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Mabbon sat on his bed, and after a moment raised his hands from where they had automatically fallen into the muscle-memory posture of being shackled. He put them down at his sides, on the Guard-issue sheets. Then he put them on his knees. Then he folded them in his lap.
He had options now.
He could move freely around his billet — not only that, he could leave his billet. That he had one at all — rather than a cell — was still a novelty in its own right. He could visit different parts of the palace, within reason. He could go to the Grand Library — had in fact gone there yesterday — and marvel at the wealth of information there. He could read there: finish something he’d started reading yesterday; start something on his list; find something entirely new.
Too many options. It felt a lot like the absence of those manacles. Movement was easy, all resistance gone, and with it economy of thought. He was unmoored. He drifted, paralysed by decisions.
It was hardly as if he’d never had to make decisions. His life — as an Imperial officer, as an etogaur — had been founded on making them. Decisions had marked the transition from one to another, across faction lines and away again into…whatever he was now. But those had been important decisions. Important decisions were… Well, “easy” was the wrong word. But their weight steered him towards his answer.
These decisions were inconsequential; even the fact that he couldn’t make them was inconsequential. Defecting from Sek had, against all odds, prevented the unthinkable use of the eagle stone key. What now did it matter which book he read; if he read a book at all? The concept had no mass to sway his hand.
He stood, and headed to the infirmary.
“You could just pick one.”
After a few days of intravenous fluids and bed rest, Rawne was looking considerably better. The dark circles around his eyes had faded, his wounds had begun to heal faster, and his skin had returned from corpse-pale to simply Tanith-pale. His lips were flushed from where their habitual kiss of greeting had gone on a little longer than either of them had intended. Mabbon unstuck his eyes from them and frowned at him.
“It’s not that easy. Well, it is; that’s the problem,” he amended.
“Surely you have a preference.”
“They all have appeal.”
Rawne shrugged. The loose gown slipped a little on his shoulders; Mabbon righted it. “Close your eyes and point, then,” Rawne said. “You know—” He hummed a vestige of a tune, miming pointing at different objects with each note. Mabbon rolled his eyes. Rawne grinned. “No, really; here, can you at least narrow it down to two?”
Mabbon frowned, mentally filing through the pile of books while Rawne completed another few pieces of paperwork. That one, not that one, that one — no, the other… It took him a while, but— “Done, I think.”
Rawne put his paperwork back down. “Okay, number them.”
“Done.”
“Read number two,” Rawne said firmly.
Mabbon protested. “Oh, but number one is—”
“Then read number one.”
“I—” Actually that was…fine. “Okay. What—”
“You did have a preference, deep down.” Rawne looked smug.
Mabbon leaned back in his chair next to the bed, hand still loosely clasping Rawne’s. He was content with the decision, but that was almost as discomfiting as not being able to decide in the first place.
But before he could put words to it, the door opened, and an orderly poked his head in. “Bath time, Colonel.”
Rawne grunted, cheer vanishing in an instant. “Don’t you have anything better to do, Neavan?”
Neavan, completely uncowed, met his gaze bleakly. “Plenty, sir, but it would be unhelpful if you died of a preventable infection.”
“If Gereon didn’t kill me, I highly doubt that you prodding me in the tub will make a damned bit of difference,” Rawne snapped.
“Sir, I really do have other things to do afterwards, and I remember what you said last time; can we please just get it over wi—”
“I don’t see why I can’t just bathe my fething self—”
“You know exactly why, Colonel.”
Rawne was mutinously silent for a moment, scowling. Mabbon knew well that most considered Rawne to be at his most dangerous when he sounded his most reasonable, but that was when he at least had agency in the situation. His fury was bright and obvious right now, and Mabbon didn’t need enhanced senses to pick up the prickling shame beneath it.
Rawne ground his teeth together. “Can’t reach,” he spat eventually. Mabbon realised he was explaining for his benefit. “Not without hurting myself.”
“Well, I could do it,” Mabbon said. He looked at Rawne. “Would that be better or worse?”
“Better,” Rawne said immediately, not taking his eyes off Neavan.
Neavan glanced between them, looked Mabbon up and down. His discomfort was plain. Mabbon was shocked to feel a sinking in his stomach at the sight, but shoved the sensation down.
“I assure you, I have no ulterior motive,” he said, spreading empty hands palm-up. Not that he would have needed to carry a weapon if he had wanted to hurt Rawne; he was weapon enough himself.
Neavan looked at him dubiously for a long moment, then shook his head in resignation. “Fine.”
The journey to the bathing room down the hall was slow. Rawne refused Mabbon’s proffered arm and used the wall for support as he walked; it was heartening to see him upright, but the process was clearly painful, his breath hitching with every step. It was uncomfortably similar to Mabbon’s memories of their flight from Camp Xenos.
Rawne, pale and soaked, leaning against the rough rockcrete of the mill. His own hands, yanking Rawne’s jacket up to reveal a wound worse than he’d even imagined. Varl’s quiet horror. Rawne holding out his lasrifle to him, his own hands rejecting it.
Rawne and Varl down.
His own hands, picking up a lasrifle.
A touch on his forearm startled him out of the memory. Rawne looked up at him, alive and whole.
“Sorry,” Mabbon said. “I…went somewhere.”
“Yeah,” said Rawne, like he knew exactly where. His fingers tightened on his arm, and he tugged slightly. “The bath’s in here, though, so that’s probably where we should go. Unless you fancy the scenic route.”
Mabbon felt a smile ghost over his lips. “I’m sure Neavan would appreciate us taking a tour of the palace,” he said dryly, and pushed open the door.
“Yeah well he’s not here, thank feth, and I don’t see a queue. I can take my sweet time.”
“Yes, this looks like a lovely spot to linger.”
Rawne snorted. The small room was just as makeshift as the infirmary containing it, with a battered metal tub in pride of place. The water in the bottom was low enough that it wouldn’t submerge Rawne’s wound dressings when he sat in it, and there was a bucket of extra water to the side. Everything smelled of counterseptic.
“Let it never be said that I don’t take you to nice places.”
Mabbon laughed, then quieted suddenly as Rawne stepped between him and the bath, facing away. The infirmary gown had no back, and while Rawne was true Tanith, built short and lithe to navigate nalwood forests, he had plenty enough muscle to stop the edges meeting; it showed a stripe of pale skin all the way from his neck down to—
Mabbon wrenched his gaze back up to Rawne’s neck. He knew the gown ended at his calves.
“Um,” he said.
Rawne turned, a questioning tilt to his brows before he caught sight of Mabbon’s face. A broad smirk slid onto his face and he turned away again. “Can’t bathe in a gown,” he said pointedly.
Ah.
Right.
Mabbon took a step closer. This quiet and still, he could see the faint rise and fall of Rawne’s breathing quicken very slightly. He reached out to undo the top ties of the gown, allowing himself to focus for a moment on the difference in texture between the rough fabric and the smoothness of Rawne’s skin where his fingertips brushed it. He could see that the muscles across his shoulders didn’t seem to have suffered from a few days’ forced inaction, and the new nicks and scrapes were healing well, set to merely add to the collection of scattered scars. He let his touch trail downwards briefly along Rawne’s spine, watching low goosebumps rise in its wake, before shaking himself mentally and setting his hands firmly to the tie in the curve of his lower back.
“I—” Mabbon unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I didn’t expect to feel so surprised that your medic thought I might hurt you,” he said. “It’s embarrassing; I’ve become coddled by trust already.”
“Thought you might hurt me?”
“You saw the look he gave us — mostly me.”
Rawne made a wheezing noise. “He thought we were going to have sex in the bath, Mabbon.”
“Oh.” Mabbon mentally reviewed the conversation as he spread the gown open across Rawne’s shoulders. “Oh.”
Rawne wriggled gingerly out of the sleeves and let the gown pool on the floor. “I have to admit this isn’t how I imagined you first getting me naked.”
Mabbon stooped to pick up the gown, keeping his eyes firmly on it. “Yes,” he said faintly. “Sek should have been more considerate.” Rawne snorted. Mabbon put the gown in the laundry bin. As he returned he held out a hand; after a split-second’s hesitation Rawne took it, then also dragged Mabbon’s other arm around his naked torso, letting him take some of his weight as he stepped into the bath. Mabbon hoped Rawne couldn’t feel his heart pounding where their bodies pressed together. “You didn’t have to take me up on my offer,” he added.
Rawne grunted, slowly lowering himself down into the water. “Still better than Neavan.” He sighed, and leaned back as Mabbon relinquished his hold. “Don’t have any fething pride left anyway,” he lied.
Mabbon dunked a cloth in the bucket, wrung it out and handed it over; Rawne set to washing his face. “What would you like help with?” he asked.
“Back, arms, lower legs,” Rawne said through the cloth. He scrubbed at his eyes, then looked over. “Reaching’s a bastard, like I said. Forwards, backwards, up, down, you name it.” Mabbon soaked his own cloth wordlessly, hearing the resignation in his voice, then, on a whim, pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. Rawne said nothing more either, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
They worked quietly for a while, Mabbon rubbing his cloth methodically over Rawne’s neck and back while Rawne washed his chest and stomach, both of them avoiding the dressings and trying not to disturb the smaller cuts. There wasn’t much Rawne could do while Mabbon washed his arms, but they tackled his legs together, Rawne scrubbing at his thighs while Mabbon held his ankle up and washed his lower legs and feet. He inadvertently discovered that washing Rawne’s toes too gently resulted in him swearing and kicking weakly in the direction of Mabbon’s head, and repeated the action until Rawne’s laughter ended on a wince. He finished up with firm strokes, and returned to kneel by the bucket to rinse his cloth while Rawne worked his legs back into the bath.
“So, how did you imagine it?” Mabbon asked, just to be difficult. He was rewarded with the sound of a splash, but when he looked round, smirk in place, he was instead pinned in place by searing blue eyes. Something lit within him, touched to flames by that gaze even as words fled him. A hand reached for him and he moved quickly to close the distance before it could go too far; he followed the pressure of Rawne’s fingers digging into the back of his neck and fitted their lips together, opening his mouth easily to the press of Rawne’s tongue.
And he was consumed. He clung to the edge of the bath and gave over his senses to being filled by Rawne: his scent, his taste, the drag of their lips, the edge of his teeth, the writhing insistence of his tongue. He let out a sound into Rawne’s mouth, felt his swirling, indecisive thoughts melt away. Qimurah could withstand heat, could shrug off a blanket of flames, but he was kneeling in the heart of a star.
Then, just as quickly, Rawne pulled back; Mabbon swayed forward, chasing the contact, then caught himself. They were both panting.
“That’s how,” Rawne said, his normally lilting voice gravelly. He let his hand slip from Mabbon’s neck, and an apologetic, rueful smile twisted his mouth. “But…I don’t think getting worked up will do me any favours at the moment.”
“Mmm,” said Mabbon. He blinked, licked his kiss-branded lips. He came back to himself, clearer, even, than before: as if fog had been burned away by the sun. “No, that’s fine.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “Not enough blood for both heads?”
Rawne laughed, loud and appreciative, flopping back against the edge of the bath and relaxing again. Mabbon smiled, and resumed rinsing his cloth in the bucket while Rawne washed between his legs, still snickering. He didn’t look up until Rawne spoke.
“Help me up a bit.” Mabbon went to lift him and he indicated behind him with a nod of his head. “It’s awkward when I’m sitting.”
Mabbon realised what he meant as they got into position, and grimaced at the amount of manoeuvring Rawne would have to do, even supported. Logistically speaking, it would be much easier and quicker for him to do it for Rawne. “I can—”
“No,” said Rawne, trying to make his elbow and wrist do most of the contortion and avoid twisting his waist.
“I really don’t mi—”
“No.”
Rawne hadn’t asked him to avert his eyes, and neither the Imperial Guard or the forces of the Archonate were known for their personal privacy, but there was something infinitely worse, infinitely more vulnerable about being helpless, at the mercy of the very person assisting you. There wasn’t really any way Mabbon could turn away with their torsos mashed unceremoniously together, so he eyed the corner of the room while he waited. When Rawne was done he was breathing harder, his skin a little paler, but his mouth was set in a determined line and he allowed Mabbon to help him out of the bath and then wrap his arms around him, heedless of the dampness against his fatigues. Mabbon ran a palm gently over his ribs as Rawne breathed against his collarbone, his fingers tangled in the back of Mabbon’s undershirt.
“Thanks,” Rawne murmured. Mabbon pressed a kiss to the side of his head.
Rawne’s hand squeezed his.
“Still here?”
Mabbon looked up from where he had been dozing, head pillowed on his arms on the edge of the bed while Rawne slept. It was only about half an hour since they had returned to the room, but Rawne looked much restored by the extra sleep, colour back in his face and eyes unclouded by pain.
“Of course.”
A gentle touch on his jaw and he rose, leaning in. The kiss was chaste, gentle, warm breaths on each others’ lips. Rawne’s hand fit snugly in his.
Mabbon sat back in his chair and frowned. “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t choose a damn book. It didn’t even matter.”
Rawne shrugged again. “Just because it didn’t matter doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”
Mabbon shot him a flat look. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“Sure it does. You’ve not done what you want for…how long now?”
“Some might say I’ve only done what I want.”
Rawne’s gaze was uncomfortably shrewd. “Not really,” he said. “All that wasn’t about you, it was about what you thought was best for the galaxy.”
Mabbon opened his mouth on a sharp retort, then shut it again. From Imperium to Archonate because he’d seen through Imperial lies and hoped others would too. From Gaur to Sek because only one had had the strategic skill to deliver the truth to all. From Sek to…whatever he was…because he’d seen through those lies as well, and knew what the eagle stone key would do.
He’d not really lived his own life since…he wasn’t sure. Certainly before his first defection.
He sighed. “I hate it when you’re right.”
Rawne grinned.
Mabbon went on. “I thought I understood,” he murmured. “Going to Gaur, then to Sek.” Damn it, the hubris. Like a pilot without a radar.
“Not this time?”
“This time…I know I don’t understand everything. Just…more than before.” He swallowed. “But every piece of the puzzle gets me closer to the truth, so long as I never think I’ve found the last piece.”
Rawne tilted his head. “Sounds like a long project.”
“I hadn’t expected to have the time to work on it, to be honest.” Hadn’t expected to have any more time at all — on so many occasions, but above all, on that rainy night at Camp Xenos. He ran his thumb softly over Rawne’s palm.
“And where do you fit in?” Rawne asked lowly.
Mabbon looked at him. He wanted to — to live, to be, to work out who the hell he was now. To do that, unexpectedly, with Elim Rawne. But there were so very many more important things—
Rawne’s eyes bored into him, saw his hesitation, and flamed.
“You stopped Sek getting the eagle stones.” He waved down Mabbon’s half-formed protest. “Yes, yes, group effort, but d’you think we’d have known feth-all about them if not for you? That was the whole point of you being here. So now the galaxy gets to not experience whatever fate worse than death Sek had planned for us, Sek’s dead, the other Qimurah are dead, we have the stones. You bought us all not only our lives, but breathing room. Some of that’s yours. The breathing room and the fething life, Mabbon.”
Mabbon said nothing for a long time, Rawne’s words ringing in his head. He wanted, so very badly. And yet Rawne’s rank patch sat, disembodied, on the bedside table next to his paperwork stack, and Mabbon knew the colonel insignia didn’t match the sunfading underneath it. He knew it hadn’t moved a millimetre since it had been placed there, and yet it was still there.
And yet.
Rawne’s hand was warm in his, the blue of the sunburst tattoo over his eye faded but still stark.
“You’re an expert on life, are you?” he asked, and cursed himself for the hope he could hear in his own voice.
Rawne smiled lopsidedly. “Maybe not,” he conceded. Then he grinned, expression sharpening. “But I am the reason Hark dreads downtime.”
Mabbon shook his head, fighting a losing battle against the answering smile he could feel starting on his own lips. “I’m beginning to sympathise with him,” he said dryly.
“Heh, feth you.” Rawne shoved at his shoulder. Mabbon chuckled, but it died away as Rawne’s hand fell comfortably back into his again. He looked at their hands together: one pale, one browned from sun; one palm calloused from guns, knives and work, one transplant-smooth where there had once been deep scarring.
“I…need to ask you something,” he said. “Two things, actually, but one first.”
Rawne looked like he was about to say something facetious, but his eyes took in Mabbon’s expression and he just tilted his head in an invitation to continue.
Mabbon took a breath. Now. Before there was more to lose.
“Are you sure you can…do this? With…what I am?” he asked, forcing the words out. “Someone who will never truly pick a side. And…a Qimurah.”
Rawne clearly wasn’t expecting the question, and was silent for a long time, thinking. Something twinged inside Mabbon initially at the delay, but as the time stretched he found himself relaxing. Whatever the answer, he could trust it.
“You have picked a side,” Rawne said eventually, voice low. “Like you said: the truth. I know you don’t know what it is, or if you ever will, but if anything’s ever going to make this shit stop it’ll probably be someone like you.”
Mabbon swallowed. He was inured to accusations, to the words pheguth, traitor, monster. But the hard, uncompromising light of Rawne’s esteem was difficult to look at, let alone to hold, to accept. Rawne himself seemed to regard it like a lasbolt; having loosed it, its target didn’t have to accept it for it to hit.
“That’s remarkably pacifist of you,” Mabbon said instead.
Rawne shot him such a disgusted look that Mabbon had to laugh, though shakily. Rawne raised his chin mulishly. “Never was married to the concept of blind obedience anyway.”
Mabbon raised a brow. “Dangerous talk.”
“Never said I’d help you work it out, either,” Rawne retorted. “But it’s not like my life has ever been free of danger.”
“Well, exactly.” Mabbon gestured vaguely along Rawne’s battered body. “Surely you don’t need more? Potentially from your own side?”
“What if I think it’s worth it?”
Mabbon held his fierce gaze for a moment before it was too much. He eyed the blankets accusingly. “That’s your decision.”
“Damn right it is.”
Mabbon deflated, arguments almost exhausted. He gestured to himself. “And…this. What about—?”
Rawne’s hand pulled away. This time Mabbon felt the loss, the coolness of the void left. But then he felt those same fingertips on his cheek, felt them trace his jaw. He leaned into the touch.
“I don’t care what Sek did to your body,” Rawne said roughly. “It’s still you.”
Mabbon felt Rawne’s thumb smear wetness from his cheek. He pushed into Rawne’s palm; it held him fast.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Rawne said quietly after a while. “My job is the war you don’t believe in, and I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon. Might never.”
“I know,” Mabbon said. “But you were the first decision I made as a free man. Well, actually I requested a shower.” Rawne laughed. “But…you were the first important one. Like you said, it might not matter to the galaxy, but it’s important. That decision wasn’t made lightly.”
Rawne sighed, and nodded to himself. “I’ll never be a pacifist,” he warned.
Mabbon smiled. “And yet you keep seeing underneath my betrayals, even when I can’t myself.”
Rawne studied his face for a moment, seemingly on the verge of saying something. Mabbon thought that perhaps this time he knew what it was, a chant of I see you working its way into his bones. He saw Rawne change direction, open his mouth on something easier.
“I’ll annoy you.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Rawne drew him in. This kiss was slow, languorous, like the lapping of a deep, warm ocean. He could float in it forever, buoyed and safe.
When they drew apart, a lifetime later, Rawne fitted their hands back together.
“What was the second thing you wanted to ask?”
Mabbon sighed. “I don’t have much experience with this ‘living’ thing. I thought perhaps we could work it out together?”
Rawne smiled. “I’d like that.”