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Guiltily, the first thought that went through Soap's mind was, "huh, didn't know they made Orcs that pretty."
The second thought was less coherent so much as a sudden surge of alarm at there being an Orc walking into the only decent tavern Soap had found all week. Maggie gasped audibly from behind the bar and multiple chairs scraped against the floor. Soap's ears twitched at the whisper of more than one blade being covertly drawn, audible even from his seat right by the door. Judging by the way the Orc's jaw ticked, he heard it too.
The Orc stayed in the doorway, his shoulders broad enough to touch both sides of the doorframe and his enormous hand gripping the top to keep his head from bumping against it. Huge, and scarred, and yes, very pretty, but Soap knew what lit kindling looked like. The big bastard only had to take one step further into the tavern for the whole place to go up in a conflagration. And Soap before he'd even finished his pint. Shit, he should-
The Orc jerked back, like he'd been pushed. A human woman, easily two feet shorter than him, shouldered her way into the tavern. With the big guy no longer blotting out the sun with all of his muscles, a half-orc was also able to slip past him. He gave the tavern a rueful smile and the Orc a solid couple of pats to the shoulder, and all of the tension seemed to rush out of the room in a long sigh. Maggie even managed a smile for the human woman when she approached and asked about rooms, her half-orc companion standing at her back with his arm around her waist.
The big Orc was at least half as smart as he was pretty. He didn't enter the tavern so much as shuffle sideways out of the doorway, planting those big shoulder of his against the wall like he thought the place was about to come down. Thank Lady Luck Soap had been compelled to take that seat by the door, despite by the draft, because now he had a big Orcish windbreak and was in such a position that he could admire those muscles close-up. Close enough for Soap to feel the heat radiating off of him, even. When the Orc folded his arms and his biceps bulged, bared by the Orc's sleeveless tunic, Soap's mouth went dry. He stared obviously, blatantly—he could probably wrap both hands around him and still have space between his fingers. And he wanted to, desperately. Soap slid his eyes back up the Orc's frame, taking another moment to admire those shoulders (and there was so much to admire) before looking into the Orc's face.
Only to find the Orc looking back at him, down at him, with the meanest scowl Soap had ever had directed at him. It made the Orc's permanent snarl, where an old scar bisected his top lip to expose a chipped canine, particularly ferocious. A lesser man would have trembled and averted his gaze—Soap felt his pupils blow wide instead. The tip of his tail twitched, the muscles in his legs and back tensed as if to pounce upon an especially delectable prize.
"Simon!"
They both looked up, the Orc grunting in acknowledgement (that hopefully covered up Soap's chirrup of surprise). The half-orc was walking over, brow furrowed and looking so much like the Orc that they had to be related. Brothers, if Soap had to put money on it.
"Would you believe," the half-orc started, his eyes flicking over to Soap for only a moment before returning to his brother. "For the sixth place in a row-"
"No rooms?" Simon, the Orc, said, his tone blisteringly dry. Soap had to swallow another noise fluttering in his throat. He had a nice voice, deep and smooth, and warm as a roaring fire. "Incredible. What are the chances?"
Soap glanced over at Maggie currently scurrying away and looking a little pale under her freckles. His tail flicked thoughtfully as he weighed his options, and listened to the Orcs do the same with their human companion. The woman, called Beth, was in favour of trying another inn or making camp for the night. She roundly scolded her half-orc when he suggested she try alone while the brothers made camp. Simon watched the pair bicker, something tired in the set of his beautiful jawline. Downright tragic, that.
"You two go, Beth, Tommy" Simon said, sounding resigned.
"Simon-" Beth turned to him, already fired up and clearly prepared to keep arguing in the middle of the tavern, with the other patrons all listening in (most of them as indiscreet as Soap). Soap liked her immensely already.
"You know you're more likely to find a place without my ugly mug tagging along," he continued. There was no anger in his voice, like he was simply recounting an immutable fact of the universe; full-blooded Orcs aren't welcome in most reputable establishments.
Soap's tail froze as he was subsumed by a freshet of guilt—hadn't he done the exact same thing by panicking and initially assuming the worst of him?
"C'mon, Simon. We both know I'm the uglier of the two of us," Tommy said, trying hard to make it sound like a shared joke. The furrow between his brows gave him away—this was a well-trod argument between them. "You could always try being less tall? And quit glaring at the locals-"
"Oi!" Soap could handle all manner of abuse, especially if it was true, but he would not stand for such an obvious falsehood as coming from this backwater shithole. "Do I look local?"
"Pretty sure I saw a tomcat eating scraps behind the butcher's that had your nose." Simon replied dryly. Tommy glared at him, but Soap's tail twitched before he broke out in a grin from ear-to-ear.
"On account of my roguish good looks? There's no need for flattery, Simon-"
"-don't recall introducing myself-"
"-and here I thought to offer you a place to sleep!" Soap continued. Then he actually registered what Simon had said and thrust out his hand. "Call me Soap."
Simon grumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like 'the fuck kind of name is Soap', and did not take the proffered hand. Fortunately Beth decided to elbow him in the ribs hard enough to make the Orc grunt and stepped in to shake Soap's hand. She even pretended not to know that Soap had been listening in on everything and offered unnecessary introductions. Soap knew he was right to like her—especially when she confirmed the Orcs were brothers and Simon huffed out another put-upon noise.
"You're sure you've the space for the three of us?" Simon asked.
Soap threw back what remained of his beer and licked the foam from his lips with a satisfied hum—best tavern in the last month, even if the rest of this town had all the charm (and fragrance) of a sweaty armpit. He tucked a sovereign under the empty mug and stood, realising with some delight he was perfectly eye-level with Simon's round pectorals. Judging by the look Simon was levelling at him, he'd seen exactly where Soap's eyes had gotten stuck.
Soap just grinned, toothy and unashamed. "So long as you're not expecting luxury. But we could always share, ser, if the nights this far north are too cold for southern Orcs." Damn near purred with satisfaction at Simon's blink of surprise.
"How did you know?"
"I've an ear for accents," Soap said, biting down on his tongue before he could add more, like 'and an eye for beauty'. He's not that shameless—and this tavern didn't deserve to hear his best lines. "C'mon, before Maggie calls the local militia to oust us."
"Had that happen before, have you?" Simon asked, ducking back out of the tavern doorway before Soap could respond. And Soap was not distracted by watching him leave, he was simply allowing Tommy and Beth to leave first. When Soap trotted out after them and started leading the way across town, it was Simon who fell into step beside him.
"I'm too charming to wear out my welcome," Soap replied primly, his tail flicking hard enough to smack against Simon's thigh. His fingers twitched before Simon set his palm on the pommel of his dagger, away from temptation.
Soap liked that he tempted him.
"Nine Hells," Tommy swore lowly from behind them. Soap swiped at him with his tail too.
---
In the end, Soap was only able to skirt around the truth so much because Simon let him. Anyone else would have asked why Soap led them to an Adventurer's Guild safehouse—Tommy and Beth exchanged glances that suggested they very much wanted to—but Simon followed him inside without comment. He did ask if Soap had enough firewood to get the hearth going hot enough for their Orcish blood, and smirked when Soap showed him the very full log store. He wasn't a squatter, he was a fee-paying member of the Guild, thank you very much!
Soap just so happened to be using this place for... not strictly guild-related reasons. He'd argue that it was, since the Guild only had to pull their thumbs out of their own arses and-
He was getting off topic. Soap had the keys to the place, and Price couldn't exactly fault him for staying there. Nobody wanted to stay here. The Guild only kept the place on the books because of the persistent Goblinoid problem in the area, what with all the mountains providing ample cliff faces to scratch a den into. So Soap had decided, unilaterally, magnanimously, to do some clean-up while the Guild did whatever they'd decided needed doing to clean up their own mess.
It wasn't the first time he'd gone Adventuring solo and this time he even had a proper bed to come back to!
Once the hearth was going (aided only a little by use of a cantrip), Soap turned around to find the Orcs with what looked like half an armoury spread out around them. Heads bowed together as they sorted through the collection of blades, which apparently involved passing them back and forth with great seriousness.
"They do this every time," Beth remarked, having obviously seen Soap's confusion. She'd made herself quite comfortable on woollen rug, her boots kicked off and stockinged feet warmed by the fire.
"What, loot an entire brigand camp? Where did they even put all of that?" he asked, bewilderment only growing. Did Simon not need sleeves to carry them all?
"Huh? Oh no, we didn't meet any bandits on the way here. Most see a pair of Orcs and decide they prefer their limbs intact," Beth said. Soap couldn't exactly fault their logic. "This is just the stuff they carry regularly."
"Then why all of this?" Soap asked, gesturing expansively at the pile of arms, the brothers in deep discussion over the relative merits of each.
Beth simply shrugged. "Everyone needs a hobby. Do you have a kettle hidden away somewhere, Soap? I would love a cup of tea-"
Both Orcs' heads snapped up at the mention of tea, which Soap suspected was the point. Tommy heaved himself to his feet and went with Beth to rifle through the dry stores—Soap hadn't touched the tea, he'd never developed a taste for the stuff—while Simon watched him go with scowl. If Soap didn't know better, he'd think the Orc was pouting at being abandoned. And that simply couldn't be allowed to stand.
"So, what's your esteemed company doing in this part of the country?" Soap asked, scooting across the floor to sit cross-legged at Simon's side.
Simon gave him a sidelong look. Soap would like to think it was assessing rather than suspicious, and that whatever Simon saw was enough since he doesn't gut Soap for the presumption. "Sightseeing," he said, huffing when Soap swatted at his arm. "Same reason you're here, I'll wager. Heard there were Goblins and that we'd get paid for clearing out the nests, without paying Guild fees."
"And you decided you needed two dozen fine blades for the task?" Soap asked, reaching out to pick up a wicked-sharp stiletto.
Simon let out another grumpy-sounding harrumph but only watched as Soap tested the blade's balance. "No. I brought thirteen fine blades. Tommy brought the rest and only half of 'em I'd call fine."
"Prick," Tommy said fondly, leaning over their shoulders to hand Simon his tea. Soap hadn't realised how close they were sitting, knees touching and shoulders bumping. Tommy knocked his fist into Soap's shoulder, catching his attention. "So you know, we're not a registered Party."
"Would be more surprised if you were," Soap said, his tail flicking behind him. "I'm aware of the Guild's stupid fucking restrictions on membership. I don't... it doesnae matter to me that your da's an Orc."
"Mother, actually," Tommy said. "But thanks, I guess. Didn't want you getting in hot water with the Guild for putting us up."
"I'm more than capable of getting into, and out of, trouble by myself," Soap said with a grin. "And the Guild would probably be relieved that putting you up was the worst thing I'd done this week. I like to keep the brass on their toes."
Simon let out a quiet snort into his mug. "Why do I feel like we're more likely to get in trouble with you, than you gettin' in trouble with us?"
"Because you've been gifted keen observational and deductive reasoning skills," Soap shoots back immediately, "kept right next to wherever you hid all your fancy knives so Maggie didn't faint dead away at the sight of you."
"And where are you hiding your weapons then?" Simon asked, casting another assessing look over him. "Don't tell me you're the fancy sorcery type." And wiggled his fingers to illustrate his point.
"No, ye walloper, I just don't go into town with my sword strapped to my back like I'm storming the Nine Hells. Don't give me that look, I'll fetch you it, fuckin' show you-"
Soap did get his claymore, grumbling the whole way, along with the rest of his pack he'd kept in a small bedroom. The Orcs were suitably impressed. They made all the right noises of appreciation at Soap's pride and joy, his baby, and Soap couldn't help but puff up his chest just a little. They're a good sort, really, them and Beth, and the lot of them stay up until the early hours sharing adventuring stories. By the time Beth and Tommy retired to the bedroom, while Soap and Simon made themselves comfortable on their bedrolls by the fire, Soap considered them all fast friends.
Even Simon, who did a poor job at pretending he didn't like Soap but slept closest to the front door. His broad, scarred back to Soap, trusting him to watch it, and Soap settled deeper into his bedroll with a quiet purr. He liked this one. Soap was going to keep him.
---
It's three weeks later, after Soap helped Simon and his party clear out the Goblin nests before following them to the next town like the stray cat Simon had likened him to, that it happened. Another town, another problem the Guild didn't care enough to solve. Another inn that wouldn't give them rooms because they saw Simon—without his mask, without his weapons, smaller and less threatening—and decided they knew him.
It made Soap furious in a way he didn't have the words for. Tail lashing and growl rumbling in his chest, he had half a mind to go storming back in there and really give them a piece of his mind. Simon kept a hold of his elbow, however, after the last time he'd taken Soap at his word that he was "calm now, I'm calm, I'm not angry anymore. Listen, I'm pure vexed, but I'm not angry, Simon-"
"Thought you'd be used to it by now," Simon said lightly. Like it was all a funny little joke, which only vexed Soap more. "Soap."
"Simon," Soap said. Pleaded, really, and not just because he didn't want to make camp again! A bed for the night mattered a lot less to him than Simon never using that tone of defeat again. He was too distracted, in his distress, to notice they were being followed.
Simon noticed, of course. He lead Soap through the streets back towards the apothecary where they'd left Beth and Tommy, let him complain that it "wasnae fair", until he suddenly pulled them both into a small alleyway. Soap's thoughts stuttered to a halt as he was suddenly nose-to-pectorals with Simon, his entire body pressed close enough that Soap broke out in a sweat from the heat of him. His mouth went dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
"Simon?"
"Shh, quiet."
Simon had a scent, Soap had come to realise in the weeks they had travelled and fought and slept together, side by side always. It was warm and sweet, leather and salt and warm skin. Soap could find it even under the stench of blood after a hard-fought battle, when Simon became The Ghost and slipped into a Fury that should have terrified him. Instead, Soap felt awe, and deep admiration, and a surge of lust that almost blinded him.
His infatuation with Simon had started to grow too big for his chest to hold. Any day now, Soap was going to say something stupid(er than usual, beyond what Simon was used to hearing from him or able to forgive). It's probably for the best that having Simon's beautiful chest so close to his face completely prevented him from forming an entire thought, let alone speaking it aloud.
The thought did eventually float across Soap mind to ask why they were standing in an alley. Not that he's complaining! Since he's enjoying the view and all. They were simply not in the habit of hiding away in darkened corners like young lovers.
Tymora preserve him, Soap needed to focus. "Simon, why are we in an alleyway right now?" he hissed.
"Because I want the element of surprise when we confront them."
"Wait what-"
That's the moment Simon lunged, with all the power and speed of a tiger (which Soap considers himself qualified to judge). The man walking past the alleyway was in a headlock before Soap could even stumble out after him. The Orc had a big hand clapped to the man's mouth (and Soap wasn't distracted or jealous), and was completely unfazed by the man's thrashing. He didn't look like part of the local militia, with his stained shirt unlaced enough to show off a gaudy golden chain.
"Looking for introductions, were you?" Soap said, leaning in to bare his fangs in the man's face. "This is my friend Simon, and you should know he's being exceptionally gentle right now. If you'd like to continue to avail of his generosity, I'd suggest you stop wiggling."
The man glared at him. Simon simply lifted him until his feet were dangling off of the ground and then he was very quick to go still, his eyes pleading for mercy.
"How many were following us?" Soap asked Simon. There was nobody else on the street—Simon must have lead them away from people so they could confront their new friend without risk of anyone coming to harm. Soap's chest went warm.
"At least one more," Simon said. "They were smarter than this one, seems like."
"Maybe they decided against accosting a pair of law-abiding Adventurers," Soap remarked. The man gave a loud grunt from behind Simon's palm and Soap sneered at him. "We've given you a reason to follow us around then?"
Simon lifted his hand enough for the man to speak, and he used to opportunity to bare his teeth back at Soap. "Don't need one. He's an Orc, we all know what they're like!" he yelled, spittle flying.
"So your eyes work better than your brain," Simon said, rolling his eyes.
Soap was so angry he couldn't speak. Wanted to shake him until every stupid, ugly prejudice falls out of his stupid, ugly mouth. As angry as Soap was, that sounded both normal to want and possible to achieve—so he grabbed the man by the collar with a viciousness that surprised even himself. Soap's fingers tangled in the heavy chain around the man's neck and he felt it instantaneously. The metal was Infernal-touched.
Soap pulled the chain free from under his shirt and only had to glance at the gemstone pendant to know it's worse.
"Soap?!"
"Hey!"
The chain snapped when Soap pulled, and he was scrambling backwards to try and put some space between them. Simon dropped the man, much more focussed on Soap now than the idiot that brought something this dangerous into town. How in the Nine Hells did he get a hold of—no, that wasn't important right now. What was important was getting it out of town. Soap needed to act quickly, before things got uglier.
The gemstone was already growing warm in his hand.
"Simon, no!" Soap warned, throwing a hand up to keep Simon from getting any closer.
"Soap, what's happening?" Simon asked, something like panic in his eyes. He took a step forwards and Soap leapt back.
"Stay there, stay right there!" Soap yelled, his own panic growing. "Do not come closer, Simon, this shit is Infernal! The kind of thing that was never meant to be in the material realm. And that stupid bastart brought it here!"
The Infernal curse slipped out before Soap could stop himself. Simon startled—guess that hellcat's out of the bag now. The gemstone was scorching against Soap's palm now, he probably only had moments left before-
The gemstone, and Soap, erupted in a pillar of hellfire. Beneath the roaring of the flames, Soap heard him—Simon, letting out a terrible animal roar. Soap prayed he'd been lucky enough to avoid the fire, that he'd listened to Soap and stayed back, that he hadn't done anything brave and foolish. He loved Simon too well to lose him like this.
It took almost ten minutes for the fire to burn down, the gemstone reduced to ash in Soap's hand. Along with all of his clothes and equipment, though his claymore looked freshly-forged with how red the Infernal Iron glowed. He stumbled out of the ring now permanently scorched into this town's cobblestones, and fell directly into Simon's arms.
"Told you I wasnae local," Soap croaked as Simon lowered him gently to the ground. Hellfire couldn't kill him—mundane fire couldn't even touch him—but it did leave him feeling akin to a roasted duck. Served up with tatties and neeps, Soap would be a feast fit for a king.
"Nobody's eating you, Soap," Simon said, his voice low and fond enough that Soap didn't mind that he'd apparently been talking aloud. "Could have mentioned you were a Tiefling before this point, y'know. Scared me half to death."
"Y'ken it's not an easy thing to bring up in casual conversation," Soap said, his eyes sliding away guiltily. "Hardly a thing to be proud of, having a rakshasa for a great-great-grandda."
"It doesn't change anything for me," Simon said. Soap glanced back and saw Simon looking at him with a soft expression—the same softness that Soap had been seeing from the Orc more and more.
He hadn't known what it meant, then. He does now. "So you do like me," Soap said as his chest began to rumble with a purr.
"Well enough to keep you," Simon said, like it was that easy. Maybe it was—maybe Soap was just that lucky.