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“Crick.”
Crick looks over at Temenos at the sound of his name, spoken quietly and deadly serious. Crick can see the tension in his lips and tenseness of his shoulders that indicates something is troubling him.
“What is it, Temenos?”
Temenos glances at him. “Remain cautious, but I do believe we are being watched. Just there.”
A pit of dread settles in Crick’s stomach as he follows Temenos’s subtle inclination of the head.
It’s been just over a month after Crick’s injury in Stormhail and the subsequent revealing of Captain Kaldena as the mastermind behind the pontiff’s death. The road to Toto’haha is long and arduous (only thanks to a combination of Castti's herbs and Temenos's magic is Crick able to endure it), and it’s impossible to conceive just how deep into the Sacred Guard Kaldena’s corruption has penetrated. As a result, he, Temenos, and the rest of their traveling party have been keeping a close eye on the Sanctum Knights they encounter along the way.
Now, their party has stopped briefly in Clockbank while Partitio takes care of some business, something about an old coworker. The Sacred Guard’s presence here is small but measurable, and Temenos’s head is ever on a swivel. Even now, in the market while on an errand for Castti, Temenos hasn’t stopped flicking his eyes between the few clumps of polished knights that stand guard or patrol the grounds.
Crick had swallowed down a flicker of painful longing as he watched them. He had worked so hard to wear that armor, and he’d worn it with pride. He’d had to abandon his official Sanctum Knight armor in favor of less conspicuous leathers courtesy of Partitio (though he still elected to keep his cloak, against Throne’s advice), turning from a noble knight to an average citizen. Temenos has assured him numerous times that it is only temporary, but while everyone believes him dead it would be best to blend into crowds. Crick doesn’t disagree, but he still allows himself to grieve the life he once had.
At this moment, however, Crick is grateful for the less conspicuous clothes. He is tall enough that he can easily spot the small group of half a dozen men hanging by the tavern entrance, standing in a semicircle and looking in their direction. They wear regular clothes, but Crick had once been one of them; he can spot a plainclothes knight as clearly as a rotten apple amongst a basket of ripe ones.
Crick pretends to examine some fruits on a vendor stall. “They’re definitely knights.”
Temenos picks up a handful of grapes and rolls one between his fingers, the picture of a casual shopgoer. “I believe I spotted one of them in Montwise as well just the other week. A scar on the face is hard to forget; it is not unreasonable to assume we have been followed for a while.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“Well,” Temenos hums, his face adopting that signature expression of deep thought that Crick has come to internally dub as Temenos’s Scheming Face. “We are in luck that you do not recognize them, which means they will not recognize you. Crick Wellsley is still, by all accounts, lying in a grave in Stormhail.”
The thick scar on Crick’s stomach aches, the phantom pains of Kaldena’s cursed sword piercing his gut still lingering on cold nights. He tries to ignore it.
“This means they are likely after me.” Temenos concludes. “News of Deputy Cubaryi’s death by my hand has surely reached the crow by now.”
Crick puts the fruit into his bag and fishes out his leafpurse, still acting casual. “I only have a dagger on me.”
“I do not like our odds,” Temenos muses. “I think it is best if we lose them in this crowd and regroup with our companions for a more even fight.”
Crick finishes paying the vendor and pulls his bag strap over his head, adjusting it so that it rests securely against his hip. “Are we running?”
Temenos casts his eyes across the yard, the cogs in that wonderful, calculating brain of his whirring to life. “Let us begin casually until we make it out of the market,” he says. He wraps a hand around Crick’s elbow and begins to guide them through the throng of people. Crick keeps his head angled so he can keep an eye on the group; indeed, once he and Temenos began to move away, the men also decide to begin pushing their way into the crowd. “We don’t want to potentially harm any of the townsfolk.”
“They’re definitely following,” Crick murmurs.
“Remain calm, little lamb,” Temenos says, using the same tone of voice he uses when consoling a child. “If they are as trained as I suspect they are, they will know if you are nervous.”
“I am nervous,” Crick hisses.
“You faced down a Felvarg, Vados the Architect, and Captain Kaldena herself, and a few lowly knights are enough to quake your boots?” Temenos tsks. If it were anyone else, Crick would take offense, but he has been at Temenos’s side long enough that he can tell when the cleric is teasing. “Perhaps I misjudged your valor.”
“Nerves do not contradict my valor,” Crick affirms. “I only worry for your safety.”
Temenos does not deign this with an answer, looking straight ahead as he guides Crick forward, but Crick does catch the glimpse of a shy smile.
They break through the crowd into a more open area. There are still people milling about, but there is more room to navigate, to find places to hide. A quick glance reveals that the knights are not far behind, walking with far too much purpose to be considered normal market patrons.
“I hope your bag is not too heavy,” Temenos says.
“Not terribly,” Crick replies.
“Excellent,” Temenos grins, and breaks into a run.
Crick takes off after him, and a shout pierces the marketplace murmur. People cry out as they are shoved aside, armor clanks, and swords screech from their sheathes as their pursuers give chase.
Crick had never been to Clockbank before this journey, so he has no idea where Temenos is leading them. They dart around corners and catch their breath behind buildings before the sound of their tail catches up, and then they are off again.
“There you are!”
Temenos screeches to a halt, just in time to avoid impaling himself on the sword that a mercenary had thrust forward, appearing like a ghost from a shadowed corner between two buildings. “Oh dear,” he says, eyes wide as he stares down at the blade time mere inches from his chest.
The knight raises his blade to strike. “The captain sends her rega–!”
He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Crick uses the momentum of his sprint to carry him into the body of the knight, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The man is caught off guard just long enough for Crick to whip the dagger Throne had given him from his boot and plant it in the man’s stomach. The knight coughs up a mouthful of blood, hand scrabbling for the open wound before falling still.
“Bravo,” Temenos praises, looking at him with that same wide-eyed expression, though less shock now and more impressed. “My knight in shining armor.”
“We cannot linger.” Crick will grapple with the inevitable turmoil over killing an (ex-)fellow knight later. For now he must get Temenos to safety. He lurches to his feet and wraps his free hand around Temenos’s wrist. “Perhaps I shall take the lead.”
Temenos nods. “As you wish.”
This turns out to also be a bad idea.
“This way!” Crick pulls Temenos to the left into a darkened alley. He’d hoped to find a way to double back and perhaps throw their pursuers off the trail but hardly a few steps within do they find themselves staring down a dead end.
“Maybe not this way,” Crick says weakly.
Temenos lets out of soft curse. “That certainly puts a damper on things.”
“Let’s head back–” Crick starts.
“Wilkes is dead… they must be close. Find them!”
“No going back,” he finishes. “What do we do?”
Temenos once again puts on his Scheming Face, mouth pulled into a thin line. “Crick, my dear, do you trust me?”
Crick nods. “With my life.”
Temenos begins to hastily unbutton his clerical robe.
Crick has traveled with Temenos officially for a while now. It wasn’t long after their departure from Stormhail did he begin to accept the feelings for Temenos that he has been carrying and perhaps not-so-subtly hiding (if Agnea’s knowing looks are anything to go by). This has lead to many instances of sharing a room when stopping by inns or moments during a warm night around a campfire where Temenos sheds a layer or two for comfort. During these times, Crick has endeavored to be nothing if not a gentleman. Turning away whenever Temenos goes to change into his sleeping clothes, respectfully keeping his eyes averted whenever it’s the boys’ turn to bathe.
Crick is finding it very hard to look away now.
Although the alley is dim, Crick is certain that Temenos can see the bright red of his face. “Temenos–!”
“These robes are distinctive,” the cleric says, shrugging quickly out of the open robe and letting it pool at his feet before quickly gathering it and the Staff of Judgement into his hands. Beneath the robe, Temenos wears his usual well-worn trousers and a soft white cotton shirt, buttons at the collar hastily undone and fulling exposing the pale column of his throat and delicate curve of his collarbones. Without the clerical robe, Temenos looks less regal, more delicate, and perhaps Crick would even use the word frail if he had not personally seen Temenos beat a man close to death for information.
The staff and robe are shoved behind a small stack of packing crates, within reach but just out of sight. Crick is spellbound by the image of Temenos undressing (if only partially) in front of him for so long that he doesn’t resist when Temenos puts one hand on Crick’s shoulder and shoves him against the cool alley wall.
Their pursuers are drawing closer, men shouting and swords clanging against the insides of their sheathes. Crick instinctively turns to watch the mouth of the alley, his heart rate skyrocketing; he led them into this alley, he trapped them here. If they are found, and if something were to happen to Temenos now that he has shed his amor and set aside his staff, Crick would never forgive himself.
A gentle hand on his cheek turns his face back toward Temenos, who is standing so close that Crick can see each elegant eyelash framing those intelligent eyes. He has fastened his capelet back around his shoulders and has pulled the hood up to conceal his distinctive silver hair. Crick feels the breath leave him in a rush. “Temenos, what are you doing?”
Temenos reaches up and pulls the hood of Crick’s own cape upward and over his head, blocking Crick’s view of the alley entrance. “With your life?”
Crick swallows. “Yes.”
Temenos casts one last glance at the alley entrance, murmurs a quick prayer to Aelfric, and then looks back at Crick. His eyes are ablaze with adrenaline and something else that Crick doesn’t have time to place before he says, “Follow my lead,” and pulls Crick into a kiss.
Crick lets out a squeak, any blood that had not already made its way into his cheeks rushing there so quickly that he feels lightheaded. Temenos is shorter than him; Crick can feel the entire length of Temenos’s body pressed against his own, hands fisted in the sides of his hood to keep their faces obscured and to support himself as he bends forward onto his toes in order to meet Crick’s height.
It’s incredibly awkward, and it’s one hundred percent Crick’s fault. He is too caught up in Temenos is kissing me, oh gods help me to return the gesture. Temenos’s lips are moving against his own still ones, encouraging Crick to action. He seems nervous, somehow, his gentle presses hesitant like he isn’t sure how Crick will react to suddenly being kissed.
The men pursuing them are nearly at the alley.
“They went this way!”
“Find them!”
“Can’t have gotten far!”
“Search over there!”
Follow my lead, Temenos’s voice pierces the cacophony, and Crick is not known for his disobedience. If this is what he must do to protect Temenos from those knights, then he will put his feelings aside and play along.
Crick’s eyes finally slide shut and he turns his face into the kiss. His hands, which had been somewhat unceremoniously hanging by his sides, rise to pull Temenos closer. One hand goes to the small of his back while the other rises to cup the side of his jaw, thumb rubbing gently over the soft skin. Temenos sighs into the touch, which immediately sends a rush of blood due south.
Temenos’s mouth is soft and pliable beneath Crick’s touch; Crick doesn’t know why he’d imagined Temenos’s mouth to be just as pointed as the words he speaks but he finds he prefers this gentle press.
Crick has very little experience when it comes to intimacy, but he finds it almost instinctual to suddenly detach from Temenos’s mouth with a quiet pop and, taking a moment to catch a breath, uses his hand on Temenos’s back to flip him around so that the cleric is the one pressed against the wall. “Oho,” Temenos gasps with a grin as Crick finishes the move by hoisting Temenos into his arms, wrapping his legs around Crick’s waist and allowing Crick to support his weight against the wall with his own body.
“Little lamb has got some muscle beneath all that wool.” Temenos’s voice is breathy.
“Don’t call me a lamb while I’m kissing you,” Crick practically growls, and drives back in to reclaim Temenos’s lips, which the cleric is all too happy to accept.
Temenos’s hands move from Crick’s hood, still careful to keep it up and obscuring their faces, but he moves his hands beneath them to fist in Crick’s hair, which had been growing out over their travels. Crick gasps at the sensation, which Temenos takes as an invitation to introduce his tongue.
Crick freaks out for only a second – Oh Flame, his tongue is in my mouth! – before Temenos starts to pull away. Crick won’t let him get away that easily and chases it, slipping his own tongue between Temenos’s lips. He can feel Temenos begin to smirk and realizes that this was the cleric’s plan all along. Devious bastard.
He’s a pretty bastard, though, Crick thinks, as Temenos tangles their tongues together in a way that far exceeds the line of contact necessary to be convincing. A small part of him wonders if perhaps Temenos is feeling a similar feeling of release, like an unspoken tension has been broken between them and he intends to take advantage of it for as long as he can, until reality catches back up to them and they are forced once again back into their roles of priest and disgraced knight. Even if he doesn’t, and they never again come together so intimately… Crick is a selfish creature, and now that he knows what Temenos tastes like he will savor it for as long as he can.
Crick digs his fingers deeper into the flesh of Temenos’s hips, feeling a rush of arousal as Temenos responds with a hitch of breath and a quiet groan. Crick can feel it vibrate against his mouth and chest, the rumble of it so real that if Crick had any lingering doubts about this being a dream, they are now completely abandoned; never in any of his fantasies had Temenos made a sound like that.
Temenos returns the favor by moving a hand from Crick’s hair down to his chest, still encased thoroughly in leathers, and continuing their path lower. Crick’s breath hitches; there is no way the cleric can’t feel the physical evidence of his excitement, pressed as tightly against each other as they are, and if Temenos wanted a more… hands-on experience then, well, Crick can admit that he wouldn’t stop him.
Temenos’s hand instead scrabbles at the hem of Crick’s shirt, finally finding its mark. Crick can’t help the light moan that escapes into the air between them, swallowed promptly by his handsy partner. Temenos’s grip is a brand against his backside, fingers kneading the soft flesh and eliciting another breathy moan from Crick’s throat.
“Teme…”
Crick freezes, the rest of Temenos’s name dying on his lips. Temenos himself stills in Crick’s grasp.
Oh Flame, what has he done. He’s ruined everything. He’d let his personal feelings and selfish desires get in the way, and now Temenos will know just how badly Crick burns for him.
Temenos, still with one hand in Crick’s hair beneath his hood, closes his eyes. Their faces are still centimeters apart, their lips brushing with every breath. Crick can see the ruddy redness of Temenos’s face, and had Crick not just royally screwed up, he might have enjoyed knowing that it was him who turned the unflappable and enigmatic Inquisitor into a writhing mess. He can’t enjoy it now.
Crick starts to step away, shame quickly replacing the lingering arousal in his gut, but Temenos’s legs tighten around his waist, and he is captured, reeled back in by this stubborn, beautiful, intelligent, brave inquisitor who takes what he wants from whomever he wants. Crick is merely a butterfly pinned beneath his gaze, helpless against the fierce onslaught of kisses Temenos presses to Crick’s mouth.
“Crick,” Temenos gasps, and Crick feels a swell of relief.
Temenos doesn’t hate him. Crick hasn’t ruined everything…
Crick moves from Temenos’s mouth and plants kisses down the cleric’s pale jaw. Temenos’s breaths come fast and heavy against his ear, encouraging, pleading. The back of Temenos’s head clunks against the brick alley wall, exposing enough of his neck so that Crick can bury his face in the damp skin and press open-mouthed kisses against delicate collarbones.
“Your mouth,” Temenos breathes.
“Hey, there’s people down here!”
Crick freezes. He had completely forgotten the reason they were doing this in the first place. The corrupt knights who were pursuing them were still searching, and in the heat of the moment Crick had lost all focus except for the man in his arms.
Temenos pets the back of Crick’s head encouragingly. “Don’t stop,” he says through deep breaths, his lithe chest heaving with each inhale. “They will soon be gone.”
Crick swallows and nods, and resumes his exploration of Temenos’s neck and shoulder, guided by the small sounds Temenos makes whenever he finds a new spot.
“Hey, you two! Have you seen—OH. Oh gods, erm.”
“Oi, Randall! Did you find anythi—oh, get a room.”
“Perhaps you’d do well to mind your business,” Temenos says, pitching his voice a tad lower and adopting a slight Leaflands accent that would have Crick laughing in any other circumstance; anyone actually from the Leaflands would be able to hear the laughably bad impression, but these guards clearly are not from the Leaflands.
“Right,” says the one called Randall. Crick, with his face buried in Temenos, can’t see a thing but he can hear the two knights backing away. “Yeah, well… uh. Carry on.”
Crick plants a few last kisses against Temenos’s skin, waiting until the clank of armored footsteps fades and then some until the only sounds that penetrate the silence are their own panting breaths.
Crick is the first to move, stepping backward and releasing Temenos so that he may stand on his own two feet. Temenos does, releasing his grip on Crick’s ass and hair. His balance is a little unsteady but otherwise firm. Temenos’s skin is flushed red and his lips kiss-swollen, and Crick wouldn’t doubt that his own face is a similar shade were it not for the uncomfortable tightness of his trousers.
“Erm,” Crick starts. “Shall we… be getting back then?”
Temenos licks his lips, and Crick follows the gesture, using every ounce of his knightly training to exercise restraint. “Ah, uh, yes. I believe Castti is expecting her herbs about now.”
Crick so desperately wants to talk about what just happened but he is also so incredibly embarrassed that he thinks he might self-combust if he so much as thinks about opening his mouth.
Temenos retrieves his robe and staff; Crick averts his eyes as he always does whenever Temenos dresses in his presence, instead concentrating on anything that will remove the hard-on that is making it impossible to act casual. When Temenos reenters his field of vision, he is yet again dressed in his clerical attire, his hair has been finger-combed, looking all the while like he had not been pressed against an alleyway wall being kissed (Crick hopes) senseless just a few moments prior.
Crick gives his own hair a few run throughs with his fingers; he had lamented growing his hair out over the last few weeks, but Hikari had advised him that, as someone on the run and presumed dead himself, changing one’s appearance as often as possible will lessen the likelihood of someone recognizing him. So, he grew out his undercut, and the Crick of this morning had almost given in to the urge to take a knife to his curls, but the Crick of now cannot forget the feeling of Temenos’s hands in his hair.
Those same hands now grip the Staff of Judgement, delicate bone and fine sinew that had held his ass and Crick really needs to get his act together.
“Let us remain vigilant,” Temenos says, his voice somehow back under control and sounding his usual self. “There may still be knights lurking about.”
Crick doesn’t trust himself to speak so he nods and begins to step from the alley.
“Oh, little lamb?”
Crick turns. Temenos hasn’t moved from where he was standing; instead, he has offered his hand forward, a playful smirk pulling at those lips… those lips…
Your mouth, they had moaned.
Crick swallows. “Yes?”
“Did you not say you would take the lead?”
Crick maneuvers back toward Temenos and moves to wrap his hand around the delicate bones of the cleric’s wrist. Temenos is yet too clever, and just as he had done before, lures Crick into a trap. He moves his arm at the last moment so that instead of his wrist Crick takes, it’s his entire hand instead.
Crick looks from their joined hands to Temenos, a rush of heat once again flooding his cheeks. “T-Temenos,” he croaks.
“Ah,” Temenos says with a smile. “I do like it when you say my name.”
Crick clears his throat. “Me, uh… me too.”
“Overall I’d say this was an effective strategy,” Temenos says flippantly. “We shall have to keep it in mind the next time we need to hide from pursuers.”
Crick chokes.