Still fully dressed, filthy coat stiff with mud and blood. Wil had the presence of mind to hope that the Old Ones had forced at least some measure of healing on their Shaman. Likely not, though, since the removal of the bullet would have necessitated the removal of the coat. Wil was willing to bet they’d tried like hell, though. He would have growled, maybe even smacked the stubborn fool in the head—that’d wake him up in a hurry—but the smile wouldn’t go away yet, and there was just too much residual peace in his heart and spirit for any imagined reprimand to be convincing enough. Instead, he reached down, gently slipping his fingers into the dirty, tangled mop of matte-gold. Lingered for just a moment. Not too long—cruelly unfair, when the seeking and misery still went on behind those closed, deep-dark eyes—but just long enough to gather himself, let the miracle of reality take hold.
His fingers were on the edge of numb, quite clumsy, and even the small movement screamed protest through sinews locked to damaged muscle beneath the pristine bandage wrapped about his chest and shoulder. Small inconvenience, all things considered.
He was alive when he shouldn’t be, loved when he couldn’t be. Not meant, not wise, not chosen, unforeseen—no one could have seen Dallin coming—and yet here Wil was, love quite literally in his hands, pressed up against him, breathing it all into his bones like he deserved it. Calder had called it dangerous, and believed in his own presumption so hard it had sent his precariously balanced faith into madness; the Old Ones had shaken their heads in benevolent despair, their reservations writ clear on their weathered faces; She had called it unwise, yet Her eyes had sought His and She’d smiled through the semi-rebuke.
Wil called it reality. Wil called it what it was. Wil called it incredible good fortune, and he’d made it a habit over the past few years not to look askance on the scarce occasions when he happened to be blessed with it. Wil called it rare and extraordinary and his. At least for now.
Stubbornly holding on to the smile despite that bit of cynicism, Wil ignored the twinging pain and let his touch grow firm, let his fingers slide with intent through tangles of muted gold, trace the whorls of the shell of an ear, then slip down over a bristly cheek. A shift and a light snort as the pad of Wil’s thumb swept along the firm jawline, slid purposefully up toward the lips—
Dallin’s hand snapped up, lightning-fast, from where it rested on the blade of Wil’s fur-covered hip, up to snatch and cover his wandering fingers before Wil could so much as blink. Bloody hell, but the man had reflexes. The long, rough fingers closed over Wil’s, squeezed so tight Wil thought the tips might pop off, pressed them into warm, dry lips. Stillness, silence—not even the warmth of breath on his hand—then: “Wil?” Whisper-soft on a hot puff of breath, and hoarse and full of disbelief and relief and pleading, and it was enough to make Wil want to kick himself for delaying it even for a second.
Wil swallowed, said, “I’m here,” half-expecting Dallin to jump up, lock him in one of those bone-crunching bear-hugs he couldn’t help sometimes, and Wil would let him, leftover aches and pains be damned.
Instead, Dallin remained stone-still, not breathing, lips moving against Wil’s rapidly numbing fingertips like he was trying to speak and couldn’t. “Say it again,” he wheezed.
Wil brought his other hand up, laid it between Dallin’s shoulder-blades, said, “I’m here,” though it cracked a little because his throat had gone tight, and his voice shook quite a lot at the end. He shut his eyes, blinked them clear, said, “Dallin—”
“Are you here here?”
Still so quiet and full of caution, and the question and all the questions behind it made Wil catch his breath. His eyes misted over again. “How did you—?”
“Just say it.” Dallin’s grip tightened impossibly, lips still moving silently against Wil’s fingers like he’d forgotten how to stop praying. He sucked in one long, deep breath, hitching in his chest like it hurt, and then another. “Are you here to tell me goodbye?” His voice was so calm, that flat, even tone he used when something was choking him and he didn’t want to show it, and it nearly made it impossible for Wil to speak at all.
Wil was shaking his head, mute, which wasn’t helping Dallin whatsoever, but he almost couldn’t breathe, the buried devastation in Dallin’s level voice ringing through Wil like crystal, chiming at his bones and shrilling off-key. Vibrating at the back of his teeth, painful, like nothing he’d ever heard, and he didn’t think he’d ever get over the fact that an emotion of that much depth could be meant for him.
“No,” Wil managed, finally, and slid his hand up to Dallin’s shoulder, gripped it hard. “Not goodbye, not unless you want it.”
The heavy burst of breath from Dallin that time could have been a laugh or a sob.
Both, Wil decided when Dallin finally lifted his head, slowly, eyes too tired and full of ghosts peering up at Wil with heartbreaking hope and relief. “Bloody idiot.” Dallin wobbled through a smile that kept tightening and crooking downward into a grimace, then hooking back up, somehow catching sunshine in it and warming Wil right through to his heart. Dallin shook his head, said it again, “Bloody idiot,” then swarmed up the bed, slid his arms around Wil—one about his ribs and one about his neck—and dragged him so close Wil thought he could have breathed for them both, if he could breathe at all.
Dallin’s right arm was noticeably weaker, likely stiff and very painful by now, but he didn’t seem to care much at the moment. One heavy leg swung over Wil’s thighs, more-or-less pinning him; if the furs hadn’t been in the way, Wil thought Dallin might’ve wrapped his legs around him, too, and hung on like a limpet. Which wouldn’t necessarily have been a bad thing, actually, but Dallin was huge and heavy, and apparently not thinking terribly clearly right now. “Thank you,” Dallin was whispering, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” rough and thick, and Wil had no idea if it was intended for him or Them, but he didn’t suppose it mattered much. Dallin’s face was tucked down into the crook of Wil’s shoulder, gasping breaths sliding down his bare arm and neck.
“Dallin—”
“They wouldn’t let me in, They shut me out, I couldn’t—couldn’t—”
“Dallin—”
“They asked me if I believed, and I did, I do, but They didn’t ask me what I believed, and They didn’t say what They… if you… And then the Old Ones, they kept saying it was in Their hands, like I didn’t know that already, and you were so… there was so much, and I couldn’t fix it all, but They wouldn’t let me in, and They wouldn’t say—”
“Dallin.”
A sudden stillness and another rasping intake of breath. “What?” Low and wary.
Somehow, it made Wil smile. And somehow, the lingering pain couldn’t get past the firmness of Dallin’s grip. “I’m here,” Wil told him, twisted his neck a bit, and laid a soft kiss to Dallin’s hair. He said it again, “I’m here,” then added, “I’m not going anywhere,” and wrapped his good arm awkwardly about Dallin’s ribs. He swallowed, his throat clogged and aching, which wouldn’t do at all; it was his turn to be the strong one. “Now, stop your wibbling and listen, all right?”
Dallin snorted this time, rough and watery, and his hold tightened—thankfully briefly—before he relaxed, just a little, and nodded.
Wil smiled, wishing Dallin had at least taken off the filthy coat so he could feel more than caked mud and matted suede beneath his hand. “Now, if I tell you something,” Wil said quietly, “will you promise not to let go?”
This time, Wil could feel the smile against his jawbone. “Not unless you want it,” Dallin replied—muffled cheek, but cheek nonetheless.
This time, Wil grinned. “All right, then.” Braced himself, because promise or no, Dallin had some very predictable reflexes. “I didn’t give Her the time to finish the job. There’s still some healing to be done, and I—Hey, you promised!” He gripped Dallin’s coat as firmly as he could, dragged him back down, though Dallin was stiff now, and tense. “You said you wouldn’t let go,” Wil censured, surprised at how serious
he was, because he really didn’t want to be let go yet.
“I haven’t let go,” Dallin returned reasonably. “I’ve merely stopped crushing you.”
Which was true, Wil supposed. But still. The wariness was back in Dallin’s voice again, the inability to believe entirely, and it hurt a little, that so much of him rested on Wil’s mere existence, but it took away a different sort of hurt, too, so it was an even trade.
“All right,” Wil conceded, “but I have a few things I need you to do for me, more promises, and no weaseling out with semantics. Agreed?”
Dallin must’ve been a bit drunk with relief, because he merely snorted again, planted a firm kiss to Wil’s ear—the only thing he could reach without letting go—and agreed.
Wil dragged in some much-needed air, dipping his face down so he could whisper into Dallin’s ear, take away any sting. “First thing,” he began, “I want you to go and hunt down someone to get that bullet out of you before you end up with blood poisoning. And I want you to tell them to give you something that’ll put you out for at least ten hours.”
Dallin stiffened, but Wil tightened his hold. “You promised,” he reminded, gentle but ruthless. He waited until some of the stiffness leaked away, waited until Dallin nodded a little. “Second thing: I’m desperate for something to drink—lots of something to drink—and sore and likely to become quite miserable and snappish if something isn’t done. I want whichever of the Old Ones aren’t helping you to come in here and help me.”
Dallin lifted up on his elbow, couldn’t quite control the wince, and quickly tried to cover it by resting his weight on his other arm. “I can—”
“I know you can, and I’ve no doubt there’ll be other things I’ll be wanting you for—” Wil paused and rolled his eyes when Dallin’s eyebrow lifted. “—but you need your strength for yourself. All right?”
If he weren’t such a practical man, Dallin would have argued; Wil could see the beginnings of denial on his face and in his eyes. So Wil kept quiet, just raised his eyebrows, hardened his mouth, while the arguments springing to life behind Dallin’s eyes died one by one, victims to helpless logic.
“You promised,” Wil reminded him again.
Dallin was silent for quite a while, his gaze drifting down to the sleeve of his coat, torn and dark with caked blood. Reluctantly, he nodded, sighed. “I, um…” He paused, mouth flattening down into something self-deprecating and perhaps a bit discomfited before he lifted his eyes back up to Wil’s. “I’d like to sleep here, if that’s all right.”
Like he was expecting refusal, or was embarrassed to be asking at all.
Wil grinned. “And I’m the bloody idiot.” He pulled Dallin down, kissed him long and slow, ran his fingers over a stubbled cheek, murmured, “Have a bath first—you’re getting ripe. And p’raps you might find it in your heart to shave?” just to feel the vibration against his lips when Dallin chuckled.
Eventually, Dallin sucked in a long, shaky breath and laid his brow to Wil’s, eyes shut tight, every line of his wide body tense and screaming silent anxiety. “You came back,” was all he whispered.
Not They sent you back, not They let you come back—he knew.
“I did.” Wil kept quiet, waited.
Another fraught silence, gravid and anxiously alert. “You chose.”
“I chose you,” Wil answered immediately, because immediate seemed terribly necessary right now. He slipped his hand to Dallin’s cheek, brushed his thumb over the raised lines of the Mark. “How did you know?”
“There was a moment…” A heavy breath expanded Dallin’s chest against Wil’s, and he laid his head on the pillow, tucked his face back to Wil’s shoulder. “There was so much damage,” he breathed. “I can’t even imagine the pain you must’ve… and you were so cold.” A pause and he shifted impossibly closer, hand coming up to rest lightly over Wil’s freshly bandaged shoulder. “She loves you so much—She wouldn’t’ve healed you, sent you back, just because I asked Her to. She would have given you a choice, and I couldn’t make myself… I mean, why would you, but I couldn’t… couldn’t stop hoping.”
So, then. He truly didn’t know. The Guardian had presumed to inflict his own will on Them, had purposefully elected to believe They would give Wil a choice—had chosen faith—and had therefore bound Them to it. And he didn’t know. Wil didn’t think it a good idea to bring that particular detail to Dallin’s attention; no doubt he’d prefer to believe he’d asked and They’d answered, so Wil thought it best to let him keep his illusions for now; it was not Wil’s place to take them away. Anyway, it was likely safer that way all around.
Wil slid his fingers through Dallin’s longer, callused ones, though his arm was still stiff and aching and his hand stupid and clumsy, so he couldn’t grip as tightly as he wanted to. “Yes,” he told Dallin, “I chose it. And there are…” He paused. Did he really want to do this now? Hadn’t he already put Dallin through enough? He sighed. “And there are only so many delaying tactics I will abet,” he said instead. He smiled, poked clumsily until he hit a rib through the disgusting coat, and Dallin jumped just a little. “Go on, then. Thorne’s waiting for you. And I really am terribly thirsty.”
“Right.” Dallin sat up, careful not to jostle Wil too much, though considering all the manhandling of a moment ago, it was a little late to be worrying about that. “Sorry,” he said, gave Wil a tired grin, and turned away to swipe not-quite-surreptitiously at his eyes. When he turned back, his gaze went reflexively toward the bandage, ghost-white against the furs in the darkness, and the little crystal that lay quiescent atop it. “Are you in much pain?”
“Enough,” Wil told him honestly. “Are you?”
Predictably, Dallin didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Are you hungry?”
Wil let it go, grinned. “Now, that’s a stupid question.” He wasn’t—rather nauseous, in fact—but any other answer would have worried Dallin and delayed the necessaries even further.
Dallin snorted, nodded, and dragged himself up from the wide bed. “I’ll tell Thorne,” he said as he started for the shadowed arch of the doorway. Wil couldn’t tell if the slight limp in his gait was from injury or fatigue. Likely both. Dallin paused when he reached the door, turned, halflimned in fire, half-drenched in shadow. “Wil—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Wil cut in, watched as Dallin opened his mouth, closed it, then merely nodded, looked down, and silently quit the room.
Wil settled back into the incredible softness ensconcing him, shifted his gaze to the ceiling, and watched the firelight ripple shadow-copper in lazy waves. Sighed and shut his eyes, waiting for Thorne.
He’d tell Dallin when Dallin was healed and finally rested. Let the man get some decent sleep for once—even if a drug-induced coma was the only way to do it—before springing his choices on him.
Not that Wil was putting it off. And not that he was afraid of what Dallin would choose. Not at all. After all, Dallin had been handing Wil the power of choice from the very beginning. Turnabout and all that.
Right?
Choice. He loved Dallin enough to give him one. Wil would do it. He would. Just… not right now.
His good hand clenched in the furs, squeezed so tight he could hear the downy pelts squeaking between his fingers, and he gritted his teeth. Forced his grip to relax and wrapped his fingers instead about the crystal, making a concerted effort to breathe deeply and evenly.
Where the bloody hell was Thorne, anyway?
It was actually Siddell who came to him, hobbling on stick-legs, but with a sly bit of a smile that made him look amusingly mischievous, nearly youthful. Singréne followed with a wide tray in hand, a sweating pitcher balanced at its center. Heofon came next, smiling at Wil with a beatific softness that made his skull-like face almost beautiful. Heofon immediately offered Wil a cup of cool, clear water.
Wil pushed himself up to sit against the pillows, watched them come, peering somewhat blearily from one elated face to another as he accepted the cu
p and drank deeply. Already it seemed to soothe the slow, empty churning of his gut.
“Drink it all, lad,” Heofon told him in his craggy voice, and when Wil did, Singréne immediately refilled it from the pitcher.
“Drink as much as you can without upsetting your stomach,” Singréne instructed, his rolling baritone somehow muted and gentle. “You lost more blood than you should have survived. Rebuilding and replacing is needed now.”
Wil remembered something like that from when Dallin had been stabbed. Now Wil supposed he had an idea of how exhausted Dallin had likely been, and still Dallin had carried on, got them out of Chester, and used up whatever was left to heal Wil.
It’s because he loves you, y’know. The best and the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Wil only wished he knew how to tender a choice without also offering betrayal. And how to keep himself from trying to push that choice the way he wanted—needed—it to go.
“Your Guardian said you were hungry?” Singréne asked, his eyes skeptical but willing as they flicked to the steaming mug of what Wil suspected was broth next to the pitcher on the tray. It smelled good and rich, not nauseating like he’d feared, but the clean taste of the water was what he craved right now, so he reluctantly shook his head.
“Dallin would have worried unduly if I’d answered any other way.” He shrugged, offered a selfconscious little smile. “It seemed the most expedient way to get him to see to himself. Or to let someone else see to him.” A small, weary smirk. “The twelve of you couldn’t’ve maybe tackled him and taken care of him, whether he wanted you to or not?”
As if on cue, Dallin’s voice came from somewhere a few rooms away—“Hoy, watch what you’re bloody doing!”—edgy and too-obviously through clenched teeth. A muffled series of soft-butstern chiding in what had to be Thorne’s lowered voice, then, quieter this time but in a very distinct growl: “P’raps in your world, but in my world, sharp, pointy things are handled with a bit more care!”
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