Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you’re born, your skin is blank. Then you grow up a bit and become your own person, and a special mark appears. Your soulmark. Somewhere out there in the world is your soulmate. And when you meet, and touch for the first time, a copy of your soulmark appears on them, and you get a copy of theirs. That’s how you know you’re meant to be together. Meant to look after each other.

That’s what one of the big girls at the Home explains one night, her voice hushed so none of the grownups will hear and tell everyone to go to sleep before they get a smack.

Jack knows it’s rubbish. Everyone’s already got their marks, he tries to tell them. Look, they’re glowing right there. Yours is on your cheek, yours is on your elbow, yours is on your heel. You’re just not looking properly.

The others laugh, saying he’s making things up again, like the monsters he sees, and Jack gets cross and shouts and then the matron comes and everyone does get a smack and nobody wants to play with him the next day.

But a week or two later one of the boys wakes up with a brighter mark, one he can see too, and it’s on his elbow, right where Jack said it was. The boy gets dragged into the office and when he emerges it’s with a patch over the mark and strict instructions not to show anyone, but it’s too late. The rumour has already spread, and everyone’s already seen Jack was right.

Everyone pays attention when he talks about the marks now, and want to play with him, and Jack feels good-good-important. He’s never been important before, so when he’s told everyone as much as he can about their marks he starts to tell them again about the colours and shapes that follow them too. They don’t like that at all. They hit him until he stops. Jack hits them back, but he’s one of the littlest. It doesn’t do much good.

It’s not much longer after that he’s taken away from the Home, and given to the scary lady, and told he won’t be going back.

The journey takes days and days and eventually Jack stops asking where they’re going. He’s never been in a coach before, but one of the girls at the Home had and said it was fun, so at first he was excited. But he’s too short to see out the windows, and it’s hot and stuffy, and the way it bounces around makes him feel sick, and the scary lady keeps looking at him like the way the big boys would look at frogs they’d caught and that makes him feel even worse.

By the time they arrive, he’s too relieved to remember to be scared of what comes next. Then she throws him in a bare room and locks the door. He gets a bit scared then.

During the journey he was too sick to feel like eating, but after a few hours here he’s starving. He tries knocking on the door, but the wood is thick and his little fists make no difference. At the Home he’d often been hungry, but there’d always been food eventually. Here he’s not so sure.

After what feels like weeks, the door finally creaks open. Jack looks up hopefully, but the woman’s hands are empty and her colours are cold and scary. He scrambles back from her on the bed.

“C’m here, witch,” she says, and grabs him. Her hand easily wraps around his stick-thin wrist, yanking him from the cell to the dingy basement room. Since they’ve arrived she’s spread about more paper with funny circles on, and drawn a big circle on the floor. She forces him to the middle and when she speaks, something weird happens. The circle starts to glow, and Jack’s head hurts, like the room is full of angry people, and even though he’s never heard the words she’s saying he knows exactly what they mean. Just not in a way he can understand.

She’s smiling and for a moment it seems whatever she’s doing is working, but then something surprises her and she cuts off. “The binding is… still there?” She looks at him thoughtfully. “Tsch. Witch alone isn’t enough, then…” Her eyes sharpen and Jack shrinks back. “Perhaps I need your other half. Where’s your soulmark?”

“Haven’t one,” Jack says, and folds his arms, feeling strangely pleased. You have to look after your soulmate, everyone knows that. And if this woman wants his for some reason, then right now not being able to find them was the best way to do that. “An’ I’m not a witch.”

The woman sighs, all cross-irritated-fed up, then grabs him by his shirt and drags him back to the cell. “Too young still,” she mutters to herself. “Well, it’s just a matter of time before it shows up. And I’m sure I can develop an easier way to find the match...”

Jack opens his mouth to argue back, tell her there’s no chance in hell he’ll lead her to his soulmate and he doesn’t even care if she washes his mouth with soap for saying hell, but she shoves him, hard, and he trips and lands face down on the cell floor. When he’s back on his feet the door is locked again.

“Hell,” he mutters for the sake of it, but not too loud.

“Ma…?”

“Aye?”

“Wha’ happened t’ yer mate?”

It’s a fine day and they’re making good time along the road to Bristol, the autumn wind sending Jack’s pigtails flying as he sits up front in the cart. He’s not sure why he suddenly thought to ask about Ma’s soulmate. Ever since he first saw her there’d been two bright patches and that still, colourless part around the edges. It had never bothered him, but at some point he realised there was something not quite right.

Ma doesn’t always answer all his questions, but she never lies.

“He died,” she says,  her spirit all sad-lonely-hurt.

Jack instantly regrets asking.

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say. Of course he knows about ‘died,’ the older kids at the Home told him that’s why he didn’t have parents. But he didn’t know he was supposed to feel anything over it. “Tha’s sad,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his sleeve hems.

“Aye,” Ma agrees. “But that’s th’ way o’ things, love. I lost him, an’ found you.”

Frowning, Jack considers this. “But I’m not yer soulmate?”

“No. But there’s more love than tha’ in th’ world.” Ma takes the reins into one hand and lays the other on his shoulder, and Jack wishes they can stay like that forever.

“Go play wi’ th’ young ‘uns, lad,” Ma tells Jack as she unhitches Storm from the cart. “I must talk wi’ th’ man about stables now.”

Jack swings his legs so his heels bounce against the brick wall, and winces. He outgrew these boots a few months back. They’re in a new town, somewhere down South, and children caught up in a game of tag charge through the bustling stable yard. “Don’t wanna,” he says, folding his arms. It’s the third town in a row he’s refused to go play.

The other times he was allowed to stay and try help Ma, but this time she gives him a sharp look and he can tell she’s getting concerned. “An’ why’s that?”

Memories of a few weeks back rise again, as they do every night when he tries to sleep, or whenever he’s not distracting himself on purpose, like they’re hovering just below the surface waiting to strike.

It had been midsummer, the hottest time of the year, and while Ma worked Jack had gone down to the riverside to play with the local children, like he usually did. If they had space to run around and the spirits didn’t crowd in and give him headaches it could be a lot of fun. He’d simply gone up to a bunch roughly his age and joined in.

Jack didn’t know how old he was. Neither did Ma, and she knew most everything. So when the other children asked he just made it up. That day he’d been eight. It had been great, playing and fighting in the sun, but eventually they’d got too hot and tired so had stripped and thrown themselves into the river to cool down. That was when it went wrong.

Races and breath-holding competitions and building channels and dams in the mud soon gave way to lounging about in the shallows, but the others didn’t want to talk about frogs and fish and the best kind of climbing trees like Jack did. They wanted to talk about soulmates. Lately it seemed like everyone he met did.

 A few of the boys proudly showed their marks off, provoking outraged laughter from the girls, and more than one argument about who had the best mark, which started a number of fights, splashing water all about, and it in the middle of it all Jack sat very still and quiet and hoped not to be noticed.

Of course he was. And then they were grabbing him, demanding to see his mark too, calling him a prude and old-fashioned when he refused, and then, when it was apparent there was none, a freak and a die-alone, dunking him underwater and laughing when he’d coughed and spluttered, limbs flailing. He was still small, but he had sharp elbows, and knew how to use them. Once he was free he’d yelled back, every bad word he’d ever heard, and then ran away, pulling on his dress still sopping wet and hiding out in the woods for a few hours before finally making his way back to Ma.

Jack doesn’t know why he didn’t go right to Ma. Why he still doesn’t want to tell her now, why he makes sure there’s no chance of her seeing how carefully he checks for a mark every morning in case one came up overnight.

He shrugs. “They’re all stupid.”

“That so?” Ma replies, and he can see she doesn’t believe him, but he’s stubborn and there are things to do and she doesn’t press. When he really doesn’t want her to, she never does.

Jack still doesn’t know how old he is and hasn’t had cause to make it up for years - he avoids people as much as possible, preferring Ma’s company or nobody’s. He’s been able to get served for a few years now though, so occasionally he’ll find a reasonably quiet spot to drink for a few hours and win a couple rounds of cards. Turns out he’s got a knack for them. Who’d have guessed?

It’s a late spring evening and after two hours of playing he’s won enough to feed him and Ma for a few days, plus a little extra, so he takes his winnings and sits up at the bar to nurse a pint. He’s most of the way through it when one of the girls he’d been playing with walks up and leans against the bar, smiling slightly, eyelashes lowered. She’d been easy to beat, more interested in joking and chattering than the cards in her hand, her spirit quick-changing and frequently sparking with that weird stuff Jack had recently worked out is probably lust. It flickers around her now as she watches him, clearly waiting for him to say something.

He doesn’t.

“Jack, right?” she begins, the smile growing to reveal slightly crooked teeth. “You’re quite the player.”

“Cheers,” he grunts, and drinks, hoping she’d get the hint.

She doesn’t.

Giggling, she leans closer. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit?”

“Nah.”

More giggling. She hops onto the barstool next to him anyway. “You’re not from round here, are you? Where are you from?”

He shrugs. “Lot’s o’ places.” It’s just under half a pint left now, so he tries to down it, but he hasn’t quite got the hang of that yet and ends up spluttering, bent over the counter while the girl thumps his back. “Stop it, ‘m fine,” he snaps, once he can, annoyed and embarrassed and annoyed that he’s embarrassed because he’s spent a very long time telling himself he doesn’t care what anybody thinks ever.

She stops, but she’s a lot closer than she was before, her hand next to his elbow on the bar. Smiling, she raises her eyebrows, and her spirit is laughing-cunning-maybe-lust? “If you get us both another I’ll teach you how to chug them properly.”

“If ye wanted a drink, ye shoulda won a game.”

“Maybe I just wanted a drink with you.”

Jack snorts, shaking his head. “Ye’ll need summat better’n that t’ get one outta me.” He turns to her to roll his eyes properly, and the next thing he knows her lips are pressed against his.

Kissing, something in the back of his mind supplies. This is kissing.

It’s warm and surprise and confusion and briefly interesting, before no-no-nope takes over and Jack jerks away, head spinning.

She smiles, clearly pleased with herself. “That good enough for you?”

“Th’ hell was that?” he demands, and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth but he can still feel the ghost of the - bloody hell, that really was a kiss. The lust was for him? That’s not how it’s supposed to work. He feels himself blush, which pisses him off more, which doesn’t help, and he’s suddenly aware he feels kind of sick.

Instantly she’s pissed off too, and gets to her feet in a huff. “There’s no need to be like that about it.”

“No need fer yucky stuff at all,” he retorts and jumps off the barstool because like hell is he letting her storm away first. “Go find yer soulmate already, get yer spit on ‘em, not me.”

“Ugh.”

He dodges round her and makes for the door, desperate to be out in the fresh air away from all these people and the horrible, unsettled feeling clinging to his insides. He walks and walks until he finds quieter streets and manages to slow down enough to roll and light a smoke. It helps smother her taste - nobody had told him people had a taste. Nobody had told him people sometimes just did that. Nobody had told him kissing was gross. The way everyone went on about it, you’d at least expect it to be good.

Maybe that was only with your soulmate though.

Or maybe it’s the same, and what just happened is what everyone else thinks fun, because they’re stupid. Maybe, if that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to do with your soulmate, he doesn’t want one anyway.

Jack still doesn’t know how old he is, but he’s been with Ma about thirteen years, and he still doesn’t have a soulmark.

Ma dies, and it’s far more than sad-lonely-hurt-hurt-hurt-hurt. It crushes Jack. He hadn’t known he was supposed to feel this much.

Knowing he’ll never have anyone to lose again is almost a relief.

Chapter Text

Jack wakes with the mother of all headaches and hot sharp pain stabbing through his neck. Groaning, he cracks open his eyes and is greeted by the most incredible spirit he’s ever seen. It’s bright, powerful, so passionately Kind - and it’s completely itself. No soulmate attached.

“Bloody hell! Yer-”

“My what?” asks the man sat opposite him, looking about in alarm. He’s in some kind of uniform, but his jacket hangs open and it’s splattered with blood. Not his own, Jack doesn’t think. A brilliant soulmark winds along his right forearm. He doesn’t have a second.

“Nffh. Ye’re… talkin’ English,” Jack settles for. What’s he supposed to say? I can see spirits and you’re the first I’ve ever seen without a soulmate? The first half alone was enough to scare anyone off. The second half was just… cruel.

As Wolfe - that’s what the man introduces himself as - explains what happened, they start their escape, but Jack can hardly tear his eyes away from the giant violinist dancing above. What happened to its duet partner? He’s seen dead soulmates, he knows how that looks. Never one completely alone.

They’re attacked by another soldier, Voss, and even if his spirit is completely fucked up and surrounded by grey fuzz, he’s still got the normal two marks - one on his left eye, one on his chest. Jack can’t find the right words, doesn’t know how to tell Wolfe about the danger he can see, so he does what he always does and runs. Even then, he can’t stop thinking about him.

A memory from deep childhood surfaces. An older girl telling the enraptured room about soulmates. Everyone had one, she’d said, so everyone had someone to look out for them. Someone on their side.

Jack doesn’t have one. But he’d still had someone looking out for him, for as long as she’d been able. Not because he was her soulmate, but because she’d chosen to.

 He thinks of Wolfe and that enormous spirit, filling up a cramped, dirty, empty blank cell. Nobody coming, nobody who cares, nobody looking out for him.

Jack stops in the middle of the lane. He could keep walking and his life would continue exactly as before. There’s no doubt about that. But Wolfe would die, alone.

He’s already heading back before he even realises he’s made his choice.

At first it’s just a joke, ‘Vulf’ and ‘O’Mal,’ but when they wake after that first night together Wolfe greets him with “Guten Morgen, Mal,” and then all through the day it’s “What do you think, Mal?” and “Mal, look at this,” and “Do you like such-and-such, Mal?” so by evening the nickname is already settling into place, like he was always waiting for it. It feels a long time since he’s been anything nicer than ‘Oi, you,’ to anyone.

They fall into a routine of sorts as they travel: Wolfe plays his new violin in town before Mal doubles the earnings at the pubs. At first Wolfe often stays out long after the games have finished, talking to people, though eventually Mal works out it’s more properly flirting. He finds it strange how Wolfe keeps at it even after shaking their hand and their arm remains clear. Seems most people find kissing good no matter who’s doing it. Sometimes, Wolfe, with absolutely no malice but a complete inability to pick up on hints, will even encourage people to talk to Mal which is just awful for everyone involved.t

Eventually, Mal explains, tentatively (because Wolfe is kind but Mal knows he is strange in dress and speech and ‘talent’ and surely even Wolfe has a limit to strangeness in his friends) that he really, really doesn’t want anything to do with that stuff, and Wolfe stops it. To Mal’s surprise, he also stops hanging around the bars so late, only long enough to walk back together. Even after months, Mal still can’t get used to the idea Wolfe actually prefers to spend time with him, and tries not to look relieved when Wolfe returns unchanged after those rare nights with a stranger, though sometimes Wolfe is a little down himself. It’s clear he has no idea about his lack of a soulmate, and there’s not a chance in hell Mal’s going to tell him. He might be a jerk, but he’s not cruel.

Wolfe finds out about the Sight thing much sooner than Mal would have expected, and takes it much better too. There is an awful moment when Mal explains how soulmates tie in and he thinks Wolfe is about to ask, but he simply keeps quiet and lets Mal talk as much as he needs to, and then kindly, genuinely, thanks him for sharing.

Mal’s not quite sure when Wolfe learns the part where he is unmarked. He definitely never tells him, in his mind it lives in the same space as mirrors, but he supposes he can only complain about the whole soulmates thing so many times before it starts to sound odd. After a year they’ve seen each other in pretty much all states of undress, including without his usual cloth bindings after a particularly nasty pub-brawl meant Wolfe had to sew up a gash in Mal’s back. So it never comes up specifically, but eventually they’re past the point where if he’d had one Wolfe would know about it. Wolfe, kind as always, says nothing, but Mal notices he brings up soulmates less and less.

It’s obvious when they hop on the train the hunter and her wizard are soulmates. Souls entwined and a matching set of marks, one on the ankle, one on the right shoulder-blade. Doesn’t stop Wolfe from trying it on with her, but Mal sees no reason to interfere. He spends the journey in the corner, trying to block out the headache. Wolfe’s not so much help when he’s distracted.

They’re thrust into Ben’s life and Mal dislikes their new boss/house-mate instantly. He’s bossy and fussy and he watches them sharply, trying to figure them out, who they are to each other. Mal lets him wonder.

For all his quirks, Ben’s still more normal than the two of them. He’s got a bright mark shining from under his ponytail on the back of his neck, and a dimmer one just above his left knee. Even without the Sight Mal would have guessed he hadn’t met his soulmate yet —  there’s nobody he seems to be close or even friends with — but they’ve got a strong personality, judging from the sliver attached to Ben. They  don’t help with the headaches, but those quiet down as Mal gets used to Ben, until it takes a very strong burst of emotion to make him feel more than a twinge.

Ben and Wolfe get on reasonably well from the start, though not too well, the selfish part of Mal (so, most of him) is glad to note. The contrast of extreme easy-going and tightly-wound was always going to cause problems, but since neither actually want to fight it rarely comes to any trouble. Their main issue is branded on Wolfe’s forearm.

They’ve only been living with Ben a few days when it first comes up. Wolfe’s reading in the living room, while Mal is lay on the floor half dozing, when Ben walks in, nose in a book. He sits at his desk before finally noticing they’re there, and makes a strangled yelp of surprise, quickly looking away. “Oh, sorry!” Big bursts of confused-embarrassed-shocked pop around his head. “I didn’t realise you weren’t, um, decent. Sorry.”

Wolfe looks up curiously, head tilted to one side. “’Not decent?’ I am sorry, I do not follow. My English is not always -”

“He means yer arm,” Mal says, and rolls his eyes, sparking indignation from Ben. “Old-fashioned.”

“Oh!” Wolfe exclaims, examining his soulmark with interest, completely oblivious to Ben’s discomforted squirming. Mal’s not sure whether to laugh or scowl. “I forget, you English do not like the Seelenverwandte? In Prussia, it is not the same.”

Ben is still pointedly not looking in Wolfe’s direction. “Is that so?” he asks, and his voice is slightly strained, but he doesn’t take it any further.

Wolfe, being Wolfe, doesn’t notice, and so his soulmark stays out and after a few minute Ben leaves again, one hand adjusting the back of his collar.

Variations of the incident repeat, but over the next few weeks Ben slowly stops sending up such a big cloud of flustered every time Wolfe’s mark is uncovered — though he always makes a point of looking away. The only time he ever tries to make Wolfe cover it is when they’re on jobs, which Wolfe always eventually agrees to though with more confusion than Mal reckons (knows) he actually feels.

One summer evening, Wolfe’s supposed to be on washing-up duty but his eyes keep drooping over dinner and his spirit’s heavy with sleep, so when their plates are empty Mal takes them to the sink and laughs at him for mixing up the days when Wolfe tries to protest. Washing-up’s one of the few chores Mal doesn’t mind that much. He’s certainly had practice. Wherever Ma was working, there was usually space in the scullery for one more.

Happy sits on the counter (away from the plates, he made sure of that) and chatters as he works, and Mal can just about hear Wolfe and Ben’s voices in the next room, and it’s one of those quiet times where he starts to think maybe returning to Widdershins wasn’t the worst that ever happened to him.

When he’s done, he makes his way to the living room, and pauses in the doorway. Wolfe has fallen asleep where he sits, still holding the newspaper open in his lap. Mal smiles, rolling his eyes, and goes to prod him awake, but stops as he catches sight of Ben.

He’s sat very still in the other chair, watching Wolfe’s exposed mark with something like curiosity bubbling, which isn’t unusual - Ben’s almost as curious about everything as Wolfe - but it’s kind of slower and more thinking and lots of sad-wanting. Ben’s gaze moves to his own arm and he trails one finger down the inside, slowly tracing out the swirling lines, and Mal gets kind of uncomfortable-angry-definitely-not-jealous, like when he’s got something he wants to say to Wolfe but there’s some girl all over him, and he clears his throat loudly.

Ben jumps, waves of guilt-guilt-guilt pulsing off him, but all he says is, “Thank you for doing the dishes.”

Mal ignores him, crossing to Wolfe in quick strides, and kicks the armchair. “Oi, wake up,” he grunts as Wolfe shifts and yawns. “Go t’ bed proper.”

“Oh, I was sleeping?” Wolfe looks up at him, bleary eyed, and yawns again. “Yes, thank you, I will go upstairs. Do not fret so.”

“’M not. Jus’ wanna sit there is all.”

Smiling, Wolfe gets to his feet and pats him on the shoulder before heading for the door. “Night, Mal. Goodnight Ben!”

Mal can feel Ben looking at him, wanting to say something to clear the air, struggling to find a place to start, and ignores him, curling up in the chair like a cat. He stares at the wall until he hears Ben get up and leave, and he still doesn’t look round, and he stays there, long into the night, until he can hear Wolfe and Ben have gone to bed, and he can imagine the whole town sleeping under the stars, and he’s the only one awake, the only one alone, the only one with perfectly blank skin his entire life. Blank except for the scar on his neck, and a thousand others less kindly meant.

He’s not sure why he cares Ben was looking at Wolfe’s mark. It’s not like Wolfe cares who sees. And it’s not like Wolfe is Mal’s, or he’s Wolfe’s, not really. Not in the way that matters to people. Only in the way that matters to him. Wolfe doesn’t belong to him, but at least he doesn’t belong to anyone else. That’s a selfish way of looking at it Mal knows, but he’s a selfish person.

Chapter Text

“Have y’ forgotten what that one’s like?” Mal demands as soon as they’re out of the brewery, his skin still crawling from their encounter with Voss.

“Mal…” Wolfe begins, but Mal’s in no mood to listen, he has to get this through his thick, too-nice skull.

“Ye didn’t listen t’ me last time, and look what happened!”

“Mal-”

“Some people, ye can’t just nice at ‘em an’ hope they-”

“Mal!” Wolfe interrupts, and he never raises his voice, not even when Ben’s being the most annoying fusspot imaginable, not even when he found a spider nest inside his windowsill, so even though he’s not remotely  done the end of Mal’s sentence drops into nothingness. “We left so I could ask your opinion, my friend, though you now have made it quite clear.”

Mal shakes his head, so fast it jolts his neck. His body is trembling, not just from the freezing rain but from how desperately he needs to make Wolfe understand. “This ain’t like last time, when ‘e was jus’ some random bastard. This time e’s dangerous.”

“Shooting you and having Wolfe arrested certainly sounds dangerous enough as is,” Ben says, his spirit a mix of swirling Jealousy because under any other circumstances it would be funny how easily Voss had got under his skin, and flaming Protectiveness. “What’s changed?”

“Three years ago ‘e had one soulmate, an’ they were dead,” Mal says flatly. Even now he hates telling, but they need to know what they’re dealing with. Surprise and Pity flare through Wolfe, confirming Mal’s suspicions Voss hadn’t told him. “Now ‘e’s got… mebbe eight? Couldn’t count, hurt t’ look at ‘im, an’ then I got a face full o’ ‘Powder Three.’”

Wolfe inhales sharply, finally looking like he might take this seriously. “Are you quite sure…? You were still recovering when you saw him last, perhaps you are mistaken?”

“No way. It’s bright enough t’ sting like ‘ell, an’ there’s summat weird wi’ it too. Jus’ feels… wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben interjects in a voice that suggests he is not sorry in the slightest and will continue to interrupt until he gets the answers he’s looking for. “But are you saying you can… see soulmates?”

“Aye, kinda. Didn’t say before?”

Ben stares at him. “You definitely did not.”

“Don’t really come up, does it now?” Mal says with a shrug. “There’s always a bit o’ th’ soulmate’s feelin’s hangin’ around, an’ th’ marks are all glowy, less if they ain’t met.”

“Oh.” Glancing down at himself, Ben’s flooded with Curiosity, but he’s learnt by now there are some things he shouldn’t ask. “And you’re saying this Voss has more than he used to? Has that ever happened before?”

“No, an’ it shouldn’t! Soulmates aren’t summat ye can mess around wi’ like that!” The fear Mal felt in the brewery comes flooding back, he hasn’t been this scared since the thing with Sloth last year and at least there’d been something he could do then. Against Voss, he’s helpless. “If ‘e’s got some sorta power over ‘em… ‘e still hates ye, Wolfe, an’ ye too Ben, jus’ fer bein’ there. He’ll - he’ll fuck yer’s up somehow!”

Ben flinches, one hand going unthinkingly touching the back of his neck, before quickly lowering it again.

Wolfe is even less subtle, drawing in his left arm and protectively wrapping the other over it. “Very well, we shall be careful,” he says gravely. “I am sure we shall get to the heart of things sooner or later.”

Wolfe watches as Ben struggles with the comb knotted into his hair and his face crumples in sympathy. “I will get the scissors,” he announces, and pats Ben on the shoulder as heads out the room. Ben groans, abandoning his personal grooming battle, and with all these stupid colours in the room Mal can almost imagine the emotion swirling around his frame.

As soon as Wolfe shuts the door, Ben straightens, like the sound reminded him to pull himself together, and looks at Mal. “Wolfe’s spirit…” he begins.

“Aye, he’s present,” Mal says quickly. He doesn’t like where this is heading.

Once his interest is caught Ben can never leave something alone. He continues, his words slow and deliberate. “I couldn’t help noticing… it’s all him, isn’t it?”

“Don’t say nuffink. Not t’ me. An’ not t’ him. Got it?”

Ben opens his mouth, about to protest or argue, but then he nods. “Of course.” For a moment he fiddles with the towel clutched in his hands. “You know, when you two first got here, I did wonder… but your arms are clear, and Wolfe… well. Not that it would mean you weren’t, um.” His faces goes a bit of a funny colour Mal doesn’t know, but then he realises Ben’s blushing.

Anger boils over before Mal even notices it’s building, spilling into words he didn’t know he had inside of him. “Why do people always think tha’?” he demands, glaring Ben right in his wide eyes. “’M bloody fed up wi’ it all! Can’t ye be wi’ someone wi’out it being ‘cause o’ some marks on yer skin? Have ye got t’ fuck ev’ryone ye live wi’?” He’s panting as he finishes, almost shaking with pent up something. Suddenly Mal is very pissed off at a very unfair and stupid world, only made worse by this shit day, and a little bit of him knows it’s not Ben’s fault really, but a much bigger and angrier part is fuming he would ever think that about him and Wolfe, they’re not like that, they’re - they’re -

“Mal, whatever it is you are yelling about, maybe do so with less bad language?” Wolfe suggests as he reenters the room, scissors in hand. “I am sure Ben is quite wound up enough as it is.”

Ben twitches his head, caught between a nod and a shake. “I’m fine!”

“If you are sure. Sit down, I shall try cut you free.”

At Wolfe’s command Ben half-collapses into the kitchen chair, but jerks around as Wolfe approaches behind him. “A-Actually, I think I can do it myself,” he says, one hand rising to cup his nape. Mal hadn’t realised how often he caught a glance of his soulmark until he noticed how jarring it was to look and not see a faint glow around his collar.

Wolfe blinks in surprise, halting before he gets any closer. “I do not think you will be able to reach.”

“I’m sure it’ll be -”

“Give ‘em here,” Mal says and snatches the scissors off Wolfe. “Yer big fingers’ll make a mess o’ things. Go change. If we’re sneakin’ in yer want yer good shirt.”

It’s horrible, the empty space around Wolfe, how small it makes him seem, how little his face gives away. A sick fear gnaws at Mal’s stomach - how’s he supposed to tell if Wolfe is mad, or upset, or confused, or if he understands what he’s not saying for Ben’s sake? Wolfe’s the only person he cares what they think of him, without the certainty of seeing the strength of his care every day, Mal’s not sure he’d ever believe someone like that is friends with someone like him. And now he doesn’t know how Wolfe feels, doesn’t know if he’s hurt by clearly being sent away, and he has to keep his face just as blank and unreadable as everyone else’s have become.

With a nod, Wolfe turns to go. “Yes, you are right. Though you two should change also when you are done.” He disappears and his heavy footsteps fade up the stairs, but  something about the way Ben sets his shoulders and looks away tells Mal he’s still all awkward-embarrassed-cross. As Mal reaches for the comb he tenses up again, and Mal clicks his tongue.

“Dunno why yer bein’ funny now,” he says, a little annoyed himself. “Nuffink I didn’t see before. Less even.”

“Well I didn’t know that at the time,” Ben snaps, and then sighs. “I’m sorry, I know it couldn’t be helped. And I know you and Wolfe think I’m… silly, and old-fashioned about it. But I was raised to take it very seriously…”

“Mm. Hard t’ change, yeah. Jus’ sit still, won’t take a minute.”

The comb is well and truly stuck. Some sort of magic was probably involved in getting it that way, because Mal’s not sure how Ben could have managed it on his own. A few snips of the scissors get it free, but then there’s the rest to sort out. He starts by brushing out the knots, taking a small handful of hair at a time and repetitively running the comb through, working up from the bottom. If he concentrates on the movement enough, he can almost forget the weirdness of Ben without the familiar flashing emotions, or the way his hair is actually a strange colour kind of like Wolfe’s but… more? He’s heard them both called blond before, but seeing the colours now he doesn’t see how they can be the same.

He makes quick progress, working around from the front, but Ben starts fidgeting as he nears the back of his head, and even from behind Mal can see he’s blushing up to his ears. “I can - I can brush out the rest,” Ben mutters as Mal gathers another handful.

Mal shakes his head, attacking the next lot of knots with vigour. “Ye’ll get stuck again. Ain’t nobody tell ye t’ start at th’ ends when ye got summat messin’ it up?”

“Surprisingly, I’m not in the habit of getting… stickiness in my hair,” Ben replies “How do you know this anyway?”

Despite everything, Mal smiles slightly, remembering Ma’s voice as she gave him the choice of scissors or a hairbrush. “’Cause I had longer hair than you, an’ I’m in th’ habit o’ gettin’ ev’rything in it.” He opens his mouth, about to add something else, but as he lifts the next handful he’s met by Ben’s uncovered nape.

It’s completely blank.

Cold fear sluices through Mal’s veins and he only just has the presence of mind to continue brushing, and hopes Ben didn’t notice the way he flinched. Poor bloke had enough to be dealing with without knowing his soulmate’s been nicked. A moment later the logical conclusion of that thought follows, and Mal tentatively raises a hand to the back of his own neck. He gasps as his fingers brush his skin - it doesn’t hurt exactly, more like a strange pins-and-needles feeling - but covers it with a cough. He had enough to be dealing with without knowing he’s nicked his friend’s soulmark.

As he keeps brushing, Ben slowly relaxes somewhat, oblivious to this at least, and by the time all his hair is untangled and smooth again, he’s leant back against the chair. That’s a good sign. If he’s a little calmer he might take it better if he finds out.

“Gotta cut it th’ same length,” Mal says briskly, taking up the scissors again. “Should be long enough t’… leave it hidden.”

He works in silence for a little while, the only sound his and Ben’s breathing and the snip of the scissors, clumps of hair falling softly to the floor.

“I was going to cut it, once I met them,” Ben says suddenly. “Short, like Wolfe’s. Silly, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t suit ye.” Mal’s not sure if he means the hair or the soulmate. At first Ben hadn’t been anyone to him, certainly not worth any thoughts on the matter. And now Ben is… Ben to him, and he still can’t bring himself to think about it.

A new thought occurs. What would happen if he met Ben’s soulmate, before they sorted out this mess? Would he find a new mark just above his left knee?

Ben’s foot taps on the wooden floorboards for a moment before he continues in a small, shy voice, “Is it silly to hope they’re nice?”

“Hafta be, t’ put up wi’ ye,” Mal retorts, and it comes out a little harsher than he’d meant, so he clumsily covers with more blunt words. “Who cares anyway? Don’t see why yer supposed t’ like someone jus’ ‘cause o’ some shapes. ‘S not as good as ye all reckon.”

Inhaling sharply, Ben stiffens, and Mal can tell he’s about to argue back with some of the same old lines he’s been hearing his whole life, about finding your other half, someone to complete you, about how with no other half he was broken forever, and so he makes the last cut and steps back. “There. Oughta do ‘til ye can go t’ th’ barber.”

“Thank you,” Ben says, getting to his feet. He looks down at the scattered clumps of hair and sighs. “I’ll just have a quick sweep up before I change, we do have time, don’t you think?”

“Aye, sure,” Mal says, though he doesn’t truthfully have a clue. All he knows is he needs to talk to Wolfe, now, alone.

While Ben gets out the broom, Mal dashes upstairs and bursts into Wolfe’s room. Wolfe is sat on his bed, tying his shoes, and opens his mouth to speak but Mal slams the door and interrupts before he can even start. “Look at this,” he says, and turns around, yanking down his collar with one hand and pulling his hair out the way with the other.

“Donnerwetter!” Wolfe exclaims, getting to his feet. “Is that -?”

“Ben’s, aye.” Mal rubs it as he turns back to Wolfe and winces, unsure if he likes the feeling or not. “Really annoyin’ place as well, keeps itchin’ ‘gainst me scarf.”

Shaking his head, Wolfe clutches his arm. “Oh, the poor thing. Does he know yet?”

“No, an’ if we can sort this out tonight ‘e doesn’t need t’.”

For a moment Wolfe is still, and without his soaring spirit telling Mal there’s something going on inside, no glowing swirls on his arm, he’s almost a statue. “Perhaps that is best,” he agrees slowly. “But, if we cannot return it tonight?”

“Then we’ll deal wi’ that then.”

“And… how are you feeling about this all?” Wolfe asks, stepping closer to place a hand on his shoulder for a moment.

“I…” Mal folds his arms, and looks away from his ever-bare forearm, and tries not to imagine what a mark just above his left knee would mean, and both Ben and Wolfe checking their skin in vain every day of their lives, and seeing a stranger’s face first thing every morning rather than his friends, and he scoffs. “I don’t care. ‘S jus’ marks on yer skin.”

After Wrath is desummoned and the Sight is restored, Mal can see that wasn’t the only ‘gift’ of Envy’s returned. Voss lies on the ground, the extra marks faded, the extra spirits stripped away, and when Mal touches the back of his neck it feels just as it always did. He breathes a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t last long.

He watches as Wolfe kneels at Voss’s side,  placing a hand on his shoulder, and speaks German in a comforting, low voice. At his touch, Voss turns towards him. His clothes were torn in the fight and his ripped shirt hangs low, exposing the gash of a mark across his collarbone. Wolfe recoils, and something the closest to true Anger Mal’s ever seen from him flashes like lightning in a cloud above him.

“Give them back!” Wolfe says, grabbing Voss roughly. “You have to give them all back! Please, Voss!”

Moving slowly, as though underwater, Voss raises one hand to his collarbone and looks down. His spirit is fear-shame-regret but as soon as his fingers brush his skin it’s all hurt-hurt-hurt-hurt-HURT and Mal wonders that his head doesn’t explode.

“I can’t,” Voss replies quietly, so quiet Mal can’t be sure he heard right. “If I could, I would, but… I can’t. Not this one.”

Wolfe understands in an instant and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Dominik. Here, let’s get you to your feet…”

Mal doesn’t get how Wolfe can be so kind at a time like this. Perhaps if he couldn’t, he wouldn’t be Wolfe. Wolfe is kind to everyone. But on their way home from the manor, Mal watches as he carefully checks up on Ben and compliments him on his spellwork and laughs as he goes all proud-shy, and Mal almost smiles. Then Wolfe looks at him, and smiles warmly, and makes sure for the fifth time he’s okay too, and compliments him on his spellwork, which Mal hates because it’s stupid and kind of embarrassing, but makes him weirdly pleased to be a part of that everyone.

His skin is blank, but tonight Mal’s glad of it, if it means Ben’s got his marks back, and he can stay here and now.

Chapter Text

It’s obvious when they meet again Harry and her wizard don’t actually know they’re soulmates. Soulmates occasionally meet without noticing and lose each other again, but Mal’s never known something quite like this. There’s a moment just before they enter ‘Witch Space’ where it seems like one of them is about to say something, and he wonders maybe they’ll figure it out, but it passes and he and Harry get going. He still doesn’t say anything. It’s nothing do with him.

Things are going - well, not fine, but they’re going - until the Sloth oil gets him. He wakes up back in the alleyway with that awful woman, except this time Harry’s there too. She sees all of it, the spirits, the soulmarks, the blank and empty cell, and how blank and empty he is.

“The lights?” she asks, once they’re back in Witch Space. “The way the spirits are… doubled. You see soulmates too?”

Mal doesn’t see any point in denying it. “Aye.”

“Hrm. Sorry for prying.”

That’s it. Except Mal thinks they might be friends now.

A few hours later Harry is stood there, staring up at her wizard’s caged spirit with it’s two glowing spots, and then she very deliberately crouches and examines the mark on her ankle.

“It’s him?”

Mal nods, holding his arms tight. “Aye.”

“And attached to him, that’s me?”

“Yeah, ‘m sorry, I didn’t -”

“Right.” Harry paces beneath the cages, sharp eyes darting between the spirits as she thinks. “And him, that’s your…”

“Wolfe, yeah,” Mal finishes. He finally dares to raise his eyes again, and cries out. “Bloody hell! What’s it done t’ ‘im?” Wolfe’s perfect spirit has been corrupted, something like mottled clouds of smoke drifting across the flowing emotion. Panic floods Mal and he turns to Harry, gesturing wildly. “That’s not how ‘e looks! It’s supposed t’ be jus’ him!”

“Calm down,” she says, frowning at him. “It might not have been Luxuria’s work. None of the others have that smoke.”

Mal looks and sees she’s right, the others remain just as they always were. “Then what’s goin’ on?”

She watches him thoughtfully for a moment, then nods at his right hand. “What’s that?”

“Eh?” Mal raises his hand and pulls down the sleeve a little way. A shining tendril of light snakes around his wrist and he winces against the brightness. “The hell?” He yanks his sleeve up the whole way, and then the other, revealing rippling, gleaming soulmarks twisting across his skin. “Get ‘em off!”

“That new?” Harry asks.

Mal stops scrubbing at his arm to glare at her. “Yes they’re bloody new!”

“They look like your Wolfe to me.”

“What?” Forcing himself to hold still, Mal looks down at his exposed arms and then up to Wolfe. The trails are shifting in sync with Wolfe’s spirit, while the smokey shapes drift peacefully. He tries to focus on them, but they grow brighter and brighter, the pressure in his head building until he drops to his knees and gives up. Lesson learnt - don’t look too hard at the weird soulmarks.

He freezes.

Soulmarks. He’s got a soulmark on him. Wolfe’s.

And if he has Wolfe’s, then…

Harry offers him a hand and he gets back to his feet, buzzing from the sudden realisation. They’re soulmates.

“Alright?” she asks.

“…Think so,” he replies, managing a grin even though the tears are still sticky on his cheeks.

“Good. Now let’s sort this out.”

“Right.” It’s new, and kind of terrifying, but nothing has really changed. Wolfe and him, they’ve always looked out for each other.

The next couple days are a confusing blur. Harry’s gone, they haven’t got a house, there are questions to avoid answering and people to talk to, nobody knows what having a Witch means and, in the middle of all this, Mal can’t stop picturing Wolfe’s soulmark branded across his body, over and over again.

He needs to tell him. But he hasn’t got a clue how.

Being certain is probably a good starting point. Once he’s out of Witch Space the marks vanish, and he can’t make them appear again. The same goes for his mark on Wolfe’s spirit. But after a few solo visits to Witch Space to try (again) at bringing Harry back, he gets the hang of making them visible there.

He considers telling Ben, seeing what he thinks, but whenever he tries to bring it up his heart pounds and the words stick and he chickens out last second. Ben tries to be kind, but he still hasn’t totally shaken off his upbringing. He’d probably tell them to get married or something stupid like that, because that’s what he was taught soulmates are for.

And there lies the big problem. Even if he did figure out what to say to Wolfe, who knew how he’d take it? Wolfe’s dreams were still of a normal life, of marriage and children and all that stuff that makes Mal want to start running. That’s not him, and Wolfe knows it.

Wolfe wouldn’t abandon his soulmate. Mal’s certain of this. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want to. The idea of Wolfe chained to him through misplaced obligation and duty, friendship slowly festering to resentment for ruining his chance at happiness - it’s worse than if he never saw him again.

If Mal doesn’t tell Wolfe, he will never know the truth. He will never find a proper soulmate. But he could still find someone, someone who could give him what Mal knows without a doubt he never could. And be happy with them without Mal weighing him down.

Maybe telling him would be just as cruel as saying he had none.

Mal’s stewing over all of this on his bunk in the boarding house, when he’s startled from his thoughts by Wolfe sitting down next to him. “How are you doing, my friend?” he asks softly, barely audible over the noise of the crowded room. “You have been very quiet these past few days.”

“Ah well, y’know.”

“I see things are weighing heavily on you. If there is anything I may do to help…?”

“Actually…” For a moment Mal thinks he’s about to spill the whole story, but then his insides go all tight and sickish and he can’t quite do it. “Come Anchor wi’ me, tomorrow?” he asks instead, not able to meet Wolfe’s eyes. “Got… summat t’ show ye.”

Wolfe’s surprised, but he smiles as he gets to his feet. “Of course. I would love to. Tomorrow then. Goodnight, Mal.”

“Night.”

Mal doesn’t sleep much that night.

They don’t talk much on the way over. Mal fidgets with his new scarf as they walk through the torn up town and tries not to look at Wolfe. He knows Wolfe knows something’s bothering him, but if he gives him a chance to ask what’s up he doesn’t think he can make it through this. All night long, images of how this scene might play out dancing in the darkness. None of them ended well.

He keeps wondering if it’s too late to run away to France.

Wolfe’s been with him to open the door before, but never inside. A few sparks of Fear jump around when Mal gestures for him to go inside, but he forces a smile and steps through anyway. When he sees the other side, he’s filled with Wonder and Mal’s reminded of a hundred times he’s seen him like this, amazed and enchanted by some new and beautiful building, artwork, valley, coastline, anywhere and everywhere because Wolfe loved it all so much.

If this goes badly… he’ll miss seeing him like this.

“An incredible place!” Wolfe exclaims, eyes wide as he takes it all in. “I have never seen anything like it.”

“Aye, one o’ a kind,” Mal replies stiffly. Another time he might have been a little bit proud but right now his jittery nerves have no room for anything else.

“What was it you wished to show me?”

“Um. Right.” Earlier Mal knew the words he wanted to say, but now they’ve vanished. He looks at his hands and the faint soulmark twists around the sliver of bare skin between glove and sleeve. “So, y’know ‘ow I can see soulmates…” he begins, eyes firmly away from Wolfe as the words tumble faster and faster out of him. “An’ I ain’t got one,  an’ that bastard got ye all in ‘ere, but then ‘arry went through th’ door an’ everyone’s been really busy wi’ everything, an’ ’m really sorry ‘cause I never -”

Wolfe spreads his hands wide in a calming manner and Mal can tell he hasn’t got it right because he’s nothing but a little concerned and confused. “Mal, Mal, please. You speak too quick, I cannot follow. You are upset about Ms Barber going through the door?”

“No! Well, yes, but that’s not what - ugh.” Words are too clumsy, they can’t get across how important this is, fear chokes them before they get past his tongue, so Mal shakes his head and changes track. “It’s  easier jus’ t’ show ye, alright?” He peels off his gloves and drops them on the floor, then unwraps his scarf and lets it fall on top.

“Ah - Mal?”

“Shurrup a minute,” he snaps, undoing his necktie.

“Mal, are you quite sure you are feeling well?”

Mal pauses in the middle of shrugging off his coat, realises how he looks, and flushes. “I’m fine! Yer see inna sec. Jus’… turn around fer now!”

Although he’s still confused, Wolfe does as asked and turns to face what counts as a wall in here, while Mal pulls off his coat, shirt, and, after a moment of consideration, his vest.

He’s left standing in his trousers and bindings, clothes scattered around his feet. Forcing his breathing to stay slow, he looks down at his bare skin and concentrates like he practised, drawing the soulmark to the surface until it’s softly glowing. “Uh, ye can look now…”

Wolfe gasps as he turns around and stumbles a few steps closer before stopping, unsure. “What is…?”

“It’s my - it’s yer…” Mal takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to cross his arms over himself. “Soulmark. We might, um, be, y’know…”

“Soulmates?” Wolfe finishes for him in disbelief. “It does look like my… but why have we not seen this before?”

“Dunno. Can only make it appear ‘ere. Must be a Witch thing. Can only see my spirit in ‘ere too.”

A hundred, a thousand emotions swirl around Wolfe, impossible to read. He pulls back his own sleeve to his usual mark, then looks back to Mal. “Do I also…?”

Mal nods miserably. This was a bad idea. The worst. “Think so. Think it’s mine, hard t’ tell, but would make sense.”

“May I see?”

“Eh?”

“I would like to see, if it is possible,” Wolfe says earnestly. He’s still unreadable, but he can’t drag his eyes off Mal in a way that makes him feel very exposed indeed.

“It’ll hurt t’ look at.”

Wolfe smiles, shaking his head. “Do not worry, you will not hurt me. I trust you.”

How he can stand there and say that, after what happened last time in this room, Mal has no idea. His throat gets kind of tight. “Okay,” he hears himself say. “Roll yer sleeves up.” He stares at Wolfe’s arms - he can already see the faint outlines of smoke - and focuses on allowing a little power to slip out, like river water through a widening breach in a mud dam, until the soulmark is glowing and Wolfe is staring down at himself in shock.

“It moves!” he exclaims, lifting his arms to examine the other side. “I have never seen such a thing before.”

“Neither. Look, Wolfe…” Mal sighs and turns away, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’m really sorry. I mean it. I know ‘s not what ye want, not what ye’d choose, so if ye want t’ jus’ forget about it an’ pretend it never ‘appened then -”

A strange noise cuts him off. After a second, Mal realises it’s laughter. He looks back to Wolfe to find him beaming, his spirit soaring with Joy, and Wolfe laughs again.

“We are soulmates,” Wolfe says slowly. “You and I.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry -”

Wolfe doesn’t seem to be listening as he shakes his head. “I cannot believe it. After all this time - it is you!”

Before Mal can work out what’s going on, Wolfe pulls him into an enormous hug, so enthusiastic he’s swept off his feet and spun once before he finds the ground again. It’s warm and surprise and confusion and safety and friendship and Wolfe’s laughter is infectious so Mal can’t help smiling too even as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on. In all the scenarios he’d imagined, none of them had included this.

Wolfe’s still bubbling with happiness as he lets Mal go and rests their foreheads together for a moment before stepping back, which is probably for the best because Mal’s not too used to touchy-feely stuff and he really doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing, so currently he’s just standing very still and hoping things make sense sooner or later.

“I am sorry,” Wolfe says sheepishly, as he had been the handful of times he’s unexpectedly hugged Mal before. “I am just - it is very exciting, no?”

Mal still can’t get this straight. “Yer - happy?”

“Of course! Before, I was afraid if I met my soulmate…  I did not want to be away from you. And now there is nothing to fear.”

“But - But -”

Smiling, Wolfe lays a hand on Mal’s shoulder and looks into his eyes. “I would like to be your friend, Mal, for as long as you shall have me.”

“Always,” Mal replies without thinking, then looks away and shrugs Wolfe’s hand off him before he can accuse him of being a sap. “I mean, someone’s got t’ keep ye out o’ trouble.”

They’ve got plenty to be doing, so it’s not long before they step out back to the regular world, and Mal feels a twinge of regret as he watches the markings vanish from their arms again. But then he looks at Wolfe, who smiles when he catches him, and even though he rolls his eyes he feels a sense of satisfaction that he was right all along. They really didn’t need some marks on their skin to tell them they belong together.