Work Text:
Offered His Heart on a Gold Platter
Thunder crackled in the distance, lashing out against the gray, crowding the skies in a wash of aromatic.
The noises of pubs and restaurants rang, but the streets of Bilgewater was dead silent, except for the heavy waves of the salty seas and the vicious rainstorms that reigned on.
There, one man stood, his features rugged and sharp; his eyes dark and hateful. The man waited in the rain, as it beat down mercilessly upon him.
Droplets of water, like streams, streaked down his double-barreled gun and onto an infusion of leather and cloth. There was a small signal of a smoke, as he exhaled, his breath ghosted into the air of Bilgewater and vanished from sight.
The man, Malcolm Graves, shifted his posture, and felt the crack of stone underfoot.
It had been six years since he had last been to Bilgewater, or anywhere other than his dark thoughts and burning vengeance.
Six years, he had been imprisoned into The Locker because of Twisted Fate's betrayal.
The man shifted his double-barreled gun, and another breath exhaled from his lips, whispered away from his mouth immediately by the winds.
Malcolm Graves stared directly in front of him, at an aged wooden door and he considered his options.
This had been the pub where Twisted Fate and him had shared their memories of fortune and glory. This is where everything all started. This is where Graves had put his trust in the dirty scoundrel. The grip on his gun tightened, and he approached, pushing the door open with an unnecessary shove.
The door threw open, and he ordered a drink quickly, before sitting down in a corner. Graves' callused hands skimmed over the polished wooden chairs, and another wave of memories hit him like a high tide.
This was the exact same spot he had sat six years ago, except something was missing.
Something had always been missing, and Graves' hands closed around thin air.
XxX
“Easy there, kiddo. You've had too much to dunk,” Graves slurred, while he pulled Twisted Fate's onto his shoulder, “got to sleep that stuff off before you make a decision you regret.”
“Get your hands off me, Malcolm. I'm damn sober,” Twisted Fat muttered banteringly, before pointing at a lady in the corner and whispered, “you see that lady over there? She's batting her pretty eyelashes at me. Maybe I should go-”
Graves let out a possessive snarl, before giving Twisted Fate's gold cuffed sleeves another jerk.
“That's no woman, Fate. You're drunker than a....” Malcolm Graves frowned in consideration, before blinking up at said lady, “that's a man.”
“Malcolm, you're the one drunk. That's a goddamn lady,” Twisted Fate muttered, his usually polished image gone with the empty bottles of whiskey.
Graves just shook his head lightly, before pulling up his double-barreled gun and pulled Twisted Fate to his feet. With a quick signal at one of the bar ladies, he directed her to put that night's spendings on his tab. He then pointed at a rather new door at the corner, and she nodded; giggling lightly, face flushed with alcohol.
Graves slammed opened the door with his left foot, and hefted Twisted Fate further back into his embrace from falling.
There were several bunkers there, designed purposely for the drunken; often used to sleep off the beverages until the next morning.
Graves carefully put his prized gun down on an empty bunk, before throwing Twisted Fate less carefully onto another bunk.
A muffled protest escaped from the Card Master, Twisted Fate's lips. Fate searched blindly for the pillow, before pulling himself into a sitting position with a sluggish swagger.
In such a circumstance, Graves would have thought that Twisted Fate wouldn't have been able to produce such a charming and rugged smile. His expression was almost coy, when he dipped his chin and looked up at the outlaw quite pleasantly.
“Go back to bed, Fate. You're not sober,” Graves growled lightly, before pulling off his cloak, missing the hanger by a few miles, “I'm no lady, so keep your flashy tactics to yourself.”
A half-pout found its way onto Twisted Fate's face, before it was replaced with the same smirk. Fate worried his bottom lip for a second, before he pushed himself to his feet, making one progressed step, before grasping one of the bunker pieces for support.
Then, with a yelp of surprise, Twisted Fate fell with an unsteady misstep and crashed into Malcolm.
Both men were sent showering to the floor, one with curses, the other; giddy laughter. Twisted Fate, with his brimmed hat askew upon his head, lay limply against Graves' chest with a sigh of contempt.
“You really can't see anything under that brimmed hat of yours, can you?” Graves teased, before attempting to push Fate off to no avail.
The outlaw let out a frustrated and husky groan of protest.
“Malcolm,” Twisted Fate suddenly spoke, not quite sure how to place his words as a statement or a question.
“Yes, Fate?”
“I don't know what I'm feeling."
“What are you feeling, you bastard?”
“Come closer, and I'll tell you,” the Card Master grinned coyly.
“You're laying on top of me,” Graves pointed out, oblivious to Fate's sentence.
“You're no fun today.”
Then, without warning, Twisted Fate had printed a slobbery kiss on the left side of Graves' cheek which was followed by a baffled noise of confusion. Then, Malcolm Graves was pulling Twisted Fate off of him with a rather rough gesture. Emotions flashed under the brimmed hat and Fate tilted his head questioningly.
Graves grabbed Fate by the collar of his shirt roughly, before a low growl left those lips, followed by the scent of alcohol and cigars. The outlaw brought the lanky man back into another kiss, this time on the lips; rough and messily.
Twisted Fate complied sluggishly, his lips were brimmed with passion and his cheeks were heated to the touch. While Graves, he tore at Fates' lips, each action possessive and furious, animal-like and dominating. There was something wonderful about that moment, that was hellish heat and bitter sweet. He knew, he shouldn't had let Twisted Fate into his soul, but he did it anyways. He knew, he shouldn't have gotten this close to the thief and card master, but he had followed blindly like a lost lamb, knowing the dangerous that was intertwined within.
Why? Instinct.
There was something that Malcolm Graves couldn't pinpoint. The only thing that mattered in that moment in time was Twisted Fate and his ridiculously expensive cologne mixed in with the scent of leather, gold and spices.
It was intoxicating and dangerous; in a way, the scandal only heightened the thrill and adrenaline rush.
Malcolm Graves was offering his heart to break on a golden platter.
The night went by in a blur of bloody lips, hellish heat, and bitter sweetness that lingered. When Malcolm Graves awoke, the first thing that he saw was a pair of otherworldly, shockingly blue eyes.
Mythical and pure were the words to describe the orbs, as unlikely may that have seemed.
“I love you, Tobias Foxtrot,” was the only thing that Graves could remember himself saying that drunken night. He had let those words slip, and at the time, he didn't regret it one bit.
Soon, he will, because Twisted Fate had picked up a piece of his soul and ran with it, just to fracture it into a million little shards and never to give it back. In a sense, he was still running with what remained of Malcolm Graves' heart.
XxX
Graves stared threateningly down at the beer between his hands, a deep frown found his features. All he saw in those bubbles and liquid was Twisted Fate's smirk and everything he hated about the man.
The Card Master not only owed him six years of his life back, but also his heart. Malcolm Graves' hands closed around the mug and only let go after he heard a distinctive crack against the clay base.
The outlaw stared at the heavy wooden door of the pub, his gaze unwavering as his hands nursed the broken clay.
The door swung open, and Graves looked up without much of a thought.
His bloodstream froze and he forgot how to breath for a moment.
A flash of recolonization found his dark eyes and a feral growl escaped those cigar stained teeth. The sound was low, and quivering, like the tremor before an earthquake or a tsunami.
“Twisted Fate.”
The cloaked man looked his way under his brimmed hat and expensive leather vest and gold laced cloak. His boots gave one distinctive click against the tiled ground, before it stopped completely, and Fate was staring directly at Graves, like he couldn't believe his eyes.
What broke the silent moment full of stares and disbelief was the shuffling of cards and the sounds of a gun loading in.
Twisted Fate was fast, but Graves was faster. With a distinctive snarl, Malcolm Graves was on his feet and when he reached the five feet distance, the outlaw reached over and flipped the closest thing near himself at the thief. The wooden table was sent in Twisted Fate's direction, showering him in a table, a pile of golden coins, poker cards and a few drinks topped off with the overpowering bang of a gun.
The table shattered, a bullet through one side and out the other; the aim, still directed at Twisted Fate's heart, but ironically it missed.
Twisted Fate bit his teeth-was that a grimace of pain?
Fate stumbled, and for a second, Graves thought he had found his mark. Until, he saw the smug smile that flashed across the gleaming ivory teeth and the slightest tilt of the hat.
An aura of confidence surrounds the lanky man and Graves, to his despite, could already taste the smugness. The act, only sending Malcolm's rage and frenzy to a higher boil.
The lanky man was on his feet, his cloak and brimmed hat rustled in the disturbed atmosphere, three cards appearing between his switching fingers, his stance defensive. His fingers snapped, and one of the cards shot at the gunman. Graves caught it between his fingers cleanly, before tilting his head back slightly.
Then, he was bolting towards the pub entrance, his overpriced cloak snapping at his heels, and he was out the door faster than Graves could have ever pulled out a cigar.
A rouge growl was spat viciously from the man, and he gave chase, pursued by the voice of a pub full of shocked customers and a horrified bar owner.
The crackle of thunder didn't stop Malcolm Graves from giving chase.
The downpour of rain didn't stop Malcolm Graves from closing the distance.
Then, they were close. Too close for comfort. Fate could feel the hot breath against the back of his neck, the current of the air breaking between the two, and before he could even retaliate, he was knocked to the ground in a tackle, a single yelp wrenched from his throat.
The two men tussled, hisses of pain and growls of hostility echoing into every corner of the alleyway.
Then, Graves had gotten a good hold on the thief, a knee digging painfully into his stomach, and a hand around the lanky man's neck.
Twisted Fate tried to speak, but the lack of oxygen to his mind is causing every inch of his body to scream and twitch in pain. Rational thoughts aren't making through the right windows, and reality is shaking in such a way, that it was painful to look at.
His words are blurry to Malcolm Graves when he tries to speak.
He's heard them all.
“Malcolm,” Twisted Fate gasps, his hands giving a weak tug against the dominating weight to no avail, only encouraging a tighter grip upon his neck.
Anger burns through Graves, and instinctively, he crushes down with one hand.
Hearing breathless lips usher his name by his most hated man is like breaching Hell all over again.
It stings, hurts, and it's like being carved inside out, inch by inch with a small dagger. Waves of anger and spite shoots through the man, without even knowing, he's hurting himself too in the process.
It's the damn tunnel-vision men get when they're angry.
But this, this is more than anger, this runs deeper, deeper into his veins.
It's intoxicating; it's like a substance that drives him on until there is no more to achieve, until there is no more purpose to acquire. It's like a shark that has scented blood.
With a pang, Graves realizes that this substance is Twisted Fate.
Then with other fist, he was arching back, and punch after punch went down upon the man's face, sending the spots into a wash of ugly purple immediately.
Graves growled, his thoughts broken and confused.
All he wanted right now was to cause the man pain that he caused him.
He wanted to kill the man, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Graves's fingers went down the other man's body, leaving three ugly marks from the chin down to the adam's apple.
He drew blood, again and again, hearing the hisses of pain that only urged him on. His fingernails raked down the sides of the other man's face, and landed a few more lashes before he pulled back, the metallic taint of blood on his hands.
A thin trail of blood rolled down Twisted Fate's lips.
“I should have killed you long ago, when I had the chance!”
It's all so typical. Something wasn't right though. Twisted Fate was wincing in pain, but he made no move to remove the force from his neck. He was almost patient, like he had calculated this event already, and he knew hiding from it any further would only encourage the same end result. It was like he knew all along.
“I'm sorry.”
Malcolm Graves froze in disbelief, his hold on the man's neck unwound for a started second as the man struggled for breath like a decked fish. There was no explanations. Just two words, so simply, but filled with so much emotion and power.
During most circumstances, Fate could have lied into another person's face without as much as much as a blink of an eye or a sliver of regret.
But he couldn't hide from Graves. Graves knew him way too well and it hurt so painfully true. The grief and self-blame he had been racketing up have been stored away for way too long.
“'Sorry', that's it?” Graves snarled, his grip found its way onto the lankier man's neck once again.
“I-”
“Don't start.”
“I don't understand.”
Graves glared down, and looked Twisted Fate seriously in the eye, before he whispered the words, “fuck you,” but lost his stern voice, tripped on the last syllable, and the words wavered with emotion which ended up with a sad chuckle.
“As charming as ever, hotshot.”
“Wise ass.”
Then, Malcolm Graves was grabbing Twisted Fate by the collar once more, tugging him up in a fierce kiss; all sense of direction, self, and reality lost to the wind.
Malcolm Graves knew he shouldn't believe Twisted Fate. He knew he should have turned back now and send a bullet through the other man's skull, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want to care.
Even if he was walking directly upon one of Twisted Fate's schemes, he couldn't bring himself to care less. All that matter at the moment was Twisted Fate and his ridiculously expensive cologne mixed in with the scent of leather, gold and spices.
“I hope you've let out enough of your rage,” Twisted Fate murmured softly.
“I'm going to regret doing this later, you bastard,” Graves snarled, inhaling sharply and he embraced Twisted Fate in another heated kiss, deliberately drawing blood by worrying the other man's bottom lip.
Even bloody and bruised, Malcolm Graves had to admit that Twisted Fate was still as charming as ever.
“Red looks very good on you.”
“I'm flattered.”
“Shut up, Princess. No one likes a wise ass.”'
“Malcolm?” Twisted Fate sighed slowly, the sudden banter dropped from his features as quickly as it had come. He took in a breath cautiously, before he pondered his words, “I'll explain everything-”
“Don't. I don't want to hear it.”
“Malcolm?”
“I understand. I'll ask when the time is ready.”
“I thought you'd be a stubborn ass about it.”
“Nearly put a bullet through your head.”
“Exactly.”
“Still am.”
“You wouldn't.”
Graves tilted the lankier man's chin up to meet his gaze and the otherworldly blue found the brown and they locked; unwavering and calm within the pulsing rage and misunderstanding.
“You know me all too well.”