Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;

- Robert William Service, The Cremation of Sam McGee

The sharp smell of burning still irritates Melly’s mucous membranes, even though she has left the forest far behind. She thinks she can't get much further, but she doesn't allow herself to stop. Her eyes are still stinging from the way the knifelike smoke and heat has irritated them, and she's not sure if the shortness of her breath is a simple exhaustion or the result of inhaling the gas. But considering she's still breathing, it won't be fatal. She must not slack off if she wants to get out of this cursed place. She mustn't stop, because forest fires, especially those set on purpose, tend to spread at a speed that no other element can match, let alone a creature with as many flaws as a human.
She doesn't know if the child has managed to escape the burning flames. Maybe she ended up in the fire along with that other thing. A man. Or a monster. She doesn’t know. There is no hope for the blonde woman, that’s for sure. Melly has seen the pool of blood to know she's most certainly gone. Normally, she would pity her, but now it doesn’t matter. She must not allow herself any fault or weakness, for the heavy footsteps behind her reveal that she is not the only one who has managed to get out of the burning inferno. She keeps pushing through the trees and the smell of burnt wood, plants and animal carcasses, to the south, where the merciful light of freedom spreads out. 

It is only when she reaches the bare surface of a rocky mass in the middle of nowhere that she allows herself to collapse onto the nearest boulder. The dampness of the rock under her hands is like salvation. Behind her back, the trees are still burning, but she can now see the dark blue sky above her. Spacious like freedom.
Without hesitation, she pulls her mask with shaking hands as her lungs desperately try to rid themselves of the fumes they have inhaled. Each breath hurts as her ribcage turns into thousands of razor blades that tear through her internal organs. In self-defence against polluted air, her lung ducts probably have begun to close spontaneously. Her shaky breath bounces off the boulder and condenses into a mossy dampness.
It's strange how the human body sometimes chooses self-destruction over the threat of death from an external cause. They're not much different from bees in that respect.

Her bees. All gone in those fuel flames. There is no way they could have survived this. The thought stings almost as much as the ash that clogs her airways. 

The sound of a heavy impact on the ground and a coughing fit tell her that the man has finally caught up with her. She doesn't have to look at him to know that he is not much better off than she is. If the fire hit her, he must have run straight through it. His clothes smell of fire, ash, and sweat, although she's not sure he hasn't smelled like this from the start.

She gives him a cautious glance when he finally lifts his head to scramble back to his feet, only to see him rip a wet yellow scarf off his face. He's covered in dark soot and the livid scar over his eye is even more red, raw and disfiguring than before. A terrible man with a terrible scar; tall, with tanned skin and dark sunken eyes. His right hand is still gripping the axe, and she thinks that she should probably take advantage of his moment of weakness to kick him in the face and run again. There is no point in waiting for the man to turn from a mere pursuer to a hunter.

But her legs are shaky from exhaustion after sprinting at least a mile through the forest, and there is no way she could outrun him; he would catch her within a moment. Though her coughs have subsided, her chest still burns. The man himself is breathing heavily, but he seems to be recovering faster than her. She wouldn't stand a chance in an open confrontation, and she doubts she can appeal to the some hypothetical remains of his humanity. A man or a monster are concepts that seem to be quite intertwined of late.

"We must go on," she tells him. She doesn't want to let him sort the situation out in his own head. Men like him cannot be counted on to come to any reasonable or non-violent conclusion. "The fire will spread, and even if it doesn't hit us, the fumes will suffocate us."

“Do you think they are-”

She nods, still a bit gasping for oxygen. She's seen enough forest fires to know that most probably yes. Everything in them will go up in smoke. Death in fire has no restraints. And judging by his appearance, it's clear he knows it too.

“Shit.”

There's a gooey pool of blood and spit in the dirt underneath. He must have coughed it up. Under all the charcoal on his face, his lip is split and his cheek bruised. Maybe she should have taken that chance with kicking. He looks away from her, and she isn't sure if he's looking at the smoke rising from the forest or the dark sky.

“All that fucking money,” he says finally.

Of course. She grunts and scrambles to his feet. They've been standing too long and she doesn't know if anyone else is following them.

“There is no money,” she tells him. There probably never was. "Be glad that you managed to save your skin."

"There still can be the prize."

He's uncertain. Like a kid who expects the world to change just because he wants it to. A fool. She doesn’t have time for this, they need to head for the rocky hills. They should never have stopped in the first place.

"There is no prize," she tells him.

His voice calls to her from behind, irritated. "Maybe not for you. I still have my mission."

She doesn’t have to ask what mission it is; the memory of the man’s axe is still fresh for her to have any doubts. But it doesn't matter. Everything behind them is in ashes. The woods, the players, probably the entire mansion and its owners. The nightmare has caught fire and taken everything to hell from whence it came. 

"No one's paying you."

At best, he can collect his payment in ashes and coal.

Hopefully, he will get it through his brain. Her death won't do anyone any good now. He doesn’t bother to respond and she doesn’t wait for him, already walking up the rocky hill. 

He catches up with her within minutes. Despite being burned and beaten, his body is still intact, tall and strong. Compared to him, she feels much older and weaker than she really is. She tries to suppress her coughs as her breath hitches in her throat. His gait tells her he won't wait for her. They're both willing to abandon everyone and everything to survive. The moment she becomes a liability, she will be more than expendable to him. 

She wishes she had kept at least the remnants of her net. The bare surroundings, full of thorns and twisted bushes, will provide her no cane to support her climb. He strides sovereignly upwards, but the sky is already dark. Her nose tells her that they will not make it much further. The ash and heat begin to condense in the air, and it will not be long before the bare rock surface turns into another test. At that moment, she thinks that at least they will have water. But the storm that catches them is biblical in its scope, exceeding all her expectations.

The rain is so heavy that it turns into mist and water begins to accumulate in the nooks and crannies between the rocks. Soon the mud makes everything slippery and dangerous, and even the shallowest slopes difficult to walk and navigate. The raindrops are heavy and almost unbearably cold. It feels like getting stabbed by needles, but at least it manages to wash some of the dirt off her face and arms. She is exhausted, drenched, and the scarred man is finding it difficult to step on his right foot. She tries to compensate with the position of her shoulders, but she has seen too many men unwilling to admit weakness to know that they are both at the end of their strength. 

The cave eventually comes as a redemption.

It is a narrow space, a small opening in the stonework, barely visible and poorly lit. Fortunately, uninhabited. She has no problem slipping inside, but he hesitates for a moment before apparently deciding that he has no choice. The man stumbles a little before forcing his broad shoulders through the entrance. It's a real shame. She wouldn't mind if he didn't come in. The rain will last for hours, and she's not exactly in the mood to spend that time in a cold, confined space with the man who tried to kill her a few hours ago. Moreover, the cold rain did little to replace the shower that they both needed, only adding to the smell of sweat and ashes on their bodies. They both stench. 

He stays next to the entrance, shrouded by a dark alcove. Without any further ado, he rips off the soaked gloves and his shirt. Clearly, he doesn't care that he's in a lady's company, what a savage. It's terrifying. Threatening even. That horrible wrinkled scar goes down his right shoulder, practically covering the entire length of his torso. Whatever caused it must have been life-threatening. Luckily, he at least keeps his pants on. With him blocking the remaining light, it feels like the walls are closing in on her and she has to close her eyes to fight off a sudden attack of claustrophobia.

His voice snaps her out of her incipient despair. 

"The rain might put it out."

She has to think about what he means for a moment before she realizes that he's probably looking back at the smouldering forest. Hopeless, greedy idiot. It's like he has no survival instinct left. But then, maybe he doesn't. She shouldn't be surprised, the man is clearly not right in the head. With no ash, blood, or dirt on his face, you can see how much he has been roughed up. It's a miracle he doesn't have a concussion or something. To think an educated man did this- Never mind. The origin does not mean anything when one fights for his life.

He closes his eyes again and leans against the curved wall of the cave. Her clothes stick to her like a second layer of icy skin, but she'd rather stay in them all night than take them off. 

"There's nothing left,” she tells him in case he needs reassurance about the obvious. 

"You don't know that."

"It was gas. There cannot be anything left."

The man wipes his face with the back of his hand and pokes at his lower lip. The skin is broken and swollen, and he's obviously trying to assess the damage. As she watches, he squeezes the wound between two fingers to assess the pain. When he withdraws his hand, there's blood on his fingers. She already noticed that the wound on his lip is repeatedly opening. Maybe it's deeper than it looks at first glance. It would probably be better for everyone if he kept his mouth shut. But that would probably be too difficult to process through his brain.

Instead of letting the wound retract, the scarred man pinches it again and grimaces at pain. She thinks for a moment that he might be missing a tooth, but she's not even sure if he had it before the game started.

"What a fucking psycho."

He doesn't say who he means, and she doesn't ask. They sit in silence after that. Both huddled on their side of a narrow gap that leads nowhere, just like their lives. 

Outside, the rain hasn't let up, as if nothing has diminished its power, and the chilled air freezes her body to the bone. She wishes she had some dry clothes to cover herself up. She wishes for a warm bath. She wishes her companion would take a warm bath. They are both wet as stray dogs and sweat, ash, and rain never produce a pleasant smell, but damn, this guy stinks. 

His semi-nudity only enhances the scent of bare skin and masculine musk. Despite the distance, he makes her nauseous. She hasn't smelled anything like this since she was young and surrounded by unwashed people. No honourable man, no one dignified, not even on their expeditions, would allow himself to stink this bad, or force a woman to smell it. The scared man smells like something out of human sewers or the outskirts of cities where people sleep with dogs. 

Rationally, she is aware that she doesn't smell herself that much only because she can't track her own scent, but that doesn't help her nausea. He smells like the past she escaped, like a beast compared to renowned academicians she works with, like masculinity in its most pure, raw, and pathetic form.

With concern, she realizes that beneath her broken mask, her face is tightening in disgust. Now that the adrenaline brought on by the desire to survive has worn off, fatigue is eroding her self-control. Involuntarily, she shudders.

"You should take that coat off."

His voice sounds as violent in the acoustics of the cave as he himself is. In her shock she makes the mistake of meeting his dark eyes. They shine through the falling darkness as if they belonged to a nocturnal animal, not a human.

"You need to dry or you'll freeze."

The obviousness of his remark annoys her. He himself looks quite withered already. He leans lazily against the wall by the entrance; just enough to keep the rain off him, but his ridiculously long legs are stretched out to block the way. If she wanted to pass, she'd have to step over them. Son of a bitch.

She does not bother to answer and, naturally, he interprets her silence as shyness.

"What? You think you are too good to sit here in undies? Get pneumonia and die then, doe."

Of course he assumes it is the first time she'd ever gotten wet in her life, asshole. She's not going to brag about her experiences with surviving in the rainy wilderness, although she's pretty sure the miner has never looked into the rainforest in his life. No, she is way too aware that they are not in the tropics to base her superiority in this unfortunate situation on that. Moreover, she's sure he wouldn't care.

So far he's been only making a point by showing her no respect, purposely acting like a brat. She's not sure if she's older than he is, but she's definitely from a better background. Even if the former didn't apply, the latter should be enough. In a civilized society at least. 

The implication is that he is humiliating her on purpose. That makes any hypothetical attempt at conversation futile.

She turns away from him and thinks of all the possibilities of escape, at least mentally. Meditation never worked for her. So she should probably just try to block out his voice. It's not easy. In the tiny, closed space of the cave, his presence is overwhelming. But she is able to hold on for a while. Then longer.

To be honest, it got to her a little the first time. When she thought she had completely closed that chapter of her life behind her, only to find that she would be looked at as if she still meant nothing. She could have been the youngest professor in the history of the academy, she could have published a ton of research in Baker's Journal of Entomology, but it still didn't matter to them in the end. 

What the hell are you doing here, girl?
Go back to being a rich man's pampered little wife.

She didn't come to play a deadly version of Hide and Seek unprepared to deal with boys. In this stupid game, in the academy, in the wilderness, it didn't matter. Men always went for her throat because for some reason, a woman's presence disturbed their territorial instincts. It never stopped her. This bastard is far from the first.

He's still staring at her when he makes the mistake of looking towards the exit. 

"What are you looking at?"

Mentally sighing, she allows herself ten seconds of blessed silence before she answers. 

"Nothing. What are you looking at?"

He frowns as if he's actually offended. He was probably really looking at her. Part of her is offended that they just hired this idiot to kill her. She probably wasn't worth more to them. Sometimes it's liberating to be underestimated, but that doesn't mean it's not libel.

"That thing behind you," he says, pointing his finger into the darkness like a child. "Are those sticks?"

"Bones."

"Bullshit."

"It's bones."

Old ones. She checked them when they entered, just to be sure that nothing would come back to maul them for invading its lair. But whatever the carcass originally was, it wasn't anyone's prey. Or at least not food. Even through the darkness, it's clear that the bones aren't scattered as they would be if the remains were torn apart. Whatever it was, it wasn’t dragged here. It came voluntarily to die staring into the forgotten cave's stem wall, as if it had turned away from the world itself. 

"You can't tell if they're not sticks until you look,” he accuses, and she gives him a piercing look, even though she knows he can't see it through her mask.
She doesn't need a man like him questioning her. And she's certainly not going to turn her back to him. 

"See for yourself."

He frowns, which makes his ugly scar even more crooked, but he doesn’t move. They are obviously on the same page when it comes to not turning their backs to each other. She wonders what he thinks she could do to him. Hit him in the kidneys with an elbow and hope it slows him down enough so she can run out into what seems like an apocalyptic flood sent by God to wash away all the sins of mankind again? Yeah, fat chance.

“If it had been wood, we could have had a fire.”

He has the speech and thinking of a stubborn child, but she has to give him credit for being persistent. Or maybe irredeemable in his foolishness. Personally, she's had enough fire for the rest of her life after running through that inferno, and judging by how badly burned his body is, the thought of fire in a confined space should scare him even more than her. The fact he chooses practicality to trauma might be his redeeming quality if he weren't so sure it's obstinacy.

He keeps muttering something to himself about wood and stupid sticks, a weird schizoid habit that doesn't lessen his overall creepiness, until she can't stand it. She allows herself a bit of amusement.

“If you need wood so much, you can go outside and look for some.”

This stimulates him exactly as she expected. It's funny how terribly easy it is to arouse his anger. Men like that are violent. But then, he's been mostly bark and no bite since they came out of the fire.

"Ha? Do you think I'm an idiot?" And honestly, she does, but she doesn't need to tell him that. "I'm not letting you run away. Not if there is still a chance they are paying."

At least now she knows for sure what his main motivation is. Stubborn asshole. 

“Ashes won’t pay you anything.”

“I wouldn’t find anything in this fucking downpour anyway. You just hope my foot would slip and I’d end up on the rocks.”

He's suspicious, almost paranoid. Strange qualities for a man who willingly allowed himself to be drawn into a game of survival. Or maybe it’s exactly his only trait that makes sense. She wonders how much he was promised for her head, that he was willing to put his own life on the line for it. He doesn't seem like a man who wants to die. On the contrary, suspiciousness is the quality of a man who holds on to life by the skin of his teeth.

She sighs, feeling old and tired in her shivering flesh.

“How would you even start a fire?”

He looks at her in silence for a moment and then starts to rummage through the pockets of his wet trousers. She notices that he is being more careful with his left leg. Perhaps that’s why he refused to get up and check his damn sticks. Whatever injury he has, it hasn't gone away yet, which is a potential advantage for her. When he finally pulls a silver lighter from his thigh pocket, a smirk forms on his lips for a moment only to disappear within a few seconds. His thumb runs over the flint several times, which produces a desperately barren sound.
No spark comes out.
Either the wick got wet or there's some other problem; either way, his lighter's dead.
With an angry growl, he slams it to the ground and his head resignedly falls back against the cave wall.

“Fuck.”

She'd almost laugh at him if she wasn't freezing too. Her clothes still haven't come off her skin and she can feel herself losing body temperature because of it. Damn cotton clothes, they always suck up moisture like a rag. In that way, he's better off than she is. His shirt will eventually dry out, and - pants go to hell - he will be moderately dry in the morning. She, on the other hand, will definitely get a mild hypothermia. But she's not about to admit it aloud.

Wordlessly, she slides her hands into her armpits and curls up against the cave wall. If nothing else, she should get some sleep. She has no idea what the next day will wake her up to, and exhaustion is just another nail in the coffin. It shouldn't be that far to the nearest town, but she has to prepare for anything.

She can practically feel the darkness embrace her as his voice wakes her from her peaceful sleepiness. 

"If you fall asleep, you'll freeze to death."

Oh, a woman can't have anything here, not even a restful night. She doesn't even open her eyes.

"It's not that cold."

"Not now. But it will get worse. We're in a cave, you goose. The deeper you go, the colder it gets. And you insist on wearing your drenched coat like an idiot."

Suddenly, it makes sense why he's been holding on to the cave entrance all this time. She almost suspected him of being claustrophobic. That would be ironic, to say the least; a miner who's afraid of the underground. But his reasons are almost rational after all. There is indeed a chill coming from the back of the stone alcove, so the mouth of the cave should be the warmest. Maybe she underestimated him and he's not a complete moron after all. 

"I'm fine," she dismisses him and hopes that will be the end of it. 

Unfortunately, this hasn’t been her luckiest day so far and it’s clearly not going to change. Now, that he's mentioned that the cold is going to escalate rapidly, she's starting to feel it herself. An unpleasant draft is starting to seep through the icy fabrics that stick to her skin. For a moment, she thinks that maybe she should at least take off her coat after all, but quickly dismisses the thought. It's stupid. If she doesn't want to go naked like that fool, she needs to keep as many layers on as possible. Even if they're soaking wet.

As if he senses her discomfort, he breaks the blessed silence again.

"Come here."

It's not even a request. It's an order. She opens her eyes in anger just to see him gesture with his hideously burnt hand to a place next to him, making clear where he wants to get her. She turns to him to make sure he knows she heard him, but that's also the only reaction he gets.

"Come here," he repeats, his voice mildly raising. "I can hear you shaking like an aspen leaf, it's annoying.”

“You are the one here who’s freezing naked, boy.”

That makes him pause. She clearly managed to hit something with that remark, because his skin flushes dark. Maybe he didn't expect her to realize that he was the one on the verge of hypothermia. Maybe he's just not used to people calling him boy. Or maybe he'd heard it too often. 

It would not be that surprising; he has the build of a young man trying to overcompensate.

Finally, he stands up. He can barely fit the cave, huge as he is. When he takes a step towards her, it is almost impossible to notice that one of his legs is broken. He hides it so well.

"Be careful, doe. I am also the one here with an axe."

To prove his point, he grabs the hatchet and drags it across the ground. The metal makes a sickening sound against the wet stones. Like this in the dark, towering high to the ceiling and blocking the only exit, he's terrifying.

She reaches into her hat and pulls out the long needle that holds it in place. The last chance she has. She hopes he doesn't notice that her hands are shaking and her heart is racing.

"You know what this is?" she asks him, surprised that her voice doesn't waver. He doesn't make another move. "It's enough for me to put it through your brain starting with your eye. You're exhausted. And pretty obviously hurt. You're glad you're standing on that leg. I can tell that the hike up here made it worse. You think you're gonna be faster with a heavy axe than I am with this?"

Actually, the answer is yes; he certainly would be. They're both on the same exhaustion level, and even if he didn't have his muscles, his height alone would give him an indisputable advantage. She would have to be precise to be able to injure him with her pin. All he needs is one swing.
However, it's clear from his confused look that he himself isn't sure who's the one in power here. Well, she’s not going to tell him. Threats are the only clarification he gets. That and spit into his face if he dares to crawl any closer.

After what seems like a difficult decision, he puts the axe down. She doesn't bother to follow his lead, simply putting the hat pin back into her hairdo. She won't deprive herself of the only weapon she has.

"Doe's feisty bitch."

She doesn't know what he's thinking, but she can guess that he's probably decided that cooperating with her is the best decision. He's frowning as he slowly retreats back to his original position. He looks offended. And she thought the situation couldn't get any more ridiculous. 

"I don't care, freeze your ass off," he murmurs. "But I'm not resuscitating you."

As if that didn't save him his job. She's starting to suspect that he'd be happy if someone did it for him. He gets surprisingly uncomfortable for such a horrible looking bastard when it comes to it, doesn’t he. She watches his ridiculously large silhouette in the darkness of the cave and suddenly, when she can barely see the hideous scars, he looks more like a boy than a man after all. An overgrown brat, reckless, and not yet fully developed mentally.

It's not easy, right? she wants to ask him. The killing. Not after you've spent time with that unfortunate person. Not when it's not in the heat of passion. He should have aimed better in those woods with the adrenaline of the game still in him. But she's not feeling poorly enough to laugh in his face directly.

With a sigh, she scrambles to his feet. He turns to her in surprise.

"Throw that thing somewhere you cannot reach it and I will come," she tells him.

With little hesitation, he picks up the axe and places it about a foot closer to the entrance. It almost makes him roll his eyes.

"Somewhere you can't reach," she repeats back to him like a little kid, and he reaches for the tool again, this time with an angry growl.

"If a bear comes, you're making a human shield."

To her satisfaction, he eventually throws the hatchet away. Far enough from them both to make her willing to come closer.
Of course, he wouldn't need a gun to kill her. But she reckons that a guy having trouble driving an axe into her head won’t strangle her. That would take too much time.
Partially, she wonders if he'd last. If he’d be able to hold her down long enough for her life to leave her. It is not nice to watch such a slow death. Not everyone has the stomach to watch something so ugly and slow. She doubts that he would.
She is not going to let her guard down, though.

She slowly approaches him and squats down beside him. Despite her clothes and the distance of a few dozen centimetres, she feels that he is warmer than her. Damn hot-blooded men.

She doesn't even get a chance to sit down properly, and he is already complaining again. 

"For Christ's sake, take it off, I'm not watching."

It makes her eyes roll somewhere into her head. She can't think of anything that could give him the impression that she would have any reason to cooperate with him, but then, she already noticed he's not the sharpest tool in a shed. At first, she thinks about completely ignoring him as she has done so far, but wet clothes might actually become an obstacle to shared body heat. She's not egoistic enough to drag him into her self-protective stubbornness, although this idiot doesn't probably deserve anything else.

It's about being the bigger person. With a mental sigh, she reaches for the buckle of her coat. It comes off with a sharp click and the metal buttons follow. One by one, undone by her half-frozen fingers. Maybe he was right about the temperature going lower than she would anticipate.

She leaves the rest on; the shirt, pants, her beekeeping mask. Not that any of these would still serve its purpose. The mask is broken, pants wet and uncomfortable, and her shirt is effectively stuck to her skin, cooling instead of warming, enhancing every feature she would like to cover.

To his credit, he really doesn't turn to look at her, and instead lies down with his back to her. She's almost glad. Without the thickest layer, her skin feels very vulnerable indeed to the cold air, but she has to admit that the heat of the close living body is nice. 

Even in the horizontal position, his body is about twice as large as hers, and she is not a small woman. Humans shouldn't be so dimorphic, this jerk almost looks like a different species altogether. His bachelor odour wrinkles her nose. Before she lays down next to him, she puts the coat under herself in a desperate attempt to get some insulation from the cold stone. At this point, she cannot even find power in herself to complain about it being wet.

With her hands folded under her head, she turns her back to him and closes her eyes. His warmth radiates to her despite the lack of physical contact, and she had no idea how much she needed it. Maybe even before she got herself drenched. She cannot remember the last time she felt the warmth of another body. It must have been long before she and her husband parted for good. Like this, in the dark, in the wilderness, it makes her nostalgic. She is too old for this stuff, but she wasn't once. She just sort of hoped that the days of having to sleep on a cold floor were behind her.

She doesn't even realize it, but the more her body sinks into sleep, the more she simultaneously moves toward the source of redemptive warmth. Fortunately, when her back finally presses against his, he doesn't comment on it.

It’s the first time she’s sleeping next to a man other than her former husband. At least since she had grown up and gained enough status to not have to sleep in a pile with the other servants. The memory of the dark crowded chambers, when it was unclear whose limbs were whose, sent chills through her veins faster than the cavern's icy draught. She's not ashamed, no. She's just not very happy about the situation. 

The stone was uneven and hard beneath her body. Her coat is still wet. She doesn't want to roll over because she doesn't want to give him an excuse to think she's too spoiled for this. He rests quietly, his back arching against hers from time to time, and his breathing is so calm that she is convinced that he is asleep. Typical. Men never have a problem falling asleep quickly, even in hellish conditions. Too bad her exhaustion seems to have turned into overexertion; she's stuck here in a darkness with nothing but her mind and cold stone under her. Perhaps it is the imminent presence of danger that keeps her alert, but she'd still like a good night's rest.

She wonders if he has ever been forced to sleep pressed up against the bodies of strangers, just so they don't freeze to death. It's actually likely that he did. Although she doesn't want to admit it, he obviously knows the caves better than she does. And his hideous scarring must be the result of some terrible accident. She's seen it once before. A body burned so badly that the skin turned black. Third-degree burns, they called it. She'd see it again today if they were just a little slower. But it cannot be helped, she thinks, as her cheek touches the wrinkled skin. Miners live dangerous lives; cave-ins and explosions are the order of the day. They have to rely on each other or they would not survive and then they still don’t usually live to a ripe old age. It’s a rough life. In fact, she is not surprised that this fool is willing to accept anything if offered the idea of getting out of his own misery. It is understandable. But that does not mean that she has any sympathy for him.

She doesn't know what exactly possessed her to think it's a good idea to move closer, but it doesn't change the fact she does it nevertheless. It must be the warmth. Some instinctive primal need for survival inside her that seeks the source of heat without thinking of consequences. At least the rhythm of his breathing doesn't change for a second, as she rolls over to him, her face practically pressing to his back. Her mask is torn and partially rolled up, so she can practically feel his skin just out of reach of her lips.
He feels warm.
And her exhausted, helpless brain is telling her that warm is good. Much better than the icy breeze from the depth of the cave that creeps between her shoulder blades. If only she could get even closer. Her toes curl into the sturdy leather of her shoes.

In her half-awake state, she tried to get hold of herself because the idea of him waking up like that and getting some strange ideas is very unpleasant. Her breasts are against his back, and while she doesn’t think it’s such a big deal, he might interpret it differently. But the more she tries to push herself into some distance from him, the more she ends up snuggling to his warmth like a child. Her muscles finally relax, and it feels like she's sinking into a pleasant fog that precedes sleep.

After some time, she feels him turn to his back. That alone won't snap her out of her half-sleep, because it's a barely audible movement. His chest still heaves in the same steady rhythm as before, the steady pounding of the unceasing rain echoes from outside, and she rests her cheek against his warm body. She feels his skin under hers, his chest rising and falling, his heartbeat, the heat radiating from his body.

Then his arm wraps around her and snaps her out of her slumber so effectively that she is suddenly wide awake. Her breath gets caught in her throat and she has to fight an urge to jerk away, because it looks like he’s still sleeping, and she doesn’t want to wake him up.

It's not much of a hug, really. He is barely touching her, one arm brushing the top of her head, his hand laid gently on her ribs. One would cuddle a pillow like this in deep sleep, not necessarily a person. Yet, it's so incredibly intimate that it hits her like an avalanche and suddenly she realizes how long she went without this. How much she missed this, whatever it is, and she lets her face relax against his body, lips unashamedly pressing against his skin, and she breathes the warmth of the closeness, not even caring about the masculine smell. She's pretty sure that's his breast under her mouth, but in her sleepiness and newly discovered touch deprivation, she doesn't bother with any moral restraints. 

Calmed, she relaxes her body against him. Naively, she still believes that he is asleep, because why would a man that wants to murder her hold her so gently. But his voice rips her out of the illusions she has created in her mind.

"Wanna fuck?"

Her eyes snap open before she can stop it.

"Excuse me?"

"It would get us warmer."

The bastard doesn't sound sleepy at all. Probably didn't work all the time either. She feels her brows knit together in anger. And the casualty of his delivery is even worse than the statement itself. It takes her a long minute to realize he's completely serious and it makes her mad like nothing else.

"Fuck no!" she tells him, although she has to admit that her voice is much more scandalized than she really is.

Actually, she thinks she should react more strongly. Perhaps straight up stab him. It's certainly due to her sleepiness that the offer itself doesn't seem as awful as it should. He's gross. Utterly disgusting. He drives her mad.

"I mean come on!” he says and yeah, there is no trace of sleep in his voice. What a fucking jerk. “We could probably make this place heated up. It's not that complicated."

It's certainly complicated, but his brain doesn't have the sufficient processing capacity to get it. It makes her distantly wonder what the hell those miners are up to underground. 

"I've had unsavvy students,” she tells him, making sure her voice is cold. “But you're outdoing them."

It takes him a while to process that.

"Yeah, fuck you."

Satisfied with how angry she sounds, she lies back against his bicep. After all, it's warmer there than anywhere else. For the whole time his hand hasn't moved from her side, though it is placed quite discreetly. She doesn’t remove it by force. They stay like this for some time, in blessed silence for once, although she's no longer thinking about sleep. That jerk managed to get so much anger in her blood that she'll be breathing it out for a while. She doesn't know what makes her more nauseous; the idea of having sex with him, or the idea of him having sex with someone else. Or the fact that now she realizes how desperately she missed human touch. It's terrible. Completely irrational and unpragmatic. She shuts her eyes, because it's easier to keep her calm if her eyes are closed.

The darkness that surrounds them is once again filled with his voice. Though this time it is barely a murmur.

"I'm good, you know. You'd like it."

This time she cannot hold back and lets her annoyance flow through her words. "Do you often fuck your screwed up kills?"

"I never killed anyone," he admits like a fool. "Not on purpose."

She wants to laugh. Of course he didn't. She had her suspicions since she's seen him fight that other man in the forest. And she could tell, even from a distance, that the whole fight was one-sided. The miner was defensive, almost as if he was afraid to actually hurt that poor drugged idiot. He also paid for this naivety with his face and a leg. She knows for sure that this man doesn't have in himself what it takes to kill another man. But then she is a woman. And he might as well be that case of a whoreson. 

"Great," she says, semi-sarcastic. "I live to be men's first."

The bad sexual innuendo is the only warning she allows him. He's silent for a while, probably contemplating whether he should react in any meaningful way, or simply tell her to fuck off. But at least he doesn't argue anymore. He is quiet, pleasantly warm, and that is exactly what she needs right now.

It must be the exhaustion, she tells herself. Because she's always been pragmatic about these things. But then, today, she's already survived a forest fire, a cursed estate, and an attempted murder. So to be honest, she doubts there will ever be a better day to catch a sexually transmitted disease. 

She rolls up her already half-undone mask and lays a kiss on his surprisingly soft lips. This time she notices the pause in his breathing, and his hand suddenly grips her waist a bit more tightly. He still tastes of blood. When she bites his lower lip, although quite gently, he hisses and she thinks, just for a second, that he would be much better company if he were mute. Maybe tongueless. If the only sounds he could make were these little pained gasps.

His hand slips under the damp fabric of her shirt, feeling her up until he finds her breast. His palms are big and gentle and warms her nicely. Unwillingly, she arches into it. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, he was correct about the shared heat. Their kisses alone are enough to spread the warmth in her body. In the dark, when she can't see his ugly scar and dead eyes and all she can rely on is her sense of smell and touch, he’s much more acceptable than usual. 

His body is huge against hers, and he’s young and strong. That is something she hasn't had in many years, if ever. Maybe he's an idiot, maybe he's desperate, so far gone that he's willing to become a murderer, but his shoulders are broad, his chest and stomach are hard, tanned, and flat, and in her exhaustion it's suddenly enough. 

When she rolls her hips, he groans into her mouth and pushes his body against hers. She feels his cock harden, just slightly, but it’s enough for her to realize how much he's aching for this. His fingers slide down her skin, up her stomach, into her shirt, and his breath is hot on her face. She lets him push a hand between their bodies and slide his fingers under her clothes. She lets him kiss her and pull her closer. Eventually, she even lets him take off her mask too.

There he pauses, if only for a second, and she suddenly realizes that maybe this is a huge mistake after all.

“You’re an ugly one,” he states, and although it's clear from his voice he doesn’t think it’s a big deal, it’s enough to make the old insecurity echoes in her head, inspiring rage and hate. “But well, at least you know you look the best with this bag on.”

Words that escape her mouth don't belong to Melly Plinius. A respectable woman and a renowned scientist would never say anything like that. Melly Ndlovu, however, the long forgotten no one, perhaps would. 

“You are the one to speak, fuck face.”

He snorts. Genuinely amused. And she hates him for it.
Feeling an urgent need for vengeance, she tucks her fingers under his waistband and pulls his cock out. He shudders with surprise, pulsating, and hardening in her hand and finds it pathetic. Apparently, all men can be meek if someone has their balls in their grasp. He breathes heavily in short desperate sighs, but otherwise he lets her do as she pleases, leaning on his elbows in resignation. Not that much of an adrenaline junkie to risk an injury of his precious parts, is he?

They move quite quickly after that. After a few minutes of kissing and touching, he gets to his knees and, completely unprompted, he removes the rest of his clothes on his own, as if the nudity really doesn't bother him at all. He doesn’t wait for her to strip, not even partially, freeing himself of his pants and boots as if he had no shame whatsoever. 

She hasn’t seen a man so careless about his basic dignity for years. It feels as nostalgic as inappropriate. But in darkness, when only dark shadows or his silhouette are visible, he’s a beautiful piece of man. Too bad he's an utter piece of shit.

Not thinking for once, she pulls his head closer to claim his lips again, pleased, when he doesn’t resist her ministrations. It's not a bad kiss. Not bad at all, in fact. As they move, the heat spreads through them and she beings to feel more forgiving in her intoxication. Sooner than later her breathing is heavy, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes must be half-lidded. She even begins to forgive him for the way he smells like every man who ever came from the lowest class.

Then, his hand finally makes its way to her pants.

She almost shudders at his boldness, but does not push him away. Without losing time, he slips into her underwear and strokes her in an awkward angle. Up and down through her hairs, first with his palm, then more precisely with two fingers. He brushes over her mons and through her labia, only occasionally touching the soft but sensitive nerves. 

It's clear what he's trying to do, also that he's doing a shit job.

Under her mask, she frowns. So much for the ‘I'm good’ talk.

While his hand is hot and large enough to warm her loins up, the described effect is quite literal. Besides that, it doesn't feel good at all. She suffers his clumsiness for a while, because she wonders if he has some grand plan in his empty head. But of course her hopes are futile. Eventually, she gives up.

"Your fingers are wrong."

And the bastard chuckles into her skin like it's a long-built joke he's been engineering for himself for a while now.

"How can they be wrong when they are inside?"

Then there are two fingers inside her, just the tips, not deep at all, but it's too sudden nevertheless. It hurts.

"Uh-! You son of a bitch."

She kicks him into his thigh, knees him to the side. It makes him withdraw his fingers, but he never stops laughing.

With an utterly bastardish grin, he looks at his hand, clearly satisfied.

"You are wet."

Yeah, like some fucking feline that gets wet only in reaction to irritation of the vaginal wall. She kicks him into his knee again, unsatisfied with her lack of strength when he barely reacts. 

"Whoreson."

To her indignation, it makes him laugh again. Then, as if in apology, he kisses her neck, then shoulder, slowly making his way down until he finds her breasts. It's not a light touch and it's not gentle and it makes her gasp. Not that she’s forgiving him anything.

A ripple of arousal sends a shiver through her, almost unwillingly, when his mouth nips her skin and tightens around her nipple. Despite anger she feels, her body is heating as if she was still running through the burning woods, but this time it's not suffocating gas that is taking breath out of her lungs. 

But she assumes she doesn’t have to force herself to keep her last shreds of decency in this company. He wouldn’t recognize it anyway.

A broad palm presses against her already flaming groin, almost correctly thus time, only worsening the hot ache between her thighs, and she feels herself clench around nothing. 

"Bet you could cum just like this,” he snorts against her skin, and she grimaces with anger and disgust.

"Keep your dirty fingers out of me."

"Your pussy doesn't seem to be complaining."

"Disgusting."

He might deserve another kick, but at the moment she has other interests. Despite being a dumb moron, he is correct for once, and she’s drenched once again, this time not because of the rain. Pulling her own clothes off, she decides that she is not considerate enough to wait for him any longer. Before he has any chance to have another mood killing remark, she pushes him down, positioning herself above him.

It's ridiculous how easy it is and how good it feels. She hadn't experienced anything like this in a long time, if ever. Oh, no, she's no saint, no way. She may have been considered a spinster once, but those days are long gone. She was a good wife, beloved for a time. And now that that's gone too, she's had a couple of lovers.

But none like this.

She doesn't connect all the dots until he tries to kiss her, and she realizes he thinks they're making love. 

With a sour grin she pushes him down again because no, Whatever is this, it's not lovemaking. 

It's hardly sex she knows.

The lovemaking was then, in a summer sun-drenched study, when he caught her reading Opuscula braconolocica all those years ago. When her fascination with hymenoptera finally drove him to overcome all his moral inhibitions that arose against kissing his maid. He was so orderly, elegant, and well-mannered that she couldn't believe he had finally given in to her. To her, to someone so different, to no one. That day, she stole his kisses and heart over his collection of exotic invertebrates, and he tasted so sweet and gentle and perfect.

The lovemaking was when she put on her wedding dress and realized she had made it. When he told her his vows and made love to her, he, a handsome, intelligent, and influential man who wrapped his arms around her waist and didn't let go. Who believed he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Who pushed the skirt of her dresses up and covered her with delicate kisses that didn't end even after she spent into his mouth. Whose gentle attentions lasted day and night and she felt as if her life was a fairy tale with a prince who falls in love with a lowlife and takes her to his palace paradise.

It was when he held her hand despite her sweating, just before she first appeared before the Royal Academy to present their malaria research together; their joint work, almost their offspring. When she looked at his name in the newspaper, her heart pounded with happiness as she read the review that said the world's hunt to eradicate tropical fever began today, that his work would help save many lives. It was when she kissed him afterwards and it tasted of champagne and victory and hope for the future of the world. When she rode him under their soft linen sheets knowing all that future and grave his hers and hers only.

And sex… Sex was when she began deceiving herself into thinking she never saw the end of their fairy-tale coming. It was the familiar mouth on her and the intoxicating pleasure of his company; both so addictive and perfect that she didn't notice his features darken and his eyes began to look away. When she didn't realize that they were making love more out of duty than the sheer joy of being together. When she kissed him and his mouth mechanically responded. When she stroked his narrow waist, and he did not relax in her arms. When she looked at her life's work and suddenly didn't understand why his name should be on it.

She cannot find a term for what exactly is this, but it's not love, and she feels like it's not sex. Foolishness, perhaps. But above everything it's a desperate, instinctive need for release, for human touch, for getting rid of the remnants of adrenaline after they both nearly died. Nothing but two warm bodies grinding together in pathetic need for warmth. No emotions, no intellectual connection, no other feelings than the need for basic bodily needs. How mightily did she fall.

They move together like their lives depend on it, and she thinks there might be some truth to it. His hands are all over her body, grasping, stroking, and when she refuses him her lips, he focuses on her chest, running tongue over her nipples as if he was determined to worship her. He likes kissing, she realizes. He likes kissing and he likes tits, and he is so freaking desperate for it, it's pathetic. She decides to return the favour, squeezing one of his breasts, running her thumb over his nipple. To her satisfaction, it makes him shudder. Stone hard muscles clearly don't make him less sensitive.

They are both close, sooner than later. If she is to be completely honest, his dick isn't bad. Nicely thick and moderately long, it is almost enough to do the whole job itself. Too bad she's a bit of a complicated woman and generally needs a man that can stimulate her mind as well as her insides. He moves his hips cleverly and makes her slowly see a light in the end of the tunnel of pleasure, that's true. She loves it, yes. Absolutely so. But she can't help but think that he might make a good lover, only if his penis didn't dominate the rest of his personality.

He tries to kiss her again, and when she pushes him down, she can feel him twitch. She lets her hands roam freely on his chest and shoulders, brushing over the ugly texture of his scars, but at this point she finds them to be quite stimulating. With a soft sigh, he shudders, and she realizes they are near the end. Great. Amazing.

"That's it."

Maybe he didn't expect her to speed up. Or maybe he hadn't planned to warn her beforehand at all. She should have more sense, but she's so close herself that the thought of ending this prematurely clamps her thighs around his hips and drives him press deeper. 

With a few shudders, he finishes inside her and she can feel the tremble that passes through his tense muscles, before he goes limp.

Laying on the ground, he looks positively undone. However, she doesn't allow to rest, not yet.

"Oh, look at what have you done," she tells him, poking him into the ribs with her toe. "Clean what you messed up. Do you have no shame?"

For a moment she doesn't believe he will actually obey her orders. She expects him to come up with another half-witted remark that will make her wish she shot her brain out, or just pass out. But then he really rolls over and crawls between her legs. 

In the moment his mouth descends down on her, all her thoughts leave her for good. Having a nice cock is not much of an achievement, really. It is God-given. However, being able to make her shiver with nothing but a few creative licks here and there, that does take some skill.

She must be a mess down there, and she knows it. But he doesn't complain. He licks her open, hungrily, as if he was as thirsty as she is. The tip of his nose, as ridiculous as it is, presses into her clit, and she wishes she didn't have enough self-control to be able to just freely grind against it.

"I-hah-" she moans in sheer surprise and delight as he unashamedly eats what's left of his own pleasure. "I thought all miners are faggots."

He bites her thigh so sweetly it makes her shiver.

"I'm a prospector."

As if that was any better. Once again, she suppresses the urge to laugh in his face.
Partly she's not convinced. Partly, she's still sure that the only straight thing on this guy is his spine, but otherwise he’s so misogynistic he could as well suck cocks on a daily basis, but nothing, absolutely nothing prepared her for the professionalism with which he is able to carry out his task. 

She must be entirely cleaned up at this point, but he's not stopping. His mouth covers her, hot and greedy. His lips are soft, his tongue insistent and he doesn’t hurry. He’s slow, still grinning, determined to wash her up whole inside out, and she can swear she feels his tongue to actually press inside as a pitiful but softer and wetter alternative to his cock. She shudders, her hands almost tearing his stupid thick hair, and she wishes nothing more than to be able to ride his dumb head into oblivion. 

"Good boy," escapes her mouth before she can stop it, and he hums, accepting that praise. 

When he finally brings his hands to help, she already sees stars. His thumb finds her clit, massaging the soft skin there with gentle but steady circles and oh, so he knows how to do this too, he was just being a goddamn fucking bastard. She doesn't scream, she doesn't moan; she won't give him that satisfaction. But as the overwhelming wave of heat hits her, her thighs shake, uncontrollably clenching around his head, and there is no way she could cover the way her breath just left her for a few seconds.

After that, they lie together in the dark, in each other's arms, breathing heavily. The air around them is still cold, but she is sure that hypothermia is not really a threat to their bodies at this point. If that was the real purpose of this idiocy in the first place.

They're both glued to each other with sweat. His thumb inadvertently runs over her cheek. It's almost mindless touch, dismissible. If she was falling asleep, she would barely notice. Too bad she never was the person experiencing immediate post-coital fatigue. Sleep should come more easily than overthinking.

In the darkness she looks at his scar and hates him more than anyone else.

"You never thought of getting money any other way?" she asks, brushing her own fingers over his wrinkled skin. "Easier one?"

To her surprise, he picks the implication immediately.

"There's a reason hard trade is called hard trade."

"That's not what I meant." Not entirely at least. 

She puts her hand on his face, striking thumb over his broken lip; so gently he doesn't flinch. Outside, the rain stopped at some point. The clouds torn, allowing the moon and stars to light up the night. With a little push, she turns his head to see his unburned profile. Despite the creepy shadows the dim light paints under his eye and cheek, it's clear that has been a beautiful man once. He's not entirely stupid either. Perhaps he got disfigured before he could save himself from the misery of being born into poverty. Perhaps something else stopped him.

"There are rich women neglected by their husbands," she tells him. Some would certainly not mind a scar or two on their lovers. A tragic background can spark an interest if used cleverly.

He grins, but there's not a trace of humour in that expression.

"That good, huh?"

She slaps him, mostly for good measure, partially because her hand has been aching for it since they got into this damn cave. She however makes sure not to hit hard. He got beaten up enough during the game and it did not improve his character. 

"Not me, you moron. But I met enough rich ladies to know what I'm saying."

"I can't exactly just walk into posh estates and flirt with poor unsatisfied housewives."

Not with this attitude.

"Get a job in stables. Gardens, garage, I don't know. You are unnoticeable."

He rolls his eyes, and she doesn't even know why she pities him. Perhaps because they are their own mirror image in a way; a woman who has succeeded only to be stuck in a position from which there is no exit. A man who has never succeeded and despair has trapped him. He could have been saved from slavery in the mines if he had married well - If only it were that simple for men. Her marriage gave her the freedom to work, but it also took everything else away. 

"Then how about men?" she suggests, mostly to confirm her suspicion. Fuck his apparent oral fixation, she's never heard of a straight man that could give head this good. "Men are easier."

"Getting rich in gold mines should have been easy."

Resigned, she sighs and wraps her arms around his waist. Then the darkness finally takes her.

She wakes up to a freezing morning. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, and yet it is behind a screen of thick morning fog. She's laying on her coat, cold, and covered by still damp clothes. Confused, she sits up just to realize that he's nowhere to be seen. 

She knows she won't see him again even before she finds out her mask and the ace axe are missing. Foolish idiot. She allows herself to curse a little, before picking up her things.

The rocks of the mountain are slippery. Down at the foot of the hill, the heavy smog, aftermath of the forest fire, rises and minces with the fog. Only now she sees how much damage the fire did. Acres and acres of forest lie in charred ruins, burned to ash. The fire has spread for miles, and if it weren't for the rain, it would probably still be burning now. As far as her eyes can see is a barren and scorched land where nothing could survive. It would be ridiculous to hope to find anything in such a scorched area. And if there is, it won't be any good. One would have to be incredibly desperate to go there. Or stupid.

There is no reason for her to follow him. If he wants to try his luck despite her numerous warnings, that's his own idiocy. Who knows, perhaps he actually finds someone by chance. And by even greater chance he won't get himself killed. She owns him nothing.

But then he has her favourite mask.

With a sigh, she fastens the belt on her coat and slowly makes her way down the same way they came yesterday.