FIC - Purity of Intention (4/?)

[oceansecrets2.livejournal.com]

Title: Purity of Intention (4 / ?)
Author: namarie120 and arieltachna
Type: RPS / FPS crossover
Pairing: Diego / Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Warning: none
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, created for entertainment and enjoyment only. With all due respect, we do not own these characters, either the actors or those created by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. We just think it’s a fascinating world.
Feedback: would be wonderful
Beta: sileya
Summary: A cynical swordsman is hired to return a runaway – or so it appears
A/N: thanks to akashaelfwitch for help with translation
A/N2: thanks to tularia for the beautiful banner





~~~~~


Íñigo stared out the window at the street, as he had for most of the past three days. The Capitán did not want him in the tavern unless he was with him, but their rooms did not look out onto the street, and after two weeks had come and gone and the Capitán had still not returned, Íñigo could no longer sit upstairs and pretend to study the lessons Dómine Pérez had left for him. If he had known exactly where his guardian had gone, Íñigo would have set off in search of him, but since the Capitán had neglected to provide him with that information, he could do nothing but wait, watch for him, and worry about what would happen should he not return.

It was growing dark, and Caridad was throwing him looks (which he was doing his best to ignore) to indicate it was time to return upstairs before the night's heavy drinking began, when Íñigo caught sight of a figure in a familiar wide-brimmed hat and worn brown cloak. When he was younger, he might have run out the door, crying out to anyone with ears to hear that the Capitán had returned; but with age Íñigo had learned some discretion, and also some self-preservation. Slipping quietly outside, he tried to appear as if he had just descended from the rooms upstairs to take some air and just happened to notice that Capitán Alatriste was approaching. He was so relieved to see the older man that he did not at first realize he was not alone.

As soon as they turned onto the Calle del Arcabuz, Alatriste spotted Íñigo doing his best to look as if he had been loitering innocently on the street rather than just coming out of the tavern. He knew the boy would have begun to worry, since the trip from Málaga had taken longer than he had expected. They had not gotten off at first light as he had intended – Orlando had insisted on seeing the bodyguard, Bana, to confirm for himself that the man’s injuries were not life-threatening, and then had subjected the innkeeper to an exhaustive list of instructions for the injured man’s care. Nor had Bana taken with equanimity the news that his charge was planning to return to Madrid, with the very man who had almost killed him. A loud and colourful argument had ensued, ending with the younger man declaring that he had given his word, and that since Eric was in no position to stop him anyway, he might as well shut up and accept it. Alatriste had been forced to admire his charge’s determination, though he was well aware that had he been able to, Bana would have gladly torn out Diego’s guts and used them as restraints to keep Orlando from leaving. He had made his position clear when, after Orlando had embraced him warmly and left the room, Bana had caught Diego’s arm and growled to him, ”I swear that if any harm comes to him, I will hunt you down wherever you are and kill you.” Alatriste had simply nodded, his steel-blue eyes glittering coldly as he bowed to the wounded man and took his leave.

Since then he had endured a week of riding (if it could be called that, since the horse he had hired was none too pleased at having to carry a double burden, and refused any gait beyond a walk) with the young man clinging pillion behind him. In retaliation, Diego was certain, the nag had thrown a shoe midway between La Carolina and Valdepeña. It was half a day’s walk to reach the nearest village, and they’d had to wait for the blacksmith to sober up before the shoe could be replaced, which had cost them another day. But as bad as the endless hours in the saddle with the Englishman’s body pressed against his had been, the nights were worse. Whether they stopped at an inn or slept wrapped in their cloaks under the stars, Diego had been achingly aware of the young noble’s presence. That he knew the ache would remain unsatisfied had done little to improve his temper.

Orlando had sighed with relief as Alatriste pulled the horse to a stop. He was sure this was Madrid, though he had never been here before, which perhaps meant that they had reached the end of their journey. Even if they had not, they were stopping for the moment, giving him a much needed break from the swordsman’s proximity. The last sevenday had been… difficult, the Spaniard’s nearness a constant prod to the younger man’s libido, until his erection seemed to nag at him day and night. His companion had not seemed to notice, but Orlando needed a respite. Fortunately, they had left the horse at a livery stable and were now on foot. He glanced around to see an inn of slightly lesser quality than the one he had inhabited in Málaga, but that seemed to be their destination. A youth some years younger than Orlando’s own tender age lounged against the wall, pushing off when he saw them and approaching eagerly. Orlando frowned, wondering who this was.

"You're late," Íñigo accused, stopping in his tracks when he noticed the gentleman accompanying his guardian. The man was elegantly dressed and undeniably handsome, but something about way he dogged the Capitán's steps like a shadow set Íñigo's teeth on edge. "Who is this?" he demanded, nodding at the stranger.

"My commission," Diego answered shortly, amused that Íñigo sought to distract him by taking the offensive. "Orlando, this whelp is my ward, Íñigo Balboa. Íñigo, this is Señor Bloom." The younger men bowed to each other with the air of two dogs sniffing each other warily. "Now, since you've obviously made yourself familiar with the tavern in my absence, make yourself useful and have Caridad send us up some food – and a bottle of wine." He gestured to Orlando to precede him up the stairs to his rooms, his eyes following the graceful sway of the younger man's backside as they ascended. "Better make it two bottles," he called to Íñigo.

“Thank you,” Orlando murmured, hearing Alatriste mention wine. He turned back with a grateful smile. “I could do with a drink,” he admitted ruefully as the Spaniard unlocked the door to a suite of rooms.

Diego dropped his saddlebag on the scarred tabletop, stretching his aching muscles as he hung his hat and cloak on the hook near the door. Perhaps once he settled what to do with Orlando, he would splurge for a bath to ease his stiffness. A sudden image of his companion reclining naked in a tub of steaming water flashed across his mind, leading to a stiffening of a different sort. Alatriste smoothed his moustache and forced his mind away from the tantalizing image. He would deliver his companion to safety and that would be the end of it. The young Englishman had no place in his life.

Removing his own hat and cloak, Orlando held them awkwardly, not sure how far his “host’s” hospitality extended. He reeked of sweat and dust, wanting only to sink into a hot bath and refresh himself. This was clearly Alatriste’s home. Surely the man would know where to procure him a bath. “Would it be possible to bathe?” he asked hopefully. “I stink of our travels.” As he spoke, the image of sharing that luxury with the older man drifted through his thoughts, sending a fresh spike of lust to his reawakening erection.

Diego glanced sharply at the younger man, Orlando’s words only serving to reinforce the effect of his own licentious thoughts. Gritting his teeth, he dropped his eyes to the clothing the nobleman held out to him, for all the world as if Diego was his valet. He likely considers you even lower than that, the swordsman reminded himself, nodding his head toward the second empty hook. "It should be possible to procure one after we eat," he conceded, determined to find some errand that needed to be done while his charge indulged himself.

“Thank you again,” Orlando answered evenly, hanging his clothes on the indicated hook. He could tell his protector was not terribly happy with him at the moment, but then, the man never seemed particularly happy, regardless of what the Englishman did or did not do. He had hoped to win the Spaniard over with his charm, but it seemed the swordsman was immune to that as well.

Íñigo nudged the door open with his hip, precariously balancing a platter of roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, and two bottles of wine. The fine gentleman turned to look at him haughtily, catching the plate of food before it tilted too far and spilled their dinner onto the floor. The Capitán relieved him of the wine, opening a bottle with the ease of long practice and filling two tankards, offering one to the stranger before taking a deep draught of his own. Íñigo was not allowed wine, except sometimes when the Capitán soaked stale bread in it for their breakfast when funds were low. Seeing the way his guardian watched their guest swallow his portion made Íñigo vaguely uneasy, and he tossed the bread on the table hard enough to make it bounce before he turned to collect plates and cutlery for their meal.

Alatriste removed the pistol from his waistband, returning it and his saddlebags to the clothes-press before sitting down to eat. Íñigo had already torn into the provender with the impatient hunger of youth; the Englishman sat quietly, sipping his wine. Careful not to stare at the way the younger man’s throat worked as he swallowed, Diego emptied the bottle into his mug and split the remaining chicken between them, wondering again if he had made a monumental mistake in bringing Orlando back to Madrid.

Orlando nodded his thanks at Alatriste, wondering about the youth who had joined them. Alatriste had identified Íñigo as his ward, but that was such a vague term. He had seen nothing to suggest the Spaniard was married, but that did not mean he had never been. Was the youth perhaps the swordsman’s son from some illicit relationship, one that would not allow him to claim the boy as his own? Or was it something more intimate that bound them? Íñigo was young, fifteen or sixteen, but old enough to be considered an adult. Was the title of ward a way of hiding an illicit relationship of a different kind? If either of those were true, they meant a disappointing end to the attraction Orlando could feel growing despite his reminders to himself that such feelings were dangerous here. “Is this your home, then?” he asked, uncomfortable, as always, with the lengthy silence.

"For as long as I have the reales to pay for it," Diego muttered, though there had been months enough they had survived on no more than Caridad la Lebrijana's good will and the fact that she enjoyed Diego in her bed. Which led him to picture the man across the table beneath him instead, those long legs wrapping around his hips as he... The swordsman took another draught of wine and scowled. As soon as they were done eating he would head downstairs to the tavern, to learn what had been happening in his absence and to get his lust under control. The sooner the young Englishman was out of his rooms and his thoughts, the better it would be for all concerned.

Alatriste’s words brought back thoughts of how they had met in the first place. Orlando scowled at the memory and wondered if he had been a fool to trust the older man’s word. He knew enough of the way McKellen operated to guess that only half of the commission had been paid in advance, meaning that the Spaniard still had much to gain from turning him over to the old bastard. “Whatever McKellen offered you to kidnap me, I will match it,” he offered slowly. “Just do not turn me over to him.”

Alatriste slammed his tankard to the table, his pale blue eyes flashing. "I brought you here to find a way to free you from McKellen's threat," he growled dangerously. "I do not require your gold to remind me of my obligations." He rose to his feet and strode to the door, pausing to glance at Íñigo. "Lock this behind me," he instructed, and then, against his will, his gaze returned to the Englishman. "I will order a bath sent up," he said tightly, turning away and closing the door behind him.

Íñigo glared at the stranger who sat across from him, still staring at the doorway. "How dare you insult the Capitán's honor?" the boy demanded. "I don't know who you are or why he brought you here, but as long as you are under his protection, the Capitán would give his life to keep you safe." His eyes raked over the foppish figure disdainfully. "I only hope you're worthy of his regard."

He probably was not worthy, Orlando mused sadly, but still, Alatriste’s departure gave the Englishman the chance to question the younger man. “You know him well, then?” he asked.

"Nearly all my life," Íñigo admitted. "He and my father were soldiers together in the tercio Viejo de Cartagena in Flanders, fighting against the Lutherans. When my father was killed at Julich, the Capitán promised to look after me." Íñigo reflected that his pious madre would likely not have sent him to live with Alatriste, hoping for a better life for her son in the capital city, had she known how his protector was forced to earn his living since the war. "He is a good man, an honourable man," the boy insisted, stung that this interloper could even doubt it.

“He has been kind to me,” Orlando assured the boy, not wanting to tarnish the image the lad had of the Capitán. “My life depends on his trustworthiness, though, so you must understand that I will do anything to assure my safety.”

“If the Capitán has promised to protect you, then you need have no fear," Íñigo countered, still angered that this stranger would partake of his guardian's hospitality with one breath and impugn his honour with the next. "He is a man of his word."

Orlando sighed. He was clearly not going to convince the lad that he had intended no disrespect with his words. Trying another tack, he asked, “So is it just you and the Capitán here?”

Except when he beds Caridad or one of the other women who frequent the taverns, Íñigo thought, though he doubted that was what the stranger meant. Íñigo was expected to make himself scarce at such times, in any case. "Si, we do not need anyone else," he said pointedly, gathering up the dishes to return downstairs.

Orlando frowned as the boy departed with the dirty dishes. At least he knew what the relationship was between the man and the youth now, but that provided little comfort in the face of Íñigo’s open hostility. It would not take much for that to carry over to Alatriste, Orlando was sure. He sighed. When had his life gotten so complicated?

Diego examined his worn boots as he took another long draught from his mug, trying to distract his thoughts from the apartments upstairs. He'd ordered a bath to be delivered to his chambers before making the rounds of the tavern, picking up whatever news he could of events during his absence. The weeks had been quiet, it seemed; he'd heard nothing more noteworthy from his acquaintances than a jealous dispute over a shared lover between two of the leading ladies of the teatro, and the usual depredations of the Inquisition. Determined to avoid returning to his rooms until he was sure Orlando had completed his ablutions, the swordsman sat in a quiet corner of the tavern, unable to prevent his mind from imagining the young man stripping off his clothes to enter the tub, the water closing over his honeyed skin, gilding it with a golden sheen in the candlelight... He bit back a curse and forced himself to consider instead what his next steps should be to rid himself of his all-too-tempting responsibility.

Undressing with a relieved sigh, Orlando trailed his fingers over the steaming water. It would be so good to be clean again. Eric had laughed at him for his insistence on bathing every night, but the heat and the dust were overwhelming compared to home, and Orlando found he could not sleep without being clean. There had been neither the time nor the privacy to bathe during the trip from Málaga to Madrid, and Orlando intended to relish every moment tonight. He stepped into the wooden tub and sank into the water, another sigh escaping his lips as he relaxed against the side of the tub. Idly, his hand stirred the water, splashing it gently over his upper chest, not submerged like the rest of him.

The sensible action would be to deliver the Englishman to McKellen and collect his reales, Diego thought, but he knew he was not mercenary enough to do so. For better or worse, he'd taken on responsibility for the nobleman when he'd incapacitated his protector. His thoughts turned relentlessly to the young man upstairs, picturing him reclining in the bath, the water rippling around him as he settled deeper into the tub, his elegant hands sliding over his chest and shoulders to wet them.

Reaching for a washrag, Orlando worked the bar of soap into a lather and began to wash away the dust of the road. His thoughts strayed, as they always seemed to these days, to his rescuer. Íñigo had said this was their home, which meant that Alatriste was down there now, catching up with old friends, surely the center of everyone’s attention, for how could he not be? They would gather around him, laugh with him, slap him on the shoulder and back, demanding to know of his latest adventure. The ladies would fawn over him, hanging on his every word, and if he knew their type, the caresses they bestowed would linger, making offers that most men would accept in a heartbeat. Orlando had always been immune to their blandishments, preferring a different kind of caress, but he had seen no sign that Alatriste might share that interest. No, the Spaniard was almost certainly trying to decide which one to pick tonight. A frown marred Orlando’s handsome features as he realized the depth of his jealousy. Stop being an idiot, he scolded himself. You have no claim on him and no hope of ever having one.

Caridad passed by the table to refill Alatriste’s mug, offering a lingering smile that was clearly an invitation. They had both taken pleasure from their times together, but even if he was not sharing his accommodations with Orlando tonight, he knew that thoughts of the young Englishman would have kept him from welcoming the former courtesan to his bed. An image of supple hands lathering over smooth flesh invaded his mind, and he scowled. Nodding a tight smile at the hostess in both thanks and dismissal, he stretched wearily. This was going to be a damned long night.

Thoughts of the swordsman had a predictable effect on Orlando. Glancing around as if to assure himself he was truly alone, he lowered his soapy hand to the heavy flesh between his legs. Stroking gently at first, then with ever increasing vigor, he imagined it was Alatriste’s hand, not his own, that caressed him thus. He muffled his moans out of habit as his cock swelled and his passion mounted.

Try as he could, Diego couldn't keep his thoughts from returning to the enticing image of the naked young man in his chambers, of imagining his own hands gliding over that alluringly lithe body. Heady with arousal, he drained the mug and dropped a coin on the table, rising to return upstairs. Orlando had better be finished bathing, Alatriste thought grimly, because he needed to find some way to deal with the growing hardness concealed beneath his leather jerkin.

Íñigo delayed in the kitchens as long as he could after returning the empty dishes, chattering with Lupe and filching sweets when he imagined the cook wasn't watching. When Caridad returned from the taproom to glare at him, though, he winked at the grandmotherly woman and made his way reluctantly back upstairs. He'd hoped the intruder would have finished his bathing by now – it certainly never took him that long to clean himself! – but the door to the bedchamber was still shut. Íñigo hesitated when an unmistakable sound filtered through the closed doorway. He knew the sounds of passion from those nights the Capitán brought a woman to warm his bed, and that was definitely the moan of someone bringing himself pleasure. A knowing grin spread over his face – so the snobbish Englishman was no better than Íñigo in that regard after all! – when the moan turned into a name. His guardian's name. The stranger had moaned "Diego" as he pleasured himself!

The trembling started low in his body, almost against his back, the tell-tale sign that his climax was nearing. Closing his eyes, Orlando gave his imagination free rein, one hand sliding lower to cup the heavy sacs and then beyond to dance around the tight pucker of flesh. He was close… so damned close. Arching his hips, he groaned as he pushed the tip of one finger inside. Another moan escaped him as he imagined it was Alatriste’s finger inside him, preparing him. That thought was enough to trigger his release, and he came hard, Diego’s name on his lips as he collapsed into the water. A sound in the next room caught his attention, and he muttered a curse, rising quickly and wrapping the bathing sheet around his waist. He had no desire to be caught pleasuring himself with the Capitán’s name on his lips.

Diego strode into the common room of his chambers to see Íñigo standing in uncharacteristic awkwardness before the bedroom door. "Isn't he done yet?" the swordsman growled, his voice clipped with frustration.

"He... no, señor, he..." Íñigo flushed, too shocked to tell his guardian what he had heard.

Looking around the bedroom, Orlando realized he had not brought his valise into the room with him. Sighing against the inevitable, he wrapped the cloth more tightly around his waist and opened the door. He hesitated when he saw Diego and Íñigo standing there, but there was no help for it. He needed his clothes. Without speaking, he crossed to his bag and rummaged through it for a clean shirt and breeches.

His already hard cock throbbed against Diego's breeches when Orlando entered the room clad only in a bath sheet, his bare chest and limbs even more alluring than the Spaniard had imagined them. Nodding to Íñigo, he unbuckled his sword and leaned it against the sideboard. "Be sure he doesn't wander off," he instructed, entering the bedroom and closing the door firmly behind him. Leaning his head against the dark wood, he fought against the urge to send Íñigo on some errand so he could strip the scrap of fabric from the Englishman's hips and bare him completely to his hungry gaze. ‘Fool,’ he told himself as he quickly stripped off his own garments to sink into the cooling water. Knowing that Orlando had reclined here only moments earlier did nothing to tame his passion.

Orlando flushed a little when the Spaniard left so quickly. He did not know what else he could have done, but he still felt incredibly awkward as he dressed in front of the lad, deliberately keeping his back turned and putting the shirt on first so the long tails would cover him if the sheet slipped. Eventually, dressed and feeling more in control of himself, he turned around and took a seat at the table, fingers tapping idly as he tried to keep his mind on anything other than the knowledge that Alatriste was probably settling into the same tub where he had found his release only minutes ago.

After washing himself quickly, Diego wrapped his hand around his insistent erection, clenching his teeth to prevent himself from crying out as he pumped into his calloused fist. Imagining himself thrusting into the Englishman's willing embrace, he felt his balls tightening as his climax overtook him quickly, easing the physical ache but doing nothing to relieve the pull of desire that still drew him to the younger man.

The sounds of Diego bathing traveled through the thin walls, adding fuel to the fire of Orlando’s thoughts. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair, trying not to draw attention to his state. He had absolutely no desire to explain himself to Íñigo. If Diego were the one asking… He reminded himself that was a foolish, impossible notion. A part of his brain marveled that he could react so strongly when he had climaxed mere minutes ago. He had plenty of experience with passion, but never had his desire refused to be quenched, at least temporarily, by an orgasm as strong as the one that had taken him in the bath. He looked toward the door, speculation clear on his face. If just the thought of Diego could make him react this way, what could the man’s touch do?

Íñigo watched the Englishman shift awkwardly at the table, as if he found the chairs too hard for his taste – or, Íñigo realized suddenly, as if he found it uncomfortable to sit at all. The look on the stranger's face as he stared at the closed door raised an uneasy suspicion in the young Spaniard's mind. He knew that some men felt passion for other men – the Inquisition had dealt publicly and cruelly with those it had discovered. Suddenly he felt an urgent need to ensure that the man sitting across from him harbored no such impression about his guardian.

“I am surprised the Capitán did not find other accommodations tonight," he offered casually, watching the other man's expression. "Especially after being gone several weeks... the señoritas were clustering around him like flies around a honey-pot. A man like Capitán Alatriste can always have his choice of women. They say he is as skilled with the ladies as his renowned kinsman, Don Juan Tenorio de Sevilla," Íñigo continued proudly.

Orlando’s heart clenched even as he reminded himself that this should not have come as a shock. Of course the señoritas flocked to Diego. They would have to be blind not to appreciate his powerful physique and wry smile. “You said yourself he takes his responsibilities seriously,” Orlando replied dully. “I am sure that is why he has not made other arrangements for the night.”

Íñigo frowned as the implications of their discussion dawned upon him. Their small quarters contained two beds – the one in the Capitán's bedroom, and the cot Íñigo slept on in the common room. Where was the stranger going to sleep?

Pulling on his only other clean pair of breeches and a loose shirt, Diego left his boots in the bedchamber and padded out silently into the common room. His two companions sat at the table, tension clear in both their attitudes. "Perhaps you should bathe as well, Íñigo," he suggested, "before you ask Caridad to have the tub removed."

"I bathed in the river yesterday – some of the other boys and I went swimming," Íñigo said hastily, hoping the Capitán would find nothing unusual in his disinclination to bathe. Changing the subject quickly, he asked, "Señor, where is this – " he hesitated at the sharp look in his guardian's eyes, biting off the insult he had been ready to utter. "Where is the English gentleman going to sleep?"

Comments

[lizarazu.livejournal.com]

Oooh, update! And a great one at that.
I'm enjoying this immensely. The changing POV's played out really well. Íñigo's protectiveness/jealousy over Alatriste comes off naturally. The sexual tension between our protagonists is undeniable (the evidence of it dissolved in that bathwater). And everything perfectly in agreement with the period demands.

I'm anxious to see the movie (Viggo aside, I really enjoyed Pérez-Reverte's books, though I never got around to the Alatriste series), although now it's pretty obvious that I'll prefer the fanfic version with the slashy twist anyway;)

[oceansecrets2.livejournal.com]

Definitely see the movie if you have the opportunity - it's a huge epic story, incredible cinematography, full of action and humor and romance and tragedy. I didn't find the language / subtitles distracting at all, and Viggo can still convey more with an expression than most actors can with pages of dialogue.