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Gaz was on the hunt this morning.
His target? His husband.
Why? Well, he would have been in a good mood had his husband stayed in bed with him and not left him so early.
He woke to a cold spot where his husband's body should have been. So, it was reasonable for him to be disappointed. Still, he dressed, pulled on his boots, and left their quarters to begin his hunt.
Now, strolling through the castle's halls and bowing his head at passing servants, he makes his way to the north tower where John often spent his days working. He climbs the stairs and comes to a stop when he notices the door has been left ajar. Gaz approaches quietly, listening to the familiar mumblings of his husband and sounds of paper being rifled around. He hears a muttered curse and takes that as his sign to enter. He pushes the door open with the toe of his boot, and steps forwards just to be in the threshold. He takes in the scene before him, a fond smirk gracing his lips.
His husband, broad-shouldered and dressed in a dark green tunic and dark trousers, hunkered over a wooden desk that is littered with papers. His sword is not secured at his waist like it usually it, but rather propped against the desk safety away in its scabbard.
"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?" John calls out without even looking at him.
Gaz leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. He shrugs absentmindedly. "Why didn't you wake me?" he asks.
John hums and holds up a piece of scribbled parchment. "You had a long day yesterday," his husband responds. "I didn't want to disturb you." He rolls the parchment into a tube and walks over to the message chute to send it on its way. One good pull of the lever and whoosh—its gone, likely to the throne room or the king's chambers.
Gaz pushes himself away from the door and strides further into the room. He walks around John's desk, brushing his shoulder against John's back before sinking down into the chair.
"Is it the king?" he asks as John returns to the desk.
John braces one hand on the desk and the other scratches at his beard. Gaz rakes his eyes over his husband's frame, noting the tense shoulders and subtle tightness in his jaw.
"Rumors of war, I'm afraid," is John's response.
That certainly catches Gaz's attention. His agents hadn't reported anything out of the ordinary around their borders. The king would've sent for him personally if anything was brewing. He frowns and sits up a tad straighter.
"With who?"
"The king has plenty of enemies," John says. He looks up, revealing very tired-looking stormy blue eyes. "Where would you start, spymaster?"
Gaz purses his lips at the teasing tone of his title. Fair point. Their king did have plenty of enemies. He should know. He's killed plenty of them at the king's word.
"That depends," he answers. He leans back in the chair and promptly heaves his legs to rest his boots on the desk with a grunt. "But you said yourself these are only rumors…"
He plucks a sheet of parchment and begins skimming through—a recent requisition letter in John's neat scrawl—and barely makes it through the first paragraph before it is snatched out of his hands and he's met with those same blue eyes and a frowning face.
"Rumors grow," John reminds him. He folds the parchment and tucks it away, out of his reach. "You know that." He leans forward and Gaz tilts his head up to meet his husband halfway, brushing their lips together. The kiss is short and chaste, and John breaks away as soon as Gaz attempts to deepen it.
"I do know that," Gaz responds with a scowl. "It's my job. The one you insist the king bestow me."
John turns away from him, returning to the desk and his work. Gaz immediately swings his legs off the desk and stands up. "I also know that our king would only have you working this early if the rumors had some validity and orders have already been—"
Something crumples in John's hand. Gaz's sharp eyes dart to it and there at the top right corner is the king's marque. It doesn't take a fool to know what those are. Orders. But the question remained: for who? Gaz takes in John's stance and he has his answer. He shuffles on the balls of his feet, standing at attention—the role of husband now gone and now replaced with the cunning spymaster.
"Where am I going, ser?"
John doesn't answer, nor is he looking at him. He's avoidant and distant. John moves another pile of parchment to the side and continues to work.
"Ser?" he presses again.
"Nowhere," is the clipped response he receives.
Gaz's brows knit together. He tries again. "Where does the king want me?"
"Here."
"The king has you. They don't have a use for me here."
"This time they do. Is that a problem?"
"Yes."
John finally looks up and their eyes meet. "Your orders are to remain here. Stay close to the king and their advisors." He bows his head again, avoiding his sharpened gaze. "Root out any problems that threaten the kingdom and deal with them if necessary…"
"And who will investigate those rumors, ser?"
"I will."
"Bullshit."
John's head snaps up, stormy eyes now hardened. "You have your orders, Gaz—"
"Yes, the ones in your hand."
"Do not fight me on this."
"Who said anything about fighting?" Gaz says with an indignant scoff. He gestures between the two of them. "I'm merely trying to have a discussion with you—"
"You are trying to force my hand!" John angrily retorts.
Gaz stands there, taken aback. His postures straightens as he tilts his head. For John to have such a strong reaction, the orders had to mean something serious. He searches for possibilities before landing on one: Makarov.
It was no secret that the lands to the north were treacherous and filled with danger. Beasts stalked the woods, always hungry for prey. The roads were just as dangerous. Always guarded by bandits and mercenaries who didn't care whose banner you walked under. Treaties were a passing thought. To them, coin was coin—no matter who had it. Those who had ventured that far north almost never returned. The only person Gaz knew that had made it back was John, but that was years ago. Before they even met.
"This has to do with Makarov."
"Yes. He's made himself too comfortable in the north. So, the decision's been made," John says after a quiet moment. "I ride for the border in two days."
Gaz wants to correct his husband but decides against it. It would hardly make a difference. However, he is cautious in his approach. He's learned in their time together, not just serving under their king but as more, that there were ways to approach John in moments like these. When the tension was high and harsher words had been exchanged.
"Those aren't your orders, John," Gaz says. John's beard twitches and Gaz pushes harder. "They are mine. The king—"
"To hell with them," John says bitterly with a harsh snarl. "I will not send you there. Not while I still draw breath."
"That's treason."
"Then hang me from the gallows. If it means you will be safe then so be it."
The confession hardly shocks Gaz. John has always been a stubborn man. It was one of the many reasons why he loved him. To be loved by John Price was a high honor; one that he did not want to lose.
Gaz stretches out a hand and lays it at the nape of John's neck. He forces his husband to look at him and presses their foreheads together. His grip is firm, keeping John there to allow them this moment of affection. It was rare they had moments alone, aside from sharing a bed chamber. But duty and obligation came first, their marriage was always second.
"John."
His husband—the proud, handsome, and stubborn man he is—frays at the edges. Their eyes meet, the stormy blue of John's and the warm brown of his own. John's voice breaks and with it so does Gaz's heart.
"Do not ask this of me," John rasps.
Gaz sighs. "I have a duty, ser. As do you," he says. He starts to lower his hand from John's neck but his husband is quick to curl a hand around his wrist. The hand squeezes his wrist and John's lips brush against his knuckles. He forces down the shiver that threatens to crawl up his spine. He's going to miss this. He intends to keep those most intimate touches close to the vest and commit them to memory. No one will take those from him.
He demands again: "Give me the orders, John."
John exhales shakily. Still holding his hand, his husband looks at him again and begins to whisper the words that he no doubt memorized long before he set foot in the room.