty. He rolls onto his side, propping himself on his elbows to deliver a startlingly powerful kick to Flynn’s hip, bringing the other man down to his level. He groans, just barely rolling out of the way when Mathias practically throws himself on the other man, the blade catching into the dirt where Flynn’s head last was.
Another dagger flies out, but Flynn catches the wrist again, forcing the weapon out of his hand as the other swings towards his liver. He barely manages to grab Shaw’s hand around that final dagger, Flynn’s back against the grass fully with the spy looming over and straddling him in the attempt to overpower Flynn’s grip. Their breaths are heavy, arms trembling as Mathias attempts to ‘stab’ the other man, and Flynn struggles to keep that tip of the dagger from making contact with his torso. Just before Flynn’s arms threaten to give out, he grunts loudly, bringing his knee up to force Mathias off of him, weakening the hold over him enough to pry the dagger out of his hands. In the same movement, Flynn swings himself over Mathias, the roles reversed now as he presses his body atop the spy’s and brings the edge of the dagger to Mathias’ neck fully, defeated.
“Point.” Flynn finally manages to say in between breaths, and Mathias drops his hands loosely in surrender against the grass, but doesn’t break his gaze. “You are a slippery bastard, you know that?”
“And I… may have misjudged you…” Mathias says quietly, his cheeks suddenly burning as he realizes their position in the grass, his pulse so loud in his ears that it’d be impossible to think about anything else but this. “... Did you mention sirloin?”
“Jerky’s no longer appetizing?”
“Never was.” He lets out a shaky breath when Flynn eases up, allowing them space to breathe. He was challenged, certainly, and to be reminded in such a manner the kind of strength Flynn had, well, Mathias found he was happy to have had this opportunity. “... Do this again tomorrow?”
“What? Kick your ass?”
Mathias leans in close to him, enough for their lips to just barely brush, savoring the hitched breath Flynn draws. “I might have a trick or two I’d like to try next time. You won’t be so lucky.”
“Well then, mark me down, I’ll do this any day.”