vigorli

Title: Purity of Intention (7/?)
Author:

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

~~~~~~~

Ghosting through the darkened streets, Roux made his way back to the Tavern of the Turk. He had done all he could for tonight in his search. His contacts had not failed him, but it would be another day or two before he had the information he needed. In the meantime, he wanted to check on Diego. Alatriste would certainly want to go with him when it came time to search McKellen's apartments. That meant getting him on the mend. While he knew the Inglés would not do anything to harm the swordsman, Roux had more tricks up his sleeve than he would share with a foreigner, even one who was caring for his friend.

Nodding to Caridad as he passed through the tavern and headed up the stairs, he wondered what he would find. He had meddled as much as he dared between the two men. He was curious to see what his efforts had wrought over the day. Knocking at the door, he waited patiently for someone to admit him.

Íñigo had been waiting anxiously for the gypsy's return and ran quickly to the door when he heard his knock. It was not that he did not trust the Englishman to care for his guardian – each time he had entered the bedroom, the foreigner was wiping the Capitán down or helping him to drink some soup or water the few times he was alert enough to swallow. But the fever had not abated as the day wore on; if anything it seemed to be getting worse. It frightened Íñigo to see the Capitán lying so still and quiet, or worse yet, muttering and tossing restlessly in the grip of some vision only he could see. Íñigo hoped the gypsy would have some potion or spell that would help restore the Capitán to health – for he fully believed that Roux had unexplained powers that the elders of the Church would no doubt consider unholy.

"Do not open the door," Orlando shouted from the other room. "You do not know who it is." He set down the cloth and picked up his sword, heading toward the other room. He would not be much match against a determined intruder, but at least he would put up a fight if need be.

"It's Roux – that's his knock," Íñigo called as he threw open the door. "The Capitán is still sick – you must come and help him at once," he insisted, all but dragging the olive-skinned gypsy into the inner chamber.

Orlando scowled reflexively, but in truth, he was glad to see the mysterious man again. He had done as Roux directed, but it did not seem to help. Diego had been delirious or nearly so almost since the gypsy's departure. Though he had almost emptied the pitcher of water washing him down, the fever was still high.

Entering the bedroom, Roux took in the scene. The Inglés hovered at Diego's bedside with all the care and concern the gypsy could have desired, but it seemed Íñigo was right. "Help me here," he ordered. "We need to finish undressing him. The more skin we can expose to the air, the more quickly we can cool him down."

Orlando averted his eyes, trying to hide his reaction to the simple thought of Diego naked. "If you think that's best," he agreed softly, moving to the opposite side of the bed from the gypsy.

Roux hid a grin. The situation was potentially too grave for that. He unbuttoned his friend's breeches. "Lift him up and I will work them down his legs."

Orlando could not hide his flush this time as he slid his arms around Diego's hips, raising them so Roux could remove his clothes.

Lost in an erotic fever-dream, Alatriste moaned as his lover's hands caressed him, stripping away his clothing to draw him closer to his own naked flesh. "Orlando," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.

Orlando jerked away reflexively, sure he had committed some grave error.

"Careful!" Roux scolded. "'Tis the fever talking. Hold him steady until I get him undressed."

The fever talking. Orlando sighed. He should have known better than to think Diego would say his name that way while in possession of his senses.

Roux heard the sigh and looked up sharply. "Fevers are interesting things," he said conversationally as he pulled Diego's breeches off, gesturing for Orlando to release him. "Diego has little control over what he is saying and will probably not remember having said it, but he cannot lie while he is like this. Anything that slips from his lips will be the truth as he understands it to be. It was your name he called just now, not mine."

Orlando looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have nothing to fear from me," Roux replied. "Bathe his legs now while I check his shoulder.” Roux moved to the head of the bed and unwrapped the bandage. The skin around the wound was hot and red.

Diego stirred restlessly as the sensual touch continued, raising prickles of sensation over his heated skin. When a tantalizing hand slid up his thigh, he reached out to grasp it, holding the wrist in a grip strengthened by a lifetime of swordplay.

Orlando gasped when a hard hand closed around his wrist. He looked up at Roux frantically, wondering what to do now.

Frowning, Roux bent down and whispered softly in Diego's ear, words meant only for the two of them.

Roux's voice drifted through the erotic haze that filled Diego's thoughts, soothing the ferocious pounding of his pulse. His grip loosened and his disturbed movement calmed; his eyelids fluttered, trying to respond to the gypsy's words, but he still lacked the strength to force them open.

"What did you say to him?" Orlando snapped jealously when Roux lifted his head and Diego's grip eased.

"I told him he was safe and that you and I were here looking after him," Roux assured him. It was partially the truth. Some secrets were not meant to be shared with anyone. "Keep bathing him. I need to send Íñigo out for fresh herbs. It seems that what I used earlier has lost its potency."

Orlando nodded as the gypsy went into the other room, calling Íñigo's name.

Anxiety and intimidation marked Íñigo's face as he answered Roux's call. "Will the Capitán be all right?" he asked fearfully. "What can I do to help him?"

Roux pulled the pouch of herbs from his pocket and handed it to Íñigo. "Take this to the herb seller off the main square. Tell her I need fresh ones. The freshest she has. Do not waste time, but do not fear, either. I have no intention of losing your Capitán now."

There were few people in his life Íñigo trusted without question: his sainted mother, his guardian – and Roux. If the gypsy told him not to fear, he could leave knowing the Capitán was in the best possible hands. Nodding gravely, he took the packet of herbs and headed at a run for the marketplace.

"Did you tell him the truth when you told him not to fear?" Orlando challenged when Roux came back into the bedroom. "Or were they simply words meant to reassure a frightened child?"

You are just frightened as that child, Roux thought, and not nearly as talented at hiding it. "I would never lie to Íñigo. Diego's wound is serious, but not beyond my ability to heal." He examined the young man critically. "When did you last eat?"

"This morning, before we went out," Orlando replied. "I didn't want to leave his side."

"I am here now. Go downstairs and ask Caridad for something to eat, for both of us, but use the back stairs and don't go into the common room. Diego would never forgive me if something happened to you while he could not protect you."

Orlando nodded and left the gypsy alone with his protector.

Hearing the door shut behind the Inglés, Roux turned back to Diego's prone form. "Now, mi amigo," he muttered, "let us see what we can do for this wound." Closing his eyes, he laid his hands on either side of the injury, concentrating on it as he murmured softly in a language long since gone from the earth.

Trying to focus on the low hum of the gypsy's voice, Diego clung to that thread, following it out of the fog of swirling and seductive images that ensnared him. He stirred fitfully, finally forcing his leaden eyelids to crack apart. Wincing at the harsh stab of light, he let them fall closed again, muttering thickly. "Am I dead?"

"Not on my watch," Roux retorted mildly, "but it may be a while before you regain your normal strength."

Before Diego could reply, Orlando burst back into the room. "You're awake," he cried, rushing to the Spaniard's side, his hand resting familiarly on the swordsman's stomach. He thought nothing of it. After all, he had been caring for the injured man all day, touching him in any way necessary to help ease his fever.

Diego flinched at Orlando's touch, the gentle pressure merging with the sensual dream-world he was still struggling to escape. His hand shot out to catch the younger man's wrist in unconscious repetition of his earlier action, with one significant difference. The first time, he had welcomed, even encouraged the touch. Now, with returning awareness, he realized the danger and knew he could not allow it to continue. "No," he ground out, his voice harsh and raw. "Do not."

"What?" Orlando asked, confused. "Why not? I have spent the entire day taking care of you on Roux's orders. He is not going to mind that I touch you now."

Another shiver shook through Diego as he realized not everything in his dreams had been his imagination. He felt himself beginning to harden beneath the clammy bedsheet, and wondered how much he had revealed in his febrile state. Whatever he had imagined in his delirium, he knew he could not allow the fantasies to cloud his waking mind. He could not allow himself to believe that Orlando's touch meant more than it did, merely because the Englishman was no longer holding the damp cloth to his skin when he touched him. Even if Roux was correct and the younger man did share his desire, he could not afford to give in to it. Releasing his grip on Orlando's wrist, he sank back onto the pillow. "It is not safe," he rasped, the few words leaving him panting for breath.

“Safe?” Orlando repeated. “What do you mean it is not safe? It was a simple touch, no different than any of the others as I cared for you today.” He did not mention the times he had bent and brushed his lips over Diego’s forehead or the times he had simply rested his hand against the hot skin, not to test for fever but because he feared he would only ever have this chance.

Perhaps his perception was still coloured by his fever-dream, Alatriste thought wearily. Orlando was insistent that his touch was no more than caregiving; curse Roux for feeding his hopes and then proving wrong for the first time Diego could remember. He shook his head as another tremor shook him. "Roux, damn you," he muttered thickly to the gypsy.

Roux shook his head in frustration. "Why do you each insist on lying to the other?" he asked. "I know all the reasons for keeping such things behind safely shut doors, but the doors are shut now. There is no one here who would see either of you come to harm. Explain this to me. What is it you fear?"

Orlando's eyes flew from Roux's face to Diego's and back to the gypsy's. "That he will send me away," Orlando replied softly, addressing his words to Roux rather than Diego. It seemed easier somehow to confess if he did not have to look at the object of his desires. "That he will refuse even a helpful touch because he fears to encourage a more intimate one." He drew a deep, shaky breath. "That he will not want me the way I want him." The last slipped out a mere whisper. Orlando had trouble believing he was saying these things to a complete stranger, but Roux's gaze was compelling, drawing the truth from him with a force he could not begin to understand or explain.

"It is not safe," Diego whispered again, closing his eyes against the hunger to reach for the younger man, this time to pull him down against him and take what he knew now Orlando was willing to give. It would satisfy them both for the moment, but he was under no illusion that the Englishman wanted more than to temporarily slake his lust. He would not risk exposing them both to the condemnation of the Inquisition for a few hours or days of pleasure.

"Why not?" Orlando demanded, turning to Diego, eyes hot with anger as he heard himself refused, his declaration denied. "Roux would never do anything to hurt you, and I certainly would not. I would be as badly hurt if I did. What harm is there in the pleasure we could give each other? Or am I that repulsive to you, that you would use safety as a pretext to keep me away?"

The swordsman's eyes flew open at the bitter comment. How could Orlando possibly think he was repulsed by him? Sure his expression revealed the depth of his emotions, Diego tried to push himself up on an elbow to meet Orlando's eyes on the same level. "McKellen... has spies," he rasped. "If they were to see... to condemn you... to the Inquisition..." He drew an unsteady breath at the thought of Orlando in the hands of the merciless Inquisitors. "I swore to protect you," he insisted.

“Here?” Orlando challenged, pride still stinging from Diego's continued rejection. “In this room? I understand the need for discretion within the public sphere. I am not an imbecile, but you see betrayal where there is none. Unless you think perhaps Íñigo would betray you?”

"Never," Alatriste rejected the suggestion out of hand. His ward might not understand, perhaps, but he would never condemn Diego's choices. "But outside these rooms... a look... a touch... could be enough. A hint is all McKellen would need... I will not risk you – your safety," he corrected himself, hoping Orlando would ascribe the slip to his laboured breathing.

Every word Diego said was true, Roux knew, but he also knew when his friend was concealing something. Moving to stand so he could look directly at the swordsman, he said, "Tell us the rest of it."

Diego's stormy eyes locked with his former lover's, refusing to allow them to stray back to Orlando. "This is ... different," he husked, knowing Roux would understand. "More... than comfort and distraction." His lids closed, shutting out the gypsy’s too-perceptive gaze. "I will see him safe, and then he will leave."

Roux’s eyes dropped in defeat. His skills allowed him many things, but he could not make the Inglés fall in love without compromising more of himself than he was willing to do, even for Diego. And if he did and his friend found out, the swordsman would never forgive him.

Orlando had no answer to Diego’s words, either. While he believed he could be discreet enough to avoid the Inquisition, he had no rebuttal for the contention that he would leave when the threat was gone. He had never intended to stay in Spain as long as he had, but McKellen had given him no choice. If Roux and his protector could do as they promised and end McKellen’s threat, there would be no impediment keeping him from home any longer.

And no reason to stay.

Even though he knew his words were true, some part of Diego had hoped younger man would dispute them. When Orlando remained silent, confirming his belief, the swordsman's determination to smother his unwanted longings was redoubled. Sagging into the mattress, he forced his mind back to the practicalities that would allow them to disarm McKellen's threat – and speed the Englishman's departure. "What did you learn?" he asked Roux tiredly.

“Not as much as I had hoped,” Roux replied honestly, “but I will know more come morning. By tomorrow evening, we should know all we need. Then it is simply a matter of waiting until you are well enough to go with me, since I doubt you will let me go alone.”

Tomorrow evening. Twenty-four hours. Was that all the time he was to have left with Diego? Orlando wondered hopelessly. Looking back at the vividly red gash on Alatriste’s shoulder, he thought perhaps he might gain a little more time than that. Surely Diego would not be up to a fight again so soon.

"You know me well," Diego admitted, unable to hold back a grim smile. "As soon as you discover McKellen's location, I will be ready." He closed his eyes again, refusing to allow himself to look in Orlando's direction. The sooner they disposed of McKellen, the sooner he could begin to forget he had ever met the alluring, unattainable Englishman.

tbc…