I could be your father, I could be your brother, I could be a flower, rise up in the dirt

Blaine's parents are awesome, but his dad is such. a. dork.

(As always, three times longer than it needs to be! *chews off fingers*)
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It had been, to put it mildly, a long week. He'd spent the last five days in a summoning circle, and had been running on adrenaline and raw aether for three of them. It had been worth it, certainly- he now held the true name of one of the Greater Shrive, but at the moment, all he really wanted to do was sleep for a week or three.

Living on the edge of Candlemark only meant he slept with one eye open, even when half dead from exhaustion. The sound of the window opening jolted him awake for half a moment- just long enough to throw a paralysis cantrip in the general direction of the window. He vaguely heard a thump and a clatter before turning over and falling back asleep.

He woke again a few hours later, to the sound of Master Sorlin moving about the kitchen. The smell of the weak green tea Master Sorlin drank was almost enough to rouse him from where he'd collapsed on the couch, but it would take far more caffeine than was contained in a watery cup of tea to entice him to move.

He was just about to drift back to sleep again when Master Sorlin slammed the teakettle down on the stove with a crash. "I know you're awake, Estri. I don't keep you around to be lazy- I'll be at the university all day, but I expect the workroom and the kitchen to be spotless by the time I return."

He muttered something halfway between "Yes, sir," and "Fuck you" in reply. His head hurt, and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Sorlin barked a short, derisive laugh. "I'll be back late, so there's no need to wait up for me- but I mean it about the kitchen." A moment later, he was gone.

Estri stretched, and luxuriated in the feel of the blessedly empty apartment.

His eyes snapped open. "Oh, hells."

There was a dagger driven into the kitchen table, its blade gleaming with something slick and purple. The owner of the dagger, dressed in black from head to toe, was sprawled beneath the window, caught in the same position he'd fallen in. Master Sorlin had pulled his hood back and he looked up at Estri from underneath his elbow; his neck had to be cramping terribly by now.

"Sweet Natasha, I am not awake enough for this." He rubbed his eyes wearily. A migraine began to throb behind his left eyebrow, the sort of pain that lodged deep in the bone, all the way down to his soul. "I'm making coffee. Would you like some?"

"Er. I'd have a rather hard time drinking it from here, wouldn't I?" The assassin grinned a little lopsidedly. He had incredibly bright blue eyes.

"I'll give you a straw. Or. Whatever. I'll think of something when I'm awake." He rummaged through the cubpoards, assembling the pieces of the coffee press. "I hope you don't mind if it tastes like magic."

"Can't say I've ever tried any before."

"Vaguely lemony. You get used to it after a while, but it's still...ngh." Estri left the water to heat on the stove and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, willing the pain to go away. Exhaustion and aether drain, and the assassin on his kitchen floor was keeping himself too calm for Estri to leech anything from him. His magical senses were worn raw, nearly to the point of bleeding.

The pain receded slowly. "It's still an acquired taste for most people."

"I'm sure I'll manage. And. Um. I do hate to be a bother- and, I mean, it looks like your day hasn't been much better than mine so far- but this is a remarkably uncomfortable position to be lying in."

Estri raised an incrdulous eyebrow at the man, and turned back to the stove without answering.

The coffee was dark and syrupy; he drank the first cup straight, and had to cling to the counter with white knuckled hands for a minute afterwards, trembling with the urge to retch.

The assassin let out a low whistle from the floor. "Brave man! I've seen coffee like that kill a man at thirty paces!"

Estri smiled weakly as the caffeine hit his system like a hammer and killed off the last vestiges of his headache. "It's remarkably useful in necromancy rituals, actually." He poured two more cups, dosed them both liberally with sugar and cardamom, and set them on the table. He sat down, and stared at the assassin. "So."

The man's grin faded slightly. "So?"

Estri sipped his coffee, feeling slightly less like death warmed over. There were few things that cured the ache of aetherial exhaustion as effectively as coffee. "I assume, from your garb and the knife ruining my table, that you came here to kill Master Sorlin."

"Well. Yes?" He looked a little sheepish. "Sorry. I suppose you're going to call the Watch, now."

"Mm...no. I've been ordered on pain of death to never let the Watch set foot in this house. And I am, above all else, obedient." He placed his palms together and bowed slightly, mocking. "I just need your assurance that you won't try anything stupid, if I release you from that cantrip."

"You have it. Sorlin made it clear before he left that it would be in my best interests to abandon this job. Killing you would have been sloppy before- now, it would be downright unprofessional."

He broke the cantrip with a gesture, and felt the release of it like something snapping quietly inside his skull, easing pressure he hadn't even noticed. The assassin uncoiled himself and stretched the kinks out of his neck and back with a hideous series of cracks from every vertebrae.

There was something in the way the man moved that reminded him of his brothers and sisters; he hadn't thought of them in years, but the sudden memory of them hurt less than he'd expected. "Come, sit. You owe me at least a little conversation for all the trouble you've caused me."

"Trouble I've caused you?" He sat, and cradled his cup of coffee in his long-fingered hands. Musician's hands, or a strangler's. "I'm the one out a job, you know. A screw up like this will be hell on my reputation." He was still smiling, if a little ruefully.

"Should've thought of that before you went breaking into a mage's home." Rummaging in the cupboard produced a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese, and a few apples. He set them on the table and the assassin obligingly produced a knife from his person and began slicing.

"Rather, I should just accept that I'm shit at solo missions. Planning isn't my strong suit, I'm afraid." He dipped a corner of the bread in his coffee.

"Then why not find yourself a partner?"

"I've got one- but she's on probation. Healer's orders, you see- broken ribs, punctured lung. She'll be fine, now that the healer's tied her to the bed and taken her off the mission roster." He shook his head. "She'll be up in another day, though. Not too fond of being tied down."

Estri chewed on a piece of apple and smiled slyly. The man was completely transparent, even if Estri was too burnt out to use his empathy. It was...cute. "To beds, or in general?"

The assassin flushed, and dropped his bread in his coffee. "Well- I-" He avoided the question by gulping his coffee. He flinched; the coffee had still been hot enough to scald. "I wouldn't really know."

Estri didn't laugh, though he dearly wanted to. "Perhaps you should ask her? I imagine it's not so much that she objects to the tying as to the person who is- or isn't- binding her."

Even his ears turned red. Charming. He took pity on the poor man. "It's something to think about, at any rate. Have you a name?"

"Hawk. Hawk Samarkand. And yourself?" He leapt on the chance to change the subject, but then his eyes widened, and he was flustered again. "That is- I mean- I don't have many dealings with slaves and if you don't-"

"My given name, for the time being, is Estri. But most of the neighbors have taken to calling me Silverlock," he said, touching the streak in his woefully shortened hair. "And I find that suits me better, these days." He stood, and cleared away the cups.

Hawk stood as well, smiling but still flushed. "Well met, Silverlock." He held out his hand; his grip on Estri's wrist was almost a threat; it was a completely unconscious gesture on Hawk's part. "Should you ever find yourself wandering the halls of the Guild, look me up. I owe you a cup of coffee."

His clumsy charisma was endearing, to say the least. "I'll hold you to that, Hawk." He still had a few years left to his indenture, but afterwards- why not? "Take the door out- the wards on the windows can be twitchy."

The assassin left, and Estri cleared away the rest of the food. He briefly contemplated cleaning out the workroom, but was asleep on his cot before the thought could fully formulate itself in his mind.

His dreams were prophetic, but he would not remember any of them upon waking.

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Silverlock had been keeping track of the assassin's aura for the last ten minutes as he wandered the catacombs. Even so, the woman's knife knicked the side of his neck when she finally attacked; he just barely had time to put up a barrier between them before she attacked again.

"Ch'. Mages." Her knife disappeared and she crossed her arms impatiently. "If it is the necromancer covens you seek, you'll have to look elsewhere. This is assassin territory." She spoke with a faint Dzyrachan accent, all lilting vowels and softened gutterals.

"I'm not looking for any trouble, milady." He spread his hands, and did his best to project harmless innocence. "I'm looking for a man- about so tall, blue eyes, goes by the name of Hawk."

She snorted. "Then you are looking for trouble, for that man attracts it like little else. I hope you're not looking to hire him."

For some reason, Silverlock was not surprised in the slightest. "Nothing of the sort. He owes me a cup of coffee."

"Fair enough." A faint tremor shook the air- some sort of set spell. "Hawk will vouch for you if you speak truly- and if he does not, I'll try out each my knives on your pretty barier until we find something that cuts you." She leaned against the wall, the very picture of casual threat.

"You'll forgive me if I stop your heart the moment you try? I'm not so keen on having my throat slit." He projected an air of indifference in response to her spoken and unspoken threats; in an unfair fight, he was fairly certain he would win.

"You're welcome to make the attempt, mage. But better than you have tried and failed."

He sensed the other presence in the tunnel before a man stepped out of the shadows, but he wouldn't have felt it if he hadn't been looking for it. It seemed that Hawk had gained a few skills in the years since their first meeting.

His smile was still disarmingly open. "Silverlock!" He stopped, and looked nervous. "That is- if that's still the name you go by, I'm not-"

The woman elbowed him sharply, cutting off the stream of babble before it could start. Hawk rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Civ, do you remember, a few years ago, when I completely botched the mage job in Eastmark?"

She rolled her eyes and relaxed minutely. "How could I forget? You, then, are the one who didn't turn this poor fool over to the Watch?"

"That would be me, milady." He gave her a proper bow, with an exaggerated flourish. "Silverlock D'Alestri, at your service."

"A pleasure, I'm sure." She touched her forehead in a particularly Dzyrachan gesture of respect. "Civet Samarkand. And I suppose, if he's promised you coffee, I'll be the one making it." She gave Hawk a fondly exhasperated look.

"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Samarkand." He glanced at Hawk; the man's ears still turned red when he blushed. "I wouldn't want to trouble you-"

"What trouble? My husband has brought me far more troubling things than the chance to drink with an ally, and possibly a friend." She had a beautiful, deadly smile. "Come. I will show you proper hospitality, something of which these city-bred northern barbarians know little, indeed."

She gestured to the darkness of the tunnel, and Silverlock followed. Hawk fell into step beside him, and he glanced upwards at the other man, then forwards to the swaying cadence of Civet's hips as she strode silently ahead of them. "You, my friend," he murmured, "are the luckiest man in the world."

"I know." Hawk's grin was just as charming as he remembered.

It was good, he decided. Upon descending the steps of Master Sorlin's home for the last time, he had sworn that his life would always be interesting, if nothing else.

His gaze drifted back to Civet, and he permitted himself a small smile. Being free of his indenture was already less boring than he'd dreaded.

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He stared at the ibrik in Blaine's cupboard; it was the sort of look he usually gave to uncooperative Shrivebeasts and other recalcitrant demons. "Huh." It was a lovely antique, its tall copper sides etched in swirling geometric patterns. The lip was dented, though, and the handle had a deep scratch in it.

"What? Is my coffee pot possessed now? Knew I shouldn't have taken it from that shifty eyed man at the bazaar, but he was giving it away for free." Blaine leaned down and rested his chin on Silverlock's shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not a ghost. Just a memory that I'd not visited in quite some time." He closed the cupboard and turned around, looping his arms around Blaine's waist. "It's a very familiar coffee pot, that's all." He remembered the dent, and how much Civet had yelled when Hawk dropped it.

"Hm. I'll make you coffee some time- proper, Dzyrachan coffee." He smiled into Silverlock's hair. "Black as sin, strong as death, sweet as love."

"Careful now, someone might accuse you of being a romantic." He pulled Blaine a little closer, and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"We can't have that. My reputation would be ruined."

"Don't worry." He leaned forward to steal a kiss, and did not say that Blaine had his mother's eyes, but his father's smile. "I can keep a secret."

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Hawk? Is the biggest dork to ever dork his way through assassin training in his own dorky, dorky idiom. I kind of adore him, in all his henpecked glory. (He looks rather like Daniel Craig, actually. Same eyes, same doofy grin, just make him about fifteen years younger for this particular fragment.) He and Civet are really amazingly cute together, but he's utterly useless without her, even if he does grow much less incompetent with age. After she dies, he...fades, a little. Leaves the Guild, becomes a regular at Templar's Rest, since that's where old characters go if they don't die in a horribly tragic manner.

Blaine tracks him down at some point, when he's much older, and they have an incredibly awkward and sad conversation, and then never see each other again. (Silverlock doesn't see Hawk again after Hawk leaves until after Blaine dies, and when he does finally go, he drags Foxbird with him for moral support.)

And yeah. Silverlock was kind of in love with Blaine's parents. Hawk and Civet sponsor him as an apprentice in the Guild, but once he earns his tags and particularly once Tyrin is born, they drift apart. He might have seen Tyrin once or twice, but they were never actually introduced.

Dzyrach is kind of Rothcar's equivalent of the Middle East; an ibrik is the sort of pot used to make Turkish coffee. Civet is actually a lesser princess of some sort in Dzyrach; eleventh daughter of a fifth wife, that sort of thing. She underwent her assassin apprenticeship there, under her family's spymaster, and transferred to the Rothcaran Guild to earn her tags.

Blaine grew up speaking Rothish and Dzyrachan; Civet made sure that, in the unlikely event that he did meet any members of his extended family, he wouldn't be a complete embarrassment to her. As an adult, he still speaks Dzyrachan, though he's only barely literate in it.