Chapter Text
There was an art to building a fire, Zolf had always thought. It took patience and constant attention, feeding it properly to get it hot enough to sustain itself even if you had the benefit of magic to help with the initial spark. Zolf had always found it to be a meditative task, a helpful distraction that let him sort through his thoughts as he worked, to be rewarded after with warmth and a good meal.
Today the task was more of a struggle than usual. He tensed at the clatter of sticks as a pile of wood was dropped at his side, acknowledging it with barely a grunt. Frankly, Zolf wasn't entirely sure why he was here; or rather, why he was here with him . He glanced over the beginnings of his campfire to look at his former handler. Oscar Wilde may have toned down the ridiculous clothes and the perfect hair since the last time they'd met, but the man was apparently still as much of an arse as he’d been all those months ago in Hamid’s flat.
He’d appeared suddenly that morning on the cliffs where Zolf was recording the weather, wearing a serious expression and intent on recruiting him. Ever since, he'd been as frustrating as ever and had refused to answer any of Zolf's questions until they were in a 'safe location'. Apparently Zolf's completely isolated camp in the middle of bloody nowhere hadn’t counted and the resulting dispute left them involved in an angry, silent stalemate.
He huffed and placed a final stick onto his carefully constructed stack of kindling. Wilde had been helpful enough at gathering wood for the fire, but now he'd retreated to a stump to pore over papers and scribble in that damned notebook of his.
Zolf muttered the few words needed to cast Spark, and allowed himself a brief fantasy of burning this notebook much as he had done to one months before. There was a moment before the absence of the familiar tingle of magic registered and he cursed to himself. He’d become too reliant on it. He rummaged around in his pack to withdraw the little used tinderbox and soon the flames curled around the edges of the wood and he sat brooding as he fed it carefully. Wilde didn't even glance up at the sound of popping kindling.
There was something different about him. Severely short hair aside, the air of showmanship he’d previously worn like a second skin was missing, replaced with a strange intensity. What was left behind was a too-thin man with premature frown lines and deep bruises beneath his eyes that were poorly covered with makeup. Something settled heavy in his belly, as he recalled the memory of a man standing alone and haggard in the rain at Parisian aeroport. They’d left him behind without even a second thought. This isn’t the same dandy he'd first met, the man who was fond of poking fun at others, taking amusement in everything and unable to resist a quip even in dire straits. This strange new Wilde hadn't even cracked a smile. He seemed weary.
Still. That didn’t excuse him being bloody cryptic. He scowled over him. “Are you just gonna sit there in silence all night with your stupid notebook or are you going to start giving me answers?”
Wilde sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I told you it's not safe.”
Zolf spread his arms to gesture at the small dell and the dense swathes of forest beyond. “Who's going to hear us, Wilde, we're in the middle of bloody nowhere!”
“I was able to find you. You think others couldn’t?” The raised eyebrow was familiar and Zolf hated it on sight.
“That's because you're a particularly irritatin’ git!” Wilde shrugged in response, gaze already back on the pages. Zolf gritted his teeth. “Fine. If you're not gonna tell me about them , answer me one question. Why me, Wilde?”
He didn’t even look up as he responded in the same dull tone. “The Meritocracy has been infiltrated. I can’t trust my old contacts and-”
“No, why me .” Zolf interrupted. “You obviously went to Curie to find me. You could have asked for anyone's help. Let’s face it, most of the time we worked together I was threatening to kill you. Did you finally get a death wish?”
This seemed to get his attention and Wilde looked up, giving Zolf a long, considering look. Zolf shifted uncomfortably at the sudden scrutiny. When Wilde eventually spoke, he was quiet but he kept eye contact. “Because, Zolf, you felt guilty after Paris. I believe you're the kind of man who does the right thing even when it's hard.” He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek briefly. “You’re not idealistic like Hamid. You'll get the job done with an eye to the bigger picture because you understand that sometimes shades of grey are the best we’ll get and we have to make do with what we’ve got. Most importantly though? At the end of it you'll still feel guilt for the people who got hurt in the process. I need someone like that. Because that isn’t me.”
The silence stretched long. Perhaps for the first time, Zolf had believed he had seen Wilde to be utterly without artifice. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting; this steady gaze and sincere analysis of himself.
“I-” Zolf cleared his throat. “I ain't got the same skills as before. Poseidon and I- we parted ways.”
“I know.” Wilde nodded at the tinderbox by the fire. “I'm not here for your magic, Zolf, it's your character I need.” He sighed again. “I'll level with you. There’s no one else. But even if your former comrades were- available, I’d have still wanted you on board. Gods know I'm not the easiest man to work with. I’ve spent too long at this to think much about who gets caught in the crossfire but I have a feeling you'll manage to hold me to account.” He caught him again with the same unwavering gaze. “I’m rather counting on it.”
“Oh. Uh. Right.” Zolf stared back, at a loss. Given their history, he’d assumed Wilde had been glad to see the back of him after Paris. Wilde watched him for a moment but when he remained silent, nodded to himself and returned to his notebooks. Zolf found himself gazing into the flickering flames as he tried to sort through his thoughts. He didn’t really want to admit to himself that he’d been swayed by what Wilde had said. He was a consummate liar for gods sake.
A log snapped suddenly on the fire, sending a shower of glowing sparks dancing into the sky and breaking him from his reverie as he tracked the glowing flecks drifting high and burning out. For a moment, he was reminded of the fire at Edison’s mansion, of Hamid and of Sasha. All Wilde had said was that they were ‘unavailable’ and had refused to elaborate further. Looked like he'd be stuck with this infuriating man at least until he knew what that meant.
He startled again by a sudden loud gurgle from across the fire, gaze shooting up to see Wilde’s embarrassed expression.
“Excuse me, my apologies.” He hunched slightly further over his notebook.
Zolf frowned, eyeing his thin frame again with suspicion. “When did you last eat?”
Wilde looked up, and then glanced away with a loose shrug. “Oh, um, breakfast, probably?”
Zolf stared at him. The sun had begun to set as they’d reached the camp, and Wilde would have had a hell of a hike to even make it to where Zolf had been. "Wilde, that was at least twelve hours ago."
There was another shrug in response. "There are more important things at stake, Zolf."
His eyes narrowed. Infuriating. "If you want to save the bloody world, Wilde, you won't manage it if you starve to death first. No wonder you look like shit." He turned and rooted around his pack, pulling out supplies and throwing some dry rations at the man. "Here. Eat this til I can cook something."
"Zolf, there's really no need-"
"You wanted me to hold you to account so you’ll eat it and shut up and read your books." Zolf snapped, as he dug out his mess kit, all the while not looking at the man.
There was an obliging silence and the rustle of an opened packet in response.
Zolf sighed in irritation. It was going to be a long night. He glanced over again, seeing him absorbed once more in his book even as he absentmindedly devoured the snack. Still, it made a nice change to have someone else around the fire. Even if it was Oscar Bloody Wilde.