Post by Tinn on Jan 3, 2012 18:14:28 GMT 10
Title: Worth It
Rating: PG-13, to be safe, since there are... allusions to adult things and violence?
Words: 747
Prompt: "You're more trouble than you're worth".
Summary: Rosto reflects as a relationship unfolds.
Warnings: Mastiff Spoilers
Notes: Er, warning, this is unbeta'd. Another note after the story.
He made her laugh, at breakfast; a few weeks after he'd started spending nights in her rooms.
Rosto was glad to see it, she laughed so rarely. A real laugh, with more than her eyes, the kind only there when she felt comfortable enough in a group of people to let them see her lose that wince of control, without being startled into it.
He was glad to see it, and it sent a stab of pain deep into his gut to not be the one who caused it. The twist of the knife around his innards was the way she looked at the cove, that thrice-curst son of a guttersnipe Flash District Puppy in Dog's clothing; her eyes shining bright blue with adoration and not a hint of ice.
Not that Holborn was a bad sort, not really, not when Rosto wasn't feeling sorry for himself over the spitfire Dog he'd never come to bed. He made Beka laugh, after all.
The Rogue would come to learn, in the next months, that Holborn wasn't a Dog like Beka's Dogs. He wasn't shy to throw the dice or have a drink with the lads. He was quick with a joke, and he made friends easily. He was outspoken, loud even, the chatterbox to fill Beka's silence, as comfortable with a crowd of strangers as he was with his own partner. And Rosto the Piper could see her relax with him, let him carry her through the social situations she couldn't find her voice in. Holborn fit to Beka like a wing on a dove.
When he'd see Holborn speak up for Beka, holding the thread of conversation so she could remain silent, Rosto would wonder if that's where he went wrong. He had a constant bent to needle his Dog into speech, to startle her or aggravate her into speaking up. Holborn let her be comfortably shy, taking her share of words.
Sometimes Rosto found himself missing Beka, even as they sat a few seats away from each other. He wondered, as he watched Holborn wrap his arm around her, if he missed the possibility of bedding her, or if he missed her voice. But she'd smile at the muscled arm across her shoulders, and the Rogue would turn away and find contentment in some willing mot, comfortable in the fact that she was happy, and that was enough, this cove would take care of her and make her laugh, and that was all he truly wanted.
When Beka's voice came back, it was in shouts, though Holborn's were louder. Rosto could hear the sounds of their fighting from the street below her lodgings, but he didn't dare climb to a hiding spot where he could hear what was said; he'd wait, in the chance things turned ugly, but he knew she could take care of herself, and she wouldn't want him to interfere.
The sound of a slap echoed across the cobblestones, but it could have come from either side. Both voices went silent, and a door slammed. Rosto kept to the shadows as someone clattered down the stairs, his steps too heavy to be any of the regular lodgers.
Holborn was bigger by far, and was a trained Dog, but the Rogue was swift, and caught him by surprise. The drink, too, had made him slow and sloppy. Before he could react, the Rogue had brought him down, slamming his face into the stone and twisting his arms behind him. Rosto's knife flashed in the moonlight as he brought it against the Dog's throat, just firm enough for the bigger man to know it was there. Holborn didn't struggle against the body on top of him.
"I'm not going to kill you, Dog," Rosto whispered in his ear, and his voice was a deadly chill that stopped the breath in Holborn's throat as well as the knifeblade could have. "I will not even harm you, not now, not tonight. I want you to know that our Bloodhound has friends, and you'd best have an eye out for your hide and hers, for you are more trouble than you're worth."
The Rogue had slipped away into the night before Holborn could pull himself up, when he returned to Beka, he was sobered and shaking, and they'd made up sweetly in her bed. In the morning, if he seemed subdued, his breakfast companions chalked it up to his obvious hangover; the worst, truth tell, in his life.
--
Note:
I wanted to explore some of the lost time between Bloodhound and Mastiff, namely the tumultuous relationship we learned too little of, and the Rogue nearly missing from the book. Originally, I'd envisioned this prompt as something Holborn said to Beka; it seems likely from what we know of him. Then, somehow, the idea sprouted that this is what Rosto might think of Holborn; he wants Beka to have a cove to make her happy, regardless of his own feelings, but he finds Holborn isn't up to snuff.
Rating: PG-13, to be safe, since there are... allusions to adult things and violence?
Words: 747
Prompt: "You're more trouble than you're worth".
Summary: Rosto reflects as a relationship unfolds.
Warnings: Mastiff Spoilers
Notes: Er, warning, this is unbeta'd. Another note after the story.
He made her laugh, at breakfast; a few weeks after he'd started spending nights in her rooms.
Rosto was glad to see it, she laughed so rarely. A real laugh, with more than her eyes, the kind only there when she felt comfortable enough in a group of people to let them see her lose that wince of control, without being startled into it.
He was glad to see it, and it sent a stab of pain deep into his gut to not be the one who caused it. The twist of the knife around his innards was the way she looked at the cove, that thrice-curst son of a guttersnipe Flash District Puppy in Dog's clothing; her eyes shining bright blue with adoration and not a hint of ice.
Not that Holborn was a bad sort, not really, not when Rosto wasn't feeling sorry for himself over the spitfire Dog he'd never come to bed. He made Beka laugh, after all.
The Rogue would come to learn, in the next months, that Holborn wasn't a Dog like Beka's Dogs. He wasn't shy to throw the dice or have a drink with the lads. He was quick with a joke, and he made friends easily. He was outspoken, loud even, the chatterbox to fill Beka's silence, as comfortable with a crowd of strangers as he was with his own partner. And Rosto the Piper could see her relax with him, let him carry her through the social situations she couldn't find her voice in. Holborn fit to Beka like a wing on a dove.
When he'd see Holborn speak up for Beka, holding the thread of conversation so she could remain silent, Rosto would wonder if that's where he went wrong. He had a constant bent to needle his Dog into speech, to startle her or aggravate her into speaking up. Holborn let her be comfortably shy, taking her share of words.
Sometimes Rosto found himself missing Beka, even as they sat a few seats away from each other. He wondered, as he watched Holborn wrap his arm around her, if he missed the possibility of bedding her, or if he missed her voice. But she'd smile at the muscled arm across her shoulders, and the Rogue would turn away and find contentment in some willing mot, comfortable in the fact that she was happy, and that was enough, this cove would take care of her and make her laugh, and that was all he truly wanted.
When Beka's voice came back, it was in shouts, though Holborn's were louder. Rosto could hear the sounds of their fighting from the street below her lodgings, but he didn't dare climb to a hiding spot where he could hear what was said; he'd wait, in the chance things turned ugly, but he knew she could take care of herself, and she wouldn't want him to interfere.
The sound of a slap echoed across the cobblestones, but it could have come from either side. Both voices went silent, and a door slammed. Rosto kept to the shadows as someone clattered down the stairs, his steps too heavy to be any of the regular lodgers.
Holborn was bigger by far, and was a trained Dog, but the Rogue was swift, and caught him by surprise. The drink, too, had made him slow and sloppy. Before he could react, the Rogue had brought him down, slamming his face into the stone and twisting his arms behind him. Rosto's knife flashed in the moonlight as he brought it against the Dog's throat, just firm enough for the bigger man to know it was there. Holborn didn't struggle against the body on top of him.
"I'm not going to kill you, Dog," Rosto whispered in his ear, and his voice was a deadly chill that stopped the breath in Holborn's throat as well as the knifeblade could have. "I will not even harm you, not now, not tonight. I want you to know that our Bloodhound has friends, and you'd best have an eye out for your hide and hers, for you are more trouble than you're worth."
The Rogue had slipped away into the night before Holborn could pull himself up, when he returned to Beka, he was sobered and shaking, and they'd made up sweetly in her bed. In the morning, if he seemed subdued, his breakfast companions chalked it up to his obvious hangover; the worst, truth tell, in his life.
--
Note:
I wanted to explore some of the lost time between Bloodhound and Mastiff, namely the tumultuous relationship we learned too little of, and the Rogue nearly missing from the book. Originally, I'd envisioned this prompt as something Holborn said to Beka; it seems likely from what we know of him. Then, somehow, the idea sprouted that this is what Rosto might think of Holborn; he wants Beka to have a cove to make her happy, regardless of his own feelings, but he finds Holborn isn't up to snuff.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!