Hardison knew they should've stayed at Sale until Eliot healed fully. Apparently, even with the attention of the best royal healers, the whipping wounds refused to knit properly, and the brand was still an ugly, seeping wound. But Eliot had said: "If we're going back, we're going back," and Hardison sure wasn't up to refusing him anything, at this specific moment or ever again.

That was probably going to be a problem in the future, but he didn't care about it now. Of course, it's not like Eliot ever asked for anything for himself - except for, apparently, "Make me a traitor and destroy my life for the sake of your kingdom."

And they hadn't refused him, had they? Hardison would've loved to know by what tangled path of logic Eliot came to the conclusion that this was his fault, or how to turn him around.

For now he had to comfort himself with twining around Eliot's body, still fever-bright, and listening to his heartbeat. For once he didn't care about propriety, or humility, or justice; he ousted the captain from his cabin without regrets, as his was the only one with a wide enough bed, and now he could just lie and watch Eliot's face be smooth and serene in sleep.

The worst thing - the scariest thing - was that Eliot didn't seem to... didn't seem to take what was done to him as an offense, as a betrayal, as a loss. Hardison had had a brief but very illuminating conversation with King Adolphus; he knew that Eliot hadn't been planning to come back. And yet he had seemed to accept Hardison's plea as a reason enough to return and leave all their sins behind. To share the bed with Hardison now, to smile at him sleepily from the folds of fever dreams. To just - forgive.

It tasted bitter, on Hardison's tongue. Bitter and sweet, oh so sweet.

On their very first night back together, Eliot tucked between them on their familiar unfamiliar bed, Parker said, bluntly enough that Hardison flinched guiltily: "Why did you come back? We didn't do right by you."

"I didn't do right by you either."

Parker traced his new scars with gentle, skittering fingers instead of answering, her silence an answer in itself, and Hardison held his breath. There was something between them, always, that he could never reach: some understanding born from the twin ruthlessness of their natures, something they protected him from by an unspoken mutual agreement. He felt as if they were resolving something, right now, and if he could just listen hard enough, and watch, he could maybe...

"I did what needed to be done," Eliot said in mounting frustration, "and you did what needed to be done, just as I counted on you to do, and I - I'm sorry - it had to hurt you, but I thought you understood, and that's why you called me back, and I came, didn't I?"

Now it was Parker's turn to catch her breath, and then she said, "I'm sorry, too. For doing what needed to be done."

"Well, don't be."

"I shouldn't have. I should've let him burn the city and killed him myself, and not let him take you. I shouldn't have, and I let him, and I hated it and hated it and hated it and I'm sorry - sorry -", and Eliot turned and caught her spilling words with his lips, and she shuddered against him, desperate and hungry.

Hardison looked at them, heads golden and arms tangled, and his heart swelled with a terrible bursting joy: everything was broken and everything was right, and they were both here, alive, together in their bed again, and maybe, just maybe, they could keep each other. And maybe, next time, he wouldn't let them do what needed to be done to each other.