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Why anyone would ever want to be the Spymaster of SI:7 is beyond Flynn Fairwind. It seems, to him, a rather thankless job. Shaw appears to work all sorts of ridiculous hours, he has to deal with all sorts of characters, not to mention how dangerous the whole operation is, and the paperwork…
Flynn finds himself currently in Shaw’s little office in SI:7 Headquarters, seated across from the Spymaster himself. Flynn sighs loudly to himself as he watches him pluck yet another sheet of paper from the stack. At this rate he has to wonder if they will indeed ever escape these four walls and head out into the fresh air again.
“There’s a window right there,” Shaw replies, not once looking up from the paper in front of him. It proves that yes, in fact he had said that out loud. “You are welcome to open it if you so feel inclined.”
Flynn lets out a groan.
“Not what I meant, but cheers,” Flynn says, rising to do exactly that.
Fingers curling around the window sill, he manages to push it up a decent half-inch before the pane snags in the frame. He fights with the damned thing for another minute before he realizes that there are nails to ensure it may travel no further.
He turns a narrowed eye on the other man.
“You lot have got to lighten up around here,” he bemoans, stalking back to the chair he had claimed for himself and sinking back down into it. He moves to kick his feet up on the edge of the desk, which earns him a side-glance, but otherwise no response.
Flynn sighs heavily.
“Listen, mate,” he says, “exactly how much more of that stuff do you have to go through anyway?”
Shaw doesn’t answer right away, finishing the sentence he is writing with a scratch of a pen before he replies. “I try not to keep a count.”
Flynn kicks his feet back and forth on the edge of the desk, tipping his chair back on two legs somewhat precariously as he does.
“Right, so… Ten minutes? Twenty…?”
Shaw raises a slightly inky hand to rub at his eyes.
“This really would go much faster if you would stop asking,” he remarks, and not for the first time.
Flynn lets out an exaggerated sigh, letting his feet drop down to the ground with a thump. He’s been sitting here waiting on Shaw to finish for so long, he can’t even lounge properly anymore. One would think that the other man would get the hint, but his work ethic is really something to behold.
“You really are welcome to meet me there,” Shaw offers, hopefully.
“Yeah, well,” Flynn hedges, tracing a line on the wood of the desk. “I can wait.”
Whether Flynn can, in fact, wait or not is obviously debatable, judging by his fidgeting. The fact of the matter is that they are supposed to have dinner together this evening. Not that it’s evening yet, of course. Flynn had thought he might be able to catch him up at work and head over there the pair of them together. Truth be told, he’s had enough of kicking around the city on his own for the day and he is bored. Shaw, usually one for some good entertainment one way or the other, is being a real stickler about this paperwork business.
(Flynn may have pulled this trick a few times too many already this week alone.)
Pushing himself up from his chair, he rises to cross and stand behind the other man’s chair.
“What are you doing?” Shaw asks, warily, as Flynn leans over his shoulder.
“Your handwriting is appalling, did you know that?” Flynn says.
Shaw sighs again.
“These are classified documents, Fairwind,” Shaw says, moving a hand to cover his paperwork and swearing to himself as he notices the ink beginning to smudge beneath his touch.
Flynn, sensing a challenge, ducks in closer. Shaw can hardly guard everything on his desk at once Flynn reasons, so he reaches forward and gropes for the closest piece of paper to hand.
“Fairwind,” Shaw warns, twisting in his seat to snatch at Flynn’s wrist. In the midst of the scrabble, Shaw's elbow knocks the inkpot he’s been working with. His eyes widening with horror, he lunges forward with a grunt and just barely manages to catch the thing before he loses countless hours of work and sheaths of irreplaceable documents.
Flynn, meanwhile ever the opportunist, takes this opportunity to scan quick eyes over the document he’s managed to snatch up in this moment of confusion.
“What language is this even written in?” he asks, squinting and turning the thing from side to side.
“Goblin,” Shaw replies with a growl, snatching the paper back and stuffing it back into the pile. “Touch another missive and I’ll have your hand, Fairwind, I mean it.”
“Alright, alright,” he says, holding his hands up in front of himself to indicate his understanding. “Touchy.”
Shaw narrows his eyes at the other man, his hands spread out across the paperwork on his desk, and turns sideways in his chair. It is a rather pointed gesture.
“Okay!” he says. He moves out from behind the desk, pacing around the room, though he obviously can’t help himself. “Do you read Goblin then?”
Shaw lets out a heavy sigh before turning back to his paperwork.
“I do,” he replies.
Flynn leans forward, studying the bookshelf in front of him, waiting for Shaw to elaborate further. Glancing over his shoulder at the other man, he finds him hunched over the desk once more. Rolling his eyes at him, he pokes through the books on the shelves. Most of them are what one might expect -- geography of various areas of Azeroth, histories of its various peoples, and yes, a few languages.
His foot hits a package on the floor and he stoops to pick it up. Probably another book he has yet to put away.
“You really should get someone to clean up in here sometimes, mate,” he says, unwrapping the paper. “It's a wonder you find anything at all.” He turns to glance over his shoulder. “You know…”
“I’m not letting you tidy my desk, Fairwind,” Shaw replies, not even raising his head from his work.
Flynn clicks his tongue at the other man, and turns back to the book in his hands. Stopping dead in his tracks as through the unwrapped paper he reads, Stormy Seas, by Lawrence E Craft.
Flynn may not be a voracious reader but he’s not blind. He’s seen any number of copies of this thing littered around the streets of Boralus. He’d never imagined that he would catch one in the collection of Mathias Shaw, however. And certainly not one that has been signed, he realizes with a thrill, cracking open the front cover.
A man of many secrets, indeed.
Letting the paper fall to his feet, he takes the book back to his chair, settling down once more. His eyes gleam mischievously as he skims the words in front of him on the page, before he clears his throat with a flourish and begins to read aloud:
“Marcus stood shakily, composing himself with a roguish grin before speaking, ‘I knew that. It’s the brig… On a ship. I’m on a ship, of course.’
The woman leaned in closer, gripping the bars with surprising intensity. ‘Yes. On a ship. At full-mast, apparently,’ she added, with a flirtatious glance down then back up at his face.”
Flynn lets out a ringing laugh and Shaw raises his head to stare at the other man, sitting stock-still in the chair before him.
Flynn clears his throat and through his tears of laughter, continues:
“Marcus grinned in response, bowing close enough to whisper through the bars, ‘Half-mast, although the winds seem to be--’”
His words are cut off by with a flurry of motion Shaw launches himself from the other side of the desk towards him. Flynn lets out what can only be described as a shriek, in both laughter and surprise.
The pair of them tussle over the book for a moment before Shaw gains the upper hand. Gaining the element of surprise he claps a hand over the other man’s mouth and presses the book firmly against his chest with the other one.
“Keep your voice down!!” Shaw hisses. Flynn turns wide eyes towards him before his shoulders begin to shake in silent, helpless mirth.
From the room next door comes the sound of a scraping chair, then all is quiet once more.
Shaw waits for the laughter to subside before he feels comfortable enough releasing his hand from the other man’s face, though he still has Flynn pressed in a somewhat awkward hold against him when he speaks up to say, “Well, Spymaster Shaw! I never knew!”
Shaw groans, tipping his head forward against Flynn’s shoulder with a groan.
“For the love of -- give me that --” he hisses, and finally releases the other man to attempt to wrestle it free from his grip once more.
Shaw may have a great many strengths on Flynn, but height is not one of them. Flynn uses this now to his fullest advantage by holding it up above his head, spreading the pages and squinting at them so he might continue to read.
“‘Do you have any Kul Tiran fare?’” he picks out, as Shaw jumps for the book. “‘I hear it is famous for its...succulence. A rare pleasure for the--’ Ah!”
Shaw, having had enough of the other man’s teasing, lashes out a quick hand and digs his fingers into the pressure point just on the side of his neck and shoulder, pinching the nerve there and causing Flynn to drop the book in surprise. He quickly ducks to scoop it up before the other man barely even knows what hit him.
“Hey!” Flynn exclaims, raising a hand to the side of his neck to rub at the skin there. It still tingles slightly from the sensation, despite how fast it had been there and gone again. “Not fair, using your dirty spy tricks on me!”
Shaw gives the other man a withering look. After all, Flynn is a thief, and a pirate in a former life. He is hardly above dirty tricks himself.
“I am sure you will survive,” he replies dryly. Quickly stepping out of the other man’s reach, he moves to pull a drawer open in his desk, and locks the damned thing in.
The pair of them stare at each other for a long moment, Flynn massaging his shoulder, Shaw sitting tense behind his desk. The moment is broken as Flynn breaks out again into another peal of deep, booming laughter.
Shaw, his face as red as his hair and moustache, lays his head down in his arms with a groan.
“Oh, love, your face,” Flynn says, when he feels as though he can breathe enough to speak again once more. “I would have never known you were a fan.”
“It isn’t mine,” Shaw hisses in reply, raising his head and dragging his hands down his face.
“Well, I hate to tell you, mate, but it is in your office,” Flynn offers in return.
“No -- damn it,” Shaw grinds out, before raising his head to give the other man a withering look. “It was a gift.”
“A gift!” Flynn crows, dropping into the seat opposite Shaw once more and leaning forward to put his chin in his hands, brimming with curiosity. He waggles his eyes at the other man lewdly. “Does the steely spy man have a secret admirer?” He pulls an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Should I be jealous?”
“Fairwind,” Shaw attempts to butt in, but Flynn is clearly gaining momentum.
“No, no,” Flynn says, holding up a hand. “This was a book of Kul Tiran smut. Hang on a minute.” Now he really is starting to get confused. “Was it meant for me? Shaw, I am flattered, but--”
“By the Light, Fairwind!” Shaw cries out, “I certainly didn’t purchase the thing!”
He raises a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose and does his best to explain, “The package was sent to me by one of the King’s advisors. I’ve no doubt they did it to --” He waves a hand in front of himself. “Amuse themselves.”
Flynn has to wrinkle his nose at that thought. “Amuse themselves?” he asks. “That stuffy lot wouldn’t be caught dead with a gem like this. I mean, no offense, love. But it hardly seems the sort of --”
“Wrathion,” Shaw says, biting out the name like a curse. “The Black Dragon. He calls himself the Black Prince. It was a gift from him…” he raises his eyes to meet the other man’s, holding his gaze in a moment of obvious struggle with himself before continuing, “addressed to the pair of us.”
Flynn is momentarily lost for words. It is an occurrence that does not happen all that regularly, truth be told. He opens his mouth for a moment, shutting it, gives it another moment’s thought, and then proclaims, “You’ve got it all wrong, mate.”
“I beg your pardon?” Shaw replies, raising one skeptical red eyebrow.
“That book,” Flynn says, gesturing at the desk drawer where Shaw had locked it away. “If this dragon man really did send it to the pair of us. I don’t think he did it to take the piss. Well,” he amends, “not exactly.”
“Not exactly,” Shaw repeats, dryly.
“Well, for starters, the thing is a damned work of art,” Flynn says, with the slow creep of a grin across his face. “No -- I mean really. For the bit of fluff that it is, it's right clever. And it’s not only about a sailor, but a Kul Tiran sailor at that, which I find particularly hilarious. If you ever let it out of that drawer of yours, I really would enjoy reading it through.”
“Not a chance,” Shaw says, knowing exactly how this exchange will go, having just lived through a sampling of it.
“And for another thing, he addressed it to the pair of us, not only yourself,” Flynn continues. “Which suggests that he does understand who I am and how much of a hoot I would find it. Really quite impressive considering I’ve never met the man, although I suppose that my reputation does precede me,” he adds, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket with a flourish.
Shaw eyes the other man from across his desk, contemplating the suggestion he has offered, before replying, “You’re giving him too much credit.”
Flynn waves off Shaw’s words with a flap of his hand. “You would be suspicious of a fly if it looked at you the wrong way,” he proclaims.
Shaw gives the other man a meaningful look, but does not comment further on the matter.
“Anyway, what if it was meant for me?” Flynn asks, which earns him another raised eyebrow. “Well, he can’t just send it to me, can he? Not like I have an address in this town. And it would be rude to address it to only me and then send it to you. Could get lost in the post!”
“I somehow doubt that he posted it,” Shaw interjects, which earns him a narrow-eyed look from Flynn in return.
“I don’t think the idea of it is so far-fetched,” Flynn huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
The pair of them sit across the desk from one another, green eyes meeting seafoam blue, before Shaw lets out a long, low sigh.
“It came with a note,” he says at last, and without comment reaches within another drawer of his desk to produce it.
Flynn leans forward across the desk to take the note from Shaw’s hand and squint at the scrawl. There isn’t much to it, nor is there much room for interpretation at that.
For inspiration. --W
“I do like him,” Flynn decides aloud, turning the note over to be certain there isn’t anything more written on the back, before glancing up at Shaw in return. The man is so red in the face, he might actually suggest getting him a cool cloth if it doesn’t let up soon.
“I suppose you might,” Shaw replies. “I worry for the Kingdom on your behalf.”
“Oh, hush,” Flynn retorts, passing him back the note, though he has half a mind to keep it for posterity. “Who’s to say he doesn’t mean exactly that? I mean, I haven’t gotten through more than a page or two of the thing, thanks very much, but it does seem as though we could pick up a few ideas. Given a quick skim.” He waggles his eyebrows at the other man, suggestively.
“By the Light,” Shaw says, hiding his face in his hands once more. “I will eat my shoes if this isn’t exactly what he wanted from this.”
“What?” Flynn asks, “Me finding you with this book at some inopportune moment and then embarrassing you mercilessly with it?”
“Yes,” Shaw grinds out.
“Oh, love,” Flynn says, sitting forward with a smile and reaching to put a hand on the other man’s arm, patting it gently. “Did you forget the part where we might use it for inspiration? Assuming you will ever let it out of lock and key again.”
Shaw slowly begins to relax underneath the other man’s touch, enough to raise his head and look across at him once more.
“I’m certain you have enough imagination on your own as it is,” he replies, his cheeks still slightly too pink to be cool with that delivery.
Flynn lets out another laugh and pats Shaw on the arm again once more.
“Be that as it may,” he counters, “how else are we going to give this dragon man a fitting thank you?”
Shaw raises an eyebrow at him.
“Well,” Flynn explains, deliberately drawing the word out. “It’s just that if we are to send him a message in reply, we’ll want to give him an accurate response, yeah? How will we know if the inspiration has worked or not if we haven’t tried it out?”
“You are incorrigible,” Shaw responds, though he isn’t exactly protesting the idea. Flynn, spotting his opening, pushes himself to rise from his spot across the desk and moves to cross behind the desk with Shaw.
“No, no,” Flynn replies, gently turning Shaw’s chair to face him and moving to kneel between the other man’s legs, “I think I’m starting to feel a stiff breeze coming off the portside…”
Shaw reaches forward to tangle his fingers in Flynn’s hair, catching as he hits the leather that keeps it tied back.
“You and I both know the window is nailed shut,” he says, softly.
“There must be a storm coming on,” Flynn continues on, ignoring him and reaching for Shaw’s belt.
“Flynn,” Shaw bites back, obviously torn on whether it is indeed a good idea to allow the other man to follow through on this or not.
“The door…” he protests at last, and Flynn waves him off with a hand.
“Don’t worry,” Flynn says, peeling open the fastenings of Shaw’s leather pants, “I’ve handled it.”
Which is to say that he most definitely did not handle it, he hadn’t even considered a reason to lock the door up until this moment, but he’s also not about to give Shaw an opening to second guess this either. Could someone walk in on them in a rather precarious situation here? Absolutely. They’ll just have to cross that bridge when they get there.
“Flynn,” Shaw says again, with decidedly less objection in his voice, and Flynn flicks a wicked smile up at him as he does.
“Don’t worry, mate,” he says. “I’ve been a sailor for a long time. You can trust me with the uprights, I’ll see you through the storm.”
Waggling his eyebrows at him, Flynn reaches forward for him and Shaw is swept away…
____________________________________________________________________________
Flynn stands at the bottom of the stairs leading up towards the Keep, taking a deep breath before mounting them in a rush. He offers the guards at the top of the steps a jolly salute as he breezes by, the pair of them turning to give him a somewhat wary side-eye but obviously not seeing anything too alarming in the large Kul Tiran man.
Glancing around the front hallway, Flynn will admit that his plan of attack is somewhat flimsy at best. For one, he only has the flimsiest idea of the layout of this place, and most of what he does know is really only common sense. The Keep is where the King holds his business. Logically, this means meeting with his advisors. This Black Prince bloke is one of the King’s advisors, ergo…
With a bit of traipsing around on the ground level of the place, Flynn manages to find: a library, several offices, several locked doors, a map room, and more than a few irritated Stormwind guards.
Apparently they aren’t too keen on the idea of allowing a strange man to go sneaking around the Keep, poking into official state business. Who knew?
“Listen, mate,” Flynn says, struggling against the tight grip of one of the guards as they escort him from the building. “You’ve got this all wrong! Well -- not all wrong. I was looking for the offices of the advisors to the King. You wouldn’t happen to know where they’re at, would you? No?”
The nearest guard grunts menacingly at him, thrusting his spear pointedly in Flynn’s direction. More than a few heads have turned from their business towards the squabble in the hallway, and it would seem that Flynn is beginning to draw himself a small crowd.
“Right, not talking, okay,” Flynn says, stumbling a little as the other man shoves him forward. “Well, I was just looking for a bloke named Wrathion? The Black Prince? Black Dragon man? Ringing any bells? Any bells at all? Tides--”
“Gentlemen!” A clear voice rings out, snapping all attention from the struggle in the hallway to a bright, armored figure amongst those gathered.
“Your Majesty,” one of the guards murmurs, clearly feeling caught off guard. “This man…”
“Is a guest within the Keep,” Anduin replies, raising a hand to the man to prevent further protest. “You may release him. I believe I can escort Captain Fairwind from here.”
Reluctantly, the men release him and Flynn quickly steps away toward Anduin, rubbing at his wrists and watching as the younger man quickly dismisses the pack of guards and onlookers.
“Thanks, mate,” he says, “you’re a lifesaver. I mean, ehm.” He straightens, quickly adjusting his stance as he realizes just who exactly it is he is talking to. “Your Highness, sir.”
He offers Anduin an overly elaborate bow, which Anduin waves away with a polite smile.
“Captain,” he says gently, “you are here as a friend. I believe we can forgo the formalities.”
He takes a moment to gesture Flynn aside, allowing them more privacy for their conversation than the open hallway. “I could not help but overhear… Are you looking for Wrathion?” Anduin raises an eyebrow at the other man, a slightly puzzled expression on his face as he tries to work out why. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh!” Flynn exclaims, holding his hands up in front of himself to wave off any concern of Anduin’s. “Fine, fine. Everything is fine. He isn’t here though, is he?”
Anduin shakes his head at the other man, bemused.
“I am afraid not,” he replies.
“Ah, well,” Flynn says, running his hand through his hair, before an idea strikes. “But you’ll see him again soon, yeah? Him being -- an advisor and all? The pair of you will meet up, for him to--” He waves a hand vaguely around the air in front of Anduin, before settling on, “Advise. Right?”
Anduin raises an eyebrow at the question, but he nods. “I suppose so,” he allows, and jumps slightly as Flynn cries out in triumph.
“Brilliant!” he says, a wicked grin spreading its way across his face. “Might you be able to do me a favor then, mate?” Before Anduin even offers a reply, Flynn is moving to dig around inside the inner pockets of his jacket.
Anduin hesitates slightly, though Flynn doesn’t allow him a chance to respond before he continues.
“I don’t suppose you might be able to give him this?” He produces a small package, wrapped in brown paper and stuffs it in Anduin’s hands.
“Tell him it’s… A thank you present,” he says, with a slow, deliberate smile.
Anduin glances down at the package, tentatively weighing it in his hands as he asks, “A thank you for Wrathion?”
“Oh, yeah,” Flynn says, pulling his coat back into place. “He sent us a gift. A book, actually. Well, technically he sent it to Shaw, but from what I understand it was addressed to the pair of us both.”
“Addressed to you both,” Anduin repeats, glancing down at the package in his hands once more. A sudden frown passes across his face.
“Right! Confused me too, let me tell you, but I’ll have to say…” Flynn trails off, offering the younger man a wink. “I did feel inspired.”
Anduin’s expression goes blank for a fraction of a moment before a light pink blush begins to spread its way across his features.
Flynn reaches out and claps the other man on the back with a burst of a laugh.
“Thanks, mate,” he says, giving Anduin’s shoulder a squeeze. “I owe you one!”
“Not at all,” Anduin offers, his reply slightly strained.
“Oh, Your Majesty,” Flynn calls out, turning back towards the other man as he starts towards the front entrance. “Just one more thing. A word to the wise?”
He offers Anduin a wide, wicked smile.
“I’d be careful where I leave that thing lying around,” he says. “Who knows what might happen if anyone were to just start flipping through it?”
He tosses the younger man another wink and turns to stroll, whistling down the hall.