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It was funny how cliché their meeting was.
Holed up in a dingy tavern, a recluse assassin swirling a glass of wine round and round, careful not to spill it on his pristine leather gloves. The other patrons kept their distance, leaving him at the end of the bar alone. The old wood pipe touched his lips once again, the taste of tobacco and hickory sharp on his tongue, mixing with the smooth alcohol.
Maybe it was his general aura, the look in his tired, yet young, eyes. Maybe it was the bloodstains on a perfectly sharpened dagger. Maybe some other factor he couldn't even begin to guess. Despite it all, an equally tired healer slid into the seat beside him, nursing a foamy mug of beer. He wordlessly nodded towards him, lacking the energy to talk.
“Fritz. You?”
Mon dieu . Looks like he was chatting tonight, whether he liked it or not. And he certainly wasn't going to entertain this conversation.
“Spy.”
“Really? Your parents hated you zhat much?”
He couldn't pick it up in the first few words Fritz gave him, but it was clear he was not from around here. It was almost comforting. And despite himself, he snorted.
“ Non, non. My profession requires anonymity.”
“I understand.”
Fritz took a long sip of his beer. By the way it settled in the glass, it was definitely warm. Poor man. His spellcasting needed some work.
“You're a healer, I take it?”
He nodded in response, pausing to wipe the foam built up on his upper lip.
“Ja. I just recently lost my party.”
“Oh, I'm so–”
“Ack, don't be. They were a bunch of idiots.”
The bluntness of the sentence caught Spy completely off guard, and he couldn't help but break into snorting, near-painful laughter. Fritz soon joined in, and god why was his chest aching even more? Why was he almost moved to tears looking at Fritz’s bright, joyous smile? What was this?
“Say, fruend, have I seen you somewhere before?”
“I don't believe so. My apologies.”
And something, a brief glimpse of pain flashed behind his eyes. The healer looked so hurt, he almost wondered if he missed something.
“Ah. I must have confused you for someone else.”
Their laughter died down, conversation slowed, and the previous awkwardness returned. To alleviate this, Fritz rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Say, we both don't have a team. How about we start zhis journey off right?”
And despite himself, he smiled. Friendly, as he had practiced.
“I would not entirely mind the company.”
He ignored how his touch made it feel like he was being electrocuted.
-
“Ah, I see zhat your assignment went well, Herr Spy”
“ Va te faire foutre ”
He spat under his breath, pulling his collar up over the quickly-forming bruise on his neck. God, he was relentless.
Spy dove into his bear-hide tent, quick to organize his belongings; hastily written letters, jewelry gifted from his latest fling, a couple bottles of the finest wine he could get his hands on. It wasn't long before the shuffling of boots alerted him to the presence of the (much kinder than Fritz) Pauling.
“What did you do to piss off Fritz this time?”
“He can't handle the fact that his teammates have needs. And that he handles said needs in a healthy, yet unorthodox, way.”
Pauling snorted at this. She was quick to find a seat, kicking off her shoes on the more tarnished parts of the woolen blanket that was his flooring, bedding, workstation, etc. He silently thanked the gods for this woman, once again.
“He's just protective, Spy, you know how he can get.”
“However, he doesn't have to treat me as some useless whore that can't take care of themself. He's not protective, just a controlling puritan.”
Spy growled, slamming the wooden chest he was shoving objects into closed. He could almost hear Pauling frowning.
“I know. But really, he just doesn't want you to get hurt. You know how some people can get.”
Spy sighed. He hated when she was right. Curse the gods for this woman.
“Plus, maybe you can fix whatever is going between you two through different means, like–”
“Don't. I am warning you.”
“Have you seen the way he looks at you?”
He loudly banged his head against the chest. She snickered, obviously amused by the whole situation.
“But just talk to him at least, okay?”
“No promises, mon amie .”
-
It was cold. Unreasonably so. To the point that somehow, by some miracle (or curse), Fritz and Spy ended up in the same tent together. As angry as he wanted to be, the warmth radiating from the healer was undeniable, and the spite he felt towards a still-giggling Ms. Pauling (he could hear her halfway across the camp. Lucky her ended up with the fire) was slowly, yet surely, melting away. And unfortunately, so was his resolve. And tolerance for the frostbite that was sure to plague his limbs that weren't tucked close to his body.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
For once, Spy was thrown completely off guard.
“I vas talking with Frau Pauling, and–”
“ Mon dieu . What did she tell you?”
Fritz laughed at this, even if it was leaning more on the nervous side.
“Just– I've been very pushy. Protective. Controlling. And I'm sorry for that, I truly am. You do not deserve my anxiety pinned on you, mein freund .”
Spy took a moment to mull Fritz’s words over, tense arms slowly uncrossing and expression softening, even marginally. He did sound genuinely remorseful.
“I accept your apology.”
Fritz practically melted with relief, and just like that, he quickly threw his (very muscular) arms around the assassin, pulling him in for the world's most awkward hug. Spy gently patted one of the arms that was threatening to snap him in half. He could hardly breathe.
“Ack, I'm sorry, Herr Spy, I wasn't thinking–”
“ Non . It's okay.”
And with slow, shaking arms, he wrapped them the best he could around Fritz's torso. The healer was practically shaking with excitement.
And Spy tried not to think too hard as he fell asleep in safe, warm arms. He especially tried not to think about how familiar this felt.
-
“SPY!”
His head was spinning. There was a warm sensation trailing down from his nose, which he only barely registered as his own blood. The black spots in his vision faded in and out, as a firm, warm sensation scooped him up and off the ground, head throbbing in pain.
“Spy. Spy, stay with me, mein freund. Stay with me.”
He muttered something which he hoped to be words to the figure encompassing him. He pressed his face into an even warmer, softer something . Spy could hear a gentle beating that soon quickened in pace as his arms came up to wrap around the figure. He could rest. Just for a bit.
—
Spy eyes snapped open, his body moving to sit up before immediately crashing back down onto the soft linens beneath him. He groaned in agony, his head reeling as he tried to regain his senses. A cool washcloth was pressed against his forehead, to which he muttered a gentle merci .
“You're okay, Spy. Ich habe dich. ”
“Hwuh?”
He said, with as much grace as a newborn fawn finding its footing for the first time. Fritz snorted in response, blotting the cloth over an especially painful spot. Spy winced, Fritz muttering a quiet apology in response.
“Battle accident. Zey almost got you.”
The way he said it, with such controlled emotion and barely contained fear, Spy did almost sit up to hug the healer. Unfortunately, his brain said otherwise.
“I'm okay.”
“ Ja . You're okay.”
Warm, calloused fingers slowly came creeping towards his hand. He took it. For the first time in a very long, everything felt right. They'd be okay.
-
Why was he so sick? Bile rose in his throat once again, Spy barely holding back the urge to vomit.
It was Fritz's wedding night. There was a beautiful ceremony, all the slightly silly traditions included, including some more unorthodox, organ-involved fun from the healer. He smiled so wildly, he looked so goddamn happy, so why wasn't Spy? Why did he feel like crying until he couldn't anymore? Why?
“Spy? Spy, freund, are you alright in zere?”
“Too much to drink. I'll be alright.”
“You're not known for being a lightweight, I hope you know.”
“I know, I know.”
He screwed his eyes shut, letting the cold stone ground him back to reality. He needed to breathe– when did he even start hyperventilating?
“Do you want me to come in there?”
Please. Please. S'il te plaît. Please, hold me until this nightmare ends.
“ Non . I'll be out soon. Thank you.”
He hid away for the rest of the night, trembling so hard he could barely hold a glass if he wanted to.
-
He was definitely aging. The grays that originated at his temples soon spread across his entire head of hair, his joints creaked loudly, the usual stealth he had worsened dramatically. But finally, finally he found someone. Someone to stay in his life. To marry, to start a family with. He was hopeful.
Spy was single again in two months flat. He gave up after that blacksmith decided to hammer his heart into pieces.
Fritz sat next to him, crow’s feet pulling at the corners of his eyes as he smiled, watching Spy fuss over the stew he was assigned to make that night. He pointedly looked away at the flash of his wedding band. God, he was jealous. He wished his best friend didn't make him feel that way, jealous of the marriage he had, the relationship he fostered. He ignored how right it felt picturing himself with a matching band.
“I zhink it's turning out splendidly, Herr Spy. Don't worry. Our dear friend has had so much stress these few years, I zhink a bad bowl of stew would be the least of her worries.”
“I just don't want it to be one of her worries at all.”
Fritz laughed, moving a hand to Spy's shoulder. He ignored how desperately he wanted even more contact.
“I know it will turn out vell.”
Spy hoped so. And not just about the stew.
-
The riff between them grew stronger as the years of peace passed. A once steady stream of letters slowed to only occasional, short updates. He hadn't known Fritz’s husband had passed until five months after the fact. The guilt that welled up in his chest rivaled any pain he had ever sustained during their adventures.
It took years, but he finally knew what the feeling that haunted him was. He wanted to scream at the realization, claw at the wooden floors until they were merely splinters, kick something, kill something, cry, laugh, all of his emotions swirling into one. He was in love. He was in love with Fritz. And he hated himself for it.
A quick scan of the letter in front of him revealed Fritz wanted to meet up at the local tavern. It only vaguely registered in his mind as the place they had met.
He packed his bag, and set off.
-
“Marc.”
Spy froze. No. No. He couldn't have known. No
“I…”
“Marc. I'm sorry I never told you.”
“ How? ”
Fritz looked like he was about to cry.
“We were married. A very long time ago. Lifetimes ago, a parallel universe, whatever it may be. You made a deal.”
Marc felt sick to his stomach.
“You traded off your memories, your happiness, just for the chance zhat we'd meet again in another life. God, you idiot. You lovable idiot.”
He chuckled without any humor behind it. Marc wanted to start screaming.
“But I remembered. I never told you because– Gott, I'm sorry . I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you. I thought you never loved me. I thought you would like to know before–”
His body acted before his mind, and Marc grabbed his collar, pulling him into a kiss. His eyes widened. Fuck, fuck. He pulled away quickly, apologies ready to fall out of his lips.
Fritz immediately pulled him back in, clashing together clumsily. It wasn't anything pretty. In fact, it was a mess of tears and teeth and breaks to sob softy. But they couldn't stop now that they had started, Fritz leading him to a darker corner of the tavern. It was there where Marc's entire world had shattered for a third time in his life.
“I'm dying. I'd like to spend the rest of zhat time with you.”
-
Fritz woke up for the last time with arms around his waist. Soft lips brushed against his temple. He sighed contently. He told Marc of his time in the softest of breaths.
Marc poured himself a glass of wine. He poured Fritz an ice cold beer. They clinked their glasses together. Their matching wedding bands scraped against one another. Marc was crying, yet with a soft grin plastered on his face.
-
That night, Marc made the same deal to the same dying god.