vigorli

Title: Purity of Intention (9/?)
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

~~~~~

Diego resisted awakening, the dull but still-present ache of his wounded shoulder discouraging his return to full wakefulness. He let his mind drift, nestling closer to the warm body entangled with his, the steady rise and fall of the head pillowed on his chest, the leg thrown over his thigh to cradle between his own. Soft curls tickled his chin; he turned his head to feel them slide along his cheek, breathing in the sweet, clean scent.

Stirring in his sleep, Orlando shifted, trying to get more comfortable. He drew his hand closer to his face, the palm coming to rest over the reassuring beat of the other man's heart. He was not awake enough to realize what he had done, but the steady pulse soothed him and he fell deeper into slumber again.

Still adrift in the hazy imagery of dreams, Diego felt the soft hand settle over his heart. Without thought, his larger palm moved to cover the smaller one, holding it still, even as his lips brushed the silky hair that teased him with its caress.

Drifting in hazy dreams of being held, of being loved, Orlando shifted again, his hips seeking friction as his dream lover caressed him intimately. He had felt Diego's roughened hands, even if they had been pushing him away, and that sensation echoed now in his dreams, not pushing him away, but pulling him close. His fingers tightened reflexively as he rubbed against the hard body next to his in the bed.

The feel of his lover moving against him kindled Diego's arousal. Turning to pull the enticing body more firmly to his own, his hand nudged the head resting on his chest upward, his own lowering to claim a welcoming kiss.

The feeling of lips moving on his own drew Orlando out of his dreams to a different, better reality. The sensation of Diego's mouth on his was better than any fevered dream, any night time imagining. He returned the kiss eagerly, not about to miss any opportunity to kiss the Spaniard.

When the lips beneath his parted eagerly, Alatriste deepened the kiss, plundering the willing mouth hungrily, mapping its contours with his tongue as he drank in his partner's heady taste. His hips arched to press his arousal into the friction of the warm body rubbing against him, seeking more contact, more warmth. A firm chest brushed against his and he shuddered, his passion spiraling.

Orlando twined his tongue around the one invading his mouth, moaning in his throat at the contact. Diego was pulling him closer and he went eagerly, shifting his weight so he lay halfway on top of the other man, his hips pulsing eagerly against the Spaniard's solid form. He lifted his head, looking down at the closed eyes, his passion taking control. "Diego," he moaned softly, lowering his head for another kiss.

The sudden weight of a body settling atop his, its arousal pressing hotly against his own, and the earthy moan of a voice calling his name broke Diego from the lingering wisps of sleep. His eyes snapped open as Orlando's lips closed over his, his tongue instinctively parrying the younger man's as it slid into his mouth, stopping his words of protest. He grasped the Englishman's hips, halting their undulation, their cocks separated only by the thin linen of their smallclothes.

Orlando thrilled at the feeling of Diego's hands on his hips... until he realized they intended to stop him from moving. He moaned in protest, determined not to let this moment end in another rejection. He could feel how hard Diego was, how much he wanted this. Surely he just needed a little encouragement. Orlando had every intention of giving it to him.

Holding Orlando's hips still with one strong hand, Diego plunged the other into the deep brown curls that had tantalized him in his dreams. Cradling the Englishman's head in his palm, he broke the kiss, holding the younger man back when he tried to recapture his mouth. "Enough," he commanded, his voice roughened with sleep and desire.

"Not enough," Orlando rasped, trying futilely to lower his head again, to recapture the bliss of Diego's lips moving willingly beneath his. "Never enough."

"Basta!" Diego ground out, raising his hands to the younger man's shoulders and rolling them to one side so he could slide from beneath Orlando's weight. He pushed onto one elbow, his chest heaving as he fought to steady his racing pulse and will down his ferocious arousal.

"Why?" Orlando demanded, sitting up in bed. "You kissed me, Diego. I didn't start this. Why are you pulling away now? I'm not drunk. I'm not asleep. I know exactly what I'm doing and I want this. I want you."

The swordsman swung his legs to the ground and sat on the opposite edge of the mattress, facing away from temptation. His shoulder ached as he raised his hands to run them through his hair, reminding him of the danger of allowing himself to become distracted. He had managed to keep Orlando safe the last time he was attacked – barely. He could not take the risk of losing his focus, of concentrating on a pair of melting brown eyes rather than the danger that surrounded them – especially when his attentions could put the nobleman at even more risk, should they become known to those who would not hesitate to use any tool against them.

"This is a war, Orlando," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and cursing himself for giving in to his weakness. "We do not have the luxury of indulging our wants."

"So you do want me, then," Orlando mused softly. It was some balm to his wounded pride. "I thought you said McKellen would be arrested. We hold all the cards. I do not see how you can call this a war."

"McKellen is not acting alone," Alatriste reminded him. "He has at least one partner, perhaps more. The letter disclosing the plot against the King was unsigned." He turned to face the younger man, his pale eyes intense with the need to make him understand. "You are not out of danger, even once McKellen is arrested. His counterpart has as much to gain by taking you hostage." He did not mention his fear that the unknown conspirator might seek to disrupt the negotiations completely by disposing of the son of the chief English negotiator.

Orlando frowned. He had not considered that aspect of the situation. "Yet you would send me back to England unprotected," he pointed out. "Are you tired of me already?" He was quite sure he knew the answer to his question, but he wanted Diego to admit it, to say that he wanted Orlando to stay, that he was willing to continue on in the role of protector.

"I deprived you of your protector," Diego countered. "I promised to protect you in his place, and I hold to that promise." He rose to his feet, reaching for his shirt, hoping to defuse the sexual tension that still shimmered between them. "Until McKellen's partner is in irons as well, I will continue to see to your safety. Nothing is more important than that." He pulled his shirt over his head, his face set against the pain. "Nothing."

Orlando shook his head and rose from the bed. "Stop," he ordered, going to Diego's side, heedless of his near nudity and of the still-hard cock that tented his smallclothes in a most obvious fashion. "Don't hurt your shoulder again. You can hardly protect me if you make your injury worse." He reached up and straightened the linen, pulling the laces together and tying them closed. He picked up the breeches and held them out as well, hoping for that much opportunity at least to get his hands on his lover's body. He refused to think of Diego any other way now. It might take time, but he would find a way to seduce the stubborn Spaniard. Fortunately, Diego's inherent nobility had assured him more time to try.

Conscious that the thin cloth of his undergarment did nothing to hide his blatant desire, the swordsman held out his hand for his breeches. He had steeled himself to endure the brush of Orlando's hands against his chest as the Englishman laced his tunic, but leaning against Orlando, allowing him to pull the worn leather pantaloons over his legs, over his erection, was a test of endurance he was not sure he could withstand.

Orlando frowned, but eventually released his hold on Diego's breeches, stepping back to let the Spaniard dress. He pulled out his own clothes and came across the pouch of coins his father had given him. "Since you have stepped into Eric's shoes as my protector, you should have the coin I would have paid him for his services," Orlando declared, tossing the pouch on the bed. "'Tis the least I can do since I am living under your roof, eating your food, sleeping in your bed. If you will take nothing else from me, at least take this."

Diego's expression hardened at Orlando's offer. It was apparent that despite his words, the nobleman still saw him only as a mercenary, someone whose services could be purchased for a handful of coins. He was not proud that his introduction to Orlando had been due to exactly such a monetary transaction, but to Alatriste it had come to mean far more. Obviously, to the Englishman it had not, making the shallowness of his desire all the more evident. "Keep your money," the swordsman growled, bending to pull on his boots. "You need not pay for my protection. I owe you a debt of honour." Shrugging awkwardly into his jacket, Alatriste picked up the letters that would seal McKellen's fate. "Wait here until Roux and I return. Keep the door locked and do not open it to anyone but the two of us."

Orlando cursed Diego's stubborn pride under his breath. He had not meant to insult the man, but did the Spaniard not see that his own pride resented living off Diego's charity? He would have to set the swordsman straight when he returned, but he could hardly run after his lover in nothing but his smallclothes, especially not with Íñigo in the other room. Orlando had a feeling Diego would not appreciate his ward finding out about them that way. He sighed. Of course, if he did not stop making blunders where Diego was concerned there would be nothing to find out about. "Be safe," he said instead, hoping Alatriste heard him before he left.

Leaving Íñigo snoring quietly on his cot, Diego resisted turning back at Orlando's response. It would be so easy to allow himself to hear real concern in the musically accented words. Reminding himself that the Englishman had just proven exactly how much he considered his attentions to be worth, Alatriste used his latchkey to lock the door. He was not surprised to find Roux leaning against the side of the tavern when he exited into the early morning sunlight.

"You took your time this morning," Roux observed casually, pushing away from the wall. "Shall we find Saldaña? I would have those out of our possession as quickly as possible."

Diego nodded, keeping his head down lest Roux's all-too-knowing eyes detect the lingering remnants of desire on his face. He was having enough difficulty fighting his own wants – he did not need his well-meaning friend urging him toward what he knew was beyond his reach. "I disposed of one of the letters," he admitted instead, sure that the gypsy would understand of which he spoke. "We have enough evidence against McKellen without it."

"That was well done," Roux agreed, "although I wonder if the lover could also be the author of the unsigned letter." He did not mention the plot against the King. Saying such words aloud where any could overhear was far too dangerous. "I suppose it does not matter. After all, 'tis McKellen we're after."

"So I thought at first, but now I am not so sure," Alatriste countered. "This unknown compatriot of his worries me. We know he has as much interest as McKellen in swaying the negotiations, and we know he is aware of the plot to use Bloom as a hostage to control his sire's actions." He paused, knowing Roux would make the connection. "Orlando is not yet out of danger."

Roux frowned, not having considered the situation from that angle. "So what do you propose?"

Shaking his head, the swordsman grimaced in frustration. "I do not know. Perhaps McKellen will reveal something when he is questioned, though I doubt it. His lover will bear watching, to see if he takes any action to free McKellen, though whether he does or not may prove nothing, since we have no proof he knows anything of McKellen's plots." Alatriste's hand settled on the hilt of his sword. "Until we know who this mysterious conspirator is, and can render him powerless, Orlando will remain under my protection."

Roux nodded slowly. "We have a name, but nothing else to go on with the lover, and even less with his co-conspirator. We will just have to be on our guard." They neared the constable's office. "Do you want me to come in with you or would you rather go alone?"

"Neither Saldaña nor McKellen know of your involvement," Diego said thoughtfully. "I would prefer to keep them ignorant, I think."

Roux nodded. "I will wait for you at home then," he said. "Join me there when all is in order." He wanted to ask Diego about the night, about Orlando and the odd mood he seemed to be in, but that could wait until after they had delivered the letters to the authorities.

~~~~~

Diego shifted his shoulder as he neared Roux's home, the half-healed wound throbbing beneath its bandage. Like Alatriste, the gypsy did not live in a fashionable quarter of Madrid, and the exterior of his rooms was unremarkable. Unlike Diego's rather barren quarters, however, Roux had filled his chambers with exotic and colourful furnishings. Brightly patterned throws and artfully carved pieces made up the eclectic decor, and a spicy scent of herbs and incense teased the senses. Climbing the steps, Diego rapped a pattern of knocks and leaned against the doorframe, waiting for Roux to answer.

Hearing Diego knocking, Roux rose from his chair, setting aside his pipe and opening the door. "Well?" he asked, shutting the door behind his friend. He resumed his seat, offering the pipe to Alatriste. "Is it done?"

"McKellen has been taken," the swordsman affirmed, motioning to decline the gypsy's offer, "though not without threats to see me in his place." He tossed his cloak over an intricately detailed chairback and straddled another. "Saldaña was quick to seize him as soon as he understood the import of the documents I brought him. I have no doubt his star will rise after making such a notable arrest."

"And these threats?" Roux asked, more concerned about what evil McKellen could bring to bear, even from behind bars. "Were they empty posturing, or do we need to be concerned? We know he wants your Orlando. Does he have a long enough arm to reach him even from prison?"

"He may be powerless to act himself, but he is not friendless," Alatriste countered. "Saldaña allowed him to send a message before delivering him to the castle prison, though he would not tell me to whom he wrote." Diego rubbed his shoulder absently. "It could have been his lover, or his partner in the conspiracy – if they are not one and the same. In any case we must assume Orlando is still in danger."

"How is Orlando today?" Roux asked. He had promised his friend he would not push any more on the subject of the two men's mutual interest, but Diego was on edge, more so than he would have expected from dealing with McKellen, which meant the young Inglés was the cause.

Despite himself, Diego felt his pulse quickening as he recalled the erotic dream from which he had awoken to an impossible reality. Reminding himself that Orlando saw him only as a mercenary to be paid for his services, he frowned. "He expected to be able to leave once McKellen was arrested," he answered. "He is not best pleased that he must remain under my protection until we can uncover the rest of the conspiracy."

Roux's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "It seems I misjudged him," he said with a frown. "I would not have thought him eager to leave. I am sorry, mi amigo. I truly thought he was different, that he saw you as more than just a blade. Have you talked with him about what to do next? I do not imagine you want to keep him around any longer than necessary."

Roux would be surprised if he knew what his friend really wanted, Diego thought, but knowing those wishes were fruitless, he pushed them from his thoughts. "He has seen the letters, and I have tried to make him understand the threat that still remains while McKellen's counterpart is free. We need to find out more about the old man's associates. The sooner we identify his partner in the conspiracy, the better. We cannot fight an assailant we cannot see."

Roux nodded. "We have the name of the lover. At the very least I can see what I can find out about the conde of Isengard. That may give us a place to start, and if it does not, we will have eliminated the lover as a suspect. Did Saldaña show any interest in trying to find the other conspirator?"

"So long as we deliver the partner's head to him on a platter, he will be happy to take the credit," Diego growled. "You should know by now the high constable is too lazy to expend any effort of his own if he can rely on someone else to do it for him."

Roux grimaced. "I will see what I can learn," he repeated. "McKellen knows you are responsible for his situation. Would it be prudent for you to disappear for a few days? I would hate for this to rebound on you."

"And leave Orlando unprotected? You cannot search for information about McKellen's partner and guard the Englishman at the same time." Roux was the only man other than himself Alatriste would trust to keep Orlando safe, but even so he would not leave the nobleman's side unless utmost necessity demanded it.

"Take him with you," Roux replied equably. "I never meant to suggest otherwise. Surely you know some small town where the two of you could stay until such time as I know more."

"Where would you have me take him that would be any safer?" Diego protested. "Saldaña may be indolent, but he is marginally honest, and he will listen and respond if I must send for him. In a strange town, where the authorities are unknown to me, and I to them?" He shook his head. "The risk would be greater than if we remain here, where at least the threats are known."

"As you will," Roux answered. "Will you at least stay close to home where you have friends? I will be able to do my job easier if I do not have to worry about your safety."

"I do not intend to let Orlando out of my chambers until we are certain it is safe," Diego replied, though he wondered privately how long they would both endure the close proximity. "So if you do not wish us to kill each other, you will find who McKellen's partner is quickly."

Roux chuckled. "I will do my best," he promised, "for I would not enjoy a world without my best friend."

By the time he returned home, Diego's entire arm was nearly numb, but for the stabs of pain that radiated from his shoulder with every movement. He debated stopping to purchase a bottle of wine in the tavern, knowing it would deaden the pain, but he was unwilling to risk numbing his senses as well. He would just have to endure the discomfort; he would not imperil Orlando's safety for his own assuagement. Unlocking the door and latching it securely behind him, he hid a grimace as he swung off his cloak and hung it beside the door.

"You are home," Orlando exclaimed, flying from his seat to Diego's side, his hands searching for new rents in his lover's skin. "Are you well? Did they arrest McKellen? What did he say? Do you know who his partner is?"

"McKellen is in prison," Diego replied, repeating the tale he had told Roux but omitting McKellen's threats. It would do no good to add to the younger man's fears. "He said nothing to indicate who he was plotting with. Perhaps the high constable will learn something from him during questioning. Roux is going to see what he can discover as well, beginning with – " Diego paused, hesitant to allude to what had transpired between them that morning by speaking of McKellen's lover. "Beginning with the one who signed the letter we burned."

Orlando nodded, taking in all the news. He was glad McKellen was in prison, glad Roux was acting to find the cad's partner, since he did not want to spend his life with that threat hanging over his head, but his real concern was Diego. "I owe you an apology," he said firmly, thinking of the way they had parted that morning. "I did not mean to insult you this morning. We will not speak of money again, for I do not want such a thing to come between us."

Diego stooped to pull off his boots, careful of the cracked, worn leather. "A mercenary cannot afford to take insult," he replied shortly. "But I will not take payment from you, when if I had not wounded your – friend, you would still be under his protection."

"Eric was my friend, I suppose," Orlando agreed, "but I would rather be here with you. And you are so much more than simply a mercenary to me. You do realize that, do you not?" He rested his hand on Diego's shoulder, not quite caressing, but letting the swordsman feel his interest.

"Where has Íñigo gone off to?" Alatriste moved to the window, away from the Englishman's too-tempting touch. He drew the curtain aside, checking for anyone watching the inn as much as he was looking for his ward, but the street below was empty. "I expect he had quite a head when he finally awoke. He is not accustomed to drinking as you are."

"He said today was market day," Orlando replied, neglecting to mention that he had provided the boy with coin for the purchases from his own purse. "And yes, he had a bit of a headache when he awoke. Caridad gave him a cup of something and he was much more himself after that." He walked to Diego's side, his hand returning to the swordsman's waist. "Do you see anything?"

"Nothing," the swordsman answered, letting the curtain drop. The remaining gold he had received from McKellen was in the pouch at his belt; if Íñigo had gone to the market, it could only be because Orlando had given him the money. His pride stung at the knowledge that, even with the old man's tainted fee, what he could provide was so inferior to the luxuries to which the nobleman was accustomed. "You will eat better, then, until we discover McKellen's partner."

Orlando frowned. This was not going the way he had hoped. Deciding an argument would at least clear the air, he got in Diego's face. "Where did you get the idea that I am a helpless babe who must depend on you for everything? I understand that you feel honor bound to protect me because you wounded Eric, but who do you think supported whom in Málaga? I do not need or want a nursemaid, Diego. That was why, while I considered Eric my friend, I never looked to him for more than that. I want someone who will treat me as an equal partner. I know my strength is not swordplay. In that respect, I do not pretend to be as worthy of your regard as Roux or someone like him, but that does not make me a dependent child. Why are you trying to make me one? I am twenty-five years old. If not for the threat posed by McKellen, I would be firmly established in a diplomatic career of my own. And before you say anything else, I am not staying with you because of that threat. I am staying with you because I. Want. You." He punctuated each of the last three words with a finger against Diego's ribs.

"You think I see you as a child?" Diego could not hold back a bark of laughter. "Íñigo is a child. You are not. Believe me, I am only too aware of how much of a man you are." He turned to gesture out the window at the growing darkness. "But you do not know this city, or the plotters and schemers who control who goes free and who lives in fear, the way that I do. Roux and I, we are trying to keep you safe, not because we think you are helpless, but because – " he broke off, knowing he spoke for himself alone. "Because I would not see you come to harm. You have your life ahead of you, and I would be sure you are able to return to it."

"And I will follow your advice because I know you are right," Orlando agreed, his finger stroking up and down Alatriste's chest. The older man's admission warmed his heart. "But at least let me help when and as I can. As for my ignorance, I freely admit it, but I want to learn more of this place that is now my home. I have every intention of living out my life to the fullest. I cannot spend it cowering in your apartment out of fear of the unknown."

The hand tracing over Alatriste's chest was spreading a growing heat that radiated down his abdomen, tightening his groin. Catching the wandering fingers, he took a step back from the window, putting some space between him and the seductive Englishman. "I will take such help as you offer," he agreed, "but there are risks I cannot allow you to take."

"Such as?" Orlando asked, closing his fingers around the hand holding his. "What risks must I not take?"

"Until we know who McKellen was plotting with, and find proof to bring to Saldaña, you must not leave these apartments unless Roux or I are with you," Alatriste insisted. "Not because I think you are helpless, or a child to be coddled, but because you needed a bodyguard even before we learned that this plot threatens the King himself. It is not only your safety at risk, but the interests of both our countries at stake." The swordsman's grey-green eyes held Orlando's, the intensity of his gaze deepening as the Englishman met his stare boldly, his expression offering more than mere acquiescence to Diego's fiat. Orlando's thumb stroked Alatriste's scarred knuckles, the gentle caress sending tendrils of heat coursing along the Spaniard's nerves. Pulling his hand free, Diego winced when the sudden motion wrenched his shoulder, pulling at the bandage.

"Is your shoulder still bothering you?" Orlando asked immediately, reaching for the laces on Diego's shirt. "Come into the bedroom and let me take a look at it."

Diego wanted to protest, but he knew that as long as his wound was not fully healed it would be foolish to deny it. He needed assistance changing his bandage if nothing else, and since Roux was not around he would have to rely on the Englishman's help. Shrugging off his jacket, he reached behind him with his left hand to pull his tunic over his head, baring his chest and the bandage twisted around his shoulder.

"Sit," Orlando ordered, his eyes tracing every line of Diego's torso. He grabbed the unused bandages and the herbs Roux had prescribed to help the injury heal. Dipping them in the ewer to dampen them, he handed them to Alatriste. "Hold this while I remove the old bandage." He slid his hands up the swordsman's back until he found the knots that held the cloth in place. He worked them free, using every opportunity to brush his knuckles over the bare skin.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Diego braced himself with his uninjured arm, holding the handful of moist herbs in his right palm, resting on his thigh. He could feel Orlando's breath against his back as the younger man worked the knot, the warm exhalation stirring his skin to gooseflesh. A dusky curl fell to his shoulder, tickling him, and he reached up without thinking to tuck it behind the Englishman's ear, the movement causing him to lean back against Orlando as his weight shifted on the mattress.

Without thought, Orlando shifted to support Diego's weight, his arms wrapping around the swordsman to remove the bandage. He leaned forward to peer at the wound from over Alatriste's shoulder, his fine goatee brushing the other man's skin as he did. "It looks a little better," he commented, his lips teasing Diego's ear as he spoke. "Roux's herbs must be working."

Roux would encourage him, Diego knew, allowing himself to lean into Orlando's arms as the Englishman unwrapped the bandage. Knowing this might be his only chance to feel the nobleman's arms around him, he told himself it would be safe, just this once, to indulge his longing. Even when he heard Orlando's voice against his ear, so close he could feel the brush of his lips, he did not pull away.

Surprised at not having been pushed away yet, Orlando decided to press his luck. He plucked the herbs out of Diego's hand and smoothed them over the healing laceration, his arms tightening around the Spaniard's chest as he worked. Picking up the bandage, he folded a piece of cloth, hands still in front of Alatriste, arms still around him, and used it to cover the cut. He grabbed another rag and slid it slowly over the swordsman's stomach, wiping away the sweat of the day.

Diego let his eyes slide closed, focusing on the other senses assailing him ... Orlando's scent in his nostrils, mingling soap and sweat and the faint smell of arousal ... the soft exhalations of Orlando's breath against his ear ... the caress of Orlando's hands as they bound the pad to his wound and then drifted lower, over the planes of his chest and lower still, stroking, tantalizing. In his imagination he could taste the sweetness of Orlando's mouth as he claimed him for a kiss.

The closed eyes and the head resting on his shoulder were an invitation Orlando could not refuse. Slowly, giving Diego a chance to pull away, he aligned his cheek with the Spaniard's until their lips met softly. He could taste the faint traces of the wine Alatriste must have had with his noon meal, but mostly, he just savored the flavor of the man.

The kiss began so softly that at first Diego thought it was part of his imagining, the brush of Orlando's lips demanding nothing, opening naturally to the pressure of his. Diego's tongue traced the contours of Orlando's mouth, committing its dimensions to memory, though he knew he would never forget the velvet texture of Orlando's lips or the way their tongues met, gently, hesitantly, circling each other in a wordless dance of advance and retreat.

A soft moan vibrated in Orlando's throat as Diego kissed him so sweetly, so tenderly. He could almost let himself believe the previous argument had not happened, that the other man was finally accepting him as a lover. His arms tightened slightly, pulling the Spaniard against his chest a little more snugly. Before he could make another move, though, the outer door to the apartment slammed open and Íñigo 's voice called their names. Orlando muffled a curse and lifted his head. "This is not finished," he promised before rising from his spot. "In here, Íñigo," he called. "I was just tending the Capitán's shoulder."

tbc…

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

christa-charlie.livejournal.com

Yum, yum, yumminess! I love how tender they are with each other, especially when contrasted with their earlier argument.

Thanks for feeding me another chapter!