Work Text:
The ridge overlooks a stretch of moorland that's been quiet for the past hour. Varka doesn't like the waiting – he's done plenty of it in his life – but the company makes it easier. Flins stands a few feet away, perfectly still in that way of his, watching the darkness with an empty-eyed focus most people would take at face value. Varka knows better. Flins isn’t watching so much as drifting somewhere inward and distant.
There have been intermittent reports of a large beast haunting the stretch between Piramida and the southern coast, but at this point Varka is fairly sure it’s nothing more than restless Lightkeepers and the wind playing tricks.
“You know,” he says at last, breaking the quiet, “most people would at least pretend to be bored by now.”
“Most people aren’t here.” Flins doesn’t turn, but there’s a faint thread of amusement in his voice. “And I’m not bored.”
“No?” Varka shifts his weight, settling more comfortably against the rock behind him. “Could've fooled me. You've been staring at the same patch of grass for twenty minutes.”
“I'm watching for movement.”
“Sure you are.”
That gets him a brief, but pointed, glance. “Are you always this distracting on stakeouts?”
“Only when I have good company.” Varka grins. “My men usually just complain about the cold and ask when we can go home.”
“Is this how the Grand Master should be speaking of his knights?” Flins asks playfully.
“Bah, even the best knight can be annoying after days of nothing but sitting in the elements.” Varka pulls his cloak tighter against the wind. It's picked up in the last half hour, carrying the bite of the northern cold with it. “Speaking of going home... when we're done here, you mind if I tag along to the lighthouse? We could have a drink, warm up. Assuming we don't end up chasing the Wild Hunt across half the moor.”
Flins turns to look at him properly this time, one eyebrow raised. “You're inviting yourself over before we've even confirmed there's anything to hunt?”
“Optimism,” Varka says. “Besides, if we do end up chasing them, we'll have earned it.”
“And if we don't?”
“Then we’ll have earned it anyway for sitting out here freezing.” Varka meets his gaze, easy and warm. “What do you say?”
Flins studies him for a moment. There’s something in his expression – faint, almost playful, like the edge of a thought he hasn’t decided to voice. “You're assuming I'll say yes.”
“I'm hoping you'll say yes. There's a difference.”
“Is there?” The corner of Flins’s mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “And what makes you think I want to spend more time with someone who talks through an entire stakeout?”
“Because you haven't told me to shut up yet.”
Flins exhales softly through his nose, and this time the smile settles in, small but real. “Alright. We’ll head back together.“
“Just like that?”
“He says as if he weren’t nearly begging.” Flins turns back to the moorland, but there's a deliberate pause before he continues, his voice dipping lower. “Though I should warn you – if you come inside, you might not want to leave until dawn, and we both know where that leads.”
There's a deliberate implication there that catches him off-guard.He feels it – a quick, traitorous jump under his ribs – and forces his voice to stay level. “Oh? And where might that be?”
“Conversation that lasts until sunrise and leaves you useless the next day.” Flins glances back at Varka, and there's unmistakable amusement in his eyes. “Unless that's what this is – your way of asking to spend the night?”
Varka laughs quietly, caught. “If you say so.”
They slip back into silence, easier than before.
Varka watches the moorland and tries not to watch Flins too obviously. It's a losing battle – he's always been aware of Flins in a way that's hard to ignore, like the awareness of a fire in a cold room. Except Flins isn't warm. He's the opposite, all cold edges and controlled stillness, and yet that just makes the pull stronger.
Another hour passes. The wind rises again, dragging the cold deeper into the rock beneath them. Varka is starting to suspect this is nothing more than a false alarm.
His attention drifts, inevitably, back to Flins.
He’s still – more than usual. The unnatural quiet is always there, the absence of breath, of any small human motion. This is different. There’s a faint tension at the corners of his eyes now, something held too tightly, and his shoulders sit just a fraction higher than they did before.
Varka glances at him, then back at the moorland. “You seem tired.”
Flins doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his voice is carefully neutral. “Your concern is appreciated, but I'm fine.”
“Didn't say you weren't.” Varka keeps his tone light. “Just said you seem tired.”
“I’m not sure what gave you that idea.”
“Flins.” Varka turns to face him properly. “You did a patrol before coming out here with me. How long have you been out here, now?”
“As long as I’ve needed to be.”
“Hah, what an answer.” Varka pauses, choosing his next words with a little more care. “You could rest. The other way. If you wanted.”
He doesn't say lantern form out loud. Flins only told him about it the previous week, and even though Flins had volunteered the information freely over a bottle of vodka, he got the distinct feeling it wasn't a confidence easily shared. Varka's not going to make a big deal out of it now.
Flins goes very still. It's a different kind of stillness than before – sharper, more guarded. “You don't – ” He stops, and for the first time since Varka's known him, he looks genuinely uncertain. “That's not necessary.”
“I know it's not necessary.” Varka meets his gaze, steady and calm. “I'm saying you can. If it's easier.”
Flins looks at him like he’s trying to measure something – intent, maybe, or the lack of it. The wind picks up again, biting enough that Varka has to resist the urge to shiver, but Flins doesn't react to it at all. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like surprise.
“You're serious,” Flins says finally.
“Wouldn't have offered if I wasn't.”
Flins doesn't reply right away. He looks away, out at the moorland, and Varka can see him working through it. Varka can't pinpoint the source of his hesitation – whether it stems from trust, vulnerability, or something else altogether. It's not the time to ask, but he wonders why Flins is so committed to this charade of being human.
“It's just us out here,” Varka says quietly. “And I'm not going anywhere.”
Flins is silent for a long moment. Then nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright.”
The change comes without warning. One moment he’s there beside Varka, solid and human-shaped. The next, he’s gone – and in his place, a lantern hovers just above the ground. The flame inside is steady and blue – pale, cold blue that casts just enough light to see by without being harsh.
Varka looks at it for a moment, then settles more comfortably against the rock. “Better?”
“Yes.” Flins's voice is the same – low, measured, with that faint accent Varka still can't place. It's strange hearing it come from the lantern, but not as strange as he thought it might be. “Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” Varka shifts his pack to the side, keeping his eyes on the moorland. “Let me know if you see anything.”
The flame flickers once, almost like a nod, and Varka allows himself a small smile.
They settle into silence again, the kind that comes easily after conversation rather than pressing in around it. Varka keeps his gaze on the empty stretch of moorland, but he’s aware of the lantern at his side – the soft blue glow, the impossible way it hovers.
“Can I ask you something?” Varka says eventually.
“You're going to regardless.”
Varka grins. “Fair. Can you feel it? The lantern, I mean. If someone touches it.”
There's a pause. The lantern shifts slightly, dipping just a fraction before steadying again. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.” Flins's tone is careful, measured. “The glass more than the iron. That's where I'm closest to the surface.”
Varka considers that. He reaches out slowly, giving Flins plenty of time to pull away if he wants to. His fingertips brush the curved glass of the lantern's side.
Not cold, not warm – just shy of either, as if the heat never quite reaches the surface. The blue light flickers – just once, but noticeably. A stutter in the steady glow.
Varka leaves his hand where it is, watching. “You felt that.”
“Obviously.” There's an edge to Flins's voice now, faint but there.
“Interesting.” His finger traces along the curve, unhurried. This time the reaction is sharper – a visible stutter, light catching and breaking before it settles. “So I can actually get under your skin.”
“Don't sound so pleased with yourself.”
“Can't help it.” Varka's grin widens. “You're usually so controlled. It's nice to know I can rattle you.”
“You're trouble,” Flins says, flat and dry, but the light inside the lantern flares, sudden and bright, before drawing back in.
“You knew that already.”
Varka lifts his hand, only to let it drift to the iron frame instead. The metal is colder, smooth beneath his fingers, familiar in a different way. “Can you move to other lanterns?” he asks, keeping his tone conversational. “Or are you stuck with this one?”
“I'm not stuck.” The answer comes quickly, control reasserting itself. “I can inhabit any vessel that can hold flame. Lanterns, braziers, hearths. Anything that's meant to contain fire.”
“So this one isn't special?”
“It's convenient,” Flins says. “And familiar. I've used it for a long time.”
Varka hums softly, thumb brushing the seam where iron meets glass. It’s another classic non-answer; not a lie, but not the full truth, and technically not even what he asked. “What happens to it when you're not in it?”
“The same as any other unlit lantern. It's only a container.”
“A container.” Varka glances at the flame, watching it burn steady and blue. “So the lantern itself – it's not you. You're the flame.”
There's a pause. “Yes.”
“The flame is you,” he repeats, slower, as if fitting the thought into place. “Not the glass or iron.”
“That’s what I said,” Flins answers patiently. “Perhaps you were too drunk to remember when I explained this last week?”
“Just making sure I understand.” Varka's fingers drift back to the glass, resting there lightly. The reaction is immediate. The flame stutters, a visible hitch in its steady burn.
“So when I touch like this – ” his palm settles more fully, steady, “ – do you feel it more strongly than when I touch your human form?”
The quiet that follows tightens.
“Varka.” Flins’s voice drops, low and controlled.
“What?” He doesn’t move his hand. “I’m just clarifying.”
“Is that what you’re doing,” Flins asks, dry as ever – though the steadiness doesn’t quite hold.
“Am I not?” Varka traces a slow path upward along the glass. The flame responds in kind – pulling, flickering toward the movement, light bending unevenly. “Then what am I doing?”
Flins doesn't answer. The flame gives him away instead – flaring, dimming, flaring again, rhythm broken now, control slipping at the edges.
Varka pulls away, letting his fingers trail to the iron frame. The flame settles immediately into a more sedate dance than before. He watches that for a beat, thoughtful – then moves back to the glass. There’s a sharp spike of blue light, brighter than before, that holds for a beat too long before dimming back down.
“Interesting,” Varka murmurs. Is Flins so composed in his human form because sensations reach him less clearly, or does he feel everything this intensely but simply lacks the ability to express it?
There's a pause, and when Flins speaks, there's an edge of something almost like amusement beneath the tension. “This is quite bold, even for you.”
Varka's mouth curves slightly. His finger traces another slow circle against the glass, deliberate now, no pretense left in it. The flame trembles under the motion.
“I won’t lie,” he says, voice low, easy in a way that isn’t entirely innocent anymore, “I have a lot of questions. I thought this was me showing restraint.”
“Restraint,” Flins repeats, unbelieving – but there’s a strain threading through it now, subtle, tightening. “If that’s what you call it.”
Varka’s thumb drifts higher along the curve, unhurried, testing the reaction again, watching it closely. “And what would unrestrained look like?”
The flame dips – then surges, a sharp spike of white-hot light at its core before settling back into blue. The hum beneath Varka’s palm deepens, no longer faint. He can feel it now, a steady thrum.
“I suppose you’d have to find out,” Flins says.There’s something in his tone now. Not just amusement, but something more certain.
Varka watches the light shift and curl. “That sounds like an invitation.”
“It’s whatever you choose to make of it.”
Varka shifts against the rock as his thumb traces another slow circle across the glass. The blue flame stutters in response, brightening at the edges. His pulse skips – just slightly – and he licks his lips before speaking.
“Your flame's getting rather expressive,” he says, almost idly. “Every time I touch the glass, it flares. It's almost like you're reacting to me.”
The flame flickers once more – a soft, rhythmic dance that looks almost like chuckling.
“Perhaps you’ve never paid this much attention before,” Flins replies.
Varka's thumb stills against the glass. “I don't know if that's true,” he admits. He can't help the hint of seriousness creeping into his voice now, a crack in his composure. “Because it seems like something's changed.”
“Perhaps I'm simply enjoying the evening,” Flins counters, his tone playfully skeptical. “Not everything is about you, Grand Master.”
“Perhaps not,” Varka concedes quietly, but his hand doesn't move from the glass. “But you haven't asked me to stop, either.”
“I'm considering it,” Flins says, but there's no bite to it.
“But you won't.”
The light inside the lantern pulses, slow and deliberate. “No,” Flins admits, “I won't.”
Varka feels a quiet awareness of the choice being made between them, and though he knows he could pull back – should, perhaps, if he were being careful – he doesn’t. His hand stays where it is, warm against the cool glass, and he watches the flame dance and flicker like a heartbeat made visible.
“What would happen,” Varka says slowly, his voice barely above a murmur, “if I touched the flame itself?”
The reaction is immediate. The light fractures and flares so brightly that Varka has to narrow his eyes before it dims again, leaving the darkness around them deeper by comparison. When Flins answers, his voice is controlled in a way that feels deliberate.
“I don't know,” he says. “No human has ever tried.”
Varka’s hand shifts from the glass to the iron frame, tracing along the ridges until he finds the latch. “You said the glass is where you're closest to the surface.”
“Yes.”
“So to touch the flame wouldn’t just be… close to you,” Varka continues, quieter now, more intent. “It would be… actually you.”
“Yes.“
His thumb settles more firmly against the latch. “Would it hurt?”
A soft, almost amused sound escapes Flins. “No.”
“Then what?”
The flame answers first, stuttering, flaring, collapsing inward before surging again, the rhythm gone entirely now, replaced by something uneven and insistent. The hum against Varka’s skin deepens until it feels almost overwhelming, pressing at his senses.
“I suppose there's only one way to find out.”
Varka presses the latch, and the door swings open with a faint creak. Suddenly there's nothing between his hand and the blue flame but air. The flame – Flins, he tells himself, that’s Flins not just some flame – lifts toward the opening, brightening as he spills into the open air. Varka can feel something radiating from it now – not heat, but presence, raw and immediate.
His hand moves, slow and deliberate, palm up, fingers slightly curled as he reaches toward the opening.
Flins stutters violently, brightening and dimming in rapid succession as if caught between opposing impulses. Varka can see him flickering at the edges, tendrils of blue fire reaching toward his hand and pulling back, reaching and pulling back. His hand pauses just outside the lantern’s opening. Close enough that he can feel the presence against his palm – cool and electric and utterly unlike anything he's ever felt before – though he can't seem to take that last step past the open mouth of the glass.
Flins's voice cuts through the silence.
“You're hesitating, after all that.” There's a faint edge of challenge in the words. “Perhaps this wolf's bark is worse than his bite.”
Varka lets out a low breath, something almost like a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you. If I’m hesitating, it’s because you’ve gotten bold.” He lets his fingers rest against the edge of the opening, steadying there. “Seems to me you want this more than you’re willing to admit.”
Flins surges, white-blue and trembling at the edges, bright enough to sting Varka’s eyes. He stretches out his fingers, letting them reach into the lantern, and Flins does not stop him, does not reach for him, but simply waits, silent and expectant, as though daring him to follow through.
A sound cuts through the night. Distant but distinct – the low, resonant baying of something that isn't quite a hound.
Varka jerks back like he's been burned, his hand snapping away from the lantern so fast he knocks it askew. His other hand reaches instinctively for one of his swords as his head snaps up, scanning the moorland. Flins gutters wildly before steadying, still too bright, still erratic.
It comes again, closer this time, then fades, moving away rather than toward them. They listen, waiting, but nothing follows, and after a long moment Varka realizes it is not the Wild Hunt at all, only some distant animal, its cry carried strangely on the wind.
He exhales, tension loosening all at once, and a short, sharp laugh escapes him, edged with lingering adrenaline and a tinge of embarrassment. “Heh. Guess I’m a little jumpy tonight.”
“All the more reason to be paying better attention,” Flins says, as if he hadn’t been egging Varka on the entire time.
When he glances over, Flins is already beside him again in his human form, the transition so seamless it almost feels like it never happened. His coat is dark against the night, his collar drawn high, his expression composed.
Varka glances at him, then down at the lantern at his hip. Flins’s flame inside has steadied, burning a calm, even blue, as though nothing has happened. But he remains in his human form, making no moves to return to his lantern.
Varka notices. He does not comment.
The wind moves over the ridge, cold and steady, and neither of them speaks, but the space between them has shifted in a way that neither of them can quite ignore, even if neither is ready to name it.