(Lambert x Aiden
I might make another chapter for this because I have some more ideas for my favourite Cat and Wolf so I hope you all enjoy!)
Aiden quickly found his way into metaphor.
This full moon, Lambert would think, is Aiden. This hot meal, this warm fire, Aiden's chest, his hands. This gore running down my wrist, that was Aiden last night. I want to smear it. I hope it stains; I hope I never run clean.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Gettin’ tired of me yet? Still think you want to follow my lazy ass all the way to White Orchard?”
Aiden frowned. “I’m not ‘following you.’ I’m keeping your lazy ass company. Would a little gratitude be that hard on your ego?”
“Yes. Yes it would.” Lambert turned away and busied himself with his horse. He couldn’t bear for Aiden to see his smile, his relief. He actually wants to stay, he thought, crazy bastard still hasn’t figured me out. Oh well. His funeral.
“You know if there’s an inn between here and Benek?” Aiden asked. His horse – Flyboy – huffed as a sack of dirty linens were strapped to his sturdy shoulders. “I’ve gotten soft, not in the mood to set camp tonight.”
Lambert snorted. “Not unless we ride like hell. Hope you like grilled rabbit a-la-Lambert, cause that’s all you’re gettin’ tonight.”
“I like your grilled rabbit. It’s the lumpy ground I have issues with.”
“Ha. You have gotten soft.”
“Hey. You know how to fix that.” Aiden flicked his glove out and caught Lambert in the ass. “Just gotta call me something sweet.”
Lambert coughed out a laugh and squeezed his fist so tight his knuckles ached.
What Lambert knew was this: When you fuck other men you don’t talk about it. You keep your mouth shut, you get out of their bed, you make a dirty joke, you put your pants back on, you leave their room, you hide under your sheets, you watch the ceiling till the sun comes up, you regain feeling in your limbs, and then when you see him in the morning, you don’t look at him. You don’t smile at him. You don’t talk about it. You don’t talk about it. You don’t talk about it. You don’t talk about it. You don’t talk about it. You don’t talk about it.
“Don’t blush, people are gonna ask if you have the flu,” Aiden said, then pulled himself up onto Flyboy. “’Big Bad Wolf’ my ass.”
But sometimes Aiden did talk about it.
-
The night was cold despite the heat of the day and the far-off winter. Lambert made his grilled rabbit and Aiden cleaned the horse’s shoes and muddy undersides.
They huddled around the fire under a single thread-bare blanket because most of their clothes were hanging overnight to dry.
Aiden spoke first, as he often did. “Most of my trainers said none of you could make signs, you know, you Wolves. Or that if you could – that it was weak, little sparks like matches, gusts of wind. You were all muscle."
Lambert flexed his hand and shot a puff of gleaming Igni into the hot coals, making them crackle and glow. “Think that could light a pipe?”
“Don’t be a showoff,” Aiden scolded, then rocked and bumped their shoulders. “I’m complimenting you; I’m saying you’ve proven them wrong.”
“Damn right.” Lambert flattened his palm and pressed it to the ground as a circle of Yrden breathed to life around them. Just for good measure. Just to show off.
Aiden laughed, reached out, and ran his fingers through the shimmering runes. Purple light danced across his skin, his bare chest. His endless heaps of scars.
He was handsome. So goddamn handsome. He was the type of handsome that people sang about, cried about. Fuck that Dandelion and his obsession with ragged old Geralt, Lambert thought. He should be wailing to the masses about someone like this. This here’s a fucking muse.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Got banned from a pub in Novigrad for shit like this. I was trying to get this elf lady in bed with me – thought lighting a candle with my hands would impress her, but, I’d had a few to drink and my control wasn’t great.” He smiled at the memory. “Melted the whole thing down to a puddle and nearly torched the halfling behind the counter. Tough luck.”
Aiden turned back to him as their ring of Yrden died out with a fizzle and a pop. “So, what happened to the elf lady? You still get lucky?”
“Fuck yeah,” Lambert lied.
“Mm. Well I’m not that easy. I’m going to bed.”
-
Lambert had an ache in his back the next morning from sleeping on the uneven ground. He didn’t complain about it, but Aiden still knew.
He reached out and caught Lambert’s arm, spun him around wordlessly, then dug the heels of his palms right into the knot between Lambert’s shoulders. Right where he needed it most. When he was done, he kissed Lambert’s neck. Soft, innocent.
Kiss me again, Lambert thought. Kiss me again, kiss my lips, kiss my face, kiss my hands, kiss me in a church, kiss me in the street, kiss me in front of my brothers, I wouldn’t care. I never care. Not about anything. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, please.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “What was that about? How old do you think I am?”
Aiden looked tired. “Old.” He shuffled around and presented his back. “My turn.”
Lambert didn’t return the kiss on the neck when he was done. He was too old for dumb stuff like that.
-
“And so, the Princess, cursed and feral. Was saved and blessed by Witcher Geral…t.” Aiden sang from the saddle. He was off-key. There was sweat tracking down his throat and into his collar. “’Oh’, cried King, ‘Mine daughter! Cured at last! I thank you, Wolf, and your strength, unsurpassed.’”
“Do you really have to sing about my brother?”
Aiden shot him a dirty look; his melody interrupted. “It’s a good song.”
“Yeah, but it’s my brother.” Lambert flicked his reins. “Kinda hard to buy into a heroic ballad about a guy you’ve watched puke out of his nose. More than once.”
Aiden rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll sing the one about the archer. He’s hardly in that.”
I wish you wouldn’t, Lambert thought. I wish that you hated him. I wish you would sing about me. I wish you would think about me. I wish you were sick over me. I wish you would get mean and hopeless and lost when I wasn’t around. I wish I could give you even a taste of what you’re doing to me, you fucking monster.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Whatever. But when you finally meet Geralt and see how pathetic he is you’re never gonna want to say his name again. Believe me.”
Aiden arched an eyebrow. “When?”
Lambert shrugged. “He gets around. You’ll run into him one of these days.”
“Or you could just introduce us. Like a good brother.”
“Who said I was a good brother?”
-
There was coin in Benek. Not anything big, Drowners near the river.
“Killed my son, I want them gone,” the Fisherman said. Hollow with loss. “But I can only pay for one of you’s, we’re simple folk.”
Aiden did the talking. He was better at it. His voice was soft, his face earnest. “We work together, you only have to pay for the work of one Witcher, on my word. We’ll be back by sundown.”
“Thank you, thank you, good Sirs.” The Fisherman removed his hat and bowed. He wasn’t old. His son must have been young. “Thank you.”
Aiden returned the bow. He bowed to everyone. Elves, bums, kids – especially kids. His locs fell around his face, and as he stood, he reached to tie them back, then shot Lambert a look to indicate he should get their swords off the horses.
The Drowners saw them coming, some fled to the water, but Lambert had a charcoal bomb ready that he lit and tossed after them. It burst midair, coating the surface of the water in vile, black powder that got the monsters angry, chased them back onshore.
Aiden threw back a bottle of Full Moon, followed by something green. He bared his teeth in pain as the chemicals made his veins pulse, his eyes darken. He always overdid it, but he had to. Or so he claimed. He was a Cat, and he was weak, he needed help. That’s the way it was.
After a full-body shudder, he took a third mixture that made him gag.
Lambert looked away in disgust, maybe fear. He focused on the Drowner to his left, cut him in half, torched the body.
It was quick, there were only nine of the things. Lambert’s coat was torn at the bicep, but his skin was barely grazed.
When it was over, he hauled the slimy, oozing bodies into a pile and burned them while Aiden vomited his toxic array of potions up near the water’s edge.
You can’t keep doing this, Lambert thought. One of these days your kidney’s going to give out. You’re going to be laying there twitching all over, foaming at the mouth, leaving me alone. You can’t keep doing this, so let’s stop. Let’s get to one of these shitty little towns and stay. Let’s put our swords down. I could stop, for you, I think I could stop. I want to stop.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “You done over there or you need me to carry you back again, my Lady?”
Aiden trudged over to an area where the water ran clear, kneeling to splash his face. “I’m not-” he coughed; his voice shredded. “You can go back. I’ll find you when I feel better. Just get the horses something to eat.”
Lambert burned with shame. “Come on,” he drawled. “I’m not a complete dirtbag.” He almost cried out when Aiden slumped over, but after a moment he could see his chest heaving with labored breaths. “I’ll hang around till you get your bearings.” He tried not to sound worried. “It’s fine.”
Aiden shook his head. There was sand in his hair, and caked onto his wet hands. “No. I’m going to be awhile. Just go. The horses need to eat.”
Lambert left.
-
Two hours passed. The horses were warm in their stable. Lambert’s pockets were heavy with coin. The sun was going down. It was getting cold. Aiden still wasn’t back.
Lambert left his coat and his sword in the room he’d rented. He walked in his red linen shirt down to the river. The bandage on his arm fluttered in the wind and he wondered if Aiden had died. If his fragile Cat genes had finally shorted out and left him a chilled corpse over nothing but a few Drowners.
Lambert wondered why he’d left. He wondered what kind of person he was to abandon Aiden down there in the mud and the weeds. Even if he’d just been doing what he was told.
Lambert wondered when he’d started doing what he’d been told.
Aiden wasn’t dead. He was sitting, hunched over with his head between his knees. His hair was down, and his locs were flecked with damp sand and algae. He flinched when Lambert touched the skin of his goose-bump-ridden arm, but went still, and smiled when he saw who it was. “Wolf,” he said. His voice shook, his eyes were bloodshot.
If you were dead, Lambert thought. I might have killed myself. Right here, right on this beach. I have a knife in my pocket.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Fuck. You look like hell.”
Aiden shrugged, took Lambert’s hand when it was offered, let himself be pulled to his feet. “I think I had a little too much to drink.”
Lambert hugged him. Folded him into his arms and squeezed until the gaping mouth of the Cat medallion was branded to his chest.
Aiden pressed his nose into the crook of Lambert’s neck. His hands were ice, he smelled horrible. “Still offering to carry me back? Once more for old time’s sake?”
“Yes,” Lambert said, too fast, too honest.
Aiden burrowed deeper into Lambert’s chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Not scared. Kinda pissed, though.”
-
Lambert ran a bath because they had the coin and because if he didn’t do something nice, he was going to crawl out of his own skin.
He helped Aiden wash and moisturize and roll his locs because Aiden was weak and because he’d done it before. He’d done it last time Aiden overdid the concoctions, last time he trembled and spit blood and pretended like it wasn’t the most terrifying thing Lambert had ever seen.
Once he was clean and bright-eyed, Aiden slipped into a pair of cotton shorts and pushed Lambert onto the bed. He kissed like he was sorry, painfully slow, teeth-rottingly sweet.
Then he rolled onto his side, blew the candle out, pulled the blanket up over the pair of them, and pressed his face to Lambert’s chest.
I hope I die in my sleep, Lambert thought. I hope I close my eyes and never feel anything again except for this. You. Because it will never be better than this, I’ve done it, this is it.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Watch out, you know I snore like a dog.”
“Goodnight,” Aiden said.
-
They decided to stay an extra day in Benek. Aiden was better, but it would be three days till the next town, it was safer to rest.
They ate breakfast, fed the horses, then went back to bed.
Aiden arched his back and the butter-yellow sunlight from the open window made his face glow, his teeth shine in his wide-open mouth.
Lambert was self-conscious and blundering despite his awe. They never did this during the day. This was a deed to be conducted in whispers, surrounded by shadow and secrecy. He could see too much now. Too much of Aiden and all his beauty. Too much of himself and his terrible ugliness.
Lambert closed his eyes, he felt Aiden’s fingers in his mouth.
How can you bear it? He thought. How can you touch me like this? Aren’t you disgusted? Don’t you feel dirty? How have you kept it up for this long? How much more can you take? Will you give me a warning before you’re done?
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “Fuck. Aiden, Baby, Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.”
-
They fought on the road to South Unduin. It started over something small like money spent on food for the road.
It’s a waste, Lambert argued. We can hunt, we can fish, it’s a waste.
We’re passing through a swamp, Aiden explained, with condescension. No hunting, no fishing, we need backup.
But then it just kept growing. Then they were talking sharp and loud. The ears of their horses twitched nervously from the tension.
“No, that’s what you said, word for word,” Aiden lifted his hand before Lambert could cut him off again. “We were in Lurtch, outside the blacksmiths, and you said you were ‘thinking’ about heading to Angren in July to meet your brother. But now you ‘have to’? Now it’s non-negotiable?”
“It was a figure of speech, fuck!” Lambert’s head rolled back and he stared at the sky. Clear blue. “I was just talking.”
“I had plans in Kaedwen that I completely blew off because you made White Orchard sound so good, but you can’t trust me about Nazair?”
“I believe your bullshit about Nazair, I’m just telling you that I can’t go. I’m meeting Eskel in Angren. It’s done. Fucking get over it.”
Flyboy snorted as Aiden reared him in and stopped dead in the road. “Look at me. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” He waited. “Look at me.”
Lambert looked at him, he looked away. He was angry, he didn’t want this. He wasn’t supposed to be like this with Aiden, he was better now. He really thought he was better now.
When Aiden spoke his voice was warmer, but only just. “I’m asking you to go with Nazair with me. I want you to come.”
“I want – I-” Lambert stuttered, he wished Eskel was dead, and that he could go to Nazair with Aiden. “I don’t want to, but I told him I would he’s – he’s my brother.”
“But you said-”
“I know what I fucking said!” Lambert shouted, too loud, mean. “I was lying. I’m going to Angren in July. Blame Eskel, get off my back.”
“I don’t care about Eskel, I care that you made it sound like you would do this for me.”
“Why?” Lambert was glad he was on a horse. He was scared of what he might do if Aiden was within arm’s reach. “Because you’re doing me all these fucking favors and now I owe you?”
“A favor? Is that what this is? Is that what these past four months have been to you? An exchange?”
“Yeah, I get it now,” Lambert sneered. “You’re letting me drag you to White Orchard just so I can be on call in Nazair when you overdose on those knockoff shitty potions and hack up a lung.”
“Fuck you.”
“You need a babysitter, huh? A bodyguard?”
Aiden barked out a laugh, he was stiff as a corpse. He was perfect.
I love you, Lambert thought.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “You finally realize that you’re shit without me? A pathetic Goddamn excuse for a Witcher? Finally clicked that you won’t make it a week without keeping a professional around to kill your monsters and suck your cock? Had that epiphany yet, Sweetheart?”
Aiden leaned back and bristled like someone had drawn a weapon.
Lambert returned to himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. Quickly, a near-whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
The silence stretched on. Lambert’s breath was coming in short, his hands were sweating, he wasn’t sure where he was or who’s blood was on his hands. He blamed Eskel, he blamed Geralt, he blamed his father. “I’m sorry.”
-
Lambert let the Cat work the contract with him on the grounds that he got 60% of the cut. Maybe this whoreson had got there first, but Lambert was bigger, better armed, and meaner.
The Cat - Aiden - caved fast. “Fine, take your ten percent. But you’re buying the first round.”
Lambert nodded, then went still. He didn’t remember agreeing to a drink.
The sun cracked over the city wall, and they met at the mouth of the cave to talk strategy and get their equipment sorted. It was a short conversation – clinical, well-practiced. The Ogre of Ellander’s hour was waning.
Aiden took more potions pre-battle than any Witcher Lambert had ever met. Full Moon, Swallow, Willow, Thunderbolt, something purple and bubbling, all at once. He coughed and spit between each gulp, whipping the empty vials at the ground as his veins began to swell and pulse. “Blast,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck, God.”
Lambert just shook his head and got to work oiling his blade up. Cats really were a sorry sight.
The Ogre took a Samum bomb to the chin from Lambert to start the dance, and from there it was up to Melitele. Or whoever it was that gave a shit about Witchers.
Strung-out and wild-eyed as he was, Aiden wasn’t completely useless. He was fast, reckless. He dashed in and cut at Achilles' tendons, the back of a knee, up and into the stomach. His Igni was strange – blue and sparking – but hot enough to blind.
Lambert soon found a pattern. He’d fire off crossbow bolts and gusts of Aard while waiting for Aiden to cause a flashy distraction, then charge in hard and hack off a finger, slice into an artery, get some real damage done.
It was over as fast as it had started. Easy money, a day’s work.
Aiden leaped backward to avoid being crushed by the toppling corpse of the Ogre, then looked up at Lambert and laughed. He had gore all over his face, his teeth were shiny white. “That was fun!”
Lambert tossed his sword down with a clatter and turned his back to inspect what was probably a broken rib. ‘Fun,’ he thought, sure, let’s call it that.
Aiden was quiet again, and shaking by the time they’d sawed through the cartilage of the Ogre’s ear as a trophy. His veins were still taught and slithering with toxicity.
“You know, one hit of White Honey, and that shit’ll all be out of your system,” Lambert said, not because he cared, he was just getting antsy, sick people stressed him out.
“Thanks.” Aiden smiled crookedly. “But that doesn’t really work on me anymore. I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah but…not like it could hurt.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
Lambert swallowed his words – words that sounded like Eskel, or Vesemir – and tossed the waxy ear in a drawstring pouch. “Whatever, we’re done here. Let’s head back and-”
Aiden was staring at his hand. The tips of his fingers were slick and shiny with blood, so was the bottom half of his face.
“Shit.” Lambert jolted back in shock.
Red oozed from Aiden’s nose and bubbled down past his lips, dripped from his chin at a pace that shouldn’t have been possible. He cursed, but it was distorted by the blood entering his mouth and came out as no more than a gurgle.
Lambert went cold and numb with disgust. He wanted to look away, this was unnatural, there was something very wrong.
Aiden swayed on his feet. He looked up from his hand at last and met Lambert’s eyes. He looked scared.
Lambert caught him when he fell. He didn’t want to, he just did.
Water dripped from the ceiling of the cave and the Ogre’s corpse hissed and creaked as it settled into death. The only other sound was Aiden’s wet, strained breathing as he hung, near-lifeless in Lambert’s arms.
“Oh my God.” Lambert stumbled under the weight. He gasped and flinched as Aiden’s head rolled towards his chest, not wanting the diseased blood to touch his skin.
“Fuck, fuck, hey! Hey!” Lambert shook him awkwardly, readjusted his grip at the waist, almost like they were dancing. “Hey! Aiden! Wake – fuck, what the hell.”
Lambert got them to the ground safely, but found that if he didn’t keep Aiden’s head propped up on his lap he’d start to choke – on blood? Spit? Puke? He didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
“Okay,” he said to no one but himself. “You’re fine, you’re – woah – okay, okay. You’re fine.”
The blood flow from Aiden’s nose showed no sign of stopping. He groaned, shuddered.
“Aiden.” Lambert shook him softly by the shoulders. Repeated his name: “Aiden, Aiden, hey. Wake up, man. Aiden.”
He counted, three minutes, that was all he could take.
He stood and ran, grabbed his sword, stuffed it down his back, then returned to Aiden’s side. “Good thing you Cats are so fucking small,” he joked, for his own sake. “If you were one of those monsters from the Bear school, I’d need a horse and buggy.”
Lambert gave in and let Aiden bleed on him as he carried him, bridal-style back through the twisting maze of the cave. He talked to himself – to the both of them, the whole way.
It was strange, he thought. If the Ogre had crushed Aiden’s skull or something like that he wouldn’t have been so anxious. Monsters killed Witchers – that he could handle. But they’d been alone. Aiden had looked at him.
Lambert wasn’t a monster.
The sun had baked the frost of the early morning from the tips of the grass, but the air was still crisp. It was spring, there were flowers.
Lambert let Aiden’s boots swing through crops of golden wheat and in-between bobbing pink heads of lilies. He was getting more difficult to carry with each step. His sword was cutting into Lambert’s forearm. He wasn’t waking up.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Lambert stopped, hefted Aiden back into place, kept walking. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t mix your drinks – I mean, I do it too – but look at you, you’re like, ‘hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. Got a twenty-four-year-old Niece that could wipe the floor with your sorry ass.” He snorted. “Wow, is she really twenty-four now?”
Aiden stirred, frowned.
Lambert looked down at him. He wasn’t young, just had clear skin. Dark skin, so dark the drying blood on his face looked black. High cheekbones, hair long on top, and rolled into thick locs that were coming loose from the bun he’d stuffed them into before the fight. He was handsome.
Lambert looked away and felt dirty. It was an objective observation, but the man was out cold in his arms, it wasn’t the time.
“Alright, fine,” he said. “I’m buying the first round after all. Get whatever the fuck you want. You need it.”
By the time they made it back to the inn and up two flights of stairs, Lambert was seeing stars. His shirt was painted to his chest and heat was caught under his coat, against Aiden’s body, in his boots.
On his own bed, he lay Aiden down as gently as he could with the way his arms were shaking, then collapsed to the ground on his knees. He threw his coat and weapons off with a curse, pulled his boots off with sweat-slick hands, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling. “Fuck this,” he moaned to the heavy footsteps on the floor above. “You were supposed to make things easier, asshat.”
Aiden said nothing. His breathing had evened out, and the bleeding had stopped somewhere a while back when they were heading up an alley to avoid the busy market and unwanted attention. He looked more like he was sleeping now.
Lambert grimaced as he sat up slowly from the floor, turning to observe the damp outline of his own torso he’d left in the dust behind him. “Gross.”
He stood and hobbled to the window which he opened as far as it would go, took a few deep breaths, then got to work.
Lambert cleaned the blood off Aiden’s face and hands first, just so that he wouldn’t look so dead. The splatter down the front of his tight-fitted armor would stain, but it was already a mess, you could hardly tell it used to be green.
Next, he dressed the wounds that he could get to without rolling Aiden over. A stitch or two on the left bicep, a skinned elbow that needed washing, there was gravel packed into a few split knuckles, easy stuff. Not anything that broke men out of comas - but it was a start.
Aiden’s face was beaded with sweat, but undressing him felt a step too far. Lambert wet a rag and left it on his forehead while he rifled through his personal collection of potions and decoctions.
“I don’t give a shit what you say, Cat.” Lambert pulled a corked, white, bottle from his bag and tossed it, mixing the contents so they shimmered. “You’re taking a shot of White Honey. That’s Witchering 101.”
As he was leaning down over the bed, Aiden coughed, and opened his eyes.
“Oh, shit.” Lambert tripped over his own feet, backpedaling like mad and spilling half the contents of his bottle down the front of his shirt.
Aiden blinked hard, his pupils dilating wildly from thin slits to wide, shocked circles.
“Hey, hey, Aiden, buddy-” Lambert’s back hit the wall and he put both hands up to show that he wasn’t a threat. He had only just realized how bad this looked. This was his bedroom, he was only half-dressed. “It’s me.”
“Where-?” Aiden coughed again, then wiped the residual blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He frowned groggily and pulled the rag from his forehead. “What’s going on?”
“You-” Lambert tossed the bottle aside, winced as it broke. “You’re fine, you just – you blacked out…back there, I don’t know.”
“Where am I?” Aiden’s voice was odd, still thick with blood. “Where am I?”
“My room. I’m sorry, I didn’t know where you were staying, I didn’t know where else to go. If I’d taken you to one of those shitty self-taught doctors they’ve got around here they would’ve just given you molasses or pulled a tooth out I mean-” Lambert laughed desperately. He was rambling. “You know I got a brother – Witcher, I mean – and whenever he really fucks something up like breaks a leg or whatever the only people he trusts to sew him back up are the fucking Dryads but it’s not like that was much of an option out here in the prairies so-”
“We’re in your room?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. It’s not – those are clean sheets, though.”
Aiden tried to sit up, grunted, then thought better of it. He brought the rag back to his face and dragged it down his jaw and over his throat. “I was bleeding.”
Lambert nodded.
“Then what?”
“Then, uh.” Lambert looked down at his hands.
“How far did I make it?”
“Make it where?”
“Here. Back to town.” Aiden fumbled with the buckles of his armor, flicking each one open absentmindedly. His breathing sounded painful. “I only remember being in the cave. The Ogre. Did I walk here?”
Lambert wished he were anywhere else.
Aiden’s fingers froze above the fourth buckle on his chest piece, the one right above his belt. “Did I walk here?”
Should have let that Ogre have me, Lambert thought, it was my time. Look at me now, overripe and rotting.
“Did you..?” Aiden turned his head, let his arm flop off the end of the mattress and point Lambert’s way.
There was a silence.
“Huh,” Aiden said. Then he laughed, coughed, winced, laughed again. Just like he had in the cave, bright, loud, with all his teeth. “You did!” He covered his face and dissolved into wheezing giggles. “Oh, Gods, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t piss myself, did I?”
Lambert’s face was so hot he could’ve cracked an egg right there on his forehead and had himself a nice warm meal. “No, you…just bled a lot.”
“Fucking hell. I’m sorry, I’m not – I’m not laughing at you,” Aiden gasped. “It’s just – fuck.” He tugged loose the final buckle and ripped his armor open. The muscles in his stomach rippled under his linen shirt. His laughter cooled to short hiccups and a delirious smile. “I think I might go out again.”
Lambert’s heart jumped. “Are you?”
“No, no.” Aiden waved a hand. “I just wish I would. This is humiliating.”
Lambert huffed. “Says you.”
Aiden seemed not to have heard him. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth as he pushed up onto an elbow, pausing after a moment to regain his bearings. It took him a while, but eventually he was sitting, boots on the floor, head in his hands.
He tipped his face up and looked up and Lambert through his fingers. “Thank you.”
Lambert went impossibly hotter – probably redder too. He broke Aiden’s heavy gaze, stared at his stocking feet and badly darned socks.
“Most people would have just left me there." Aiden pressed. "Most people have. You’re a class act, I mean that.”
“Ah.” Lambert shrugged off the praise, it made him sick, it was unearned. This was a stranger who got lucky, he didn’t know who he was dealing with. How far from a class act Lambert really was.
“When I’m – ah-” Aiden rose to his feet, shaky and clutching his head. “After I’ve had some rest, I’ll come find you. I owe you. Really.”
“Nah, forget it, anyone would’ve – whatever,” Lambert pleaded. Then frowned. “Where are you going?”
Aiden glanced at the door he’d been dragging himself towards. “This is the Muscari Inn, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on the first floor. Room three.”
“Oh.” Lambert nodded. He was sweating again.
Aiden narrowed his eyes, lifted his arm, and inspected the tiny stitches, then the bandage on his elbow. His face had gone overwhelmingly blank. His voice had lost its humor. “You did this too?”
Lambert coughed, glanced out the window to show that he didn’t actually care that much. “Yeah, forget about it. Anyway, I should…you lost a lot of blood. I should probably walk you down.”
Aiden looked at the door, then back at Lambert. His pupils had blown out to near-perfect, black circles, hardly a trace of yellow. “Thank you.” He smiled, timid, and seemed to grow, fall open and fill the room. Smother every surface, Lambert’s chest included. He reached a hand out, his palm caught the sun. “You’re some Gentleman, Wolf.”
I hope this isn’t really who you are, cause this sure as hell ain’t who I am, Lambert thought as he took Aiden’s hand - gently, he was hurt - then linked their arms like lovers in a painting. But, hell. I’ll play along if you keep looking at me like this.
He kept all that to himself, though, and what he said was: “It’s an insurance thing. I didn’t carry you all that way just so you could split your head open on the fuckin' stairs.”