Work Text:
don't you say we're lost/we are safe inside while they burn down our house
winter is coming, he thinks, no, winter is here.
the sounds remind him of being cold and sick the first time he went on a boat. the sounds remind him of calling orders, manning his own ship, working twice as hard as anyone else. he remembers his life before stannis, remembers it in a way that isn't fond nor regretful. all of the moments before now helped shape who he is. and yet who he is -- who he is relies so heavily on this man, this man in the other room.
(all of his thoughts lead back to him. breadcrumbs and string tied to a familiar checkpoint, a hand against the wall in a maze; he is guided by everything back to stannis, somehow finding his way back to him even if lost, even if broken.)
("the sea has returned to me --")
without giving much thought, he gets up, begrudgingly letting his feet hit the cold floor. much like a sleepy mother waking in the middle of the night to feed her son, davos mechanically trudges through his room to the door, grabbing a lantern on his way out.
these days, he thinks, sullenly, there is no one to stop me in these halls. it worries him, this nothingness; how could stannis expect to win a war with just a man with shortened fingers?
he pads through the hallways, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. he could make this journey with his eyes closed, he could recount each step if he had to, he could close his eyes and sit in his room and draw the path without moving an inch. he invents excuses to show up at his door, in his bedroom. he devises plans, creates elaborate plots and schemes. and yet, none of them are necessary.
"i was about to call for you," he says, every time, without fail. and when davos answers, "anything at all, your grace," stannis fails to come up with a proper excuse himself. usually they sit and talk. they sit and talk about nothing and everything, and each time davos walks away knowing a little more and a little less about his king, about his god.
davos knocks twice, lightly, when he gets to his door. despite how late it is, davos is not surprised to hear stannis' "come in" from inside the room, awake and aware. he pushes the door open, steps inside, and closes it behind him.
stannis is sitting at his table with his back to the door, books spread open in front of him, reading and writing by lamplight. a cursory glance around the room reveals a sense of unease: an unmade bed, discarded slippers, a haphazardly thrown-on robe. davos stands, not awkwardly, in the middle of the room.
"i was going to send for you," stannis says, without looking up or turning around. he writes something, then furiously scribbles it out.
"yes, your grace," davos says. this is routine, by now.
"i --" stannis is interrupted by a loud thunderclap. he pauses, freezes. the hand that is holding his pen quivers almost imperceptibly. if davos was anyone else, he would not notice. davos is not anyone else, and so he does. when the thunder passes, and the roaring wind dies down momentarily, stannis breathes audibly, as if to continue his thought. moments pass, and still he does not speak or move.
"there is quite a storm outside," he says, finally.
davos smiles to himself. he allows himself this, because stannis cannot see him. "yes," he agrees. "there is."
"it isn't --" and then, again, the thunder -- louder, this time, if possible. it's so loud that the room shakes, practically, and the wind howls and blows inside the room like a tiny storm of its own, a tiny storm in this bedroom that is at equal times too large for one man and too small for one king. in a fit of frustration (though frustration is often the brother of fear) stannis throws down his pen and turns, for the first time. davos can see the bags under his eyes, the slight shake of his shoulders. he hates this. he will never say it in so many words, but he hates this.
(once, during a conversation about an upcoming battle, the two men recounted various wars fought in various temperatures. what was said was, at large, uninteresting and unimportant, until davos mentioned a particular fight that took place in the midst of a terrible storm.
stannis had frowned, his eyebrows furrowed.
"i hope that isn't the case for this particular battle," he said. davos was not given time to ask why, nor did he think it was appropriate to question his king. but stannis answered his unasked question anyway, quickly mumbling, "storms are miserable. all the rain and cold. and the noise -- disgusting."
he made it sound like storms were unwelcome houseguests that didn't go away. davos saw it in his eyes, though. he did not hate them because they were bothersome. he hated them because he was frightened of them.)
wordlessly, davos walks over to stannis. he places his hand on stannis' shoulder. stannis jerks -- not because it is davos touching him, but because he is being touched, and there is always a level of discomfort surrounding that -- and then melts, melts into his touch just in time for more howling wind. davos guides him up, leads him to the bed. stannis follows, childlike, in davos' arms -- his own hand gripping davos' robes. davos forces stannis to sit. davos forces stannis to drink some water from the pitcher at his bedside. stannis does all of these things, unquestionably and unflinchingly, as if davos was the king and stannis was his subject.
moments pass. the rain doesn't let up just yet, but the wind and thunder stop, for the time being; the wind slows to a slow whine rather than a howl, and the pauses between thunder are long enough to fit whole conversations in them. there is no need for that, though. davos and stannis look at each other quietly. there is nothing to say.
davos smiles at him and nods respectfully, and then turns to leave.
"wait," stannis blurts out, reaching forward with a still-shaky hand to grab at davos' wrist. the touch is cool and clammy and unfamiliar and a taste of what davos wants (more, more of this, more of his hands). davos stops and looks at him, waiting.
stannis looks uncomfortable, being forced to ask like this. and yet, he does. "i'm not ready for you to go yet," he says, in the same way another person would say, "please stay."
and so davos stays. he sits next to him on the bed. stannis does not let go of his wrist. they do not look at each other.
they sit in silence for a long, comfortable while, listening to the rain outside. davos can hear stannis' breathing. the sound is comforting and lovely. he thinks if he listens hard enough, he can find stannis' heartbeat underneath his clothes.
"you know," stannis says, after a while. "i only ever mentioned it once."
davos turns to him. "mentioned what?"
he jerks his head in the general direction of the window. "the rain. the wind. the thunder."
davos doesn't know whether he should feel proud or embarrassed. he wants to say, i remember everything you say, and he wants to say, i will always remember everything you say, and he wants to say, sometimes i feel like i was created just for you.
instead, he says, "you only had to mention it once."
stannis looks at him again, eyes searching for something they cannot find.
they sit together, listening to the rain.