Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jesper was no stranger to having his back slammed into an alleyway wall, but this felt a tad too excessive.

“Listen here you little twat,” the man holding him hissed, jabbing the barrel of his gun under his chin. Ouch. The man continued regardless of Jesper’s wheezing breathes, “where’s my fucking money Fahey?”

Jesper scrabbled at the cold metal pinning him against the wall but the man just jabbed harder it into the soft skin his throat and black spots appeared in the corners of his vision.

Well wasn’t this an underwhelming way to go out.

“He can’t answer you if he can’t breathe,” another voice said from the darkness of the alleyway. The voice was low, drawling and confident. It spoke with the fine lilt of a man unused to the roughness of the barrel, a man who worked with finesse and ledgers, but the harsh timbre of a man used to inflicting harm on others deemed inferior to him. It was the voice of a rich man who got his position by dirty tricks and cheating ways instead of hard work.

It was the voice of a dangerous man. The voice of a merchant.

The man holding him swore under his breathe, and to Jesper’s surprise, let him go with a hushed “I still want my money you rat,” before slipping away into the shadows. Jesper blinked, rubbing his sore throat and coughing slightly, “thank you… I think,” he croaked, peering into the darkness.

The stranger laughed, and the sound of it sent chills running down his spine. He didn’t like the coldness of it. “Don’t thank me just yet, gunslinger,” a tall man, in typical Merchant black stepped from the shadows, -which was awfully dramatic of him really,- flanked by what was clearly two hulking bodyguards.

Jesper repressed an eye roll, for a merchant with a penchant for cruelty, he was clearly a novice to the grounds of the barrel.

The Merchant brandished a piece of paper at him and instinctively Jesper took it, not bothering to see what was on it. “I have a job for you,” the man said shortly, gesturing for him to open the page. Jesper didn’t move, instead he raised an eyebrow, “what kind of job?” he questioned. He didn’t really like the impression this man was giving him, and the two scowling lumps of muscle behind him weren’t exactly making him overjoyed about the prospect of working with them.

“I need you to kill a man for me.”

Jesper shook his head, attempting to hand the paper back, “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man,” he said with a put upon smile, eyes darting for possible exit points, “I’m not a mercenary.”

The man eyed his pearl handled revolvers with interest, “really? You certainly dress like one.” Jesper protectively laid a hand on his guns, which probably didn’t help his case at all, “it’s the barrel love,” he said easily, eyeing up the lack of weapons on the bodyguards, “self defence is a right of passage.”

The Merchant barely managed to suppress his scowl, “it pays well,” he spat, lip curling as if the thought of paying a barrel rat was despicable to him.

Jesper cursed his greedy soul, all too aware of how his hands suddenly itched for a roll of kruge to flick through, craving the intoxicating, ticking spin of that damned wheel. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, no man’s life is worth any amount of money.

And yet-

“How much?” he said through gritted teeth. Oh he’s an evil bastard, willing to kill a man he’s never met just for a few more bets to lay on a rigged table. He could at least have the decency to pretend he’d use it for food or to pay off his ever increasing amount of debt.

“10,000 kruge,” comes the reply, short and angry, as if he would rather not pay him at all. He probably didn’t. Rich bastard.

And Jesper’s mind cleared.

10,000 kruge… that was enough to cover most of his debts, enough to guarantee a meal for months. Enough to win him at least a few weeks of fun at the tables. There would even be some left to send to his father, so long as he didn’t gamble that away as well. He probably would, he was an assehole like that.

10,000 kruge, just to kill a man. One, single man.

Jesper had killed plenty of men before, been hired to kill some even, but those were different. Those were gang members engaged in a shootout, those were people who attempted to mug him or worse. People he killed to save his skin, keep his head, ensure some food in his stomach.

He had a feeling that the man this Merchant wanted him to kill would not be already on his heels, in the middle of a shoot out.

He never minded killing all that much, that was the rules of the Barrel, kill or be killed, in fact he often felt a certain adrenaline rush, a kind of thrill that came from being in a shootout. But that was the key, he only liked shooting people when they were shooting back. Preferably when they shot first, but so long as they had a gun in hand he wasn’t too fussy.

He was just a guy down on his luck, who’d made too many shitty decisions and dug himself a hole too big for him to climb out of. He was a man who spent his college tuition on worthless gambles and too much booze and had to make up for it by less then satisfactory means. He was a bad gambler with guns on his hips and blood on his hands.

But he was not a mercenary, he was no assassin. He didn’t kill people just because someone paid him, he liked there to be a reason someone should deserve to die.

But 10,000 kruge was a lot of money.

Jesper slowly opened up the slip of paper.

There was a painting, small and rather rough, of a boy with fiery red curls and downcast blue eyes. Jesper blinked at the painting in shock, “you said you needed me to kill a man, this is a kid.”

The Merchant scoffed, “he turned 19 last week, that’s a man in my eyes. Even if he’s the abilities of a child.” The scorn in the man’s voice didn’t go amiss and Jesper frowned. He’d hoped that the target might be a bad man, a murderer perhaps, or even someone who’d scammed the rich fucker of his funds. Or at the very least attempted to. But there was something in his voice, a dark glint in his eyes, pure hatred in the lines of his face, that gave Jesper the opinion this kill was personal.

Jesper swallowed and dropped the painting onto the dirty ground, “I’m not your guy,” he said thickly, turning around to leave, “you’ll have to find someone else to kill the kid.”

“Fahey… it’s a familiar name to me, Kaelish perhaps?”

Jesper froze.

“There’s a Kaelish farmer I trade with,” the man continued, smugness leeching into his voice in a way that made Jesper’s skin crawl, “a jurda farmer, up in Novyi Zem, Cofton area I think. Sound familiar?”

Jesper gripped the handles of his guns, having to force himself to just breathe. He knew a threat when he heard one, “what of it?” he kept his voice steady, shoulders relaxed.

Don’t kill him until you know what he’s got on him.

“Well I’d just hate to see anything bad happen to him. He’s a nice fellow, a widow, I believe his son goes to University in Ketterdam.”

Jesper ground his teeth together in an effort to control himself. They knew his father. He’d done his best to keep his father out of the picture, telling people he was from Belendt and that his family was dead. He’d refrained from sending letters our of the worry they could be tracked, even though Jesper missed talking to his father.

He had two options, he could shoot the Merchant and his two goons easily, but Jesper didn’t know if there might be people in Novyi Zem, right now, watching his father. He didn’t know if the Merchant had issued a command for Colm to be killed should he die at Jesper’s hands. His other option was to take the job, kill the boy and send a letter to his father telling him to run. Perhaps he should even go to Novyi Zem himself, 10,000 kruge richer and protect him with all the skills he’d learned in this saints-forsaken dump.

Two lives were on the line, and it was up to Jesper to decide who lived and who died.

He spun around on his heel, snatched up the piece of paper and crumpled it in his fist. “Fine,” he snapped, “fine, I’ll kill the poor kid for you, but you touch a hair on my father’s head and I swear-“

“-you’ll what?” the Merchant interrupted lazily, “you’ll kill me?” he shook his head mockingly, already gesturing for his lackies to follow him out of the dark alleyway, “you have three weeks to dump his body in the canal, you’ll get your money once I receive proof of death.”

And with that, the men left Jesper, seething in the dark, clutching a painting in a shaking fist. He looked down at the boy, with his pale, freckled skin and reluctant smile. He was rather cute, if he looked past the heavy sadness set in the lines of his face, such misery Jesper was surprised the painter hadn’t noticed it. Maybe he had but he just didn’t care. The thought made Jesper feel uneasy. “I’m sorry kid,” he whispered, tucking the painting into an inside pocket, “but I’ve got priorities.”

Jesper, with his careless, selfish ways, was the one who had gotten his poor father into this mess, and he would do whatever he had to to get him out. Surely, the boy must have done something awful to warrant a 10,000 kruge hit. There was no way he was innocent if someone wanted him dead that badly.

Rolling his shoulders, Jesper tilted his hat ever so slightly to the side, and slipped back into the hustle and bustle of the barrel streets. He avoided the gambling dens, his gaze searching the face of every person he passed, looking for a mop of red hair and sad blue eyes.

Saints he was the worst person in the world, but what could he do? He’d killed people before, it would be fine. It was fine.

It was just, normally those people were shooting back, and normally they weren’t boys his age who carried a bone deep sadness in his eyes.

Normally, these people deserved to die, Jesper despised the idea of shooting a kid he’d never met, who wouldn’t even know he was in danger, who didn’t have a chance to run or defend himself.

But he couldn’t risk his father getting hurt.

Jesper would kill the kid, get his money and boot his ass back to Novyi Zem, never leaving his father’s side again.

He just had to kill one boy. One small, sad boy. 

Chapter Text

It takes two days of searching, for Jesper to finally come across the boy.

Really, it’s almost funny, that the one time he wasn’t actually looking for him was when he’d finally stumble upon him but oh, here he was! Hiding behind a rack of leathers because he spotted a mop of curly red hair that looked a little too familiar.

Jesper hadn’t been looking for the boy when he’d entered the Tannery, in fact it was probably the first time in two days where he hadn’t been thinking nonstop about the kid he’d condemned to death because he was an idiot who got his father in danger. His gun holsters had started cracking, and he was still unpractised enough in his Grisha abilities to handle anything not made of metal. He was in a bit of a time crunch when he weaved between the vats of awful smelling chemicals, after all he had a long night of searching for unfortunate boys and laying worthless bets ahead of him. He was actually looking forward to it, which was a bit disappointing really but what could he do.

That was when he’d spotted him.

Fiery red hair and pale, freckled skin, bent low over a vat of chemicals, gripping onto the stirring paddle like it was his lifeline. Which, considering his job, it probably was. Jesper had immediately ducked out of sight before he could risk being spotted and fumbled in his many pockets for the painting.

They were… different. The boy’s hair was messier, his skin dirtier and covered in more freckles then the painter could ever hope to capture. His nose was crooked, his jawline sharper and a thin scar stretched over his chin. And yet… even from this distance, even when Jesper couldn’t see them properly, the eyes were the same. The same shocking, clearwater blue, wide and earnest and so sad. His skin looked delicate, like marble under a fireplace, covered in soot and thin cracks but still sturdy, still precious and still utterly beautiful. He looked like a prince, a prince who had fallen into the wrong fairytale, a noble who had ended up in the wrong story due to choices that were non of his own. He looked wrong, like this was not his place, not his calling. Jesper thought he looked beautiful.

Jesper looked down at the painting and then back up at the boy. It was him alright.

Fuck, why does the victim have to be hot?

What the hell did this boy do that Merchant?

Jesper couldn’t imagine that a nineteen year old boy, looking dead off his feet working in a Tannery could do something so horrid to justify a 10,000 kruge hit. Jesper himself didn’t even have a price that size on his head and he was the furthest thing from an angel.

Just kill the kid, it doesn’t matter what he did or what he looks like, just kill him and you can save Da.

He lay a protective hand on his revolvers, peeking a glance at the boy again. His eyes were closed, head bowed, hands gripping the paddle even tighter.

You can’t shoot him in a public place. You’d risk getting shot yourself and then you wouldn’t be able to salvage the body.

He felt sick.

Abandoning his shelter behind the leathers, Jesper made his way over to the boy, dodging vats of chemicals and sickly, half dead workers. Honestly Jesper was lucky he was a good enough shot that he didn’t have to worry about working in a place like this for a living.

Jesper leaned against the cauldron, letting an easy smile take over. Flirting was second nature to him, but there was something rather wrong about flirting with someone just so he could lead them into a dark alleyway and shoot them. His parents had warned him about people like that when he was a child, and now, lo and behold, he was one of them.

He tried not to look at the boy when he spoke, wanting to be able to forget his face once the foul deed was done. “You look like someone who knows his way around a chemistry kit,” he lay a hand on the side of the vat, allowing some of the grey to seep onto his rich purple shirt. The boy jumped, looking up from his stirring with a bewildered expression, “what? I- yes. A bit,” he looked awfully cute when flustered and Jesper took a moment to curse at himself. Then he presented his newly stained sleeve, “my shirt got stained the other night, can’t remember what happened to it, but I can’t seem to get it out.” The boy frowned, reaching out as if on impulse to grab Jesper’s arm, inspecting the sleeve with interest, “and you don’t know what stained it?”

Jesper grinned, “not a notion! Was a bit out of it if I’ll be honest, woke up on the other side of town without a single memory of how I got there.”

The boy snorted, then caught himself and brushed his fingers over the stain, a light pink blush dusted his cheeks now and Jesper found himself wanting to make him blush again, to see how far down it went.

He shook his head, why did the target have to be hot?

“This looks like a dye of some sort, something acidic like vinegar should do the trick… maybe a strong alcohol.” He let go of Jesper’s arm, returning to the paddle with a weary air.

Oh no little prince, Jesper leaned forward, pushing himself into his space, “I’ve got plenty of alcohol back at my place,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. The boy nodded jerkily, his grip on the paddle tightening. Jesper continued with a wink, “you should come back with me, help me drink it all.”

Ah, there it was! He’d been kind of hoping the blush would return. Maybe it was an assehole move considering he was literally planning on killing the poor kid but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a bit of fun first.

“I can’t afford to take the rest of the day off,” he murmured, eyes not moving from the red dye he was stirring, shoulders sagging in what might have been disappointment. Jesper felt awful. He reached into his pocket, brandishing a roll of kruge that he’d stolen from a Ravkan tourist just that morning. He’d planned on saving it for the night, already knowing which clubs to spend it all foolishly in. It didn’t matter much anyway, he’d just steal it back from the boy’s dead body. Saints he was a horrible man.

“Would this cover it?” he asked, swallowing down the tide of guilt. The boy’s eyes were drawn to the roll with a hunger Jesper could relate to. Jesper knew damn well that this amount of Kruge was probably more then the boy would earn in a weeks worth of working for that foul Tannery.

There was a brief moment of hesitation, almost as if the boy was reluctant about accepting money from a stranger, -and he’d be right to, considering what said stranger planned to do with him-, but then he nodded, taking the roll of cash slowly, cradling it in his hands like it was a lump of pure gold, “that would be enough,” he said hesitantly, blue eyes meeting his own once again.

Jesper grinned, “come on then,” he grabbed the boy by his elbow, forcing him to drop the paddle and practically dragging him out of the disgusting place. He came eagerly enough, pausing only long enough to stuff the cash into an inside jacket pocket.

Jesper took note of the location.

“What’s a guy like you doing working in a place like that?” Jesper asked as they walked, feeling the need to fill in the silence. He hated silences, always had, silences were suffocating and unbearable for him, something his father had never seemed to understand. Colm had always done his best, but Jesper knew he often got annoyed with his constant chatter, even if he didn’t say anything.

The boy shrugged, “don’t really have much choice. I need money and there isn’t a lot of places around here that’ll give me it.” Jesper refrained from telling him that a face like his would be well sought after down in the Staves. Indenturing yourself to a pleasure house was a life half lived and Jesper would hate to see this boy be forced down that route.

Not that it would matter. He’d never get a chance. Because Jesper was going to kill him.

“You’re good with chemicals right?” Jesper was stalling now, technically he could just pull this kid into a side alley and snap his neck and that would be job done. Easy 10,000 kruge and he’d be on his way to Novyi Zem the next day. But every time Jesper's hands inched towards him, every time he was about to make a move, something stopped him. Maybe it was just that Jesper always struggled to shoot a pretty face, but he just couldn’t wrap his head around why the Merchant wanted him dead so badly. He was a boy only a year younger then himself, working in a dead-end job that would probably kill him and barely able to afford enough food to support himself. Jesper just couldn’t understand.

“Do you think you could make an explosive?”

The boy blinked, looking up at Jesper in surprise, “of course I could, it’s just chemistry, I’ve made a couple before even but I prefer working with acids.”

“Acids?”

“Yeah they’re… simpler. Bombs are very destructive, very loud, whereas acids are sneakier. You could bomb down a door and break into someone’s house that way but they’d know you were in there before you could start grabbing things, with an acid you could just melt the hinges and be in and out with no fuss, house owner non the wiser.”

Jesper had never thought of it like that.

“You’re a right little criminal aren’t you,” he laughed, hoping to prompt some information from him. Maybe he worked in a gang, maybe he dabbled in a bit of arson on the side. Or maybe he was just a kid who liked to make bombs and blow shit up, Jesper could relate to that desire. But the boy just frowned, “I’m not a criminal,” he said sharply then his shoulders sagged, “I like making things but I don’t like using them.”

Jesper shrugged, sticking his key into his shitty workhouse door. He’d stolen it from the first man he’d killed, in fairness he’d tried to kill him first so it was deserved. It was damp and cold and empty of most furnishing but it was secure and a place for him to lay his head somewhere other then Ketterdams streets. His skin itched as he closed the door behind the two of them, surreptitiously locking it.

It was time.

His fingers brushed over the handle of his guns just as a voice spoke from behind him, “Wylan.” Jesper looked over his shoulder, “what was that?” he asked, barely able to disguise his wince.

“My name, it’s Wylan,” the boy shrugged, “figured it might be useful to know.”

No, he pleaded desperately, don’t tell me your name, that just makes you seem human. He’d never killed a person who’s name he knew, because he never tended to kill people he hung around with, or even people he was hired to. He killed when he was attacked and when people he knew where attacked and he’d join in on a shootout if it was against a gang he despised but that was about it.

Jesper Fahey didn’t really do this, he wasn’t a mercenary and he wasn’t an assassin and he wasn’t hired to kill people without knowing why.

And yet, here he was, hand resting on his gun and a boy called Wylan staring at him with devilish blue eyes, and Jesper was being paid 10,000 kruge to stuck a bullet in his head.

What did you do? He wanted to say. He wanted to shake the boy by the shoulders and scream at him, why does he want you dead? What did you do? Why do you deserve this?

“Jesper Fahey,” he said instead, reluctantly lifting the hand from his gun to shake the hand the boy -Wylan- offered.

Wylan’s hand was soft, like porcelain, no calloused or scars or any marks to suggest he’d lived anything other then a privileged life. It made him all the more bewildered, what was a kid like this doing here in the Barrel and why for the love of saints was there a 10,000 kruge hit on him?

“What was that you said about alcohol?” Wylan asked, raising an eyebrow as he took his hand back. Jesper laughed, turning away, he’d completely forgotten all about the excuse he used to get the boy to come with him, “right alcohol.” He ducked under his bed, pulling out a dusty bottle of vodka, “so I may have overestimated the amount of alcohol I have left,” he said with a chuckle, popping the lid, “but I didn’t really think you’d accept my offer.”

 More like I didn’t think you’d still be alive by now but look at where we are…

He set two glasses down on the rickety table, carefully pouring the clear drink into them. What was he doing? He’d invited the guy round so he could kill him and get his money not share a couple drinks with him.

Maybe if I get him drunk enough he’ll tell me what he did to piss off the merch and I’ll be able to kill him with a clear conscious.

He passed one of the glasses to Wylan, who took it with a whispered thanks. Jesper raised an eyebrow at his manners, “you’re not from around here are you?” he questioned, throwing his head back and downing the drink in one go. Wylan watched him cautiously, his fingers tapping on the side of his glass until he said softly, “no, no I'm not. How did you know?” Jesper poured himself another glass, “you’ve got better manners then any barrel rat I’ve met,” he said with a cough, maybe he shouldn’t have downed a full glass of vodka, “and that accent is definitely not native.”

Wylan’s cheeks pinked and Jesper thought it went very nicely with the dirty blue shirt he was wearing, “I guess you’re right.” He was frowning at the ground as he spoke, still playing with the glass in his hands. Jesper leaned forward, taking this as his opportunity, “so what brings you to the Barrel then?”

Swiftly, Wylan downed his own drink, then coughed violently, his eyes widening, “saints,” he croaked, pounding his chest, “how do you do that?” Jesper grinned, raising his glass, “practice darling,” he said smoothly, “it’s a right of passage down here in the Barrel.” He swallowed the rest of his own glass in one go, resisting the urge to cough as it burned it’s way down, he had to make a point now.

Wylan’s eyes narrowed, then he held his glass out, “I’m a quick study,” he snarked, his eyes sparkling in a way that made Jesper want to forget the drinks, forget the job and press him up against the desk until he shook.

No sleeping with the target Jesper.

Jesper poured him a second glass, “go on then princeling,” he goaded, “show me what you’re made of.”

The whole night Jesper didn’t get a word of Wylan about what misdeed he must have done. He fidgeted with his revolvers the whole while, knowing that all he had to do was pull one out and Wylan would be dead before he’d even realise what was going on. Maybe that was why he couldn’t fully commit, Jesper liked a fair fight, he thrived on danger and short odds. He liked his opponent to be armed and ready and to deserve what was coming at him.

Not like this… not drunk and laughing and thinking Jesper just wanted him there for the company.

Whatever the reason, Jesper couldn’t do it.

Wylan glanced at the half empty bottle on the table, “I should probably go,” he slurred, “got… got work in the morning.” Jesper put a hand out to stop him, cursing himself when Wylan turned his beautiful, flushed face towards him, “you can’t go out there like this,” he said softly, “you’ll get eaten alive before you even cross the street.”

Wylan frowned, “I live on the street though.”

Jesper blinked, “you what?”

The boy just shrugged, looking away with a faraway expression, “I live on the street, under that overhang near the bridge,” he said slowly, carefully, like each word was too much of an effort to say normally. Jesper internally groaned and cursed his soft heart.

“You can stay here,” he said, turning Wylan around and pushing him towards his own bed, “I’ll be gone for the night anyway, it’s no trouble.” Wylan didn’t look convinced, “but work…”

Jesper patted the other's chest, where he’d slipped the money earlier, “I’ll tell you what, you stay here, and I’ll have a job for you in the morning, yeah? One that isn’t killing you slowly and pays a hell of a lot better.”

Sober Wylan would have refused, would have scoffed and walked out anyway, too clever to fall for his ruse. Drunk Wylan just nodded sleepily, “they don’t pay me enough there,” he mumbled, sitting down on Jesper’s bed. Jesper nodded, letting out a relieved breathe, “right, they don’t, just stay there for the night, alright? I’ll be back in the morning.”

That was, if a debt collector didn’t kill him during the night. Now that would be unfortunate.

“Where are you going?” Wylan called as he ascended the steps out of the basement, “its night.”

Jesper grinned, looking over his shoulder, “that’s the whole point love,” he winked, “its not where you go during the night that matters, it’s where the night chooses to take you.” He tipped his hat towards his unfortunate guest, then disappeared into the busy street outside, taking care to lock the door behind him.

He groaned, dropping his head onto the door dramatically. All he had to do was just kill him! It was simple and he had more then enough chances to do it!

But…

Jesper just couldn’t forget the sneer in the Merchant’s voice, the way Wylan shut down whenever Jesper asked him where he came from and he couldn’t help but think that whatever Wylan did, it was personal.

And he just didn’t know if Wylan deserved what was coming.

“I need a drink,” he grumbled, pushing away from the door and the sleeping victim inside it, choosing instead to march down the streets, hands on his revolvers. He needed a drink and he needed a pair of cards in his hands. He needed a night of dice and debauchery to help soothe the uneasy itch under his skin.

He’d figure it out in the morning.

Saints.

Chapter Text

Jesper did not, in fact, spend the night gambling and drinking as he’d wanted to. He’d spent it scouting.

Spent hours upon hours eavesdropping into conversations, dropping little hints, picking pockets and trying to weedle information out of the upper class pigeons who’d decided to try their luck at some hands.

Now, as he made his way back to the workshop in the early hours of the morning, eyes heavy and head reeling, he had a name and he had a plan.

The workshop was dark when he entered, the weak dawn light having not managed to breach the layer of grime coating the few small windows. Jesper didn’t mind the dirt too much, it made it harder for anyone to peak inside.

Wylan was still asleep when he slowly ascended the stairs, curled up in a tight ball under Jesper’s ratty blanket.

For a moment, Jesper forgot about the name and the plan and he slowly removed his revolver from its holster, training it on the sleeping boy in front of him.

 It would be so easy.

No one would know and he’d get his money by nightfall, arrive in Novyi Zem early next week and the rest would be history.

And yet-

Jesper didn’t know if he could trust the Merchant’s word. Jan Van Eck was the name he’d managed to pry from one of the richer patrons enjoying a night on the town. Jesper knew of him, everyone did. There were whispers in the darker alleys that Van Eck could never be trusted to uphold a deal, that he was a notorious double crosser. Jesper may have his greedy eyes set on that 10,000 kruge but he was more worried about his father’s fate if Van Eck couldn’t be trusted.

Therefore, he needed a plan. He needed to ensure that Colm could be protected effectively. Fight blackmail with blackmail, if you will. And to do that, he needed a second pair of eyes, prior knowledge of the man he was dealing with and a useful set of explosives he didn’t know how to make.

Only one person could tick all three boxes.

Said person was lying in his bed, sleeping off a hangover and blissfully unaware of the gun that was aimed at him.

Jesper flicked down the safety hammer, his fingers twitching on the trigger.

He had two choices.

Kill the kid now and pray that Van Eck would keep his word, both with the money and his father’s safety, or use those three weeks to his advantage, get blackmail on the filthy merchant and then kill the kid and ensure his prize was paid out properly.

Jesper slowly, carefully lowered the gun.

He was fond of short odds, but he didn’t like gambling on chance when his father’s life was on the line.

“You better be the best demolitions man the Barrel has ever seen princeling,” he grumbled under his breathe, returning his gun to its holster. Right, if he was going to be turning his shitty workhouse flat into a place to make bombs, he needed to organise things.

Bombs weren’t produced from thin air, they needed materials and materials required money to acquire. Slowly, regretfully, he pulled out the wad of kruge he’d stolen from multiple loose pocketed tourists and placed it onto the bed side table. He couldn’t afford to gamble this away, no money meant no bombs which in turn meant no gambling.

He'd never managed to hold onto cash before however, and he was suddenly a little nervous of his ability to keep the money there for as long as it took to pick up enough supplies. He would also need enough to pay Wylan but he didn’t stress himself about that, he’d spend another night stealing loose kruge and he’d be sorted. Wylan was a clever person and was unlikely to splurge his payment as soon as he got it, meaning Jesper could just steal the money back from his dead body.

He winced, he was starting to feel a little guilty about stringing the kid along like this.

But what could he do?

~♧~

“You want me to what?”

Wylan, as it turned out, was a heavy sleeper.

It probably had something to do with the amount of alcohol he drank the night before, but Jesper had been sat in his workshop, hat tipped low over his eyes, drifting in and out of sleep for approximately five bells before the other boy began to stir. Jesper had rolled his eyes as he stood up from the rickety chair he’d made do with, wincing slightly when his spine protested at the sudden movement.

Now they were standing, Jesper casually leaning against the wall while Wylan stood in the centre, looking more then a little bit awkward.

“I need you to make some bombs for me,” Jesper repeated, tracing patterns on his revolvers pearl handles with his thumbs. Some was a bit of an understatement. He wasn’t entirely sure exactly how many he would need but he wanted to be prepared. He wanted bombs and acids and whatever else the little redhead could mix up for him.

“I told you,” Wylan said, his eyes darting from Jesper to the door, tough luck kid it’s locked, “I don’t use the stuff I make.”

Jesper rolled his eyes, “I’m not asking you to use them, I just need you to make them.”

“The end result is still the same,” Wylan said stubbornly, crossing his arms, “if I don’t use them you will and I don’t want to be the cause of peoples death.” Jesper heaved a sigh, self righteous podge, then tapped his own chest, “have a little look in your pocket for me eh.” He wasn’t proud of the trick he’d pulled last night, but sometimes a guy had to do what a guy had to do in order to ensure someone worked for him. Just Barrel things really.

Wylan frowned, slipping a hand into his inside pocket, then his eyes widened, “what-“

Jesper pulled the roll of kruge out of his own trouser pocket, he’d taken it from Wylan the night before when he was trying to get him into his bed, “I’m not as stupid as you might think me Wylan,” he said, pushing himself off the wall so he could advance into the other boy’s space, “I know for a fact this this roll does more then just cover the rest of your shift, you wouldn’t even get this in a weeks work at the Tannery, would you?” Wylan glared at him, still looking slightly bewildered as to how Jesper stole the money back from him, but there was a fire in his eyes that Jesper could admire.

Good, he didn’t need a quivering weed to hide behind him at every confrontation, he needed someone he could rely on. Someone with a bit of bite.

“If you wish to see this, and more, back in your snug little pocket, you will sit your ass down at my table and make me some saints-forsaken bombs.”

If looks could kill, Jesper would be a steaming pile of ash.

“What’s stopping me from taking that from you right now and leaving?” Wylan hissed, eyes narrowing into slits. Jesper grinned, pulling one of the notes from the roll.

It was blank.

“You could try,” he said, watching the fire slowly fade, “but you wouldn’t get very much with these.” He let the roll drop to the floor, watching as it rolled down the slight slope in the floor to knock against the toes of Wylan’s ragged boots. Wylan’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

Jesper took a bit of pity on him, “the money does exist, but for reasons I’m sure you can understand I took the liberty of hiding it,” Wylan glared at him but he continued anyway, “so you have two choices, you can leave right now and crawl back to your little home under the bridge because you will surely be fired after leaving yesterday or you can plonk your pretty little ass at my table and make me some shit to go boom. Your choice.”

Jesper turned away and hung his jacket over the back of his chair, letting the sight of his revolvers finish the rest of his sentence for him. The choice was clear. “You’re an assehole,” he heard Wylan say through gritted teeth and he laughed despite himself, “maybe I am,” he said, turning back around to meet the angry fire in those blue eyes, “but I’m also desperate and I’ll do anything to protect the people I care about.” He rested his hands on the revolvers, carefully, pointedly, letting the threat hang unspoken but obvious. Jesper wasn’t doing this for the fun of it, he was just trying to protect his father.

He still felt a little bad for planning on eventually double crossing Wylan.

Wylan sighed, sitting down at the table in a defeated manner, “I’ll need supplies,” he said grumpily, choosing to glare at the table instead of up at Jesper. He shrugged, “write me a list then and I’ll fetch it now.”

To his surprise Wylan’s face hardened, his shoulders shooting up in a defensive manner. “I could just come with you,” he said, his voice carefully controlled in a way Jesper understood personally, “I’ll need to check some of the stuff out first, make sure you don’t get scammed and stuff.”

Jesper raised an eyebrow, “no one’s going to scam a man with a reputation for being the best shot in the barrel princeling, you’ll need a better excuse then that.”

Wylan’s head whipped around to face him with a speed that surprised him, “its not an excuse, I just know the salespeople round here,” he said quickly, too quickly. Jesper placed his hands on the table, leaning in close, “I know an excuse when I see one, trust me,” he tapped his fingers on the table, frowning when Wylan flinched subtly, “why won’t you write me a list, and be honest, I don’t have time for liars.”

That’s rich, coming from you.

Wylan took a breathe that was probably too deep for the situation, “I can’t.” He said it so quietly Jesper barely even caught it. He rolled his eyes, “can’t what?”

“I cant write,” Wylan snapped, “or read, or anything that’s do with words, I tried for years but it just doesn’t work.” The bite was back in Wylan’s voice and Jesper blinked, surprised. “Oh,” was all he said, pushing himself up off the table so he could grab his jacket, “alright so, you can come.”

Wylan looked up, disbelief evident on his face, “that’s it?”

“Yeah,” Jesper frowned at him, “what else is there? You can’t write me a list and I have an awful memory so yeah, you can come.” He threw a scarf at the other boy, “you’ll need to hide your face though, you don’t want to be spotted with me.”

More like I really can’t afford to be spotted with you.

Wylan took the scarf slowly, still refusing to move from his seat, “but that’s… it? You’re just going to ignore that I can’t read?”

Jesper sighed, he really didn’t have time for this, “this is the barrel sweetheart,” he said in a slightly mocking way, “I’m not going to coddle you and tell you that you’re perfect the way you are, if that’s what you’re looking for.” But Wylan frowned, shrinking into the chair slightly and Jesper had a feeling that he was expecting the exact opposite. “Hey,” he said softly, softer then he’d planned, “whoever told you that your inability to read is the biggest deal in the world is speaking out of their ass, alright? I don’t want you to read me a bedtime story or recite famous poetry for me, I just need you to mix some chemicals together and give me something that’ll go bang, got it?”

Wylan nodded, finally getting out of his seat and winding the scarf around his face. Jesper ignored the way his hands shook, he didn’t think the other would appreciate it all that much if he brought it up.

It just made him even more confused.

He really didn’t like the terms on which he had to kill this kid.

Wylan made a shocked noise when Jesper produced a key to open the door, “this was locked the whole time?” he cried, almost dropping the scarf which he hadn’t finished tying. Jesper shoved the key into the door, “course it was, can’t risk anyone coming in to steal my babies from me,” he stroked the handles of his guns affectionately, “now can we?”

“More like you couldn’t risk me making a run for it,” Wylan grumbled, slipping out the door after him. Jesper raised an eyebrow as he relocked the door, “were you or were you not planning an elaborate escape before you realised I stole your money?”

Wylan was silent from behind him and he laughed under his breathe, straightening up and fishing around in one of his pockets for the kruge he’d acquired last night, “thought so.” He removed a few notes and held it for Wylan to take, although he didn’t let go when Wylan grasped it, “don’t even think about making off with this,” he said lowly, “I’m not a sharpshooter for nothing.”

Wylan nodded and he let go, watching him slip it into his inside pocket. Is it always the inside one? More proof that Wylan was new to the Barrel, anyone with half a mind would know to never let anyone see where you put your money and also to rotate the pockets you used.

“Why do I have to cover my face but you don’t?” Wylan asked as they wove their way through the stalls, his voice muffled by the scarf. Jesper rolled his eyes, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as they passed yet another gambling table, feeling that traitorous tugging once more, “everyone on this side of the Barrel knows who I am, I’d be more conspicuous if I tried to hide then if I didn’t.”

“But why do I have to hide my face?”

Ghezen kid you really know nothing about this place.

“Because,” he drawled, letting his fingers dipped into the pocket of a man who brushed too close past him, “if someone spots you with me they might try and target you to get to me. Make sense?”

“You say that like someone with experience,” Wylan muttered and Jesper winced, “you’re not wrong princeling,” he said regretfully, passing Wylan another note, “I assume you know where to get your supplies from?”

Wylan nodded, “what kind of bombs do you need?”

Jesper blinked, “does it matter?”

“Does it matter,” Wylan scoffed, shaking his head, “do you want big ones, small ones, flashbombs, acid bombs, that sort of thing?"

He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. There was a reason his job was to shoot and look good. “All of them,” he said finally after a moments thought, “I’m not entirely sure how well this job is going to go, I want to be prepared.”

“That is a terrible attitude to have going into a job.”

Jesper snorted, “just go buy me chemicals kid, I’m not paying you to sass me.”

“You’re not paying me at all,” Wylan grumbled but he dutifully set of to dash between the various stalls, Jesper keeping careful watch.

Where did you come from kid? He thought once more, watching as he didn’t even attempt to barter for his chemicals. The whole thing unsettled him greatly and he had a feeling that the longer he pondered the situation the more sick he’d feel about actually having to do the deed.

But then he thought of his father’s tired face, smiling up at him warmly as he boarded a ship to Ketterdam, full of hope and dreams for the future.

Jesper tightened his grip on his revolvers. In the end, there never was going to be a choice.

~♧~

“What did you mean earlier? When you said I wasn’t wrong?”

Jesper rolled his eyes. He’d been attempting to get some shut eye once they’d arrived back at the workhouse but Wylan seemed to have different ideas. He flicked the tip of his hat further down over his eyes, “it doesn’t matter, shut up and keep mixing shit.”

There was a clinking of bottles and then, “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

Jesper groaned, “well don’t. I want to catch at least a few minutes of sleep before I have to give you back the bed.”

Wylan paused in his work and regretfully Jesper peeked an eye open to look at him. “You don’t have to give me the bed you know,” the other boy said softly, glancing over at him from where he was bent low over some multicoloured powders. Jesper scoffed, opening the other eye to join the first, “course I do little prince, you look like you’d bruise if I so much as breathed on you, no way you could handle a night on that chair.”

“I’m not a prince,” Wylan snapped and Jesper, now fully awake, which was such a shame really, sat up with a smirk, “oh look at that! There’s that spine I was looking for.”

Wylan ignored him and went back to his work with a scowl. Don’t ignore me now that you’ve succeeded in distracting me!

He stood reluctantly from the bed, stretching. He didn’t need to but it was fun to watch the other boy’s cheeks flush spectacularly. “The job I’ve been given,” he said suddenly, needing to fill in the suffocating silence that suddenly descended upon him, “I need the bombs so I can get blackmail on the man who hired me.”

Wylan blinked, still not looking at him, “why on earth would you want to do that?”

Jesper rounded the table so that he was opposite the chemist, staring down at the selection of powders and metals he’d acquired. He picked up a little bottle, giving it a small sniff, “he threatened someone I care about,” he said in a low voice, turning the bottle over in his hands. Now Wylan looked at him. “I need blackmail to ensure he won’t go back on his word and hurt me father.”

Wylan nodded slightly, “so you’re not a complete assehole then?” he asked, his lips turning up just barely. Jesper managed to hold back a wince, more then you know princeling. “Not completely, no.” he said instead, returning the bottle to its spot on the table.

“What’s the job?” Wylan’s voice was light, conversational but Jesper narrowed his eyes a fraction. Maybe the kid was just curious but he didn’t want to give him any hints that he was the one he was after, just in case he had indeed done something and was on the run.

“I need to kill a man for him,” he said carefully, watching for any signs of fear. Wylan’s eyes widened a fraction, but Jesper had a feeling that was more from shock then fear for his own life. Or at least he hoped so. He’d never been very good at reading people.

“I don’t want to kill him,” he said hurriedly, in case Wylan tried to make a run for it. He wouldn’t get very far but it would ruin Jesper’s plan if he had to shoot him now. “I turned down the job when it was offered but then…” he trailed off, thinking once more of his father, a good man who didn’t deserve to be dragged into his mess.

“Then he threatened your father,” Wylan finished for him and he nodded with a sigh, “yeah pretty much. So I want to get some blackmail on this man to make sure he doesn’t turn on me and kill my father anyway, then I’d have killed an innocent man for nothing.”

Wylan raised an eyebrow, “how do you know the target is innocent?”

Because you don’t strike me as the sort who pisses off rich merchants for fun.

“If he’s not shooting at me then he’s innocent as far as I care.” He said instead, feeling guilt churning in his stomach. Maybe he could give Wylan a gun of his own and ask him to start attacking him so he could kill him with a clear conscious.

No that wouldn’t work.

He could always piss him off enough to make him want go hurt him but he doubted Wylan would use a gun for that and he didn’t fancy having acid thrown at him.

Effective, no doubt, but it would ruin his outfit and his face and that would just be unfortunate.

Wylan turned back to his work, slowly mixing the gunpowder with a bright red substance, “well I suppose your father would always come first in that case,” his voice was low, face hard just as it had been last night whenever Jesper had asked where it was he came from before the Barrel.

Jesper frowned, “I take it you don’t have a good relationship with your own Da.”

Wylan huffed out an incredulous little laugh, “in a manner of speaking," he said with a clenched jaw.

Jesper didn’t push it. He just thought, for the hundredth time, as he stared at the boy in front of him, carefully mixing powders to make a bomb with unmarked hands, what the hell did he do to deserve this?

Who are you? He pleaded, not for the first time.

The boy didn't answer.

Chapter Text

Making bombs as it turned out, was a lot more fun then Jesper had expected.

It was how he spent most of his days, sitting across from Wylan in his shitty dwelling, helping mix powders and chemicals and different reactants together. Sometimes Wylan talked, telling Jesper about the different reactions certain chemicals made when in close proximity, often getting carried away in his explaining but Jesper didn’t really mind all that much, even if he had no idea what was being said. Most often though it was Jesper who filled in the silence, talking about his time on the farm as a kid, some of the more impressive jobs he did in the Barrel and bragging about his skill with his beloved guns. It was easy, he found, to talk to Wylan. They bounced off each other easily, Jesper always trying to bring that blush into fruition and Wylan had great joy in snapping back and surprising him. It was a game they played, as they bent over half finished explosives, to while away the hours with jokes and snarky comebacks.

But still, Wylan refused to talk about his life before the Barrel and that made Jesper get antsy. He was no closer to figuring out why Wylan had a 10,000 kruge hit on him then he was that very first night. He’d even gotten him drunk again, hoping the alcohol would loosen his tight grip on his secrets but to no avail. It made Jesper feel uneasy. He was starting to like Wylan. Not in any romantic sense but he was... fun. He liked talking to him, liked listening to him, he was fun to hang around with even if they never left the confines of his workhouse.

He didn’t like the idea of having to kill Wylan if he didn’t know why he deserved it. He hoped he deserved it. He had no choice but to kill him and it pained him to think about snuffing the light out of this boy if he’d never done anything wrong.

“You’ll have to give me something princeling.” It was another one of those mornings spent on the opposite ends of a table, tinkering over half finished explosives. The itch under Jesper’s skin refused to ebb away, growing stronger and stronger until its all he could do to not grab his gun and shoot the damn kid now. He was never any good at waiting, this.. planning and working and patience… it has never been his strong suit. He had a feeling it never would be. Jesper just needed to know something, anything at all that would help soothe the ants under his skin, settle the confused screaming in his head. He didn't want to kill Wylan, he really didn't, but it’s been two weeks now and the day is getting closer and closer and he still doesn’t know why Wylan has to die.

He doesn’t want Wylan to die.

He doesn’t have a choice.

“Why do you call me princeling?” Wylan’s voice was soft, tired like it always was in the morning. Jesper shrugged, fishing a bronze coin from his pocket to spin it around on his palm, watching the way the light flashed against its smooth surface briefly, “cause you look like a prince.” Wylan huffed, his lips curving up into what just might be the beginning of a smile, “I do not look like a prince.”

Jesper flipped the coin once, twice, avoiding looking at Wylan, “you do,” was all he could say, keeping his attention focused solely on the coin.

“Would a prince be helping you make bombs so that you can blackmail someone?”

Jesper snorted, rolling the coin between his fingers, “no I suppose not.” He stopped the movement of his hand, letting the coin be captured between his ring finger and his middle finger, “how many of those are ready to go?” he asked, gesturing to the crate of acids and phosphorus. Wylan didn’t look up, “all of them, why?”

Jesper flicked his wrist again and the coin started moving once more, between his middle finger and forefinger and then back again, traveling between them over and over again, an endless loop that won’t stop unless he decides it. “I’m going to go scouting little prince,” Wylan huffed but he ignored him, “the deadline is approaching and I haven’t had much luck getting some information on the streets.”

That made Wylan pause in his work, “where are you going to go?”

Jesper hesitated, he doubted that it would be a good idea to tell Wylan exactly where he was scouting in case he’d be clever enough to put two and two together. The coin flashed between his fingers, moving ever faster. “His office I’m hoping,” he said lightly, “might try and use one of your lovely acids to break into his safe, see what sneaky papers he’s got hiding in there.”

For a moment Wylan froze, his hand half extended to pick up the finished flash bomb and Jesper began to regret ever saying anything. He stilled the coin, his other hand inching towards his revolver just in case.

Come on princeling, he pleaded, don’t make me do it, not like this.

Then, Wylan relaxed, subtly shaking his head as if to disprove the horrid thoughts that must have sprung up, “a business man I take it?” his voice shook just barely, not noticeable to anyone. But Jesper knew what it felt to feel like a trapped rabbit, to panic and then bring it all back down and he personally knew all the tactics to pass things off as if they never happened.

His stomach turned, Wylan’s reaction meant he had stepped too close to familiar grounds, meaning that Wylan knew a merchant was after him.

Which meant that Wylan had done something.

He should feel relieved, that realisation should be pushing him towards easier ground, proving just barely that Wylan just might deserve to be taken out.

The trouble is, Jesper just really doesn’t want to do it.

Buckle up princess, you don’t have a choice.

“Yeah,” he said carefully, slowly, still waiting for Wylan to decide to make a run for it, “a lawyer actually.”

Wylan looked up at him sharply, his face was carefully blank, almost as if he’d never frozen up in the first place. Clever. Someone knew his way around a bluff. “What’s a lawyer doing hiring people to kill someone?”

Jesper nearly laughed at that, I don’t know princeling, why don’t you tell me why an upstanding merchant is hiring someone to kill you?

He didn’t say that, even if he really wanted to.

“Doesn’t make a difference to me,” he said instead, laughing slightly under his breath, “just so long as my father stays safe, that’s all that matters.”

10,000 kruge doesn’t hurt though.

Wylan nodded, the tension seeping from his frame like water from a wet cloth.

The coin started to move once again, here and then gone, flitting between his fingers like a bird chasing after a fly.

“Do you really have to kill the target, if you don’t want to?” Wylan said suddenly, pulling Jesper out of his head. He blinked, “yeah, that’s kind of the whole point Wylan.”

“Well,” he started fiddling with the bottles, not even picking them up just nudging them out of place and then back again, “I’ve been thinking-“

“-Been thinking about me? Late at night? What am I wearing?” It really was funny how even the smallest suggestion could make his cheeks turn rosy.

“I’ve been thinking about your job,” Wylan said determinedly, clearly passionate about this subject. Jesper raised an eyebrow but otherwise stayed silent, curious as to where this was going. “If you find enough blackmail on him and maybe pull out your guns, couldn’t you just threaten him to not kill your father and leave it at that? If the blackmail was big enough.”

The thought had occurred to Jesper but he wasn’t confident enough in its odds. Sure, it might work, it might get him the assurance that his father will stay safe or it could backfire horrifically and maybe he’ll kill Colm just to punish him for even daring to try and get out of it. He didn’t even know for certain that the blackmail will help him with anything but his chances are much higher if Wylan's dead body is presented to him first.

“I have thought of that myself,” he admitted, focusing his attention on the coin. There and gone. Flashing and then vanishing. Jesper felt envious of the coin, wishing he could just flit in and out of the darkness, be there one moment and gone the next. His problems would be much smaller if he could. “I’m just… I’m scared, honestly.” The admission was quite, so soft he wasn’t even sure if Wylan heard it or not. Based on the way he immediately looked up, it was safe to assume he had.

“You’re scared?”

Jesper laughed dryly. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t anywhere near funny but he didn’t know of any other way to settle the churning in his stomach, to ease the heavy weight from his chest. His mouth tasted sour and he focused more heavily on the coin.

There and gone.

In and out.

“I’m fucking terrified Wylan.” If Wylan was shocked by his words he didn’t show it, his face impassive, blank. “I never meant for this to happen… for any of it to happen and I don’t know how to fix it. My father… he’s a good man, he doesn’t deserve any of my mess, he doesn’t deserve me, but he doesn’t really have a choice and now…” he broke off to let out another rough chuckle, “and now all my bad decisions are here to kick me in the ass. I’ve made too much of a name for myself down here, messed around with the wrong sort of people, got the wrong kind of reputation.” Wylan just stared, his brows furrowed but he looked calm, relaxed. Jesper hadn’t scared him off yet.

He almost wished he did.

“I don’t want to kill this man,” he whispered, watching the coin as it moved faster and faster. There and gone. In and out. “I don’t like killing people who’ve never done me wrong, who I don’t know if they deserve it but I don’t have a choice. I don’t know if blackmail will be enough to ensure my father’s safety, I don’t even know if they haven’t killed him already, I don’t-“ he took a deep breath, closing his fist around the coin, halting its frantic movements, “-I can’t risk anything. I can’t risk my Da getting hurt, I can’t.”

Wylan nodded, smiling ever so slightly, “I don’t envy your position,” he murmured and Jesper felt like he’d been punched, “but I understand. Your father comes first, you’re not a bad person because you try to protect him.”

The words stung like acid burning its way through his stomach. Would you think the same if you knew? If you knew it was you I had to kill? If you knew of how I lied to you, betrayed your trust, took advantage of you?

Somehow Jesper had a feeling that Wylan would. That even then, he’d still understand in his stupidly earnest way of looking at things.

That just made it hurt all the more.

If Van Eck didn’t kill him, the guilt of his decision would surely devour him slowly.

He deserved it, honestly.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, dropping the coin onto the table. He paused, staring. The coin was now long and thin, one end flat and the other pointed. Sharp. Dangerous.

In the brief moment that he’d held the coin in his fist, the same moment that Wylan expressed his earnest understanding of his position, the exact moment he’d been thinking of his regrets for needing to kill Wylan, Jesper had fabrikated the coin into a bullet.

…Well if that wasn’t a sign…

He quickly snatched the bullet back up, dropping it into his pocket, “that’s me off anyway, let’s hope your lovely creations will work otherwise you probably won’t see my pretty face ever again.” He winked to back up his statement.

Wylan rolled his eyes, “I’m more worried about not seeing my kruge then your ugly face.” Despite his words the corners of his lips tugged up slightly, the left side that little bit more prominent. It was cute. It wasn't allowed to be cute.

Jesper paused, then walked over to his bed, pulling up one the floorboards underneath it. He threw a roll of kruge in Wylan’s direction, muffling his laugh with his sleeve when it smacked the back of his head, “here it is you greedy little shit, part of it anyway.” Wylan bent slowly, picking up the roll with a hesitance Jesper hadn’t seen since that very first day, “why are you giving this to me now?” his voice was suspicious and yeah, he couldn’t really blame him for that.

He shrugged, discreetly fabrikating the board back into place, “there’s a very real risk that I’ll be caught and killed, wouldn’t want you to starve in my absence.”

Wylan carefully inspected the kruge, “when do I get the rest of it?”

Jesper shrugged on his long jacket, the end brushing well past where his kilt stopped just below the knees, “next week. Once the job is done.” He decided not to mention the little teeny tiny detail that next week Wylan would be dead. That would be decidedly bad for business.

Still, he felt a little bad for Wylan, if it was his last week alive he’d want to spend it having fun and enjoying himself, not stuck in a grimy little shack because some guy had tricked him into doing a job for him. Didn’t he owe it to him, since it would him to finally pull the trigger, to make sure he at least got to live a little bit?

He reached around the other boy to grab his obnoxious green hat, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped at the close proximity, “tell you what though.” Wylan shook his head with what seemed to be exasperation but thankfully he let him continue, “tomorrow night, I’ll treat you yeah? Take you out for a night on the town or some sort, give you a little reward for all the times I’ve locked you in here to make me bombs.” Wylan handed him the satchel full of their deadly creations, “the rest of my kruge would be reward enough,” he said with a raised eyebrow. Their fingers brushed when Jesper took the satchel from him and he felt his stomack swoop, -traitor-, “ah but then you could just disappear in the middle night and what would I do without your lovely company eh?”

“I think you’d manage,” Wylan grumbled, looking off to the side, “what with all the nights you spend messing around out there.” He waved a hand towards the door.

Jesper shouldered the satchel as he retreated, needing to leave now before he did something he’d regret, “I spend those nights scouting, my dear Wylan, very important stuff you see.” He also spent those nights stealing money and then gambling away what little he stole but funnily enough he didn’t think Wylan would approve of that little... detour... of his.

Wylan shooed him away, rolling his eyes, “sure, very important,” a light pink dusted his cheeks and Jesper thought it was very unfair that someone should look that cute when he needs to leave. He pulled out a key, prepared to do his usual routine of unlocking and then relocking the door when Wylan’s voice stopped him once again.

“You still don’t trust me not to run away with your stuff?”

Jesper paused, key motionless in the lock. Did he? He wasn’t even sure why he still locked the door. He’d started doing it because yeah, he was worried that Wylan would run away and he couldn’t afford to deal with that so soon after finally finding him. He needed to keep him here, where he knew where he was, so that when the unfortunate time came it would be easy to just… shoot him.

Now though?

Wylan never seemed frustrated at being basically held prisoner, if anything he was grateful. It was probably because Jesper supplied him with food and shelter and a bed to sleep on, at no cost except a few bombs and acids. Did he really think Wylan would skip out on him now? When they were so close? When -according to Wylan- they would be done in only six more days and he’d get his full payment?

In the end, he couldn’t say all of that, so he settled on a Jesper classic, half truths and thinly veiled lies.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he said softly, not turning around, “it’s them.” He didn’t elaborate. Wylan didn’t ask him to.

You could at least be a little mean, it would be so much easier to do this if you were a moody bastard.

“Jesper.”

Jesper stuck his head back into the workhouse, frowning, “yeah princeling?” Wylan hesitated, gripping onto the table so tightly his knuckles where turning white. For a moment he just stared, the wide Zemini sky of his eyes pinning Jesper into place with an intensity that unnerved him as much as it excited him. Then, “don’t die,” he said carefully, his voice low, “I’m holding you to that night out.”

The smile Jesper shot him was wonky, he didn’t like the direction his… companionship… with Wylan was going. He couldn’t afford to get attached. His father couldn’t afford for him to get attached. It was just so infuriatingly easy to like Wylan. “If I live,” he managed, keeping his voice conversational, “I’ll buy you waffles.”

Wylan rolled his eyes as he turned away, back to tinkering with more chemicals and powders, “you don’t have enough money for waffles,” he said over his shoulder. Jesper just shrugged, “so I’ll steal them.” He quickly slipped out the door, shutting it firmly behind him before Wylan could tempt him to stay any longer. He hesitated for just a moment when he locked the door, but ultimately he couldn’t risk Wylan not being there when he got back.

He was close, he was so close.

Jesper straightened, -or rather, he unstraightened- his hat and shook out his arms, determinedly shoving all thoughts of Wylan out of his head.

He had a mansion to break into, after all, and that was something that required focus.

A mansion to break into, secrets to find, and finally, finally, some fucking answers.

Wylan Hendriks had to die. And today, Jesper was going to find out why.

Chapter Text

Breaking into a Merchants mansion was a lot easier the Jesper expected.

The hardest part was the waiting. Jesper had never been good at waiting or staying still for copious amounts of time. Even from a young age he was filled with that indescribable urge to just simply move. Even it was just his hands he moved, forever twitching and fidgeting and messing around with whatever was in reach. When his Ma was still alive, he would often drum out the melodies she would hum when he got restless but after her death, he didn’t find the appeal anymore. The old melodies of his were old and overused, and she would never be able to hum him a new one.

Unfortunately, some jobs required a length of time simply waiting. So that’s what he had done, he’d hidden himself in a bush and waited. Waited for Van Eck to leave for his regularly scheduled Council Meeting.

He’d done this every day for two weeks now, ever since he got the name of the man who hired him. He’d sat in a bush every day and just watched the house. Learning everyone’s schedule, the guard shifts, how many servants could be expected to come across. He’d even managed to find out exactly which room was Van Eck’s office, which hadn’t been the original plan, but it was helpful to know.

Now, he was watching and waiting once more, but this time he was armed with his guns and Wylan’s concoctions and adrenaline was thundering through him at an alarming rate. Now it was time.

He watched as a black coach with a single, gleaming chestnut horse pulled up in front of the mansion, because Van Eck was not someone to walk to a Council Meeting. He watched as Van Eck, dressed smartly in his Mercher black, climbed into the coach without a word from the driver. Watched the same bodyguards lock the door behind then and then board the coach behind their boss. Watched the coach drive away, into the winding roads of the Geldstraat.

Rich Bastards.

This was his chance.

Rising up, he brushed whatever remained of the bush from his clothes, if he was spotted, he didn’t exactly want to be looking like he’d become with the foliage. Saints that was a thought.

“Yes, ma’am sorry to disturb you but I’m afraid your bush quality is no longer liveable,” he chuckled under his breath as he stuck close to the walls of the mansion, searching for that one parlour window that was always left open when Van Eck was away. He could fabrikate a pair of lock pickers if he wanted to, but he didn’t feel like it. Why waste more energy when they made it so easy for him?

He found the window easily, without disturbance and he slowly slipped inside. He probably shouldn’t have worn a kilt to go break into a mansion he thought regretfully after unsnagging it from the window for the fifth time. Hey, you go out with style, or you don’t go out at all.

Jesper slipped out of the parlour softly, peeking out into the hallway. He had roughly two bells before Van Eck was due to return but that didn’t mean he had to dally for too long.

One of the days he’d spent learning everyone’s schedule Jesper had decided to put him limited power to the test and see if he could scope out some form of distinguishable metal kept only in his office. He’d succeeded, managing to pinpoint the unique feel of something small and platinum. He raised his hands now, letting the platinum guide him through the ornate hallways, using its sharp sensation against his very being as a map. The metal tugged him through the very depths of the mansion until eventually he found himself standing in front of a locked, dark wood door.

Van Eck’s office.

He didn’t bother with any lock picks, instead he placed his hand on the handle and sought out the mechanism inside. “Talk to me darling,” he murmured, picking apart the lock from the inside, “tell me your secrets.”

The door opened with a tiny click and Jesper grinned, pushing it open.

He had a bit of a love/hate relationship with his powers. On one hand it was still ingrained in him to fear the very thing that made him special. He still shrank from his potential, still refused to train and hone in his abilities. It's not a gift it’s a curse. He had a feeling his father’s voice would never leave his head completely.

On the other hand, it felt so fucking good to use them. Five years was a long time to be separated from Colm and his fear, and gradually, slowly, he’d become curious. He’d started using his powers on the rare nights he wasn’t exploring the barrel and gambling away money that wasn’t his. He’d started small, just bleaching the colour from his more tattered clothes and then putting it back.

Despite his aversion to teaching himself, he had to admit that he’d gotten much better since then.

The office was mostly bare, Van Eck obviously hadn’t seen fit to furnish the room he’d spend most of his time in. There was a bookshelf adorning most of the walls, likely filled with ledgers and reports instead of actual books. A large, ornate window overlooked the vast gardens and a solid, dark wood desk sat in the centre. What drew Jesper’s eye, however, was the vast painted portrait of the man himself, Jan Van Eck. Jesper snorted, it was a very ugly depiction.

He raised his hands, searching the office by feel rather than by sight. “If I was a safe, where would I be...” He murmured, seeking the familiar pull of metal. He found it, tucked away safely behind the portrait. He grinned, “an old classic.”

It took him more tries then he’d like to admit for him to succesfully manage to move the portrait, but he managed it with minimal damage. Although he did have to mend a blemish to the frame when he scuffed it on the wall...

And there it was, hidden behind the ugly face of its owner, was the safe. A big, dark metal contraption embedded into the wall with only the door and its combination lock visible. Jesper didn’t bother with the lock. Instead, he reached into the satchel and pulled out one of the small acids Wylan had prepared for him. In fact, Wylan had made him more acids then bombs but Jesper wasn’t about to complain, not if it meant him getting the job done stealthier. He carefully pulled out the little pippet, squeezing only a single drop onto the front of the door. Just one drop to start with, Wylan had warned him, you can always add more but once it’s on you can’t take it off.

He hadn’t needed more than one drop in the end. The acid ate at the metal with a speed that surprised him, and it wasn’t long until there was a decent sized hole in the front of the safe. Well, it’s hardly discreet, he thought dryly. But it was fine, he didn’t need it to be discreet.

There were stacks of papers, most likely documents that drew Jesper’s eyes first and he immediately reached for them, being careful not to touch the still smouldering edges of the hole. One glance at the papers and a smile spread across his face.

Ha! I knew you were an underhanded dealer Van Eck.

He had found what he was looking for.

Blackmail.

Carefully, he lay the illegal documents out on the desk, making sure they were completely flat. Then he reached into the satchel and drew out a sheaf of plain, blank papers, methodically laying them out over the ones he wanted to copy.

Jesper placed a hand over the paper and reached through them, drawing the print up through the blank sheet, forcing the black marks to imprint themselves onto his papers.

He repeated this process with each document, copying down the information until he had a full set of his own. Van Eck’s papers looked the same as always, leaving no sign of tampering. He paused on the last one. It was a death certificate, for someone called Marya Van Eck.

Marya Van Eck...

Jan Van Eck’s late wife.

What was it doing here? Hidden in a safe amongst illegal documents?

Jesper skimmed the paper briefly, eyes passing over meaningless information until he stopped, gaze latching onto a single word that rung a bell that was all too familiar.

Maiden Name: Hendriks.

Hendriks.

Wylan had told him, after much insistence, that his full name was Wylan Hendriks. Hendriks.

So what was a death certificate with the same name as Wylan doing in Jan Van Eck’s safe? The same safe that held all his illegal documents.

Did Wylan kill her? Is that why Van Eck wants him dead?

But why do they have the same name?

Unless, Hendriks isn’t his real name. Unless Wylan had lied about his surname to keep his identity secret and the first name that popped into his head was the name of someone he killed.

Jesper had a hard time believing Wylan would kill anybody, but then again, you don’t get a 10,000 kruge hit on you for nothing.

Wylan had obviously done something.

The question was, had he done something to someone. And if so, who?

Carefully, he collected up the documents and placed them back in the safe once more. His own copies he stuffed back into Wylan’s satchel, careful not to jostle the equipment too much. Then he placed his hands back onto the safe, fingers rubbing along the edge of the jagged opening.

He took a deep breath.

There was a box inside him. At least, it felt like a box, a vast cage buried deep within him that restrained his powers from ease of access. He used his powers every day, but he wasn’t really using them, more like letting the excess energy that bounced just under his skin out to mould small parts of the world to suit his needs. Directing bullets, bleaching cloths, picking locks, all of them were done as easy as breathing to him, he barely even had to think of his powers to do them.

This, this was something different.

Jesper knew he had to fix the hole in the safe lest Van Eck become suspicious of his plans. The hole was large and the safe was sturdy. Jesper knew he could fix it, it was within his capabilities.

He just needed to actually use his powers.

And that scared him, just a little.

Nevertheless, he closed his eyes, focusing as much as he could on the corroded metal beneath his fingertips, and he reached deep within himself.

And he opened the box.

Energy flooded his very being like being doused with a bucket of icy water and he gasped at the sheer intensity of it. His heart pounded, his skin tickled and burned, almost like the energy was writhing in his veins with no outlet, nowhere to go.

The power was as exhilarating as it was frightening. Such sheer amount of force, at his very fingertips, just begging for him to unleash it upon the world around him, to shape the matter and meaning to his will.

All he had to do was what he always did.

He breathed.

He took aim.

And he fired.

Normally when he used his powers he told it what to do, told the metal what he wanted it to become. This time, he was too overwhelmed, both by what he had to do and also by the sheer amount of power he was trying to wield.

Show me what to do. Guide my hands, show me how to fix it.

Tentatively, he let the power seep through his hands and onto the metal. The safe glowed a hot red below his touch but it didn’t burn so he didn’t move.

Help me. Show me what to do.

He was utterly helpless. He’d never taken a lesson in his life, choosing instead to remember what his mother used to do and listen to his instinct. So he did that now, he let the steel inside him tell him what to do, allowed it to guide his hands and his focus and will the metal beneath him to fix.

The process was slow, he was untrained, after all, and his stamina wasn’t great. Sweat beaded on his brow but he refused to let his focus sway, refused to give up for even a minute. His fingers massaged the edge of the jagged hole in small, slow circles, coaxing the metal to grow and merge and become whole once again.

Jesper’s hands were shaking when he finally finished, but he eventually managed to wipe a hand over where the gap used to be, broken metal now whole again. He blew out a breath, laughing slightly. He was exhausted but yet, he’d never felt better! His blood hummed and buzzed with an exhilaration he normally only felt during the middle of a shootout.

It felt… it felt almost right.

As if this was what he was made to do, that this was his true calling in life.

Maybe that was because it was. Maybe his father was wrong, maybe his powers weren’t so bad, weren’t so evil.

Maybe they wouldn’t kill him like they’d killed his mother, maybe they were the only thing that could save him from the sad, destructive life he’d carved for himself.

But as the exhilaration faded from his body, the fear slowly slunk back to replace it and he did what he always did in the face of such change. He bolted. Shoving the power back into the dark recesses of himself, locking that box once again with shaking hands. His power made him feel alive, but it still terrified him.

Maybe that was why it terrified him.

It was difficult, for Jesper to get his exhausted limbs to work and it took far too long for him to hang the portrait back up again, so long he began to get nervous. He was cutting it pretty fine if he wanted to be gone from here before Van Eck returned from his meetings.

He locked the door behind him with much more difficulty then he’d unlocked it and stumbled through the mansion, nearly getting caught on more then one occasion by a wandering maid.

He was so tired, so hungry. He’d always had a great appetite but now he felt ravenous.

This is what actually using my powers does, he realised with a start as he struggled to climb back out the window, this is what it means to use 100% of myself.

He just didn’t know if he liked it.

~♧~

Jesper’s trip back to the Barrel was much slower then he’d anticipated due to his surprising lack of energy. He’d never suffered from that before, he was used to being constantly highly strung, on edge, ready to strike at a moments notice. He was usually filled with boundless energy at all times, so much so that it would sometimes drive him mad, tipping him off the scale until he tumbled headfirst into the first sign of trouble.

For now, he was just quiet.

The enticing smell of waffles caught his attention as he slunk his way through the dirty streets and he paused, staring out into the dark for its source.

If I live, I’ll buy you waffles.

And well, he’d lived, hadn’t he.

Jesper resisted to pat his pockets to check for money, truthfully he had no idea if he had anything on him at all but, like he’d said to Wylan, he’d just steal them if he had to. Jesper didn’t have much to offer Wylan -especially not considering his inevitable end- the least he could do was get the boy some waffles.

Besides, he was hungry too.

“Honey I’m home!” Jesper called as he shouldered his way into the workhouse, hands full off waffles and various sauces. Wylan looked up hurriedly when he closed the door with his foot, “your back!” he cried. Jesper felt a swoop of guilt in his stomach at the excitement in Wylan’s expression. He didn’t deserve that kind of reaction.

“You were gone for ages,” Wylan continued, rushing forward to help Jesper with the door, “I was beginning to think…” he shook his head, taking one of the boxes of waffles so that Jesper could lock the door. “Worried about me Wylan?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Worried about my kruge.”

Jesper snorted, “how could I forget, you Kerch people and your obsession with money.”

They made their way over to the table, Wylan quickly moving to clear a space for their food. “You weren’t joking about the waffles” Wylan said in a low voice, sitting down and eyeing the box in front of him with the look of someone who hadn’t eaten something worthehile in a long time. Jesper was partially at fault for that, he wasn’t exactly well funded so the food he brought back for the two of them was often cheap and tasteless. Wylan never complained.

“I keep my promises princeling,” he said, wincing as the words left him, “well, I try to.”

And wasn’t that the bitter, ugly truth of it.

He never wanted to break a promise but unfortunately circumstances and a terrible impulse control meant that he very rarely kept his word. He regretted it all the time, but he had yet to figure out how to change.

Wylan, oblivious to his self-deprecating thoughts, just dipped his head, opening his own box with wide, grateful eyes, “well I appreciate it anyway.” They ate in silence for a few minutes, savouring the taste of something different to the usual cold potatoes they were forced to live on.

Jesper wasn’t a man who liked silences, they were suffocating and awkward and left his mind with too much freedom. Silences destroyed him slowly from the inside and he often ran from them.

Silences with Wylan though... they were different.

He didn’t enjoy them exactly, but he was content enough to simply endure them with him. If anything, he was more scared of having to hold a conversation with him, if only to avoid getting attached.

Jesper was, however, starting to realise he was failing in that aspect. Was Wylan right? Could there possibly be a way that he could ensure the safety of both his father and Wylan? Did it really have to be only one of them that made it past the three week mark?

Jesper despised being the one with so much power over the lives of the only two people he cared about, being the decider over who lived and who died.

He could save his father, or he could save Wylan. He looked down at his half finished waffle and swallowed, his stomach twisting horribly.

It was never going to be a choice.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” It was Wylan who broke the silence, having finished his waffles. Jesper nodded and forced a grin, offering Wylan the rest of his -his appetite having disappeared in the face of his guilt- “yeah I did, your acid worked a treat by the way, I only needed the one drop.”

Wylan’s face lit up at his words, “really?” asked excitedly, sitting up straighter. Jesper nodded again, “never thought I’d ever say this but it was almost more fun then using a bomb.” Wylan tilted his head to the side, “almost?”

Jesper grinned, “there’s nothing quite like blowing things up sometimes.”

“You a fan of the boom then?” Wylan asked dryly. Jesper leaned back, throwing his feet up onto the table, “the boom, the bang, the flint and the fuss,” he waved his hands as he talked, “anything to get the heart pounding and the adrenaline gowing.”

Wylan frowned slightly, “I don’t quite understand how you can enjoy that,” he admitted, “the whole ‘throwing yourself into danger for the fun of it’ thing.”

Jesper just shrugged, “it’s the barrel sweetheart,” he said simply, “the danger is everywhere around you, you can either make it work for you or become yet another victim to it.” He looked down, swallowing back his regret, “if you don’t find a way to thrive on the despicable things you do to survive here them you’ll only live a half life full of regret and guilt.”

“And which one do you do?” Wylan’s voice was soft and not at all startling but he flinched anyway. Maybe it was the words themselves that hurt, and not the way they were said.

Jesper pushed himself to his feet, gathering up the empty waffle boxes, “I do both Wylan, “ he said shortly, dumping them in the corner of his flat that served as a rubbish heap, “I’ve embraced the first but just can’t seem to escape the last.”

When he turned back around Wylan was frowning, his head tipped slightly to the side and eyes narrowed, like he was looking off into the distance. Almost like a scheming face, his mind helpfully supplied.

“What’s so wrong with embracing your bad decisions as well?” he asked slowly, looking up at Jesper again, “surely it’s a good thing to recognise your mistakes so you can learn from them?”

Jesper stiffened. That hit way too close princeling.

He wanted to run.

But he couldn’t run.

So he didn't run.

Look at me 'learni ng from all my mistakes'.

“It’s the barrel.” He said stiffly, refusing to elaborate. Wylan’s frown deepened, but he didn’t ask. He never did ask.

Jesper didn’t go near the documents until long after Wylan had retired to the bed and his breathing had evened out. It was a struggle, every night, to get Wylan into that damn bed, he seemed to think that it was rude to take Jesper’s bed, as if he wasn’t locking him into his workhouse 24/7.

Thinking back, that should have been his first clue.

He waited a further two bells, once he was certain that Wylan was asleep, before finally pulling out the documents again.

Well, one of them.

Marya Van Eck’s death certificate.

He’d only skimmed over the details back in the office, too caught up in the Hendriks. Now though, he took his time, scouring through every detail with a careful deliberation that he hadn’t thought possible from him.

Because why did Wylan have the same last name as her?

He figured out, pretty quickly, that it was impossible for Wylan to have killed her, seeing as she died eleven years ago. Wylan would have only been eight.

Eight years old is pretty young to do much of anything to someone.

He must just be a relative, perhaps a cousin who committed some horrific deed at a family gathering in the Van Eck Mansion. Jesper didn’t quite understand what he possibly could have done to warrant a 10,000 kruge hit but yet… here he was.

Marya Van Eck had two sisters and one brothers, all of them living outside of Ketterdam in the more country areas of Kerch. She had been married to Jan Van Eck for twenty years prior to her death and had a son-

Jesper stared.

Marya Van Eck had a son, who was born nineteen years ago, by the name of Wylan Van Eck.

Wylan Van Eck. Wylan Hendriks.

Wylan was just a popular name. Right?

Marya Van Eck, who’s maiden name was Hendriks, who had been married to Jan Van Eck, had a nineteen year old son called Wylan Van Eck.

Wylan Hendriks was a nineteen year old boy, obviously not barrel blood on the run from Jan Van Eck with a 10,000 kruge hit on his head.

What where the odds?

Jesper was a gambling man. A bad gambler, if you will. And he liked the impossible odds. They made things fun, interesting, thrilling. They got the blood pumping, made his life into something other then the struggle for footing in a town that wanted to crush you.

These odds… these odds made the world stop.

Maybe Marya had cheated. Maybe Wylan was another man’s son, maybe Van Eck was sour because his bastard son was running around Ketterdam, living proof of his wife’s disloyalty.

But then Jesper looked at Wylan. Really looked at him. He took in his sharp jaw, the slope of his forehead, the slight crook to his nose and -even though he couldn’t see them- he thought of his piercing, electric blue eyes.

His blood ran cold and his heart fell from his chest with a horrible, resounding clunk.

Jesper shot up from his chair, unable to bear the stifling silence anymore and grabbed his hat and his jacket, half running from the workhouse and out onto the busy streets of the Barrel.

He locked the door behind him and he ran.

He needed a drink, he needed a deck of cards, he needed a ship to Novyi Zem and to run, run, run away from the horrific, devastating realisation.

Jesper barely noticed the men he shoved past as he ran, his skin burning, his heart pounding, his head unable to form a single, coherent thought other then- Then-

Well shit.

Because- Because… because…

Fuck.

Because Wylan Hendriks was Wylan Van Eck.

Chapter Text

Wylan is Jan Van Eck’s son.

“You’ve been in weird form today,” Wylan Van Eck commented as they walked through the dirty streets of Ketterdam, dusk slowly beginning to descend upon them, prodding him lightly in the ribs. Jesper snorted.

You’re Van Eck’s son.

He’d stumbled back to his place in the early hours of the morning, head pounding from too much drink and too many thoughts. It had been almost reminiscent of that very first morning, he’d pulled out the gun again and levelled it at Wylan’s sleeping form. He just hadn't been able to shoot him.

Jan Van Eck had hired him, Jesper, to kill his own son. He’d offered not only 10.00 kruge as a reward but he’d also threatened to harm his father if he didn't do the deed for him. There was no doubting that Van Eck was desperate to kill his own son.

But what on earth could Wylan had done that was so bad?

If he’d thought it was confusing before, it was three times as muddling now. Jesper had been a terrible son. He still was a terrible son, and yet Colm Fahey had not once expressed any hatred towards him. Jesper had experienced many emotions from his father, love, pride, happiness, fear, anger and disappointment. Some more than others. But not once, not even after his worst mistakes, had Colm ever expressed hatred to any degree, and certainly not enough to drive him into hiring a mercenary after his own son.

At least, he assumed he hadn’t anyway. No masked figure had arrived to kill him just yet.

It left Jesper with an unsettled feeling within him.

“I take it you don’t have a good relationship with your own Da.” Jesper had said, just two weeks ago.

“In a manner of speaking.” Had been his reply.

Was that because of whatever foul deed Wylan had done? Was Wylan truly at fault here? Or had their relationship been strained his whole life, until it finally came to a head and Wylan escaped.

But why would Van Eck still want to kill him then?

It didn’t slip past Jesper, that Van Eck had chosen a lone Barrel Rat to carry off his plans, rather than sully his own hands. It also hadn’t escaped his notice that the merchant had avoided contact with any of the numerous gangs ruling the Barrel. This was a strictly, off the cards endeavour, something he didn’t want on his record.

Of course he doesn't, having a reputation for killing your own son would be very bad for business indeed.

So yeah, of course Jesper was acting out of sorts. Every time he so much as looked at Wylan all he could see was the stark similarity he held to his father, and all he could think of was the knowledge that Wylan Van Eck, son of an esteemed merchant, was hiding in the Barrel under his mother’s name because he had a 10,000 kruge price on his head. A price put there by his own father.

But, despite all that, Jesper had made a promise to take Wylan out for a night on the town, and he was rather enjoying his streak of keeping his promises. Especially since he wanted Wylan to live a little before he died.

Before he killed him.

So, here they were, exploring the streets of the nicer parts of Ketterdam, searching for a club that Jesper hadn’t yet gotten himself banned from.

“I’m just tired princeling,” he said in response, eyes darting down every alley, keeping a watch for any sign of the men that hired him. It would not be a very good idea to be spotted partying with the man he was supposed to kill.

Wylan Van Fucking Eck huffed, “you’d be less tired if you weren’t so stubborn and slept in the bed once in a while.” Still on that?

He rolled his eyes, “and where would you sleep?”

“On the chair.”

He laughed despite himself, “you wouldn’t last a single night sleeping on that chair.”

Wylan glared up at him, “I’ve slept under a bridge for the last six months, I can handle a chair.”

Jesper blinked. He’d forgotten that. “Even more of a reason to keep you in that bed then,” he said eventually, “you haven’t had one in far too long.”

 Wylan just rolled his eyes, “since when do you act all chivalrous,” he grumbled, but he let the matter drop anyway.

What are you doing out here in the Barrel?

What did you do to your father?

You’re Jan Van Eck’s fucking son.

Jesper half dragged half ushered Wylan into a loud, brightly lit club. “I have three rules for the night little prince,” he said as they approached the bar, weaving through the patrons. It was funny, now that he thought about it, how close that nickname was to the truth. Wylan rolled his eyes leaning against the bar beside him, “you didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to have rules on a night out,” he commented, drumming his fingers on the sticky bar top. He grimaced and pulled his hand away.

Normally, Wylan would be correct. Jesper was most definitely not the kind of guy to have rules. He normally liked to wing it, see where the night took him and dealt with the consequences in the morning.

Tonight, however, Jesper wanted it to be perfect. It was one of Wylan’s last night's alive, after all, and he wanted it to at least be one to remember.

If the dead can remember things, that is.

“Normally I don't,” Jesper admitted, signalling to the barkeep, “but I do tonight.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out a small wad of kruge, “rule number one, you’re in charge of the money, keep it safe.” He slid the kruge across to Wylan who blinked at it, “number two,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to where groups of people were placing bets over a deck of cards, “do me a favour and keep me away from them. At all costs.” He refused to even look at them, just knowing his composure would crack.

Tonight was about Wylan. He could gamble any day he liked.

Wylan is Jan Van Eck’s son.

Jesper gestured to the board as the barkeep approached, “what’s your poison little prince?” Wylan frowned slightly, squinting at the menu, “what would you recommend?”

Oh, right.

Jesper shrugged in answer, “honestly everything here tastes like shit, I’d recommend something that’s cheaper and gets you drunk quickly.”

Wylan snorted, passing the scowling barkeep two notes, “two glasses of whatever fits those requirements,” he ordered, glancing at Jesper out if the corner of his eye.

Jesper swallowed and hurriedly looked back down at the table.

What was he doing?

It felt so unnecessarily cruel to be stringing Wylan along like this, to take advantage of his foolishness trust.

He looked back at Wylan, who was tracing a line on the countertop, the bright light from the flickering lamps casted a hazy, golden glow across his features, bathing him in soft light. His hair was almost on fire, bright fiery red, with orange and gold hues working its way through his messy curls. The freckles spattered across his nose, cheeks and the divot of his throat was like a mini constellation, and if Jesper stared hard enough he swore he could match them up like the stars his Ma used to show him on the footsteps of their farmhouse.

I don’t want to kill you.

The words surprised him, just a little. Jesper had known all along that killing Wylan would be unpleasant, that he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t like killing and he especially didn’t like killing someone who hadn’t done anything to deserve it. Or at least hadn’t done anything to him first.

But that was the point.

Jesper didn’t want to kill him. Wylan had done nothing to him, been nothing but earnest and trustworthy and too kind for the barrel. Jesper hadn’t wanted to kill him.

But now… now Jesper didn’t want to kill Wylan.

He didn’t want Wylan to die.

He didn’t want him to die to anyone’s hands, be it his, Van Eck’s, another mercenary. Jesper didn’t like the idea of Wylan not being around anymore, of not being able to joke with him in the mornings, tease him over his clothing styles, laugh at him when he did something stupid.

He’s Jan Van Eck’s son.

Two weeks wasn’t a lot of time to get to know someone, but there was something different about spending those two weeks in close quarters, confines to the same, one roomed shitty workhouse, working together at all hours.

There was something almost… domestic… about it.

I don’t want to kill you.

Jesper had made a big mistake.

I don’t want to kill you.

Jesper had gotten attached.

“I’ve been thinking about your job,” Wylan had said, only yesterday. “If you find enough blackmail on him and maybe pull out your guns, couldn’t you just threaten him to not kill your father and leave it at that? If the blackmail was big enough.”

Could Wylan be right?

The blackmail Jesper had collected was nothing special. No ultra scandalous acts, nothing worthy of ruining his reputation beyond repair. Just the usual scams and illegal dealings that could get him punished by the Merchant Council but nothing more.

Nothing that could destroy him.

Nothing, that could ensure Wylan lived.

Unless…

“Wylan,” he said suddenly, sitting up straighter. Wylan blinked slightly in surprise. “I’ve just had a thought; do you remember what you said yesterday? That I might not have to,” he lowered his voice, glancing around, “you know, do the deed.”

Wylan raised his eyebrows but stayed silent, so Jesper continued, “could I forge blackmail? He’d know that he hadn’t actually done it but everyone else... everyone else important just might believe it!”

He leaned forward, eagerly, brimming with the hopeful, ever constant excitement. Maybe he didn’t have to kill Wylan! Maybe he could threaten the rich fucker enough that he’d leave them alone so they could hightail their asses to Novyi Zem. He’d have to get his father to move, of course. Can never be too safe.

But there was a chance!

A small chance, but he’d take it!

After all, the shorter the odds, the better the sharpshooter.

At least, in Jesper’s case.

Wylan frowned, his gaze zeroing out slightly and his head tipped gently to the side. Scheming face! He thought giddily.

“It… it could work,” Wylan said slowly and Jesper had to restrain himself from jumping out of the seat with relief, “but it would have to be very believable, and very scandalous.”

Jesper beamed. “You, Wylan V- Hendriks, you are a genius!” he stumbled slightly over the words, but Wylan didn’t notice. Instead, he rolled his eyes, “I can’t guarantee anything, but it’s worth a try.” Wylan hesitated, eyes darting from the barkeep, who was approaching with their drinks, back to Jesper. He waited until the drinks had been deposited and the barkeep out of earshot before leaning forward, speaking hurriedly, “are you sure it’s worth it though? Are you sure you can risk your father getting hurt?”

Jesper paused, staring into the deep, oceanic pools of Wylan’s eyes. They were darker, he realised, than his father’s. A deeper, more inviting shade of blue. Jesper thought of eyes that were grey, softer than his own, almost bluish in colour, lined with the weariness and exhaustion of a man who raised a difficult son all on his own.

Was it worth the risk?

Jesper couldn’t condemn his father to death because of his failings.

But Jesper also couldn’t condemn Wylan to death for the same failings.

He’s Jan Van Eck’s son and he’s here slumming it in the Barrel with the rest of us fools.

Did he even do something? Or is Van Eck just bitter and rich?

There had to be a loophole, there had to be a way out, a happy ending where the two people Jesper cared about could live on, blissful and woefully unaware of how close to certain death they’d come.

Jesper would fight tooth and nail, for that happy ending, or he’d die trying.

Nobody could say that Jesper Fahey wasn’t loyal.

“Yeah,” he said softly, eyes tracking over the beautifully carved features that had caught his eye that very first day. Only now he knew more. Now he had experienced Wylan’s quips, his worry, his care. He’d come to know the person who lay beneath the wide eyes and the innocent appearing face. He’d come to realise Wylan was something more.

In the end, it was never going to be a choice.

“It’s worth it.”

For Wylan, anything was worth it.

Wylan nodded, moving back once more to put distance between them –-and Jesper almost wished he didn’t--, picking up the glass of alcohol that sat in front of him. He gave it an inquisitorial sniff, nose wrinkling at the smell, “how much longer until the deadline?”

Jesper grimaced, “five days, once the morning comes.”

Wylan winced sympathetically, “okay… that’s not great, but we’ll work something out, I’m sure.” He peered into his glass, frowning into the murky depths, “bottoms up?”

Jesper grabbed his own glass and tipped it against Wylan’s, the resounding clink ringing in his head for far longer them it needed too, like a bell signalling the end of Jesper’s dilemma. A single, clear note setting in stone the decision he knew now, he was always going to make.

I’m not killing you.

He lifted the glass to his lips, grinning, “bottoms up!” He threw his head back and downed the drink in one go, the resulting burn forcing him to look away as Wylan did the same.

I’m not killing you.

As the night wore on, Jesper’s small wad of kruge gradually diminished and the collection of glasses in front of them increased. Wylan’s laugh was infectious, and as they joked and drank and laughed the time away, Jesper couldn’t help but feel lighter.

A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, the guilt that had plagued him for two weeks, dissipated into thin air like smoke.

There was a chance.

It was a small chance, a risky chance, but a chance, nonetheless. A single chance that Jesper was going to hold on impossibly tight to with both hands and never let go.

But even now, tucked away under his pure elation, Jesper was still unsettled. Wylan was Jan Van Eck’s son. The knowledge disturbed him greatly. It wasn’t the fact that Wylan was a Merchant’s son, it wasn’t the fact that Wylan had lied to him about his name and identity. What had sent him running to the gambling dens last night, what had filled his bones with dread and turned his blood to ice, was the simple fact that Wylan’s own father had been the one who ordered the hit.

He couldn’t care less that Wylan was noble born, a merchling, if you will. In a way, Jesper had always known that Wylan wasn’t made for Barrel life. Jesper just couldn’t forget the disdain in Van Eck’s face when he talked about Wylan, the sneer that had curled his lip. Van Eck had wanted Wylan dead, but there was no rage that fuelled his fire, no revenge sparking in his cold eyes.

There was only pure, gleeful, smugness.

Initially, Jesper had thought the smug attitude was because he had won Jesper over, had successfully forced him to sully his hands with the deed, but now… Now Jesper thought of the way Wylan closed off, like a leaf curling in on itself, whenever Jesper asked about his family, he thought about the way Wylan always flinched when Jesper laid a hand on him without warning, no matter how soft. Jesper thought of the time he’d caught Wylan muttering insults under his breath even he’d botched one of the acids.

And now, Jesper couldn’t help but think that maybe the smugness was because Van Eck believed he’d finally won the game only he wanted to be playing.

The old questions rose to Jesper’s mind, loud and distracting as always; what are you doing here? What did you do to him? Why do you deserve this? Do you deserve this? But this time, a new question pushed itself to the forefront of his thoughts, does it matter?

Did it matter, that Van Eck wanted him dead?

Did it matter, that he didn’t know why?

Did it matter, that Wylan might deserve it, but he’d never know for certain?

The Wylan Jesper knew was kind, intelligent and earnest. The Wylan he knew was a quick thinker, with a beautiful smile and an intoxicating laugh. Jesper knew the Wylan who could read him like an open book, who’s knowing gaze could pin him into place until he spilled whatever had been bothering him. Jesper knew the Wylan who always had the right answer, the right words, who could soothe the incessant itch that buzzed beneath him skin. The Wylan that Jesper knew didn’t deserve to die.

Did it matter, that there was a chance Van Eck’s Wylan did?

He downed the remaining Dregs of his drink, slamming it down onto the counter with a flourish, no, he thought firmly, no, it doesn’t matter. Whoever Wylan used to be, that was for Van Eck to worry himself over. Jesper wouldn’t pull the trigger.

He leaned over and pried Wylan’s half disused drink from him, “that’s enough for you,” he said lightly, holding it at arm's length, “I don’t fancy holding back your hair all night while you throw up.”

Wylan frowned, eyes tracking the drink then he froze, head tipped slightly to the side as the pianist in the corner started on a new song. Jesper nudged him, “where have you gone princeling?” he joked, tapping his knee. Wylan jumped, startled out of his thoughts with a jolt, “that song,” he said slowly, gaze starting to zero out again, “that was my mother’s favourite song, I haven’t heard it since—” he cut himself off, avoiding Jesper’s eye.

Since my mother died, Jesper finished for him with a pang. He knew first-hand what it was to lose your mother’s music, when the grief made you forget the words and no one else would sing you the tune. He knew what it was to lose that little piece of her.

Jesper stood, suddenly, gripping Wylan’s hands and tugging him to his feet. “Come on!” he said excitedly as the tempo evened out, “let's dance!”

Wylan blinked, brows furrowing, “what?”

“Let's dance,” he said again, pulling Wylan along with him as he meandered his way to the centre of the club, where the gambling tables had since been cleared away. Other people were already up and dancing, but Jesper only had eyes for the boy in front of him, hands clasped tightly in his.

I’m not killing you.

Wylan looked around, a faint pink dusting his cheeks, “I don’t know how to dance!” he hissed, eyes catching onto his own once more. Jesper shrugged, “neither do I!” he said brightly, pulling Wylan closer to him, “doesn’t matter though, so long as we have fun.”

Wylan hesitated, teeth gnawing at his lower lip and Jesper rolled his eyes, don’t get all shy on me now princeling. But he wasn’t a princeling, he was a merchling. Jesper tugged Wylan even closer, until their chests were almost flush, lifting one of their joined hands and placing Wylan’s on his shoulder. He took a step back, Wylan stumbling with him and laughed, his now free hand moving around to rest on Wylan’s back, “relax Wy!” he said, pulling him back another step, “just follow my lead.”

“I thought you said you don’t know how to dance,” Wylan complained, but he tightened his grip on Jesper’s shoulder and followed his next step without prompting.

Jesper grinned, “oh I really don’t!” He turned them both, so that Wylan now faced the pianist instead, “but it doesn’t matter! Just dance, no one is going to judge you in the damned Barrel little prince.” Little merch.

Wylan huffed out a laugh, relaxing into Jesper’s arms, “we’re going to look like idiots,” he warned, moving with him smoothly. Jesper snorted, stepping back, “we always look like idiots, might as well have fun at the same time.”

“You mean, you always look like an idiot.”

Jesper swatted his hip lightly, “rude.”

Wylan stuck his tongue out at him.

Their dance was sloppy. Wylan kept stepping on his toes, Jesper kept tripping over his own feet, more than once Jesper swung Wylan too hard so they both fell. It was ugly, messy and wholly out of sync, but Jesper didn’t care. It was hard to care, when Wylan smiled so widely or laughed so loudly. It was hard to care about much of anything as the night wore on, there was nothing but Wylan, in his arms, dancing under the soft golden light.

At least, until it wasn’t.

Jesper saw him first. A tall man in all black, broad shouldered and rough.

A bodyguard.

The bodyguard.

Jesper swore, hurriedly shoving Wylan out of the way, pressing the two of them up against the wall behind a crowd of people doing shots.

“Jesp—”

Jesper shushed him, pressing a hand over his mouth, “not now Wy,” he hissed, scanning over the heads for the man. He was at the bar now, laughing loudly and signalling for a drink. Jesper pressed himself even closer, so that his mouth was right by Wylan’s ear, “not to panic you,” he whispered, “but one of the men who hired me is here.”

Wylan stiffened, then, “need a distraction?”

Jesper started, “need a what?”

Wylan shuffled where he stood, pressed between Jesper and the wall, and then presented a small, circular object with a thin thread coming from it.

Jesper blinked down at it, “that’s a bomb.” He said dumbly.

“Not a bomb bomb, it’s a smoke bomb, a small one. A baby really.”

Jesper shot Wylan a grin as he swiped the bomb from his outstretched palm, “you crazy genius,” he hissed, feeling himself fall even harder at the red flush that crept up his face. He turned, tugging the thread from the bomb and letting it roll across the floor towards the bodyguard before it even started to hiss. Wylan tugged him back and he followed dutifully, shoving his way past countless patrons as smoke began to fill the club.

Out on the street they both legged it, not pausing for a moment until they collapsed inside Jesper’s rundown workhouse, heaving great breaths.

Then, Jesper started to laugh.

“You,” he managed between laughs, pointing a shaking hand at Wylan, “are a whole other kind of trouble.”

Wylan flushed and looked away, clearing his throat, “it was just a bomb,” he said lowly, a small smile working its way across his face even as he said it.

Jesper snorted, “just a bomb, Wylan people don’t tend to carry bombs on their person!”

The red that covered Wylan’s face deepened, “you know how it is,” he murmured, still smiling, “sometime a knife isn’t enough in the Barrel.”

Jesper just shook his head, picking himself up and leaning against the closed door, “I’m sorry your night got ruined,” he said seriously, once the laughs had died down. Wylan shrugged, still sitting on the floor, “don’t worry about it,” he said, “I had fun, honestly!”

Wylan’s face darkened ever so slightly and Jesper tried his hardest not to think about the implications of it.

I’m not killing you.

“How about some waffles, to end a fabulous night?”

Wylan looked up at him, “waffles? There’s no way you can go out for waffles after that.” Jesper ignored him, turning for the door, “I’ll go somewhere deep in the Barrel, where those pretentious asses wouldn’t dare tread.”

“Jesp--”

Jesper shushed him, “I promised you a night to remember, and no good evening will ever be a success without waffles.” He winked, “and after you saved my butt back there, it's only right to give you a reward!”

“I don’t need waffles Jesper,” Wylan started but Jesper made his way out the door anyway, he was determined now.

Plus, he was hungry, and he wanted waffles. That was reason enough to get waffles.

“Jesper!”

Jesper paused, halfway out, “if you really don’t want me to go,” he said softly, looking over his shoulder, “I won’t.”

Wylan looked down, clearing his throat with a small, left sided smile, “I do want waffles,” he admitted and Jesper snorted, “just—stay safe.”

Jesper’s smile softened, and he was almost tempted to shut the door and stay inside for the night instead, but he resisted, “of course I will Wy, I promise.”

He was getting good at keeping his promises, it seemed.

He spoke too fucking soon.

Jesper locked the door behind him as usual, but he was more bothered about someone getting in then Wylan getting out now. Besides, with all the acids he had in his collection, if Wylan really wanted out it wouldn’t be all that hard to actually escape.

Jesper trusted Wylan, he just didn’t trust the Barrel.

He stuck close to the shadows as he walked, eyes glancing down every alley, scanning the faces of every man he passed. Waffles were worth a lot, he could admit, but not his life.

He whistled the tune of the song they had been dancing too, feeling his steps get bouncer and lighter. Come the morning, Jesper would have five days. Five days to fabricate some blackmail so scandalous that Van Eck would be forced to let Wylan go but still believable enough that it wouldn’t look suspicious. Paired with the legitimate blackmail he had collected, Jesper was only a little bit confident in his plan.

At least he had a plan now.

He had a plan now, and this plan meant Wylan could stay alive.

And then what? Novyi Zem was the perfect place, he could protect his father then and get Wylan out of the clutches of his father. The only problem was that Jesper would have to come clean to him, if he wanted to convince Wylan to come with him.

It was a scary idea, and it felt all too real the possibility that Wylan would rightfully feel betrayed and angry. There was also the small chance that Wylan would understand and forgive him, but it was small enough that the possibility could worry him. But Jesper wouldn’t deny Wylan that choice, he wouldn’t lie to Wylan anymore.

He would tell him, but only when he was sure Wylan was going to be safe.

Thinking back, it was Jesper’s own stupid fault, that it had happened.

The number one rule, when in these parts of the Barrel, was to always have your wits about you. It was common sense.

The waffle vendor had come into sight, smelling sweetly of dough and apples and soft, gooey syrup. Jesper could already imagine the smile on Wylan’s face as he ate so he made a beeline for it, abandoning his shadows, abandoning every precaution he prided himself for taking.

Jesper never made it to the waffle vendor.

A hand, large and heavy, clamped itself down onto the scruff of Jesper’s neck and yanked him backwards, dragging him off the main street with no more hassle then if Jesper was a cat.

Actually, a cat might put up more of a fight.

Jesper tried to fight, striking out with his fists and feet until his assailant clamped his other hand onto his mouth, spinning them both around so he could slam Jesper’s back into the dirty wall.

Isn’t this some de ja vu, he thought bitterly, throwing his hands out to feel for the metal of the man’s buttons, prepared to push them deeper into his skin.

He was interrupted by a smooth, self-assured voice.

“I’m getting impatient, Fahey.”

Jesper froze, goosebumps traveling along the length of his back.

“Let him down Prior, I want to be able to see his face.”

The hand on his mouth retracted and Prior stepped back, giving Jesper perfect view of one, Jan Van Eck.

No.

“What do you want?” he asked through gritted teeth, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Van Eck curled his lip, looking Jesper up and down with disdain, “I want you to do the job I’m paying you to.”

“You’re not paying me you’re threatening me,” Jesper snapped, just a little too drunk to be able to think clearly. He’d probably regret that decision, he tended to regret a lot of his decisions. Van Eck waved a dismissive hand, “you’ll get your money when I get my body Fahey.”

Jesper glared at him, hands gripping the smooth, pearl handles of his beloved revolvers, “I’d like to remind you that there’s still five days left on the deadline,” he said pointedly, glancing at Prior, “you’re a little early.”

The smile Van Eck sent him was like ice cold knives burying themselves in his chest, “like I said,” he said coolly, “I’m running out of patience.”

Panic flared at his words like a fire roaring inside him, but he kept it at bay, unwilling to let the Merchant aware of just how much Wylan meant to him, “you gave me three weeks,” he said stubbornly, “you’ll have your body in five days.”

Van Eck stepped forward, shoving his face in close to Jesper’s, filling up the space that Prior had left, “I don’t give two shits if I gave you a year to kill him, I need that boy dead by tomorrow night or else your dear mother won’t be the only dead parent you possess.” He hissed, spit flying from his mouth to settle on Jesper’s cheek.

Jesper’s hands shook where he held his guns, “why me?” he asked weakly. He’d intended for it to be powerful, orderly, but instead it came out just as sorrowful and hopeless as he felt, “why do you have to hire me? There’s plenty of sharpshooters in the Barrel who’ll kill him for you no problem, why do you have to bring my father into this?”

Van Eck scoffed, “do you hear yourself boy?” his lip curled, and Jesper thought he had never looked less like his own son, “you barrel rats will give your loyalty to whoever has the deeper pocket, I can’t have someone selling off such information to the wrong people.”

But I’ll never spill the beans if it means keeping my father safe, Jesper thought dejectedly.

It was a solid plan, it made sense. Jesper would probably have done the same if it was him. That didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“I haven’t found the boy yet,” Jesper protested, running his thumb under the bottom of his gun’s handle, if Van Eck could just step back a little—

“Don’t shoot me Fahey,” Van Eck said, words dripping with dry amusement, “my staff are under orders to send a letter to some friends in Novyi Zem should I meet an untimely death.”

All hope drained away from the dregs of his very being, like a plug was snatched, despair starting to sneak in under his skin. Each word rang through his head like an omen of death. He tasted iron in his mouth and realised too late that he had bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“Do you know how long it takes a letter to reach Novyi Zem, boy?”

Jesper stayed stubbornly silent, body braced in anticipation of a quick escape, feeling like a rabbit cornered in a trap. Just give me one chance Van Eck, just one and I’ll make it pay.

“Just three days.” The lines of the merchants face hardened a fraction and Jesper got a fleeting impression of the man under the flowery words and fancy suits. This was the man Wylan grew up with. It was no wonder he ran away from home.

“And do you know how long it takes for a person to travel to Novyi Zem.”

Jesper glared.

“Just over six days.”

Van Eck turned to go, dropping a small slip of paper to the ground as he did, “its up to you. Bring me the boy’s body to that address by ten bells tomorrow night or I’ll send you your father’s head in the mail, your choice.”

And Jesper snapped.

Rage and fear had been steadily building in him since the merchant had cornered him and the mere thought of his father’s head being—

Maybe it was stupid, but he was drunk and angry and scared and he never did have good impulse control.

In hindsight, he should have pulled out the gun, if he was going to try and anything at all. He should have held Van Eck at gunpoint, unloaded his blackmail upon him then and there and finished the blasted business before it even had a chance to start.

But Jesper did not.

He balled his hand into a fist, shifted his weight and swung at the filthy merchant.

The blow landed on the back of Van Eck’s head, pain exploded through his hand and he realised, too late, that he’d trapped his thumb under his fingers. He barely had time to relish in the success of his hit before Prior struck him between the shoulder blades, subsequently forcing him to his knees. A hand gripped his hair tight, pulling his head back so he was forced to look into Van Eck’s seething face.

The first slap snapped Jesper’s head roughly to the side, the rings on his hand cutting through his cheek and Jesper only just managed to keep back the choked sound at the pain of it. Blood, hot and sticky, dripped down around his mouth until he was too afraid to open it. The second struck him head on, right in the centre of his forehead.

“I think your lying to me Fahey,” Van Eck hissed, rubbing the knuckles of his bloodied hand, “I think you’ve got the boy tucked away somewhere, somewhere you don’t want him found.”

Jesper’s blood ran cold but he refused to the let the fear show on his face, choosing instead to spit a mouthful of blood at his polished black shoes.

Van Eck leaned forward, pushing his twisted face right into Jesper’s, “for that, you now have until five bells tomorrow,” he said in a low voice, hatred dripping from every word, “the letter is already written Fahey, choose wisely.”

He sent a well aimed kick into Jesper’s stomach for good measure and then he was being shoved face down onto the dirty street, winded and gasping for breath, unable to do much of anything as the footsteps receded from him, no doubt heading back to a plush mansion on the Geldstraat.

He has been so close.

They’d had a plan! They’d had five days to execute that plan, and only moments ago Jesper had been riding the high that came from the fact that he didn’t have to kill Wylan!

Now though…

Wylan had been right. He shouldn’t have gone to get waffles.

Jesper slowly pulled himself to his feet, gingerly touching his stinging cheek with a shaking hand. The slip of paper lay on the ground in front of him, almost mocking in the way it was still pristine.

He bent, resisting the urge to throw up as his head swam, and he carefully picked up the folded paper.

He was back to square one, just as he had been two weeks ago, staring at a drawing of a beautiful, miserable boy.

Now there was just an address, for a warehouse in the Zelvar District.

Despair flooded him and he struggled against the urge to cry. He didn’t know what to do. If Van Eck was right, if there were men stationed in Novyi Zem, Jesper wouldn’t be able to warn his father in time.

He knew a letter would reach the farm well before he could, even if he hopped on a ship right now.

His revolvers weighed heavy on his hips, like a physical reminder that, once again, he was forced to make a choice. That every plan, every scheme, every carefully planned moment was now gone, washed away by a cruel hand and even crueller saints.

Jesper had to choose, once more, between the only two people he cared about.

He ran a finger over the handles of his guns, slipping the note into his trouser pocket, swallowing back a sob.

I just want you to be safe, Jesper. I just want the best for you.

Once again, Jesper Fahey had done something stupid and fucked up everyone else’s life because of it.

In the end, it was never going to be a choice.

How Jesper managed to stumble back to his workhouse without being mugged, he didn’t know. All he was aware of was the sickening feeling of doom as he slowly trudged down the forsaken Barrel streets.

Why did it have to come to this? Just when Jesper had some hope in his life, it had to be brutally snuffed out like every other happy thing that had ever happened to him. Maybe this was just how it was supposed to be, forever living in a self destructive limbo, bringing nothing but pain to the people he allowed himself to get close to.

Tears streamed down his face and he didn’t have the energy to try and stop them.

I’m sorry.

Jesper wasn't entirely sure who he was apologising to.

His hand shook as he unlocked his door, heart pounding in his chest so hard he thought it just might give out. For a moment, he hesitated, hand resting on the handle. He could leave. He could leave right now, run to the Geldstraat and pray that he could manage to kill everyone inside before harm could befall his father.

But there was already men in Novyi Zem, and Jesper didn’t know who was in charge of sending the letter.

He swallowed back a sob and pushed himself into what had slowly been turning into his home.

The place that would now be a crime scene.

“You didn’t take long.”

Wylan’s voice felt like a knife being driven into his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the handles of his guns so tight he almost wondered if they’d break.

“Jesper?”

I don’t want to kill you.

“Saints Jesper your face!”

I don’t want to kill you, I don’t want to kill you.

“Jesper what happened?”

--I don’t want to kill you I don’t want to kill you—

“Move away from the table Wylan.”

His voice was flatter then he’d expected, devoid of any emotion except pure, utter helplessness.

Jesper opened his eyes slowly, seeing Wylan halfway to him, brows furrowed in concern. “What?” Wylan made to come forward again but Jesper held up a hand.

 It shook.

“Move. Away. From the table. Wylan.”

Wylan’s frown deepened but he did as Jesper asked, slowly moving out of reach of the table and its crate of explosives.

I don’t want to kill you.

He didn’t have a choice.

Jesper drew the gun, and aimed it at Wylan.

Wylan’s eyes widened, mouth falling open in shock but Jesper spoke before the other had a chance to, “what did you do to a merchant called Jan Van Eck?”

Wylan’s face turned as white as a sheet.

I don’t want to kill you.

Jesper took a few steps forward, his hand trembled but his aim remained true, “what did you do,” he repeated, louder now, “to Jan Van fucking Eck?”

Realisation flooded Wylan’s beautiful, clearwater blue eyes and his face crumpled, shoulders sagging, “all this time,” he said, his voice only just shaking, “all this time it was me you had to kill.”

Jesper couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, they streamed down his face, mingling with the blood and dirt. “You didn’t answer the question,” he managed, struggling to keep his voice steady, “what the fuck did you do that was so bad your own fucking father wants you dead?”

Wylan’s eyes widened even further, “how do you-“

“--It doesn’t fucking matter how I know Wylan!” Jesper shouted, not caring at how heavy his tears fell, not bothering to hide the way his shoulders shook, “just tell me what the fuck you did that was so horrible!”

Anger flashed over Wylan’s features, “what, so you can feel better about the fact you have to kill me?” he snapped, cheeks flushing a vibrant, angry red.

“Yeah!” Jesper shouted, his voice just on the verge of screaming, “yeah that’s exactly it! I’m only being forced to kill one of the only people I care about just so that my saints-forsaken father doesn’t have to fucking beheaded, forgive me for wanting to make sure it’s fucking deserved!”

Wylan’s mouth opened in a perfect ‘o’ and Jesper couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped him. His hand trembled, his aim wonky, but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered because Jesper wouldn’t miss anyway, Jesper never missed.

“He’ll really kill your father?” Wylan whispered, his eyes shining with his own, unshed tears.

Jesper stepped forward, flicking down the safety hammer with a horrible click, feeling his heart break all that more with the way Wylan flinched, “What the FUCK did you do Wylan?” he didn’t care that he was screaming, he didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t CARE.

“I can’t read.”

That stopped Jesper in his tracks.

“What—”

“—that’s my big secret Jesper.” A single, perfect tear slipped from the corner of Wylan’s eye, “that’s why I’m here, that’s why he wants me dead, I can’t read and he can’t be seen having a moron for a son.”

Jesper’s heart turned to stone.

Slowly, the pieces started to click together.

 “He turned 19 last week, that’s a man in my eyes. Even if he’s the abilities of a child.” Van Eck had sneered, that very first day.

 “But that’s… it? You’re just going to ignore that I can’t read?” Wylan had been surprised, that Jesper had simply accepted the fact he couldn’t read.

“I take it you don’t have a good relationship with your own Da.” Jesper had said upon seeing Wylan’s dejected expression.

“In a manner of speaking.” He’d replied, looking downcast.

The way Wylan flinched at loud noises, startled at sudden touches. The way he curled in on himself at the mention of his family, the sudden flicker of fear in his eyes when Jesper let slip that the man who had hired him was rich.

The words Wylan had said under his breath when he’d made a mistake, “stupid, useless, idiot.”

No.

Jan Van Eck wanted his own son dead.

Because he couldn’t fucking read.

All this time, Jesper had been agonising over why the hell Wylan had to die. And now that he knew, only a few short hours after deciding he wouldn’t kill Wylan, only moments after his choice had been stripped from him, Jesper felt sick.

“Your lying.” Jesper’s voice was weak, even to his own ears, his hand had drooped slightly so that the guy was pointed at Wylan’s stomach instead of his head.

Wylan shook his head, another tear joining the first.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. What the hell did Wylan have to be sorry for? Wylan had done nothing, nothing, to deserve the cruelty he’d been dealt. Wylan couldn’t help that he couldn’t read.

It wasn’t something to be killed over.

“I should’ve known,” Wylan’s voice was rushed now, his hands still held up by his sides, still frowning, but now he had a look of utter defeat on his face and it only made Jesper cry harder, tears blurring his vision until it stung, “I should’ve known he’d send someone else after me, I shouldn’t have even tried to escape, I should’ve just died the first time he tried it—”

“Stop.”

I don’t want to kill you.

“—it was so stupid of me to think I could outwit him—”

“Wylan stop it.”

I don’t want to kill you.

“—and now I’ve dragged you and your father into this and I’m sorry—”

I can’t kill you.

The gun fell to the ground with a clatter, effectively stopping Wylan mid sentence, leaving Jesper’s hand limp and shaking in the air in front of him.

Jesper couldn’t do it.

He had a choice, a choice between his father and Wylan, and he couldn’t choose, he couldn’t make that decision.

Not after finally understanding.

In the end, there really was never going to be a choice.

A sob tore itself from Jesper’s throat, raw and painful and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t know what to do. His father was going to surely die, all because he couldn’t shoot the one person he had to. All because he’d messed up yet again, and wasn’t strong enough to do what needed to be done.

His father was going to die, because Wylan had wormed his way into Jesper’s heart and he couldn’t, he couldn’t, kill him just because he couldn’t read.

So Jesper sobbed.

Standing in the middle of his shitty workhouse, gun on the floor, hand still outstretched, eyes squeezed shut as he let his despair drown him in sickening, deadly waves.

Then there was a hand, small and warm, gently closing around his outstretched hand. A body pressed up against his, breath wafting against his face.

Jesper slowly opened his eyes.

Wylan was now standing in front of him, one hand holding tight to his, the other resting lightly on his waist, just above where his holster sat.

“Why did you drop the gun?”

Wylan’s voice was soft, a contrast the swirl of emotions in his eyes but Jesper swallowed anyway, unable to look away. “I can’t do it Wylan,” he whispered, “I can’t make that decision, you or my father, I can’t, I can’t do it.”

Wylan let go of Jesper’s hand and instead reached up to cup his face, his thumb gently brushing away the tears, “you have to choose your father,” he murmured, his gaze as intense as always, pinning Jesper into place, “you have to make sure he’s okay, he doesn’t deserve this kind of end.”

Neither do you, he thought helplessly, “don’t ask me to do that,” he pleaded, forcing himself not to look away, “don’t make me choose Wylan because I can’t, I tried and I couldn’t and—”

And because you don’t deserve to die, not like this, not at my hand, not because you can’t read.

He never got to say that, because Wylan had pressed forward, connecting their lips together, effectively shutting up the rest of his sentence.

For a moment, for one glorious, beautiful moment, every thought left Jesper’s head and there was only the reality of that moment in time, of Wylan’s mouth on his, his hand on his waist slipping down to his hip, the other moving to his chest. For a moment Jesper allowed himself to drown in the feeling of Wylan and the warmth of his body against his own.

Then, Wylan’s grip on his chest tightened, and he shoved Jesper hard, hard enough that he fell backwards, crashing onto the table behind him, narrowly missing the bombs and he slid across it, falling to the other side, trapped between it and the wall. Jesper tried to sit up but he was too long and lanky and his shoulder was stuck between the corner of the table and the wall.

“What—” the words died in his throat.

Wylan had snatched the revolver from his holster and was now standing on the opposite side of the table, eyes wide but gaze determined.

Jesper’s blood turned to ice.

No.

“Wylan—” he started but Wylan interrupted him, “I won’t ask you,” he whispered, “I won’t make you choose.”

Panic rose within him and he struggled, wrenching hard at his shoulder, pushing the table as hard as he could, trying, trying to free himself from the trap Wylan had purposefully placed him in.

No, no, no.

“Wylan stop it!”

Wylan flicked off the safety just as Jesper freed his shoulder, scrambling over the table but he was just too long and he had too much leg and he couldn’t quote coordinate himself properly—

“I’m making that decision for you.”

NO!

Jesper threw his hands out, desperately, painfully, still trapped behind the table, needing to do something, anything—

--a single shot rang out, echoing around the damp walls.

"WYLAN!"

Chapter Text

The bullet bounced off the wall with a clatter and Jesper slumped down over the desk, eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see if he’d done it, or if he’d once again proved a failure and Wylan was lying crumpled on the floor right now.

He didn’t want to visualise that.

“What the hell?”

Relied flooded through Jesper like a bucket of ice cold water being dumped on him and he exhaled loudly, pushing himself up so he could look at Wylan once again.

Wylan was standing –thank the saints—the weapon held in his hand, still terrifyingly pointed towards him, but Wylan was simply staring down at the gun with wide, confused eyes.

Jesper blinked, that hadn’t been the plan.

When Jesper had thrown his hands out, he’d wanted to direct the bullet, ensure that it missed its target. He’d been so desperate, so scared however, that he hadn’t been thinking straight, hadn’t properly controlled his powers.

The barrel of the revolver was warped at a right angle, dark silver metal irreparably ruined.

But Wylan was alive, so Jesper didn’t care.

Wylan glanced from the gun to Jesper, frowning in shock and confusion, “did you—what--? You’re a durast?”

Jesper ignored him, scrambling over the table in his haste. He plucked the gun from Wylan’s grasp, throwing it haphazardly onto the floor to join the first and then he threw his arms around him, pushing his face into his silky, red curls.

He was alive!

Wylan stiffened in his arms but Jesper held on tighter, moving a hand up to cup the back of his head. Jesper was never going to let him out of his sight ever again, not if that was what Wylan was going to be getting up to.

That was close.

It was too close.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured into Wylan’s hair, voice ragged, “don’t do that to me, please.” He didn’t care if it sounded pathetic, Wylan was alive.

Wylan hesitantly relaxed, gripping onto Jesper’s elbows, “you have to do it,” he said, voice muffled by Jesper’s chest. Jesper didn’t pull away. "No,” he said firmly, “I’ll—I’ll figure something else out, I promise.”

But I’m not losing you.

Despite Jesper’s tight grip, Wylan managed to wrestle himself out of his grasp, “what happened?” he questioned, mournful blue eyes scanning every inch of his face, “if it was me all along, why try to kill me now? And I thought earlier you were going to try and figure something else out?”

Jesper exhaled deeply, “when I went out to get waffles,” he began, “Van Eck cornered me and shortened the deadline. He wants you dead by five bells tomorrow or else my Da…” he shuddered, “he’s got men in Novyi Zem right now, I don’t know how I can protect him.” His voice cracked.

Wylan sucked in a sharp breathe, “did my father…” he trailed off, gesturing at Jesper’s cut up cheek. Jesper nodded, shooting Wylan a crooked smile, “I punched him,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly, “he wasn’t very happy with me after that.”

Wylan rolled his eyes, mirroring his smile, “idiot,” he breathed, staring at Jesper with what could only be described as fondness in his eyes. It was a look Jesper hadn’t seen directed towards him in a long time.

But then sadness replaced the fondness and Wylan gripped his elbows tighter, “why couldn’t you kill me?” his voice was barely over a whisper, but Jesper heard it.

Jesper swallowed.

Because you don’t deserve to die, because you’ve never done anything wrong. Because I care about you in a way I’ve never cared about anyone before, because I don’t think I love you but I don’t think it’s far off and it’s scary and I hate it but I can’t—I can’t—

“Because not being able to read does not mean you deserve to die,” Jesper said instead. The words were true, perhaps truer then anything he’d ever said before. But they weren’t the whole truth, and Wylan seemed to know that.

“And?” he prompted. Jesper sucked in a breathe. He felt the old itch creeping up his spine again, felt threatened, trapped, under the heavy weight of Wylan’s gaze. He felt the that familiar desire to run, to pull away and cut his losses now before either of them got in too deep and inevitably fall apart. He wanted to flee, away from this and change and scary feelings he’d never felt before.

In the end, Jesper couldn’t manage the whole truth, instead he settled for a classic mix of half truths and thinly veiled lies.

“I kinda like your stupid face,” he said in a low voice, trying not to let the true, confusing depth of his emotions free, “it would be a shame to shoot it.”

Wylan’s eyes widened, ever so slightly, and Jesper fought the urge to dive into their oceanic depths. He was treading on dangerous territory now, and he wasn’t one hundred percent sure how much he liked it.

“Is that all?” Wylan. Ever persistent. His brows were furrowed, but his lips were parted somewhat, and Jesper couldn’t help but wonder if he could taste those lips just one more time, just once, in a kiss that was real. Not a kiss designed to distract him. Not a kiss so that Wylan could steal his weapon without it being noticed.

Wylan’s eyes were still wide, dark blue scanning every inch of his face as if Jesper was the one who’s opinion mattered, as if he was the one whose emotions weren’t painfully exposed.

As if he was the one who held any say at all.

Jesper opened his mouth, not sure what he wanted to say, but he knew he had to say something. Wylan was too much of a flight risk, and he knew that now, he couldn’t risk letting his guard down only for the demo man to try again.

“Did you mean to kiss me?” Jesper hadn’t meant to say that, exactly, but he supposed it was an important enough question.

Wylan blinked, gaze snapping back to his once more, an untold amount of unreadable emotions swirling within the high, mountain lake of his eyes, “yes.” Wylan’s hands moved from his elbows to gently, carefully, cup the sides of Jesper’s face, cradling him like he just might shatter.

Maybe he would. Stranger things had happened.

“Yes,” Wylan said again, his thumbs gently wiping away the wet streaks of tears along his cheekbones, “yes I meant it.”

But that alone wasn’t enough for him. Jesper wasn’t entirely sure what would be, and realistically this should be more then enough for him.

But Jesper was tired of being tricked. He’d had enough of people leading him on, blackmailing him, betraying him.

He refused to let Wylan be added to that lengthy list. Not Wylan. Not ever Wylan.

Even if it was the Wylan he’d been hired to kill. The Wylan he couldn’t kill.

“But did you actually want to kiss me?” Jesper’s voice was barely any more then a whisper. He didn’t like this, this leaving his heart bare thing, letting Wylan truly see the effect he had on him. He didn’t like the trust he needed to give for this, it was scary and risky and—

--and yet. He needed—

--he needed—

“Or was it just a distraction?”

In the end, he just needed Wylan.

Wylan was silent for so long that Jesper feared that was answer enough. That he’d figured out the extent of his misguided affections and had simply used it against him. That Jesper had been so long without love and its counterparts that he’d misread everything that was between them.

Then, Wylan’s eyes darted, almost too quickly to be perceptible, down to his lips and back up. He swallowed, fidgeted slightly where he stood, thumbs tapping against Jesper’s cheek. “And if it was both?”

Jesper could barely hear him over the roaring of his own pulse in his ears, but the words still made it to him.

If it was both?

Both.

He both wanted to kiss him, and he needed to distract him.

It was a roundabout way of getting there, but Jesper understood the underlining meaning of his words.

Wylan wanted to kiss him, and he knew that Jesper wanted to kiss him so bad that it would work as a distraction.

Jesper opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but Wylan got there first.

“And did you mean it? When you said I was one of two people you cared about?” Wylan’s hands on his face tightened their hold ever so slightly before relaxing again, “or were you just frightened.”

Are, he almost corrected. Instead, he let a small, lopsided smile play across his lips, already anticipating where Wylan was going with this, “and if it was both?” he copied, feeling immensely proud when he saw Wylan’s lips quirk up slightly.

Because like him, Wylan could read between the lines, and he knew what Jesper was really saying.

I care about you more then anyone other then my father, and that frightens me more then I want to admit.

Van Eck’s threat was looming above him like a dark, foreboding evil, but for once Jesper found he could ignore it. Five bells tomorrow was not far away, and soon he’d have to pull his head back together and figure out what he was going to do about the whole situation. But for now, just for right fucking now, Jesper wanted to indulge in this.

Because Wylan nearly died. Because he, Jesper, had nearly killed him and because Wylan had nearly killed himself. Too many near misses, too many possibilities of things going wrong, and who knows whether either of them would survive the events of tomorrow.

But right now, in this moment, both of them were alive and safe.

And right now, Jesper just wanted to kiss him.

He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t. He should be preparing for tomorrow, he should be scheming. He shouldn’t—he shouldn’t—

And yet.

There had been enough rash decisions made in the past few hours.

What was one more?

Jesper moved slowly, giving Wylan time to back away, giving him a chance to protest. He leaned in, slowly slipping one hand from Wylan’s back to cup the nape of his neck. When his lips were just barely touching, when they were so close he could feel every warm puff of breath on his mouth, he said it as quietly as he could, just to be sure.

“Can I?”

Wylan answered with a rushed, breathless, “please.”

And Jesper—well he wasn’t one to deny a man who asked so nicely.

When their lips connected again, just a light, fleeting brush of lips on lips, Jesper knew.

He was never going to kill Wylan. It was never an option and it never would be an option.

Wylan chased his lips when he made to pull away, holding his face in place as he barrelled back onto him with the same force and the same desperation as their very first kiss. But this time, Wylan’s hands stayed holding his face, brushing away the remnants of his tears.

With this kiss, Wylan wasn’t trying to distract him. He wasn’t trying to placate him or make a choice for him. With this one, Wylan just... kissed him. He kissed him with a fiery passion, with careful deliberation. He kissed with the same pointed accuracy with which he made his acids. He kissed Jesper like every touch, every movement, every sound muffled by lips on lips would lead him one step closer to picking him apart completely.

And Jesper, ever the gambling man, ever the opportunist, kissed him back with the same, fiery, glorious need.

When Wylan nudged him back this time, he did so carefully, gently, like it was only a suggestion instead of a demand. “No more tricks,” Wylan murmured against his lips before Jesper could ask, “no more lies, no more rash decisions, just you. Please, only you.”

Just you.

Wylan just wanted him. And Jesper, well Jesper just wanted Wylan.

He shouldn’t, he knew they shouldn’t. They should be spending their remaining time wisely, figuring out how to ensure that the two of them, and Colm, were still alive by the end of the week.

But Jesper—

Jesper was tired of living life in a limbo. He was tired of running from his past and hiding from his future.

For once, Jesper just wanted to slow down. To live in just the here and now, in the beautiful simplicity of living life moment to moment.

And the here and now was Wylan, pressing kisses along the length of his jaw, just Wylan, dipping his hands underneath his shirt to trail scorching lines along the bare skin of his sides.

If this was the dreaded here and now, the feared moment of time known as the present, Jesper found he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

So he let himself forget. Pushed the fears for tomorrow to the back of his mind to agonise over later. They could both very easily be dead once five bells came around, if this was going to be his last night alive, you bet your ass he was going to indulge in every fucking second of it.

Every moment.

Jesper let himself fall backwards onto the bed, dragging Wylan down with him.

The moment was Wylan, kissing the same kind of desperation, the same hot, burning need that Jesper knew was reflected in him.

The moment was Wylan, straddling his hips, unbuttoning his shirt and pressing his mouth to every scar, every tattoo, every blemish that marred brown skin.

And with each kiss, Jesper thought just one thing.

I’m not killing him.

With every press of a hot mouth, every pressure from lithe hands, Jesper repeated the words over and over again in the dark, finally silent depths of his mind.

I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him.

It was no longer a plead, a beg, a cry for help.

I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him.

It was now a chant, a mantra, a pure and simple promise.

I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him.

In the here and now, Jesper made a promise. A promise he was determined to keep, at all costs.

I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him, I’m not killing him.

Jesper Fahey would save Wylan Van Eck.

I’m not killing him.

Or he would die trying.

Bring it on, Jan Van Eck.

Chapter Text

10 bells until doom.

Later, much later, when Jesper’s mind had eventually slowed down and the two of them just lay there, their unspoken confessions still hanging in the darkness between them, Jesper allowed himself to think.

The last time he heard the bells it had rang twelve times, marking the start of the new day. Marking the start of the inevitable countdown.

10 bells until the deadline.

Tonight, was not going to be one for sleeping.

“Do you regret it?”

It was Wylan’s voice who broke the silence, Jesper felt more then heard the words muffled by his chest. He shifted slightly, positioning his free arm underneath his head, “regret what?”

Wylan lifted his head, and Jesper missed the warmth of it, so that he could look him in the eye. In the dim glow of the few candles he’d had the foresight to light, Jesper could barely make out his expression.

“This…” Wylan trailed off, gesturing between the two of them. Jesper wished he could see his face. He blinked, his thumb absently rubbing circles on Wylan’s arm. “I don’t… I don’t regret this,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “why, do you think I would?”

Wylan shrugged, his expression still shadowed by the relative darkness, “you mentioned once that you regret most of the decisions you make.” Wylan didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t need to. Jesper understood.

And yeah, he was right in a way. Jesper did regret most of the decisions he made and he was certain that there were a thousand stupid decisions that he’d yet to make and would end up regretting. And yeah, maybe he should regret this. Not necessarily the decision they’d both made that had left them here, barely clothed and lying together on Jesper’s ratty bed. But all of it. Taking the job, inviting Wylan here, offering him a new job. The nights in, the night out, every laugh and every joke and every time Jesper rested his hand on his gun and thought, not yet.

He should regret it. Because those decisions, those choices, were what landed him here. With doom hanging over his head and fast approaching, with all three of their sorry lives on the line. His, Wylan’s and Colm’s. All because Jesper had made one very stupid decision at the start of all this.

I should’ve strangled him on that walk here.

He should’ve, he knew that. He should regret that he didn’t, he knew that too.

And yet—

Jesper snorted, tightening his grip on Wylan’s arm momentarily, “I don’t think I could regret anything to do with you. Not if the end result is this.”

When the kiss came, it felt like a long time coming, and Jesper drowned in the pure emotion of it. It was soft, far gentler then any of the kisses they’d traded so far. Just a simple, firm press of lips on lips before Wylan was drawing away again. He didn’t go far, still hovering above him, not quite touching but his breath was hot against his face, against his lips.

And yeah, Jesper could never regret this.

He was absolutely head over heels for the man he’d been hired to kill, and he found he didn’t have it in him to be mad about it.

“What are we going to do?” Wylan’s voice was soft, almost sorrowful. And Jesper—well Jesper didn’t have the slightest idea.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, stroking Wylan’s arm once more. It was the truth that neither of them wanted to hear, but it was the truth anyway. The bitter, ugly truth that they were, horrifically, out of time.

Jesper really should just kill him.

But the thought made something ugly, angry, unfurl from deep within him. And he knew, without even needing to think about it, that Wylan Van Eck was never, ever, going to die at the end of his gun.

“You’re a durast.”

Jesper should have expected the question, eventually, but even so it still left him feeling slightly off kilter. He felt his defences raising, his walls slowly coming up around him once more. “Fabrikator,” he corrected, “I was never tested so I don’t know which order.”

Wylan huffed and if Jesper squinted he could just about see the beginnings of a smile, hidden from him by the darkness that closed in around them, “I don’t know much, but I do know that an alchemi can’t manipulate metal quite like that.” Jesper shrugged, feeling slightly peeved and he wasn’t entirely sure why, “stranger things have happened,” he said stiffly.

When Wylan stayed silent, he sighed, “my Ma was a Fabrikator too,” he conceded, looking away from Wylan’s ever attentive face and instead choosing to stare up at what little he could see of the ceiling, “in Novyi Zem, we don’t have orders. We’re all just zowa, there is no line or distinction between what we can do as individuals. I’ll never be able to manipulate wind or fire, but I—she—could do stuff most Fabrikator’s can't.”

No Ravkan Materialki could ever hope to make bread rise by a snap of fingers, to boil water with just a glance. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, but Aditi Hilli didn’t listen to nobody’s expectations. She refused to let herself be shut into a box, forced to limit herself to the boundaries that a foreign country dictated she should.

She had just been Aditi Hilli, and if she wanted the world to bend under her clever hands, then it did. Labels were no matter.

Wylan tipped his head forward so that their foreheads could rest together and Jesper felt more then heard the words he spoke, “and what can you do?”

Jesper shrugged, almost self conscious, “I’m not half the zowa my Ma was,” he started, letting his hand slip down Wylan’s back and pull him closer. He freed the arm from under his head so that he could pick up a coin from the bedside table, “but just regular things I guess. Shape metal, guide bullets, pick locks and bleed the colour from things. Basic stuff, really.”

Wylan sat up in a rush, almost falling from the bed in his haste. “You can bleed colours?” His voice was almost hopeful, almost excited. The dim candlelight lit up parts of his face with a soft, golden glow and Jesper could see his gaze zeroing out slightly, his head tipped to the side.

Scheming face. He was starting to get used to this expression.

Jesper frowned, “yeah? It’s simple, I’ve been doing it since I was eight.” Out of all the things he could do with his powers, this was probably the least helpful of them all.

But Wylan didn’t seem to think that.

“Show me.” His voice was firm, his gaze focused solely on the coin in Jesper’s hand.

Confused, Jesper focused on the coin, and slowly he stole the rich bronze colour from it, letting it bleed onto the blankets and leaving the coin white and colourless.

“Put it back again.”

As easy as breathing, he turned the coin back to its original colour. No sooner was it finished then Wylan snatched it from his hand, examine it carefully.

“Wylan—”

When Wylan looked up at him, the candlelight casting its flickering glows and shadows across the surface of his face, he looked downright giddy, his lips turning up into a wide, hopeful smile.

“Jesper, I have a plan!”

8 bells until doom.

It really was disgusting work that they were doing.

“People really need to have the decency to not rot so quickly,” Jesper grumbled, resisting the urge to gag as he scanned more of the dead bodies. Wylan at least had the decency to also look rather green, it was his idea, after all.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Wylan said, using a stick to turn one of them over, grimacing at the slash on the boy’s face.

Wylan’s plan really was reliant on a shit ton of luck.

“Disguise me.” Wylan had said, looking down at him with wide eyes. Jesper just blinked. “What?” Jesper wasn’t a tailer, hell he wasn’t even a corporalnik. But Wylan had been insistent, “you don’t have to go near tissue or anything,” he'd said, getting off and rummaging around for the clothes they’d hurriedly discarded, “just change the colours around, like you would with clothes.”

Jesper caught the shirt that was thrown at him while rolling his eyes, “that still doesn’t explain how we get over your dad needing your damn body.”

Wylan straightened, slipping his shirt on over his shoulders, “we’ll need the bodymen’s barge for that.”

And now, here they were, on the bodymen’s boat, looking through the dead bodies for someone who could pass off as Wylan. At first glance anyway.

Jesper crouched, inspecting the body of a boy that lay at the back of the barge. He was old enough, roughly the same height and had distinctly Kerch features. He would need a bit of adjusting, but considering the fact that he seemed to have died from a broken neck, Jesper supposed this was as good as they’d get. Besides, the bodymen would be back soon, they were running out of time.

“Pass me the blanket Wylan.”

Wylan did as he was instructed, and together they wrapped the unfortunate body in the blanket, hefting it up to carry between the two of them. “Are you sure about this Wylan?” he grunted as they slipped from the ghastly boat, the body was heavier then expected. Wylan nodded, still looking slightly sick bit his face was determined.

“Do you have a better plan?”

No, he supposed he didn’t.

Still, he wasn’t very happy with this one.

7 bells until doom.

It went without saying, that Jesper was more then relieved to finally stumble into his dwelling.

He dropped the body to the ground with a gasp, leaning against the wall as he fought to catch his breath.

“Hey, you should treat the dead with respect.” Wylan scolded, kneeling down to unwrap the corpse like some messed up present. Jesper rolled his eyes, “you try carrying him for three quarters of a bell.” He pushed off the wall however, dropping down beside him with a sigh, “besides, I highly doubt what we’re about to do to him counts as respect.”

Wylan glared at him, so Jesper dutifully shut up.

It was easy, to use his powers to slice through the blanket, until he had six squares off fabric sitting on the floor beside him. He quickly bled the rich blue from it, allowing it to seep into his own clothes. He raised a questioning eyebrow, holding the square close to the boy’s dark brown hair, “ready?”

Wylan swallowed, looked away, and nodded.

Jesper had never done something quite like this before, but he figured bleeding the colour from hair was no difference to stealing it from clothes or flowers. The process was painstakingly slow, as he had to steal the coloured atoms from each individual strand of hair, leaving it a bleached, ghostly white.

Eventually, he dropped his arm and rubbed at his face, already fighting off the exhaustion he should’ve known would come. The square of fabric was now the same, deep brown as the mores hair had been. Jesper placed the fabric to the floor, and picked up one of the other, still bleached ones.

Wylan shuffled nearer to him as he turned, and for a moment, Jesper hesitated, holding the square up to his beautiful, fiery red curls, “are you absolutely certain about this?” he asked softly. He wasn’t sure whether or not Wylan liked his looks, but Jesper certainly did, and he needed to know that Wylan was hundred percent happy to do this.

Wylan nodded, his jaw setting firmly.

Jesper still didn’t move, “it might be permanent,” he warned, “when all this is over I might not be able to have access to this poor fecker again, I might not be able to swap you back.”

Wylan swallowed, then his eyes met his again, still pure, unwaveringly blue, “I don’t care,” he said determinedly, “I’m tired of hiding. I want to be free from him.”

Jesper took a deep breath, then nodded, smiling softly, “alright.” He leaned forward first, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head, “I’ll miss your stupid red hair,” he murmured, pulling away so he could focus, once again, on each individual strand of hair. Wylan’s eyes dropped from his face, looking sad for the first time since he’d proposed the idea, “so will I.”

Jesper didn’t ask him to elaborate, but his frown deepened in concern.

It took even longer, with Wylan, because his hair was that bit longer and healthier. But eventually, eventually, he managed to get every last bit of the pigment onto the fabric, until it was the exact shade of red as Wylan’s hair had been.

He snorted, looking at him, “you look really stupid.” He said, attempting to muffle his laugh.

Wylan scowled, pulling a strand of bleached white hair to the front of his face so he could look at it, “I think I pull off white hair just fine,” he sniffed, eyes crossing as he attempted to focus on it properly.

Jesper snorted again, picking up the brown square, “I promise you merchling, you really don’t.”

Wylan’s head snapped up to look at him, “merchling?” he cried, looking aghast.

Jesper shrugged, already starting to pull the pigment from the fabric, transferring it to Wylan’s hair, one strand at a time, “you’re a mini merchant. So. Merchling.”

Wylan just shook his head, at least until Jesper tugged on his hair in a wordless request for him to stay still, “what happened to princeling?”

“That was back when I thought you were a little prince turned pauper.”

“I’m no prince.” Wylan grumbled.

Jesper just grinned, “I know. Hence: merchling.”

When Wylan rolled his eyes in exasperation, his true feelings betrayed by the soft smile that curved his lips, Jesper felt something in his stomach flip.

I was never going to be able to kill you.

Really, it was a little embarrassing that Jesper ever thought he could.

They fell into silence once again, which Jesper normally would have minded but colouring Wylan’s hair was taking much more focus and energy then he had expected, so he wasn’t really interested in much conversation.

Wylan however, was not on the same wavelength.

“Why would you miss my red hair?”

It took Jesper a few minutes to respond, but then he ran his hand through the now deep brown curls and gestured for Wylan to turn around so he could do the other side, “why wouldn’t I?” He didn’t really understand the question, he loved Wylan’s hair, of course he’d miss it.

Wylan shrugged, avoiding his eye but that was fine, Jesper needed to be looking at his hair anyway. “Missing my hair implies that you’re spending time with me when I don’t have that hair.”

Jesper blinked, pausing, “Wylan,” he said slowly, “are you, in a very weird and confusing way, asking me if I’m going to keep you around after all this?” Wylan didn’t answer, but his cheeks deepened slightly so Jesper took that to be a yes.

He returned to colouring Wylan’s hair, shaking his head, “I’m not going through all this bother trying to save your sorry ass just I can dump you back under your bridge afterwards,” he said softly, “I meant it when I said you’re one of two people I care for.” He wished he didn’t have to use both hands for this job, if only so that he could offer some form of comfort. He settled for pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. Because he could now.

Wylan shifted uncomfortably, “so what is your plan? For if we get through this?”

“Honestly?”

Wylan nodded.

Jesper wrapped a brown curl around his finger, tugging slightly, “when we get through this,” he said firmly, “I’ll go back to Novyi Zem. To my father.” He dropped the curl, looking away, “he… he deserves the truth. I see that now.”

A hand gently curved itself under his chin, lifting his head so he was forced to look up. He was met by Wylan’s ever intense, mesmerising gaze. “I’m proud of you.” Wylan said gently, and Jesper could have cried.

He didn’t.

Instead he leaned into the touch, taking comfort from the grounding warmth of his hand, “you…” he swallowed, glanced away, looked back, tried again, “you could come with me?” Jesper wasn’t entirely sure why he was nervous, it wasn’t like it was a big deal. He wasn’t even asking Wylan to run away with him, he just wanted Wylan to come. He wanted him safe.

But this was Wylan, and Wylan made him feel utterly out of place, lost in this new world of feelings.

Wylan’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath, eyes darting over every inch of his face, “do you mean that?” His voice was barely more then a whisper, a breathless exhale. Jesper nodded, his throat feeling oddly tight, “yeah. I’m not asking you to… you know, commit to me or anything. I just—” he turned his head slightly so he could kiss Wylan’s palm, “—I just want to know that you’re safe.” He said finally.

Wylan’s hand shook ever so slightly where it held his chin, “and if I did want to commit?” His eyes were wide, gaze serious yet fearful.

Jesper bit the inside of his cheek, “I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, “relationships and stuff, I’ve never really felt the attraction for one.”

And that was yet another truth.

Back in Novyi Zem, Jesper hadn’t quite understood this part of himself. Everyone else his age was getting crushes and relationships and falling head over heels in love and Jesper—

Well Jesper just didn’t understand the appeal. He didn’t get crushes, he didn’t ‘like’ anyone, not like that. He was down for the occasional night of fun, for kisses behind sheds. But any further then that… he just didn’t want it.

Ketterdam had been different. Nobody did relationships in Ketterdam. Nobody looked at him weirdly when he told a partner he wasn’t interested in anything more, nobody whispered behind his back that he was broken. If anything, it was the norm to be alone, when you weren’t hooking up with someone new. Not that Jesper did much of that.

Jesper just… Jesper had friends. And sometimes those friends would lean a little too close and whisper in his ear ‘if he was interested in slipping away somewhere private.’

And then Wylan was unexpectedly thrown into his life and made his head spin with confusion and threw everything he had ever thought about himself into the air like confetti.

Screw him, really.

“But,” he continued, well aware of the way Wylan had faltered at his words, “that was before I got to know you.”

It was before Wylan had made his stomach twis, his heart jump, his head go all mushy. Wylan made him feel slightly off kilter, like the world was tilting on its axis and it was fun and exhilarating and a whole lot terrifying.

These feelings were new and scary, and he was tempted to run from them but more then that, more then anything, Jesper wanted—

He wanted Wylan.

And damn him of he wasn’t going to do his best to get him.

“I can’t make you any promises,” except that I won’t kill you, “or… predict what might happen next,” we could very well be dead by this time tomorrow, “but I can tell you that…” that your father isn’t laying a hand on you. That I’ll protect you with my life. That dammit I didn’t plan for this but I’m not letting you get away from me, not when I’ve finally found you.

In the end, Jesper didn’t say any of that, because he never could manage to speak the full truth.

“I want to find out.”

He wanted to find out what these feelings could lead to, he wanted to find out everything his parents had told him he’d have one day. He wanted to find out if they could live, if they could outwit the cruel twist of fate that shoved them into this situation. He wanted to find out everything and anything, and he wanted to do it with Wylan at his side.

He wanted an awful lot, but he was a man just bells away from likely death. He wanted to indulge in it, fucking sue him.

“Alright,” Wylan’s voice was soft and it shook ever so slightly, but there was so much hope and joy in his eyes that Jesper wasn’t concerned, “if we get through this, we’ll do that. We’ll go to Novyi Zem and… find out.”

“When we get through this,” Jesper corrected.

Wylan’s face shut down slightly, “don’t be delusional.”

“I’m being positive. I’m a glass half full kind of guy.”

Wylan let go of his chin, shuffling away from him slightly and passing Jesper the red square, “there’s being positive and there’s being downright ignorant.” Jesper took the fabric from him and leaned down until he was hovering over the unfortunate body, “if I tell myself it’ll be alright then I’ll be less likely to run away and drown myself in my sorrow,” he said stiffly, starting the infuriatingly slow process of turning bleached white hair red.

He jumped when he felt thin arms wrapping around his waist from behind, a warm face tucking itself until the crook of his neck. “Are you still going to blackmail my fa- Van Eck?” Wylan asked, voice muffled by his neck.

“Nope.” Jesper said darkly, his grip tightening around the square of fabric, “I have something else in mind for him.”

Originally, yes, he was just going to blackmail Van Eck and be done with it. He’d just wanted to get this over with so that he could finally just fucking leave.

But something had been bothering him.

Something that Wylan said, when he’d pointed the gun at him, had been swimming around in his head, like an itch that just wouldn’t go away.

“I should’ve known he’d send someone else after me, I shouldn’t have even tried to escape, I should’ve just died the first time he tried it—”

Someone else. The first time he’d tried. Escape.

Jan Van Eck had tried to kill Wylan before.

Wylan was living under a bridge, working in a dirty Tannery, because his father had drove him from the house. Because he’d tried to kill him already.

All because Wylan couldn’t read.

So, as Jesper turned the boys hair the same, shocking shade of red as Wylan’s beautiful curls had been, he made up his own plan.

He was going to kill Jan Van Eck and anyone else who stood in his way, fucking try him.

“Does my hair really look like that?” Wylan’s breath was hot against his neck and Jesper had to resist a shiver, “Nah,” he said softly, flexing his fingers once he was done the tricky process, “it looks much nicer on you.”

“Flatterer.”

Jesper grimaced as he flicked open the boys eyelids. His eyes were a deep brown, much like his hair. “I was hoping they’d already be blue,” he said nervously. Wylan moved his head, so that he was resting his chin on Jesper’s shoulder, “is it really going to be all that different to swap the eye colours as it is the hair?”

“I’ve got absolutely no idea,” he said with a slightly hysterical laugh, “it’s not changing his that I’m worried about, it’s going near yours.”

Jesper wasn’t a corporalnik, he wasn’t even a very good fabrikator. He wasn’t supposed to be able to do this. He had absolutely no idea, if bleaching the colour from Wylan’s iris and then bleeding a new one back in was going to affect his eyesight. There was a very real chance that Jesper could accidentally make him blind.

Wylan reached a hand around his waist so that he could lace their fingers together, “I trust you,” he whispered, and Jesper felt his own hands tremble. “You really shouldn’t,” he replied, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“And yet I trust you anyway.” Wylan said simply, in that hopelessly earnest way of his.

“A terrible decision really.”

“I’ve made enough of them, what’s one more?”

Jesper didn’t answer, instead he reached out with his free hand, fingers hovering above the open, unseeing eyes. He closed his own, and for the second time that week, he tentatively opened the box.

Just like last time, power and energy rushed through his veins like ice cold water, shocking him for a moment at the sheer amount held within him. This is what other grisha feel all the time, he found himself thinking, as the energy crackled through his body at his command, the grisha who don’t hide themselves like I do.

Slowly, very slowly, he probed with the tendrils of energy towards what he knew he shouldn’t be able to touch.

The first experimental brush against the eye’s inner workings sent his stomach twisting horribly until he thought he might throw up. He couldn’t do this, this wasn’t his job, his calling. He wasn’t a corporalnik, he didn’t work with tissues and blood and the human body. The magic recoiled as he tried to push it further, a sour taste entering his mouth.

His powers were telling him no.

Jesper, quite frankly, didn’t give two shits about what his powers wanted.

While a corporalnik was gifted to work on the actual makings of the eye, Jesper worked with the inanimate. Metals, woods, glass and yes, colour. Pigment, to be more specific.

The iris, the deep brown circle surrounding the unseeing pupil, was made up of two pigments. Jesper didn’t need the cells, he didn’t need the blood, all he wanted to take from the eye, was the pigments that made up the colour of the iris.

Leave everything else perfectly functional.

Come on, he gritted his teeth, sweat beading along his brow and feeling sick to his very core, come on, I know you’re in there, come to me, that’s it.

And—

There!

He grasped hold of the pigments, the colour, the one part of the eye he could control and he pulled.

Come on out, crooned, his fingers trembling, that’s it, come on out, just you.

Slowly, so slowly, slower then with the hair, the white square of fabric started to turn that same, deep shade of brown. Wylan gasped, but Jesper barely heard it, still focusing, still pulling, still trying to leave everything else perfectly in place.

If he could do it on the body, and leave no trace that he’d ever interfered with it, then maybe, just maybe, he could do the same to Wylan.

At last he slumped back, dropping the now brown piece of fabric to the ground and leaning against Wylan as he panted and shook.

“Are you okay?”

Vaguely, he felt a hand press against his forehead and then his pulse, he could just about hear Wylan talking worriedly into his ear. His heart was thumping too loud, his breath was coming in too short and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He did it!

He’d crossed a boundary that fabrikators weren’t supposed to. He’d dived through the tissue and bodily matter, parts of the world he was forbidden to touch, and he’d stolen the tiny scrap that he was allowed to control. He’d taken what belonged to him.

“I’m alright,” Jesper managed, after a long moment, “I’m fine, I just… I need a minute.”

Wylan got up, and Jesper missed the warmth of him against his back, but a moment later he’d returned, pressing a cold glass into his hand. The feeling of it grounded him, and he focused more on the atoms that made up the glass then on the sickness in his stomach. “Drink,” Wylan demanded, curling a hand around his wrist to lift the glass up to his lips. Jesper dutifully drank, savouring the coldness.

It soothed something, deep inside him, and Jesper managed to open his eyes again.

“That is really creepy,” Wylan said, from somewhere to his left. Jesper glanced over at him then followed the direction of his gaze towards the body. He snorted, “that does look creepy.”

The boys eyes were white, blank and the pupil looked even darker when on its own.

“That’ll be you in a minute,” he said lightly, inspecting his hands. They weren’t shaking quite so much now and his vision had stopped wavering.

“Hopefully not for too long,” Wylan said warily, handing him a blank square while settling down in front of him once more.

Jesper sucked in a breath, hesitantly holding it up to Wylan’s face. His blue eyes bore into his own, and Jesper was slightly mournful that this could be the last time he’d ever get to see them. “Are you certain about this?” he asked once more, because he had to.

Wylan nodded.

“This could go wrong,” Jesper warned again, “I’m not a corporalnik and I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

Wylan nodded again, the look in his eyes repeating what he’d said to him earlier, I trust you.

Jesper exhaled nervously, shook his hand, sniffed. The fabric trembled where he held it and Jesper paused for a moment, waiting for the nerves to fizzle away.

“Are you okay?” Wylan asked softly.

“No,” said Jesper, for once being honest. Then, “you?”

“Not at all,” came the reply.

“You can’t move,” Jesper said seriously, “I need you to stay perfectly still. Don’t move your head, don’t look anywhere except at me, don’t even blink. If you need to blink, warn me so I can stop bleeding the pigment, you got it?”

Wylan nodded once more.

Jesper hesitated, for just a moment, terrified beyond belief that he’d mess something up and make him blind.

He's better off being blind then being dead, his mind told him helpfully.

When he reached out with the powers once again, there was that moment of resistance, and Jesper’s stomach twisted and turned horribly.

This isn’t for you, his powers hissed at him, this isn’t your world to take.

He grit his teeth, I don’t care.

Wylan stiffened, his hand finding Jesper’s leg and gripping tightly, so tightly, his eyes widening even more as Jesper began to breach the surface of tissue. “You okay?” he managed, the words coming out broken and stilted.

Wylan’s breath had gone ragged, and Jesper had a moment of flickering worry until he gasped out a soft, “yeah ‘m fine, jus’ weird.”

Jesper just had to trust that it didn’t hurt.

It was a little quicker, this time, to grab hold of the pigment, and Jesper wasn’t entirely certain if that was because he was more used to it or if blue was just an easier colour to pick out. But slowly, so very slowly and yet also quicker, the fabric started to turn blue.

It was working.

And as far as he knew, Wylan wasn’t hurting.

Jesper took more care with Wylan then he did with the boy, shying away from whatever felt foreign to his powers touch. He just needed the pigment, nothing else. The rest could stay exactly where it was.

It felt like an age, before Wylan finally managed a hurried, “Jes—Jesper, I need to blink.”

Immediately, Jesper cut his connection to the powers, withdrew them within himself once more and sat back, moving his hand from Wylan’s face. “Go ahead.”

Wylan squeezed his eyes shut, face relaxing slightly, and he kept them closed for a while.

“You feeling alright?” he had no idea if what he was doing was affecting or not. Wylan nodded, eyes still shut, and Jesper could see a hint of wetness in his long eyelash.

Worry started to cloud his mind and he reached forward, “Wylan—”

“I’m fine!” Wylan interrupted, not opening his eyes, “I’m okay, I just… I just need a minute.”

“Alright,” Jesper said softly, “take your time.” He pressed a careful kiss to his forehead, slowly brushing away the beginnings of his tears. He didn’t know what it felt like, to have someone reach into your eyes and steal the colour from them, but he was sure it wasn’t pleasant.

He sat back, giving Wylan space, and gulped down the rest of the glass. His hands shook more vigorously then he would have liked, but Jesper ignored it. He couldn’t afford to stop now, they didn’t have time to stop now.

Somewhere during his ministrations he’d heard the bells chiming, but he’d been too distracted to count how many times it had rang.

When he glanced back up, Wylan had opened his eyes. He blinked once, twice, three times, squeezing his eyes tightly with each blink. When he opened them again and locked eyes with him, Jesper snorted.

“What’s so funny?” Wylan snapped, looking rather insulted.

Jesper covered his mouth with a shaking hand, “I’m sorry,” he said, lips quirking into a smile, “you just look so weird.”

The top half of Wylan’s eyes were the same deep, zemini sky blue he’d come to admire. The bottom half, were bleached a bone white. Paired with the dazed way Wylan was looking at him, yeah, it was a little funny.

Wylan rolled his half coloured eyes, “well hurry up then and finish the job so I don’t look so weird anymore.”

Jesper raised his hands once again, holding Wylan’s head still, “you sure you’re ready to continue?”

Wylan blinked once more, then nodded. So Jesper continued.

Four more times, Jesper had to stop and let Wylan rest. Four more times he bad to brush away a collection of tears and four more times Wylan had to convince him to keep going.

But eventually, eventually, Wylan’s eyes were a creepy, ghostly shade of white, and the fabric he clutched in his hand was as rich as a high mountain lake.

Jesper laughed once more, “I should have left your hair until last so we could get the full ghost experience.” Wylan rolled his eyes, or at least Jesper assumed he did –it was hard to tell when his iris was gone—“just hurry up and turn them brown.” He said with a small, left sided quirk of his mouth. He always seemed to smile more with the left side, Jesper noticed.

Jesper swapped the two fabrics, and took a moment to steady his hands. All this work, all the power this took, it was leaving him more and more drained by the minute.

If I never hid this power, if I’d trained my whole life like other grisha, I wouldn’t be like this. I wouldn’t be so weak.

But really, it wasn’t his fault. He was scared, but only because it had been drummed into him since a young age that he should be scared.

He didn’t like to be afraid of his powers.

When Jesper started to push the new pigment into Wylan’s eyes, he actually did empty his meagre stomach. Turns out there’s only so many times a fabrikator can handle touching tissue and organic matter before it became too much for the body to handle.

But Jesper refused to give up.

He tried again, and again, and again. Pushing through the surface of the eye, bypassing the layers of protective tissue and forcing the new, brown pigment into the same empty slots that he’d stolen the blue from. It was harder, to push colour in then to bleed it out, but Jesper tried and tried and fucking tried, until black spots appeared in his vision and he retched again and again and again.

But eventually, Wylan stared up at him with wide, deep brown eyes, and Jesper knew he had done it.

“Can you…” he coughed, spreading the flat of his palms onto the floor and leaning on them like his life depended on it, “can you see okay? Nothing hurts? Nothings different?”

Wylan blinked, once, twice, rubbed his eyes and looked around the workhouse. Then he smiled, “I see just fine,” he said softly, rubbing Jesper’s back gently, “see? I told you that you could do it.”

Jesper just laughed breathlessly, shaking uncontrollably where he crouched, on his hands and knees on the dirty floor of his shitty home.

“Do you need—”

“Just give me a minute,” Jesper interrupted. He still had to turn the lookalikes eyes blue, and it wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

At least Wylan was okay.

After what could have been years, Jesper pushed himself up until he was sitting down again, and reached for the blue square.

“Are you sure—”

“—I need to do this Wy,” Jesper murmured, “its all well and good disguising you if we aren’t able to sufficiently trick your father.”

And so, ignoring the sickness in his stomach, ignoring the way his vision wavered and his hands shook, Jesper steeled himself, and pushed back into the unseeing, ghostly eyes.

Turning white eyes blue.

Jesper didn’t know how long he was at it. His mind was starting to feel fuzzy, there was a ringing in his ears that just wouldn’t go away.

He swayed where he kneeled.

But he was turning white eyes blue.

His vision wavered, black spots obscuring his view but he pushed on.

Turning white eyes blue.

There was iron, in his mouth. He couldn’t hear the the words Wylan was saying over the pounding of his heart, the roaring in his ears.

And he was—he was—

“Jesper?”

--so close—so close—

“Jesper!”

3 bells until doom.

The next thing Jesper knew, he was lying on his back, the cold, wooden floor grounding him into reality as his vision swam in a mass of distorted colours.

“Jesper!”

There were hands, small and tight, gripping onto his shoulders and shaking him gently.

“Jesper come on, come back to me, please.”

He groaned, the voice was too loud, too much. His heart was pounding in his chest at a speed that should have frightened him but everything was too much, too much. The candles were too bright, the voice was too loud, his clothes were too itchy.

He needed—he needed—

Something cold and wet was pressed against his pounding head and he finally felt like he could breathe. He focused on the feeling of it, rejoiced in the comforting coolness, contrasting to the way his body burned. Those same hands gently stroked the side of his face and his hair, tracing small circles over his skin.

An age went past, perhaps more, before Jesper was able to force his eyes open once again.

His vision wavered for a moment, before his eyes focused on the worried face hovering over him.

Jesper startled violently, taking in only messy brown hair and wide brown eyed, the face of a stranger.

“Relax, Jesper it’s okay!”

A voice. He knew that voice.

“it’s alright Jes, it’s just me, it’s Wylan, remember?”

Wylan. The boy he was hired to kill. The bhy he fell for instead.

He blinked, blearily gazing up at unfamiliar features for anything he might recognise.

The crooked nose, the sharp jawline, the tiny silvery scar on his chin. The freckles that spattered across his nose and cheeks like his very galaxy.

His own sky. His own stars.

“Wylan?”

The boy whose fiery red hair and sparkling blue eyes he’d stolen from him.

Wylan smiled, that little left-sided one that he’d recognise anywhere, on anyone. “Yeah it’s me. I see you did a good job disguising me,” he laughed slightly, but his eyes scanned Jesper’s face with obvious worry.

Jesper attempted to sit up but Wylan shoved him back down firmly, “what…” he coughed head swimming again from the sudden movement, “what happened?”

“You passed out,” Wylan said quietly, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, “scared the shit out of me. You’ve been out for ages.”

That shocked him back into action. His eyes darted to the window, blood turning to ice when he noticed the heavy stream of light that shone through. Light that hadn’t been there the last time he’d looked. “How long? What time—”

“Just gone past two bells,” Wylan cut in, “there’s now three left until—”

“Shit.” Jesper swore, trying to get up once more, and this time Wylan reluctantly let him. “Did I—”

“You finished his eyes,” Wylan said for him, helping him sit up against the wall and pressing a roll of hard bread and cheese into his hand, “now eat. You’ll need the strength for later.”

Jesper dutifully took a bite from the offered food. He hadn’t noticed just how hungry he was until he’d started.

That’s what being a grisha does, when you actually use your power.

“While I’m confronting your father,” Jesper said, once he’d finished scoffing the bread and cheese, “I need you to secure passage for the two of us to Novyi Zem.”

Wylan frowned from where he sat beside him, “am I not coming with you?”

Jesper snorted, then realised Wylan was being serious, “saints no! You’re not getting within an inch of your father. It’s too risky.”

“Oh and its not risky for you?” Wylan retorted.

Jesper resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “he’s expecting me to be there, I’m supposed to be there. You are supposed to be the dead body I dump at his feet. If he recognises you its game over.”

“Then wouldn’t it be simpler to leave me here?”

 Jesper had considered locking Wylan into the workhouse, just like old times, but ultimately he’d decided—“I need us out of Kerch as soon as possible before Van Eck can realise he's been duped. Pack your things before you leave because I’m going to meet you at the docks and we are high tailing our asses to my father’s farm.”

Jesper looked over at Wylan, at his brown hair that was still curled but had loosened thanks to his ministrations. He was still Wylan, despite the new look, and the longer he looked the more he thought Wylan suited it, in a weird way. Then he looked back over at the doppelganger and frowned, “he doesn’t look very much like you.”

“He looks a bit like me,” Wylan tried, narrowing his eyes slightly, “from a distance anyway.”

Jesper raised a hand so he could trail his forefinger along the length of Wylan’s nose, “he doesn’t have your freckles,” he mused, already feeling for something to grab onto. Wylan slapped his hand away, “not a chance,” he said firmly, “not after you passing out for so long.”

Jesper didn’t fight him on it, he’d be sorry to see the freckles gone.

Jesper could feel his vision going hazy again and he shook head, wincing when it only aggravated his pounding headache all that more.

Wylan sat up straighter, grabbing hold of his arm to prevent him from tipping over sideways, “Jesper? What’s wrong?”

“ ‘m fine,” he tried to say, but his voice was slurred and Wylan’s frown only deepened, “I jus’ need…” he trailed off before he could figure out what exactly it was that he needed. Black spots began to obscure his vision once again and his head buzzed, nearly drowning out the sounds around him.

“You need to lie down,” Wylan decided firmly, already gently pushing him down onto the floor.

“No!” he protested, trying in vain to rise to his feet. He didn’t have time to lie down, he was running out of time as it was, he needed—he needed—

“I’m right here,” Wylan whispered, fingers tracing soothing circles onto his cheekbones, “we have time, it’s alright.”

Jesper didn’t believe him, but he had no choice but to succumb to the darkness that claimed him, lulled into a sense of calmness that only Wylan could ever bring out in him.

“We have time.”

2 bells until doom.

They did not, in fact, have time.

“I packed all your stuff while you were out,” Wylan told him as he helped Jesper hide as many acids and flash bombs as he possible could into the hidden folds of his jacket. He didn’t like walking into what could easily be a trap with only his revolvers on his hips. He loved his babies, but sometimes a guy needed more.

Jesper looked over at the bags Wylan had indeed packed, “I don’t need all that crap,” he said distractedly, “just bring whatever is easiest to carry.” There was no way Jesper could risk Van Eck knowing he was leaving so it fell to Wylan alone to carry any belongings they wanted to take.

Jesper knelt and once again pried open the floorboards, pulling out the few rolled up wads of kruge he’d hidden there, “that’s for the boat tickets and some supplies to keep us going. Don’t spend it all, we might need to stay the night at some Inns when we arrive in Shriftport.” He decidedly didn’t mention the 10,000 kruge Van Eck owed him, that was going straight to Colm.

While Wylan busied himself with finding a secure hiding spot in his clothes, Jesper quickly penned a letter to his father. It didn’t say much, only the bare explanation. It hopefully wouldn’t have to come to being used, but Jesper needed to be prepared.

Just in case.

He tucked it into Wylan’s inside jacket pocket when he was finished, “the last ship to Novyi Zem leaves at ten bells tonight,” Jesper said softly, answering the bewildered look Wylan shot him, “if I’m not back by then—”

“—Jesper—”

“—if I’m not back,” Jesper interrupted firmly, “leave without me. Ask any farmer in Shriftport for directions to Colm Fahey’s farm and give my father that letter. He looks a lot like you, only older and with my eyes, you’ll know him when you see him.”

Wylan looked up at him sadly, for some reason his brown eyes were a lot more expressive then the blue, “I don’t want to leave without you.” He pleaded, fisting his hands into the lapels of Jesper’s jacket. He pretend the action didn’t catch him off balance.

Jesper reached down to untangle one of his hands, pressing a kiss to freckled knuckles, “I don’t want you to either. But, like you said, we have to be realistic. If I’m not back by ten bells then I’m dead.”

Wylan winced, and Jesper had a moment to feel sorry for him before continuing, “I don’t know what’s waiting for me in that warehouse, I don’t know what’s going to happen from here on out. But I want to be able to face it knowing that whatever happens, you’re going to get out of here.”

Wylan was already shaking his head but Jesper wasn’t going to take no for an answer, “promise me Wylan,” he urged, “promise me you’ll leave today, even if I don’t come.”

Wylan opened his mouth, and Jesper could see that he was planning to protest further so Jesper leaned forward and simply captured his lips with his own. The kiss was short, and bittersweet, but it conveyed the desperation both of them were feeling. There was an adrenaline preparing to course through his veins, anticipation curling in his stomach, only for once Jesper was dreading the action.

“Promise me Wylan,” Jesper murmured against his mouth, falling in love with the way their bodies slotted together, “if I have to die, let me die knowing that you’re going to be okay, that I at least saved you."

Wylan pulled his face away, but the rest of him stayed pressed close, their noses still touching, “I think I prefer you being ‘a glass half full kind of guy’ “ he said shakily. Jesper smiled, "I thought you called me delusional,” he teased.

When Wylan didn’t say anything more, Jesper tilted his head to kiss his forehead, “promise me Wylan. Please.” Jesper wasn’t normally one to beg, but he’d beg for this.

Wylan sucked in a shaky breath, then—“I promise.”

Jesper gave him one last squeeze, one last kiss to his now brown hair before he reluctantly untangled himself from Wylan’s arms. “I’ll see you in a few bells, yeah?”

Wylan nodded, swallowing, “I’m holding you to that,” he said, obviously trying to keep his voice firm but his desperation seeped through, “I better be seeing you on that dock in a few bells.”

Jesper grabbed the blue blanket and start to wrap the doppelganger up again, throwing it over his shoulder in what he hoped would be as inconspicuous as possible.

Then again, it was the barrel, death was everywhere.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world merchling,” he said, hearing the bell chime four times.

He had to go.

Now!

He blew a kiss over his shoulder, feeling an unsettling amount of de ja vu as he strode to the door, preparing to leave Wylan behind once again.

“Jesper.”

Jesper glanced over his shoulder, shifting the way the body lay across his shoulders, “yeah Wy?”

Wylan bit his lip, hands gripping onto the sleeves of his jacket so tightly his knuckles were turning white, “come back to me Jes. Before ten bells, promise me you’ll be there.”

Jesper paused, caught between the doorway, unsure of what to do. The situation was unpredictable, he couldn’t make any promises, he shouldn’t make any promises.

And yet—

Jesper had been getting good at keeping his promises when it came to Wylan.

What was one more?

“Yeah Wy,” he said gently, wishing he had the time to kiss him just one last time, “I promise.”

Then he left, before he stalled too long, before he risked not leaving at all.

I promise.

Jesper would keep this promise.

He had to.

Half a bell until doom.

Jesper was there first.

He wasn’t surprised, he had time to spare and he’d moved quickly through the streets of the Barrel.

Still, he hadn’t expected to be waiting for as long.

The anticipation burned through his veins to the point where he was tempted to tear his skin open, just to see if his body truly was on fire or if it just felt that way.

Wylan would be on the docks right now. Securing a passage on one of the five boats leaving for Novyi Zem today. There was a boat every hour, starting from five bells to ten bells.

Jesper had five bells to make it the docks in one piece.

Just as he began to question if he’d found the right place, he saw a shape appearing through the bustle of people travelling through the Zelvar District.

A carriage.

A black one, pulled by a team of two matching chestnut horses.

Because Jan Van Eck didn’t like to walk to his meetings.

A chime sounded, sounding out the final few moments before doom.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Five bells.

0 bells until doom.

Jesper lay a hand on each gun, fixing his gaze on the approaching carriage.

It was now or never.

Bring. It. On.

Chapter Text

The warehouse was big. With large, wooden beams and a draft that chilled him to his very bones. There was long, thin windows that were strategically placed so that no one could look in. It was a thought that disturbed Jesper, just a little.

It was also empty, devoid of both man and machine, like it had been built years ago and abandoned. It was unsettling, in its quietness.

Jesper just waited.

He waited, while nerves tickled and burned their way through his bloodstream, for Van Eck to finally leave his carriage and enter the warehouse.

He waited, and he waited and he waited with a patience he didn’t know he had.

It took everything he had in him, to not shoot Van Eck the moment he entered the dank building. He wanted to, oh Saints how he wanted to, but he knew he had to be patient. He needed to get his money and get his assurance. Then, and only then, he would let rip on the sorry lot of them.

That’s what happens, when you mess with a barrel rat.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Mr. Fahey.”

Jesper rolled his eyes, you know damn well I was going to be here.

“Don’t bother with the small talk,” he snapped, resisting the urge to rest a comforting hand on his guns. That might be a little too obvious, even for him.

Van Eck walked the final few paces until he was standing in front of Jesper, the blanket covered body behind them. “You killed him, yes?”

Jesper very nearly rolled his eyes again. “Obviously.”

When Van Eck gestured for one of the bodyguards --Prior— to check the body, Jesper fought for his face to stay calm, he’d come so fucking close, he couldn’t afford to ruin this now.

Not while Wylan was waiting for him. Not while there was a chance.

While he’d waited for Van Eck to appear, Jesper had punched the body’s face until the blood and bruises disguised the obvious differences between him and Wylan. It was ghastly work, and Jesper had felt rather bad for the poor fecker, but he supposed it was better then becoming a corpse himself.

Prior grimaced when he pulled back the blanket, “Ghezen that’s a horrible way to go.”

Jesper shrugged, just about glaring at them each in turn, “no one told me he was a slippery little skiv, I did what I had to.”

Jesper had expected some form of silent acknowledgement, but instead, Prior chuckled darkly, “he is, isn’t he.”

Jesper sucked in a sudden breath.

You.

Somebody had tried to kill Wylan, prior to Jesper’s involvement. He’d known it had been someone hired by Van Eck, but Wylan had never got around to telling him who.

Now, he knew.

You’re getting the first bullet, and it won’t be in a nice place.

Jesper closed his eyes, mentally running through the different cards in a deck. He did that quite often, it could help settle his mind, control his actions that little bit more.

He had to cool it.

Jesper needed to get his money and get his assurance the his father was safe.

Then he’d unleash hell on every man in this warehouse.

“I’ve upheld my end of the deal Van Eck,” he said, looking the merchant in the eye, “pay up.”

A slow, self satisfied smile, spread across the man’s face, perfectly timed with the penny like drop of dread within Jesper.

“I don’t think so.”

Jesper reacted instinctively.

Before anyone could blink, his guns were upholstered and aimed, one bullet for the man behind Van Eck and one for Prior. He’d shot him in the gut, a nice slow, painful death.

Serves the bastard right.

It was just as he’d turned his aim on Van Eck. Flicking down the hammer one last time, focusing his gaze on him with a sick, righteous fury when—

 He barely heard the silenced shot before pain exploded from his shoulder, forcing him to drop the revolver, fiery tendrils of pain working its way through his upper body and he cried out despite himself.

Maybe a slow, painful death wasn’t a good idea after all.

Jesper propped the barrel of his gun over his shoulder, letting his powers guide the bullet home. This time, Jesper sent it through Prior’s skull. A sickening squelch let him know he hit his target square on.

Bastard.

His shoulder burned and he could feel the blood soaking a wet patch onto his pink shirt. It was his favourite shirt. Jesper was tempted to shoot Prior again just out of vengeance for his damned shirt.

Jesper had only taken his focus off Van Eck for a few, brief seconds, but that was seemingly more them enough time for the merchant to lunge forward and wrap his wiry hands around Jesper’s throat.

“Foolish boy,” he hissed, tightening his hold and Jesper choked, fear clutching him like the talons of a beast, “as if I would pay a single cent to a barrel rat like yourself.”

That, was the moment Jesper understood.

Colm Fahey never was in danger.

There never was a 10,000 kruge hit.

This was how it was always going to end. With Van Eck’s hands squeezing the life out of his filthy, broken self.

In the end, there really never was going to be a choice.

Both Jesper and Wylan had been doomed to die from the very start. Fuck Fate and her ghastly twists.

Jesper had met the merchant with his back pressed to a wall, his air supply cruelly being cut off.

It was almost fitting, that this was how their last meet would end. Poetic, even. Fuck it was really bad when Jesper started thinking in metaphors.

Van Eck’s hands squeezed even tighter and Jesper felt stars popping in his head, desperately scrabbling for whatever purchase he could find, nails scratching deep lines in the hands that held him.

But still, they refused to let up.

Jesper reached out with his powers, searching for whatever metal he could get a hold of but he was too spent. He’d used his powers more in the last few bells then he had his whole life. And now—now Jesper had nothing more in him left to give.

Black spots appeared in the corners of his vision and his sight wavered, Van Eck’s cruel, scowling face blurring into one, indistinct shape.

But this time, Wylan wasn’t there to stroke his cheek. This time, when he would slip into the darkness, he wouldn’t wake up to Wylan looking after him.

He wouldn’t wake up, full stop.

And that was the bitter, horrible truth. If he’d had the air, Jesper might have just laughed from the irony of it.

Right here, right now, Jesper Fahey was going to die.

Wylan would be boarding that ship at ten bells, all on his own, with just Jesper’s letter as a way of explanation to his father.

Dear Da,

He could recite what he wrote easily, without any prompting. The words were playing in the back of his mind like a mournful memory. Hadn’t Wylan told him he liked music? Jesper didn’t know, he didn’t know enough about Wylan. He was just sad, really, that he wouldn’t get to say his apology to his father’s face.

If you’re reading this, I’m sorry, because I’m probably dead. Or worse, but death sounds much nicer in all honesty.

Jesper’s chest burned from the lack of air and he jerked in Van Eck’s grip, desperately, hopelessly. Totally in vain. He couldn’t remember ever being this hopeless before, but there was something about the iron hard grip around his neck that turned his blood to lead, made his limbs all that harder to move. He’d been choked before, but this was different. This wasn’t choking to threaten, this was choking to kill.

Don’t blame Wylan, its not his fault. He doesn’t even know what this letter says, I never read it to him.

If he could only think the words hard enough, maybe Colm would hear him. Maybe he could apologise to his father, even if it was just delusion. He didn’t think he’d be able to rest easy if he didn’t at least try.

I’m sorry Da, I messed up. I messed up bad. I got too deep in to the tables, spent my whole college tuition trying to win the money back. I got a reputation, the wrong kind, but it was okay really, if it meant I could live another day.

Jesper could feel the very tips of his hands and feet slowly turning numb, his blood felt like it was sludge moving through his body. Bright stars bloomed in his vision, and he was tipping precariously on the edge of blacking out once more. Somewhere, somewhere deep within him, something told him to fight. But he couldn’t, it was like he was frozen, held only by hands on his throat and nothing more. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was exhaustion, maybe Jesper was just so tired of living like this that he didn’t have it in him to fight for his own life. He didn’t know, and it should have scared him, if only he had the energy for that.

But then I got given a job I couldn’t complete, and it put both you and Wylan in danger. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what Wylan will have told you, but I need you to move. Get out of there and find somewhere safe. Please, you might still be in danger and it’s not worth the risk.

Everything was going very quiet, very numb, and only the desperate pounding of his heart proved that he was, still, alive. Van Eck’s mouth was moving, but Jesper couldn’t hear what he was saying, it was like he was underwater, everything around him was muddled and odd. The roaring in his ears could have been his blood or his own voice, he didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything, really.

Don’t blame it on Wylan, please. He hasn’t done anything wrong, none of this is his fault, no matter what he says. His self image is shit, he’ll probably try tell you its all his fault but its not. It’s mine and only mine.

Jesper’s legs gave out beneath him and he vaguely registered being lowered to the floor, even if the pressure still didn’t let up. The cold concrete sapped his remaining strength from him, a startling contrast to the burning in his shoulder, around his neck, in his lungs. Everything burned, everything hurt.

Look after him Da, please. He doesn’t deserve any of this, he’s just a prince caught up in the wrong story. Tell him I said that, he’d find it funny.

There was noise erupting all around him but he barely noticed, the sound filtered and distorted through the water that closed in on him. There was no water, but it felt like it. The dark was calling for him like a sirens song, deadly and beautiful and oh so inviting. And Jesper—

Well Jesper never had been very good at saying no.

I’m sorry Da, truly. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, I promise. I tried to save us, just ask Wylan, but if you’re reading this then I guess I failed at saving myself. I fail at a lot of things. I’m sorry that this is rushed, but Wylan is packing things as I write and honestly, I’m out of time.

Something wet splattered against his face, momentarily shaking him out of the trance he’d slipped into. The pressure around his neck eased, but Jesper couldn’t find it in him to stop himself from tipping headfirst into the dark abyss. He was craving that relief, that peace guaranteed only to him on the other side of that darkness.

I love you, and I’m sorry it had to end like this. I’m so, fucking sorry.

Something heavy was eased off him, and if he could only breathe it probably would have been a relief.

Jesper.

“Jesper!”

There were hands, grabbing hold of his face then and Jesper jerked away, opening his mouth involuntarily and—

Oh!

Air rushed into his lungs and he gasped, chest heaving as sweet, beautiful air finally made its way past the blockage around his neck.

Which meant—

“Oh saints, Jesper!”

Something pounded against his chest and he coughed, his throat burning, hauling himself up into a sitting position as he coughed and spluttered, fighting for evert scrap of air that had previously been denied from him.

Those same hands were now gripping his shoulders, holding him up, holding him desperately tight as if he just might fall apart. And he might, stranger things had happened.

But what—

Jesper didn’t know exactly how long it took for him to finally open his eyes, but when he eventually did he found that Van Eck’s face had been replaced by someone else’s. Someone familiar, yet strikingly different.

Brown hair, brown eyes, blood spattered cheeks, but Jesper knew. In his mind Jesper saw red and he saw blue and he saw—he saw—

“You were supposed to stay at the docks,” Jesper croaked, unable to quite process what he was seeing. Wylan huffed, “yeah well, I didn’t listen.”

Clearly.

But he didn’t have the strength to say much more. Now that the pressure from around his neck was gone, he could properly feel the wound on his shoulder for the first time since it got inflicted and all saints and your aunt Eva it fucking hurt.

He slumped forward, allowing his head to drop down onto Wylan’s shoulder with a barely muffled noise.

“Jes are you hurt? What happened?”

Jesper stayed silent for a moment, just focusing on simply fucking breathing.

And speaking of breathing—

With a groan of barely stifled pain, Jesper lifted himself up, blearily looking around. He was still woozy, still pained, still utterly out of it in ever possible way.

“What—what…?”

He coughed once more, just as the pieces started to click together.

Jesper looked to the side, looked past Wylan, to the figure that was slumped onto the floor, blood oozing onto the concrete from his head.

Jan Van Eck, was dead.

And Jesper wasn’t the one who shot him.

When Jesper looked back at him, Wylan’s eyes were wide, his face pale and almost dazed.

You never forget your first.

“Wylan—”

“—Don’t.” Wylan’s voice was higher then normal, ‘I don’t—I know—but I don’t want… not now.” Wylan stumbled over the words, eyes darting between the two of them, and Jesper understood.

“We need to go,” he said instead, noticing the relief on Wylan’s face. His own voice was rough, like rocks grating against each other, but Jesper had a feeling that clearing his throat would only hurt more.

“Can you walk?” Wylan asked anxiously, already moving to grab his guns where he’d been forced to drop them. Jesper steeled himself and gripped the hand Wylan held out for him, “I'll have to.”

His head spun wildly once he stood –and Jesper really was beginning to get sick of this—and he cried out when Wylan tried to steady him, the movement jostling his shoulder.

Wylan gasped, “all saints Jesper, did you get shot?” he said, almost hysterically.

“It’s no big deal merchling,” he managed, leaning on him for support as they slowly stumbled from the warehouse.

Jesper knew they should be going quicker, there was a dead councilman in the building behind them after all, but he didn’t think he physically could.

“No big deal?” Wylan cried, “you, Jesper Fahey, are going to be the death of me, I swear.”

Jesper cracked a small smile, “bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Wylan rolled his eyes, “very funny Jesper,” he deadpanned, but Jesper knew he was smiling anyway.

Wylan paused near the doorway of the warehouse, looking at his shoulder with furrowed brows, “we need to stop the bleeding,” Wylan said worriedly.

Jesper shook his head, “we don’t have time to do that now, we can sort it out later.”

But Wylan couldn’t be swayed. Moving quicker then Jesper thought he could, Wylan freed himself from his own vest, pressing it tightly against both sides of his shoulder. It had been a clean shot, in one side and out the other. Wylan then fiddled with Jesper’s jacket so that it covered the padding, “there.” He said finally, “keep that held tight would you? It should last you until the boat at least.”

Jesper rolled his eyes, but he dutifully pressed the vest tight to his shoulder, groaning when the action sent another burst of pain through him.

Their progress was slow, but they stuck to the shadows and Jesper’s red jacket hid the bloodstains at first glance. To all outside eyes Jesper could have been drunk, and it’s not like that was a rare sight.

“I never thought I’d ever be so glad to see a ship in my life,” Wylan muttered as they approached Fifth Harbour. Jesper snorted, “then you’ve never seen an empty gondola when your running for your life.”

“Funnily enough I haven’t.”

Wylan left Jesper propped against some barrels while he retrieved their bags. “Very brave of you to just leave them here, in the Barrel.” He commented once Wylan returned.

Wylan just slipped under Jesper’s arm again and helped him weave their way through the fathering crowds, “I didn’t leave them in the open, I’m not that stupid.”

Jesper hissed in pain when someone bumped into his injured shoulder, “you’re not stupid at all Wylan.” He said, because he had a horrible feeling it wasn’t said to him nearly enough.

Sure enough, Wylan simply scoffed, “tell that to my Dad.” He muttered.

“I can’t. You killed him.”

Wylan winced ever so slightly, “don’t, not right now.”

Jesper squeezed him with the arm that was thrown over his shoulder, “I won’t,” he said lightly, “I just think it was fucking cool, that’s all.”

The man taking the money frowned as they approached and Jesper purposefully leaned on Wylan all the more heavier, stumbling every few steps.

“What’s up with him?” he grunted, glaring at them suspiciously. Wylan sighed as he handed over some kruge, “he got drunk. Again.” Wylan spat, “I told him not to go out the night before leaving but he didn’t listen.”

The man shook his head in disapproval while he waved them in, “just don’t let him drink while he’s on board.”

Jesper pouted, but then Wylan was doing his best to drag him across the deck, keeping up the impression that he was annoyed.

“I didn’t know you were such a good actor,” he managed, as Wylan shoved open the door to their tiny room and helped him onto the bed. He’d started leaning on Wylan more and more, his feet dragging after him and the words slurring in his mouth.

“Well I am annoyed,” Wylan said briskly, tugging Jesper’s jacket off with shaking hands. Jesper decided to helpful for once and did his best to unbutton his shirt, “whatever did I do merchling?” he asked with gritted teeth, his burning shoulder making it difficult to operate his arm. Wylan tutted, slapping his hand away and finished up the buttons for him, “for getting shot for starters.”

“That was hardly my –ah—fault.”

Wylan whispered a soft apology as he helped maneuverer the shirt off him, the dried blood making it stick horribly to the wound.

Jesper watched with dazed eyes as Wylan pulled out a small, brown bag from his satchel and started rummaging in it. “Since when did you have a first aid kit on you?”

Wylan pulled out a little bottle filled with clear liquid and a cloth, “I figured you might show up all bloody so I got it with the money you gave me.”

Jesper blinked. He hadn’t even thought of telling Wylan to pick up some medical supplies, despite knowing full well he was walking into danger.

Clever little merchling.

He opened his mouth to say just that when Wylan beat him to it, pouring some of the liquid onto the cloth, “this is going to hurt,” he warned, “I need to clean the wound before I can bandage it.”

Jesper frowned, “why what are you—fuck.”

He sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as Wylan carefully cleaned both sides of the wound with that horrible liquid. Wylan kept apologising every time Jesper gasped, using his free hand to tap soothing melodies onto his arm.

Wylan eventually pulled away with a frown, placing the bottle and cloth on the tiny bedside table. Jesper stifled a groan, “I don’t like that expression.”

Wylan’s eyes darted to his then back to the wound, “that’ll need stitches.” He said carefully.

Jesper groaned out loud this time, throwing his head back against the wall of the ship, “and I’m guessing you don’t have any numbing stuff.” He’d had stitches before, obviously, but never without any form of drugs.

Wylan’s expression told him all that he needed to know.

“Come on so," he said, resigning himself to his fate, "quicker you get it done the quicker I can sleep.”

Wylan hesitated for just a moment more before he started to rummage in the small bag again, “you still haven’t told me what happened,” he mumbled, pulling out various types of bandages as he searched.

Jesper winced despite himself when Wylan finally located the needle, “there’s not much to tell,” he said quickly, apprehensively watching as Wylan threaded the needle, “your wonderful father had planned to kill me from the start, I was just too stupid to realise that. Walked right into a trap and well, the rest is history.”

Wylan paused, needle held in one hand and the other reaching out to pinch the sides of the wound together, “so does that mean your father isn’t in danger? If he was going to kill you anyway.”

“I think so—fuck, Wylan—” He swore, hands fisting the bed sheets. He wasn’t exactly unused to pain, but there was a certain kind of hell that came from someone pushing a needle through your skin.

“You said that last night,” Wylan said distractedly, already pulling the needle out again. Jesper laughed, despite himself, “I said a lot –ah—a lot of things last night.”

When Wylan smiled, just a small thing, Jesper counted that as a victory.

Jesper lost count of how many times Wylan pushed the needle through his skin, eventually they all blurred into one, great, burning pain. Even when Wylan pushed him to sit up so that he could tend to the back of his shoulder, where the bullet had entered, Jesper didn’t have it in him to complain.

He was really fucking tired of getting hurt.

He was so caught up in his head, replaying the words he planned to say to his father and ignoring the screaming from his shoulder, that Jesper hadn’t even realised Wylan was finished until he was wrapping his shoulder up with a crisp white bandage. Wylan had stepped even closer to wrap it around the back of his shoulder, until his breath wafted over Jesper’s cheek, and for a moment, when all he could see where pale skin and freckles, Jesper could forget that he’d stepped into the shoes of a Tailor. Forget that he’d changed Wylan’s appearance, possibly forever.

“You’re staring,” Wylan whispered, still tying up the bandage. It never occurred to Jesper to be embarrassed, “of course I am, you’re beautiful.”

As predicted, Wylan’s cheeks flushed a vibrant red and he stepped back, giving Jesper’s shoulder a final once over, “I don’t even look like me.”

Jesper gave a one sided shrug, reaching up with his good arm to cup the side of Wylan’s face, “you’re still beautiful,” he murmured, eyes tracking over Wylan’s features. Yes, his hair and eyes were brown, but they were a deep, inviting brown, warm and comforting. And just like his blue eyes had reminded Jesper of the fake sapphires his Ma had worn in her braids, the brown was the exact same shade as the hot cocoa she’d make him whenever he had a nightmare. He ran a thumb over Wylan’s cheekbone, back and forth across the smattering of freckles, “and you do. You do still look like you.” He would always still look like Wylan, even if he wore the face of a complete stranger.

Because Wylan was more then his stupid, pretty face.

When the kiss finally came, it was softer then Jesper had expected, far softer then any they’d exchanged before. But that was okay, because Jesper didn’t want anything more. He was too tired, too sore, to do anything more then return the soft press of Wylan’s lips on his.

Besides, they had time.

Five bells had been and gone. They were on a ship to Novyi Zem. Colm Fahey was not in danger, and he never had been.

They finally had some fucking time.

It was that thought, that had Jesper laughing. Smiling with so much giddy joy that Wylan was forced to break that kiss, pulling away with a raised eyebrow. “Someone’s happy,” he commented, slowly pushing Jesper down so he was laying on the bed. Jesper grinned up at him, shuffling over as best he could to make room, “we’ve got time!” he said gleefully.

Wylan snorted, easing down onto the bed beside him. The carefulness of his movements made Jesper’s heart swell all that more and fuck he was falling fast. “I don’t think I follow,” Wylan said, gently resting his head on Jesper’s uninjured shoulder.

“We have no more countdown,” Jesper said softly, kissing his forehead while he brought his good arm up to wrap around his shoulder, “no deadlines, nothing. Its finally just us.”

“Just us,” Wylan repeated sleepily, and Jesper felt more then saw him smile.

As much as Jesper wanted to give into the sweet song of sleep, there was one thing he needed to ask, right now before Wylan could continue avoiding it.

“You killed your father.” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t an accusation, just a statement.

Immediately Wylan stiffened and Jesper had a moments panic that he would draw away, “yes,” he said shortly, “I did.”

“Are you okay?”

Whatever Wylan had expected him to say, that clearly wasn’t it, based on how he lifted his head to look at him, slightly bewildered, “am I okay? He didn’t touch me.”

Jesper squeezed his arm, “you killed your father,” he said gently, “No matter how horrible he was to you, that can’t have been pleasant.”

For a moment, Wylan said nothing, just watching him with inscrutable brown eyes. Then he sighed, and lowered himself back down, “he was killing you.” He said simply. “I made a choice.”

He made a choice.

The one thing Jesper hadn’t been able to do, the whole time Wylan was with him in his dank, shitty excuse of a home. Jesper hadn’t been able to make a choice because there hadn’t been a choice to make. He hadn’t had a choice in any of it, the hand that moved him was never his own.

And yet, Jesper didn’t regret it.

How could he? How could he regret anything that had happened, any choice that had been made –his or otherwise—when the result of everything was this.

He would never regret anything, if it meant he could lie here forever, with Wylan in his arms.

Even if his shoulder burned with a pain he was desperate to ignore. Even if Wylan looked like a stranger.

Because in the end, Jesper supposed, there never really was going to be a choice.

This would always, have been the outcome Jesper fought for.

Chapter Text

It’s been years, since the farm in Novyi Zem has been this full of people.

Well, "this full" only consists of three people, but the point still stands.

It’s also been years since the farm was relatively empty. Since a farmer sent his son off to college in Ketterdam with misguided hopes for his future.

It's just, also been years since said son returned, with a price on his head for the murder of a councilman and said councilman’s son on his arm.

The years have passed by slowly, and also not slow enough. The only thing Jesper could miss about Ketterdam and the barrel was the action. He misses the adrenaline, the rush, the pure hustle and bustle of illegal activities. There’s even a part of him that misses the tables and the drinks and the fire of steel from a well aimed revolver.

But Jesper has never been back, and he never wants to go back. The city wants nothing from them except their money and their blood, and Jesper is downright sick of giving it to them.

It’s been years, since Jesper first sat down at the ghastly tables. Years since he’d spun that blasted wheel, and changed the trajectory of his life forever. Years since he’d left University to pay off his debts, years since he’d taken up sharpshooting to pay off more debts, years since he’d been cornered in a dark alley by a merchant with a job he just couldn’t complete.

It's been too many years too remember, since Jesper had finally made his own choice, and stood his ground against a world that wanted to steal the very floor beneath his feet. When he’d pulled a gun on Wylan, with tears streaming down his face while he screamed for him to just tell him why. When he’d said no and made a choice, even if that choice was to not make a choice. But that was too confusing to go into much detail, especially for him.

Its been years since Jesper had hands wrapped around his throat and thought, genuinely for the first time, that he was going to die. Years since Wylan had made his choice and had shot his own father, choosing Jesper over his own flesh and blood.

Even now, even after all those years, Jesper still hasn’t regretted those choices he’d made. The lies he’d told, the stupid, rash decisions that had led them to a path of turmoil and pain.

But Jesper could never regret them, because that same path had led then here.

Here, is standing in the doorway to a small cottage, twenty minutes walk from the farmhouse he’d grown up in. There’s a key, in his pocket, shiny and new and a remainder of all they’ve got to come, Jesper and Wylan.

He'd worked hard for that key, hours and hours of working the fields with his Da during the day, making jewellery at night, with Wylan’s arms around his waist. Hours of Wylan painting and making the most beautiful fireworks known to man. Maybe Jesper is biased. He doesn’t think he is though.

The point is that they’ve both worked hard for what they have now. And what they have now is a key. A key to a house bordering a lake, with sloping fields for jurda and a large shed out back for both of their hobbies. It’s not a big house, their not rich, but Wylan doesn’t want a big one, and to be honest neither does Jesper. He just wants a place that doesn’t leak and smell of mouldy alcohol like the last place did.

Although, Jesper can’t bring himself to hate the rundown, shitty workhouse that he’d turned into some semblance of a home. It was where he’d brought Wylan, all those years ago, on that very first night. That night when he’d fully planned on doing the oblivious kid in, and had instead gotten him drunk and doomed him to the inevitable events that followed.

But now, Jesper’s home isn’t a leaky warehouse and it’s not his childhood farm. Now it’s going to be a cottage, with white walls but Jesper is certain that will change soon. Wylan’s going to want to paint something blue, Jesper green, and eventually they’ll fill it with colours that absolutely shouldn’t go together but who cares because it’s theirs. Now it’s just them, with no deadlines and no countdown and no threats hanging over their heads.

Now, they have time.

It’s been years since he’d said that the first time. Since he’d lay on a rickety bed on a ship destined for Novyi Zem, with his shoulder screaming at him and Wylan kissing him oh so softly. His shoulder has never been the same, since then. The scar is still there, a dark, puckered patch of skin in that small gap between the end of his collarbone and his armpit. And even now, if he works himself too hard, his shoulder will start to hurt again because yeah, it was a big wound.

But he’d been right, that night. They did have time. They’ve had years. Wylan has kissed him in a variety of ways since then, from soft morning kisses to sleepy night kisses. From the quick kisses as they pass each other in the kitchen to the long ones where Wylan presses him into the pillows of his childhood bed. There’s the ones tainted with annoyance as they make up after an argument and the ones biting and hungry because Wylan was just too fucking hot for him to be able to handle much longer.

They’ve had much longer then Jesper had thought they would, but he’s not one to complain.

“Are you alright?”

Jesper grins, even now he still can’t get over how intuitive Wylan is to him. It should be scary, how well they know each other by now, but Jesper can’t feel anything other then pure, boundless love for him. The time for things to be scary is long gone, and Jesper doesn’t think it’ll ever be back again.

He looks over at him, taking in the way his brown hair turns almost hazel like in the beating Zemini sun, his eyes a honey gold. Its been years since Jesper had pushed his powers to the limit and swapped Wylan’s appearance with that of a corpse. Years since Wylan’s fiery red curls and Zemini sky blue eyes had plagued his mind. Even now, when he thinks back on their earlier memories he’s replaced that Wylan with this one. He’s slowly starting to forget how he used to look, but he doesn’t really mind.

That Wylan had been shackled by the weight of his father and the past he’d wanted to forget. This Wylan doesn’t have to be reminded every time he sees his reflection in the mirror.

“I’m just really fucking in love with you,” he says simply, answering his query. Because at the bottom of it all, it is the answer. No matter what thoughts plague his mind, Wylan is inevitably the cause of it all. He’s never not thinking about Wylan.

Predictably, Wylan flushes a beautiful shade of pink. It’s far from the first time Jesper has said it, even if that’s the way he’d said it that very first time.

That first time, Wylan had finally finished his latest painting. It was of Jesper, the way Wylan remembered him the day he’d first realised he’d had feelings for him. It had been the day Jesper had set off for the Van Eck’s mansion, determined in finding some dirty secretes. He’d been wearing his favourite emerald green jacket, the one that fell down to his ankles and that kilt that had always reminded him of his father. Wylan had painted him in the doorway, a key dangling loosely in his fingers, a crooked grin on his face.

When Wylan had asked him, somewhat nervously, what he thought, Jesper had only been able to say the truth, and for once he hadn’t been scared. “I’m just thinking I’m really fucking in love with you,” he’d said with a wide grin, kissing Wylan’s temple. Wylan had flushed a glorious shade of red, which only served to make Jesper laugh all that more. “You are extremely red right now,” he’d said between laughs, which only served to make Wylan flush all that harder, and then kiss him to shut him up.

“I love you too dumbass,” Wylan had said against his lips, smiling that wondrous, left sided one that had always pulled on his heart strings.

And even now, Wylan still flushes when he says it, almost as if he can’t quite believe it. Jesper has no idea why, what’s not to love about him? But he doesn’t question it, he knows by now that Wylan doesn’t like to talk about his life before they’d met, and Jesper doesn’t push him to.

When Wylan takes his hand, it makes Jesper’s heart jump like it was the first time. He’ll never be able to get enough of Wylan. He never wants to.

There’s a box, in one of their bags, carefully hidden inside one of his socks. It’s empty, for now, but one day Jesper will put a ring in it. Possibly his Ma’s ring, but he would like to make one, it was Wylan after all who’d encouraged him to use his powers more once they’d returned to Novyi Zem.

One day he’ll put a ring on Wylan’s finger and will seal that promise he’d made to always come back for him.

One day, he’ll do all that.

But for now, he’s content to just intertwine their fingers and press a kiss to freckles knuckles, smiling at the look of fondness Wylan gives only to him.

For now, he’s happy to just move into their new home together, to have a place for themselves for the first time since the old workhouse in Ketterdam.

They have time, after all.