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The air around the Skeleton Detective was heavy. The tang of blood filled the air, bodies piled around the few fighters left to battle this flank of Mevolent’s forces. The Temple, though ostensibly neutral, had had a few Necromancers join with the Dead Men to fight this battle, in return for them ensuring their opponents didn't breach the Temple itself.
Skulduggery hated it. That those Necromancer bastards would be so.. hypocritical, would shelter Serpine and yet ask to be protected by those they had turned away in the search for him, felt like a slap to the face, a final humiliating blow. But he couldn't deny that they were damn good fighters.
All of this contemplation, of course, was pushed to the back burner as another wave of Mevolent's damned fighters piled in, weapons swinging. He could feel adrenaline coursing through veins he didn't have as he fought viciously against the incoming onslaught, occasionally glancing around to ensure his allies and those whom he cared for were holding up. Dexter and Saracen were fighting back to back, as they so often did, and seemed to be holding their own, as were Shudder and Larrikin. They didn't seem to need any help. Ghastly was the nearest to Skulduggery, and was clearly doing well.
Skulduggery, of course, took this in in a matter of seconds, his analytical mind already whirring, figuring out that the others didn't need assistance even as his gun clicked dry and he pulled another one from a different holster and kept shooting. Involuntarily, he looked over to the cohort of Necromancers too, checking if they needed assistance whilst despising that he had to do it. They all seemed to be doing well, and the tide of those they were fighting had ebbed significantly, now something more like a thin trickle of foes, and their number rapidly dwindled.
Skulduggery dispatched the last few men who tried to fight him with his last bullets and turned to address Ghastly when from the corner of his eye he saw a Necromancer, he couldn't tell who, being snuck up on by a vampire whilst mid-fight. Already cursing the fact that he was even doing this, he called out to the robed figure as he moved towards them, using the air to push them roughly aside as the vampire behind them brought his knife down. Said knife buried itself into the opponent the Necromancer had been fighting, who hadn't had time to move or process what had just happened. Two fireballs later, both foes were charred remains.
The Necromancer was still sprawled on the rough ground where they'd fallen when Skulduggery had pushed them out of the way. They pushed back their hood to glare up at him, and his fist clenched as a fresh wave of adrenaline crashed over him. Of course it just had to be him.
Solomon - bloody - Wreath.
“Wreath.”
“Pleasant.”
“I should have let the vampire drain you.”
“You wouldn't have. Bleeding heart, aren't you?”
Skulduggery’s jaw clenched.
“Not when it comes to you, Cleric.”
“Using titles now, Detective? I thought we'd passed that point.”
Wreath had stood up, now, and Skulduggery indulged in the pleasure of tilting his head up and staring at the other man down his nose. He knew how much Wreath despised being slightly shorter.
“You had a thought? Careful, wouldn't want to strain that poor brain, now would we?”
Wreath’s answering growl made him tilt his head in amusement - just before one of his damned shadows pulled the hat straight off Skulduggery’s head.
“Give that back.”
“No.”
The shadows around them swirled a little, tendrils tearing his hat apart effortlessly. The sound of rending fabric felt almost piercing, and Skulduggery saw red.
His arm swung out, fist connecting hard with the other man’s nose, the crunch of breaking bone almost satisfying. Wreath’s hand flew up to his face, pressing against his now-broken nose. He glared at Skulduggery, and the skeleton took quiet pride in the anger and frustration in his expression.
Until Wreath grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and yanked him into a kiss.
It was messy, and rough, and violent, and it was over far too soon. And it left Skulduggery with far too many things to contemplate, such as the fact that somehow he'd enjoyed that, so he shoved it down and let his voice turn mocking as he pulled away.
“Well, someone was clearly desperate.”
Before Wreath could formulate a response, Skulduggery dug a clean handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed it at the other man.
“That's for your nose. Ice it and get someone to fix it for you. Maybe a crooked nose might actually make you appealing to the general populace, Wreath.”
With that, he turned sharply on his heel and walked away, just barely catching Wreath’s answer.
“You clearly find me appealing, Pleasant. And now you're running away. Coward.”
It took all of his self-control not to turn back and punch the man again. Or perhaps to kiss him again. He couldn't tell.
He shook his head to dispel the thought and kept walking back to their camp, stopping to discuss plans for the next day with Ghastly.
That night found him in Wreath's bed. And many, many following nights after. They did many things, but they never kissed again.
It had meant nothing, he told himself.
What happened at war stayed at war. It would never have to be an issue again.
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A few centuries and a protégé later, Skulduggery Pleasant found himself in Wreath's house. For Valkyrie’s 18th birthday. Something about it being special. He'd conceded the argument. Once again, he cursed his damnable sentiment and ignored Wreath's voice in his head calling him a “bleeding heart” again.
He stood in Wreath's living room, facade activated for politeness’ sake, watching Valkyrie, Tanith and Fletcher have fun, and idly decided to look through Wreath's bookshelves and see if there was anything he could help himself to - maybe some book or some trinket or another. As he did so, the man himself appeared at his side.
"Glad to see that you decided to show up."
“I knew you'd be bored without me here.”
A scoff was the only answer, and Skulduggery went back to perusing Wreath's bookshelf.
Wreath looked to be watching Valkyrie enjoy herself through the open doorway to the living room, and Skulduggery’s jaw clenched.
“If you plan to make any sort of advances on my protégé, Wreath-”
“Last I checked, Pleasant, you were well aware I swung firmly the other way. At any rate, she's far too young for me.”
The jab, the reminder of their.. closeness, stung, but before he could swipe back, his eye caught on a folded bit of fabric on Wreath's bookshelf. He reached out and picked it up, expecting it to be something cursed. But it was just a handkerchief. His handkerchief, he realised, with his initials embroidered into the corner. The one from that fateful day. It had been cleaned of the blood since, and clearly been kept safe.
“You kept it, then?” Skulduggery couldn't entirely contain his surprise.
“Evidently.”
“Why?”
“I'm not stupid enough to leave my blood around for any two-bit sorcerer to find.”
Skulduggery looked at the pristine, very much clean handkerchief and then back at Wreath.
“Blood?”
“Oh, don't look at me like that, Pleasant.”
“And why not?”
Wreath paused for a moment before he spoke, and his words were tinged with uncharacteristic feeling when he did. “Because if you do, I might say something I shouldn't.”
“Maybe you should say it then.”
“Don't mock me, Pleasant.”
“...I'm not mocking you, Solomon.”
Skulduggery watched Wreath's head jerk up at the use of his first name, and felt the lips of the facade curl into a smug smile.
“Pleasant, whatever game you're playing, I want no part in it-”
“Solomon,” Skulduggery stepped closer to him, still holding the handkerchief. “You kept the handkerchief I threw at you after we kissed.”
“Watch your mouth, Pleasant, Valkyrie-”
“Cannot hear or see us. Solomon Wreath, do you actually have feelings for me?” For once, Skulduggery’s voice didn't hold a trace of mockery. Just a calm sort of curiosity that hid a hint of hope.
Wreath didn't answer for a full minute, glaring mutely at Skulduggery, before he jerked his head tersely in a nod.
“Say one word about it, Pleasant, and I'll burn every single one of your damned suits, and maybe I'll break half your bones into the bargain too.”
“How very romantic.”
“Why don't you shut-”
This time, it is Skulduggery who pulls Wreath into a kiss. It is just as rough as the first time. But this time he does not pull away as he had the first.
When Wreath finally pulls back for air, he looks wonderfully, beautifully startled.
“Skulduggery. You just…”
“I did indeed.”
“Why?”
“Oh, come now, Solomon. You're smart enough to work it out.”
“Say it, you utter bastard, or so help me-”
“Yes, I have feelings for you too. Happy?”
“I do believe I am.”
That night found him once again in Solomon's bed. And many, many following nights after. This time around, they did kiss.
This time, it meant everything.
It seemed what happened at war didn't always stay at war.