All disclaimers apply.
AN: Started writing this ages ago and only just finished it. Set during the first DMC novel, and for those not in the know, "Tony" is Dante with amnesia, and "Gilver" is Vergil with terrible fashion sense. Which makes this twincest in all its glory. Credit (blame?) to Laryna6 for the inspiration and early input way back when, but the title was entirely my fault.
Some people - that is to say, Grue, who was the only one crazy enough to work with him - would say Tony Redgrave had a nasty curiosity streak. He was always the one who walked into the trap just to see what happened, who picked up the mysteriously glowing and/or ticking object and shook it really hard, who said things like, "Maybe if I shoot at it," and then didn't pay any attention to warnings or shouts of horror or civilians fleeing for cover. Tony always had to find out firsthand what anything was and he always had to do it in the worst way possible.
So when faced with something interesting that was just out of his grasp, he couldn't help but be fascinated by it. And, like a child holding a steel fork and eyeing an electric socket, he had to see what it was all about.
"Do you actually stand in front of a mirror every morning and wrap those around your head?" Tony asked Gilver point-blank in Bobby's Cellar that evening. "Or do you just sleep in them?"
Gilver diplomatically sipped his drink. After only several weeks of working with Tony, he had achieved the status of "used to him". Everyone did eventually, but Gilver with surprising alacrity. Tony could have shown up at the bar dead starkers except for his sword and amulet, doing a soft-shoe routine, and Gilver would be the only one who wouldn't blink twice.
Possibly even rescue him from the hailstorm of bullets that resulted, too.
After a moment, he said, "That's not really your business, is it?"
"I have a right to know why anyone I work with moonlights as a mummy. What is it? A gimmick?" He didn't say he thought Gilver looked like a circus freak, just in case he wore the bandages because he was a circus freak underneath them. With burns or a third eye or really a woman. Or all three.
"It isn't a gimmick," Gilver said patiently.
"So why? There have to be better ways to conceal your super-secret identity. Superman does it without even using a mask." From the way Gilver glanced at him, vaguely puzzled, Tony wondered if he even knew who Superman was. What dimension was this guy from? "Not much of a subtle disguise, either, if that's what it's for."
Gilver raised a finger for Bobby to come over and refill the glass. "Sometimes you just want to try another life on for size." He looked at Tony sideways with those strange eyes of his. "You understand."
Tony knocked back the rest of his Bloody Mary, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his gut. "Sure."
It hadn't taken long for Gilver to improve his skill at holding his liquor since what Tony had dubbed the "Vodka Incident". By the end of the first week, he was taking it like a man. In fact, he was taking it like several. Though he still didn't have the constitution to compete with Tony, he could drink any of the other patrons under the table now, which added to the respect he was garnering.
He glanced at the other man again. Not much was discernable from underneath the cloth, but, judging from the outline, he had a long, too-straight nose. A feature Tony was familiar with, actually - he was always getting ribbed for his nose. Some called it a lethal weapon and others wanted to know who his surgeon was. They could all fuck themselves, he was flawless.
And then there were Gilver's eyes. A bizarre color that bordered on red. Sort of albino-ish, and it wasn't like there was any skin visible enough to disprove that theory. Still, the way they almost seemed to glow sometimes...
The guy wasn't playing on the human side of the field, not entirely. But that was all right. As long as he kept sticking that sword of his into the bad guys on their jobs, Tony couldn't care less where he got his edge from, or what he did when they weren't on a case.
But damn if he still wasn't curious what the guy really looked like. He had even brought it up with some of the other guys a time or two.
"Hey, did you get a look under that mask while you were rolling him?" he asked Chase between tequila shots.
Chase shrugged. "We were gonna when we dumped him outside, but then he came to, stabbed the guy who was holding his sword, and crawled away."
"Oh. Too bad." A pause. "Which sword?"
"You're a fucking pervert, you know that, right?"
So that left Tony almost completely in the dark.
As he licked blood-red juice from his lips, pondering this mystery further, the door slammed open and a regular strolled in like he just bought the damned place. Rocker something or other. He was almost Grue's age, had a formidable beer-belly and the military hair cut a lot of the older guys sported, and seemed to be under the impression that chaps didn't make him look stupid, but wearing a big smile.
"The wife just came out of the hospital," he announced, loud enough to carry over the room. "Nine pounds, four ounces, ten fingers and toes, and all boy. I'm a daddy, fellas."
A few congratulations went up, most only lukewarm until Rocker added, "Drinks all around!" after which there was a lot more enthusiastic cheering and back-patting. Free alcohol made everyone happy - at least until it settled in the brain and the fights and shooting started.
Bobby, knowing this would be the ultimate conclusion, reached under the bar to where Tony knew he kept a battered, sawed-off shotgun, probably giving it a self-assuring pat.
Tony grinned. "Hey, Bobby. Got any serious poison back there? I mean, if Rocker's buying."
The look Bobby gave him was nothing short of murderous. "Don't get any ideas, kid."
"What? I'm insulted. To think that I would ever be a bother." The lie was so thick that he almost choked on it. "Besides, Gilver over here would be sure to keep me in line, won't ya, buddy?" He smacked Gilver on the back, nearly making him spill his drink.
A week ago, a move like that would have resulted in a katana to his throat, possibly in his throat if he didn't back up fast enough. Now, the masked man just growled. "Don't touch me."
Tony's grin grew. "See? Best of pals."
Tony wasn't exactly clear on how things culminated in crawling back to his place, Gilver half-passed out on his shoulder. He'd ultimately blame it on Bobby, who knew damn well what Everclear did to him, and had no business giving it to him. He conveniently forgot that he'd demanded it at gunpoint, along with most of the night at the bar, though some flashes of an ill-fated poker match with armed and irate patrons came to him now and then. Hopefully, whatever happened next hadn't broken too many tables; his bill for damages was high enough already.
Christ. For a guy who looked so lean, Gilver weighed a ton. It wasn't entirely dead weight, as he managed to keep his own feet under him, but if Tony let go, he'd be facedown on the pavement. How a person who was a berserker in a fight could be so susceptible to a little booze was beyond him. Then again, maybe the third barrel had been overdoing it a tad.
Once they reached his home-sweet-hole-in-the-wall, which was little more than a basement room that was lucky to have indoor plumping and a single window, he dumped Gilver on his bed like so much dirty laundry and stood there, staring at him. This was his opportunity to glimpse what was under those damn bandages, if only to say he had done it. And maybe use it for blackmail material in the future.
Tony looked around for something sharp to use. All he had on hand was his sword. Maybe if he moved really slowly and concentrated, he could slice the bandages away without maiming the guy. The alcohol in his bloodstream endorsed this splendid idea.
That was what Gilver woke to: Tony with his tongue between his teeth, hovering the edge of a massive sword over his face and dangerously close to lopping his skull in half like a watermelon.
Gilver jerked and fell off the side of the bed, crashing to the floor. Tony blinked, lowering the sword.
"What are you doing?" Gilver demanded, popping up again like a scary jack-in-the-box.
When in doubt, lie, lie, lie. "You were out of it," Tony said reasonably. "I was trying to wake you up."
"And what if you just decapitated me?"
"C'mon, you wouldn't make it that easy."
Gilver stared at him evenly, one hand gripped in the bed sheets as if he was negotiating the wisdom of trying to get to his feet in his state. Tony shrugged. Since that was the end of that plan, he tossed his sword to the side. It embedded blade-first in the far wall, which was already gouged with past evidence of this trick. Good thing he had no next door neighbors.
Gilver, meanwhile, took stock of the apartment. "This is your place," he said after a moment.
"Yep. No one knew where you stayed, so I figured I'd just bring you here."
"You had no problem leaving me before."
"Yeah, but we're partners now. Kinda." At least until Grue materialized again. The thought was a little sobering. Grue was usually the one hauling him back home after an all-night binge, muttering under his breath about kids these days. Damn it, where had the old man gotten to, anyway?
Tony sat down on the edge of the mattress, kicking off his shoes. "'Sides," he went on, shaking off the reminder, "the boys were gettin' rowdy. You'd be in a dress and heels by now if I hadn't rescued you."
More gingerly than he was probably aware of, the other man pulled himself up onto the bed. "No doubt it was your idea to begin with."
"I plead the fifth." Tony smirked. He started wriggling out of his coat and shirt at the same time. It turned out to be more of a fight than he thought it would, and he ended up stuck for a minute, cursing, until he finally won the battle and tossed both to the floor in a heap.
Gilver was staring at him - or, more precisely, at the amulet around his neck. He never took it off, though he had no problem dumping the rest of the charms, the necklaces and bracelets, on his nightstand. Finally, Tony said, "You act like you've never seen a sex god before."
Which made the other man snort.
Denial, that's what it was. "You're free to crash, if you want. Just don't touch my stuff."
The way Gilver looked around the room, it was clear he was wondering "what stuff?" Tony had to admit, he had kind of a "disadvantaged youth" thing going on. If he didn't blow so much cash on leather, talismans, and weapons, or maybe got a real job and stopped dicking around on the streets, he wouldn't be living hand-to-mouth, but turning into a office drone just wasn't in the cards. Electricity was overrated, anyway.
"It's the principle of the matter," Tony added.
He was starting to get used to the glances Gilver always sent him that seemed cut somewhere between grudgingly amused and utterly disgusted. "Right. Thank you. I...stay rather far from here."
Where? Tony didn't bother to ask, because he'd done it before and Gilver wouldn't say. He was just the sharing type like that. "So, you know. Make yourself comfortable. Kick off your shoes, relax." Unravel that goddamn mask, it's driving me nuts.
Gilver loosened his tie. A little.
Tony looked at him for a long moment. Some quick calculations: Amount of alcohol consumed (factoring in low threshold), plus lack of sleep, times probably not eating anything since yesterday...
Gilver's eyes narrowed.
Tony smiled.
Then he flew across the bed like a ninja and Gilver had just enough time to widen his eyes before his back and the floor were joyfully reacquainted.
The hunter congratulated himself on his pinpoint accuracy while sitting with his knee in Gilver's diaphragm. "I have to know, I just gotta." He reached for Gilver's bandages.
The masked man lunged up and what followed was a somewhat deranged wrestling match. They hadn't had a fight since their first standoff at Bobby's and this didn't quite measure up. Rolling around like a pair of hyenas squabbling over the best part of the wildebeest carcass, they knocked into what little furniture there was to knock into, shoving, punching, kicking. Two seconds away from hair-pulling, biting, possibly slapping and squealing, Tony wound up on top yet again and Gilver facedown, eating floor.
"C'mon, what's the deal?" he asked, going for the mask again while Gilver struggled. "You're not Lex Luthor's illegitimate son, are you?"
"If you would be so kind as to get off my back - "
"Nah, I got it. Batman's long-lost broth - "
He wasn't expecting the violence in the full-bodied buck Gilver gave. The movement almost made a direct hit on the family jewels and he made an unmanly noise getting out of the way.
And...now Gilver had him on the floor and by the throat. Squeezing.
"You're an irritating person," Gilver informed him mildly.
Tony had a smart-ass answer to that ready, but he discovered that being choked somewhat hindered his cleverness.
"Hrrrrggh," he said defensively.
"Yes, but you only brought it on yourself," Gilver replied.
Both hands occupied with keeping his larynx from being crushed, Tony tried to kick the other man off him and hopefully through the window and into a neighboring county. But he got caught by the weird expression in Gilver's eyes, long enough for his free leg to get trapped under Gilver's other hand. Which sort of put him in a compromising position.
Gilver was looking at him like this wasn't nearly enough.
And it wasn't. They could do worse.
Only when Tony started gesticulating and turning colors did the fingers relax just enough for him to snatch some shallow breaths.
"You can't possibly want to know that badly," Gilver said.
Tony glowered into those creepy eyes too close for comfort. "It's a thing," he managed, still tugging on the bandaged hand wringing his neck. Seriously, what did this guy have for bones, tempered steel? "I have a lot of those."
A few moments ticked by. Then, "Do you think maybe you could - " Tony jabbed a thumb at his jugular.
"Stop making attempts on my person and I will."
"Am I supposed to pinky swear or somethin'? Get the fuck off."
Gilver did, finally, and dispassionately watched him gasp for air.
"Ugh, bastard," Tony groused, rubbing his throat as he pushed himself up onto the bed. "What you got to hide, anyway?"
The words were out before he could stop them. Shit, he actually sounded like he cared. And he didn't. Really. Why should he? One freak was as good as another. Even if that freak moved like his shadow in a fight. Was the only person he'd ever met who could take him on toe-to-toe, the only person who saw him do his worst and didn't flinch, didn't give him that look even Grue gave him sometimes, that What the hell are you? sideways glance that reminded Tony of how much he really didn't fit in anywhere, no matter how hard he tried to.
Yeah. He totally didn't care.
The other man didn't reply immediately, taking his time settling onto the mattress, affecting another one of those long moments to deliberate his response that were such a pain in the ass. "Nothing that would matter to you," he finally said.
"You'd be surprised."
"Really." The pupils of those red eyes caught the light from the window and reflected it back, eeriely blue.
A warning crawled up Tony's spine, but he ignored it. He hadn't been afraid anything since...well, ever, and he wasn't going to start now. He smiled, all teeth, sending the challenge right back. "Eyeah. Really."
More silence. The initial giddy rush of alcohol was starting to wear off, and Reality waited, stone-cold bitch that she was. Tony felt it like a sword ready to drop across the back of his neck. It would have been nice to pass out without a care.
But that wasn't happening, and all he knew was that he was there, Gilver was there, that fucking mask was there, mocking him, and it was the first thing he came up with.
"Hey, if you're gonna fuck me," he said, smirking, "you need better foreplay than this."
For the first time since they met, he felt Gilver's surprise. Hah, so even the Ice Man could be knocked off kilter every once in awhile.
A beat passed.
"Your perception of things is very limited."
"That a yes?"
"You don't know what you're asking."
"You don't know what you're turning down. What, you scared?"
It was juvenile, cliché, a cheap shot, and, of course, it worked perfectly. Gilver's eyes narrowed and he went quiet again, while Tony waited. He'd learned over the past couple of weeks which of the other man's frequent silences would culminate in an answer and which ones wouldn't. He didn't know what he expected - realistically, a negative. Possibly an accompanying punch in the face. But he didn't look for the predictable from Gilver anymore.
"...Fine."
No sooner had Gilver gotten the "ne" out than Tony surged up and had him down on the bed. Something sharp dissolved out of the air, unnamed, now that the gauntlet had been accepted. Gilver no longer seemed startled at this turn of events, only sort of resigned, like a man aware that the brakes were out and he might as well enjoy the ride until the telephone pole ended it.
I am a genius, Tony crowed inwardly. Still sloshed and recovering from oxygen deprivation, but a genius. Sex in general required some degree of nudity. All he had to do was get Gilver distracted, then snatch off the mask. And make sure the katana wasn't in reach so he would live long enough to see the goods before the other man killed him. Whatever. Genius.
Besides, this was the only way to determine if Gilver really was a woman.
"You could be a little more enthusiastic, y'know," he said as he undid Gilver's tie and unbuttoned his shirt and Gilver let him. "You're about to get laid! This is a good thing."
"...hurrah."
"Someone needs to flip your dour switch to 'off' one of these days."
Tony had never turned on the lights - he wasn't entirely sure they still worked - but the streetlights and a neon sign from a porn shop across the street made for decent illumination. Gilver wasn't as scrawny as he looked under that loose suit. In fact, he wasn't built much differently from Tony, strong and wide around the shoulders, maybe more underfed. He was younger than he seemed. The bandages stopped right at his collarbone, but it was hard to tell since his skin was just as white.
"What is your thing, Dracula?" Tony marveled. Any paler and Gilver would practically glow in the dark. Maybe he really was an albino. "I bet you sizzle like bacon in daylight."
"'Dracula'...Bram Stoker, 1897. Immortalized the legend of the vampire in the West."
"Uh. Yeah."
"Vampires don't burn in daylight. It banishes them, but only temporarily."
"I - what?"
Gilver shrugged.
Not one to waste time on petty things like logic, Tony went for the pants next, unzipping them. No underwear, shock of shocks. And not a woman. Definitely not a woman.
"That, or you had a really great surgeon," he said aloud.
Gilver squinted at him. "...what?"
"Nothing." He slicked his tongue up that hard, pale stomach, gave Gilver's cock a light squeeze, and could have sworn he heard the quick, almost imperceptible intake of breath over his head. Huh. Maybe it was possible to get blood out of a rock after all.
And maybe, while doing so, he could even ever-so-subtly reach up and...
"Owowowow!" Tony yanked his hand out of Gilver's grasp before his thumb could be snapped in two.
"I warned you about attempts on my person," Gilver said flatly.
"C'mon, dude, if we're gonna do this - "
"I'm not taking it off."
Tony stared at him. "I'm not that kinky!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, you are."
Yeah, he really was. He tried another tactic. "Then that'll make you just as much of a freak. Maybe more."
"We can be freaks together, then."
Something in Gilver's voice as he said that, something strange, made Tony's mouth snap shut on his next argument. "Fine," he muttered after a moment, thwarted yet again. "But you'd better not fall asleep at any point, 'cause then not only am I taking the mask, I'm taking pictures, too."
"Is sex with you that tedious?"
"Oh, that's it - "
The "foreplay", if you could even call it that, was awkward, to say the least. It wasn't just the bandages, even, but Gilver himself, who was about as affectionate as that sword of his, though maybe the sword was more flexible. Tony was doing all the work, and the best reaction besides the almost-might-have-been-a-gasp he had gotten so far was those bright eyes on him, unblinking, creepy as all fuck-out. Which weren't prime conditions under which to suck cock. Really. He wasn't a rent boy, he didn't have to take this lying down.
...lying down, ahaha.
He came up for air and glared. "Are you even alive?"
"Quite," was the lackluster response. You'd think they'd just been discussing oatmeal. And not even the flavored kind.
"Well, act like it," Tony said crossly. "I hope this isn't how you usually react to blow jobs."
"First time the situation's come up."
Tony snorted. "You should pick better partners."
"First time that's come up, too."
It took awhile for that to fully parse through Tony's brain, which immediately careened to a screeching halt. "What?"
Gilver looked at him blandly. "What?" he echoed.
"You're a virgin?" He almost choked on the word.
If Gilver's eyebrows were visible, one would probably have been rising. "...Abstinent. Yes."
What the hell kind of virgin has a kill count in the double digits? Tony wondered. "Why, for Chrissakes?" he asked instead, appalled. "I mean, even with the skull-wrap - "
"I chose," Gilver said with exaggerated patience, "to focus my energy elsewhere."
"What's different about now?"
"I may or may not be inebriated beyond all reason."
Tony rolled his eyes. "And able to use words like 'inebriated'? Try again."
This time, Gilver took longer to answer. Tony waited.
Then, "You're beautiful."
Tony blinked. He blinked again. And then he blinked for a third time, as if his eyeballs weren't watered enough.
He said it like he was saying grass was green, or Antarctica was cold. Like that's just the way it was.
Just what the fuck had Bobby put in that liquor, anyway?
Cue the millionth uncomfortable pause.
This was a definite monkey wrench in The Plan. God knew he never intended to pop anyone's cherry. Just have a little fun, get his rocks off, reveal a secret identity or two, and see if he could freeload breakfast in the morning before they both went their merry ways until the next job came along. Simple. He liked simple.
Gilver wasn't simple. Crazy people with Satanic eyes who wore bandages over their whole goddamn headswere never simple.
But the one thing Tony liked more than simple was getting what he wanted.
"Aw, Blue." He patted Gilver's masked cheek. "You make me feel like the prettiest girl at the dance."
Gilver promptly kneed him in the gut. As Tony grunted and bent double, cursing a rainbow streak, the other man said, "Will you finish what you started or not?"
Tony coughed, cradling his stomach, hoping nothing had ruptured. "Sure, because you make it so appealing." He eyed the other man balefully. "You know, this explains a lot about why you're..." He waved a hand to encompass the wonder that was Gilver. "Guys like us have to let loose once in awhile, or we get weird."
"'Guys like us,'" Gilver repeated.
Tony hesitated. "Well, yeah. You know. Talented," he said lamely.
Gilver was doing that cat-stare again. Analyzing Tony as if he had x-ray vision and could count his individual molecules. It made his skin want to crawl off and hop a plane to Tijuana.
After an eternity of this, he said, "Right," and looked elsewhere. Tony started breathing again, without realizing that he'd stopped.
And so he went back to business, and Gilver went back to acting like it was all oatmeal. Sure, body parts were having the appropriate responses, so Tony knew he wasn't actually going at it on a corpse. But besides shifting to accommodate him when necessary, nothing.
It was better when Gilver was on the verge of strangling the life out of him. Or any of their other battles, for that matter. The other man's wind-chill factor hardly changed then, but Tony could tell from the way he moved, breathed, felt, that Gilver loved the fight as much as he did. Just for the sake of it. There was even almost a hint of warmth in him when the smell of blood was in the air and they were both coming down off the adrenaline high.
Now, he didn't know what was so different. This was closer than any fight, but the bastard was cooler than ever. He'd expected...well.
The thought brought him dangerously close to doing something inadvisable, such as biting down, just to get a reaction. Suddenly, he wanted Gilver to look at him. To see him and do...something. Anything but lie there as if he'd rather be anywhere else, or worse, didn't care where he was, or who with. And Tony knew what reaction he'd receive, all right, but he liked his head attached to his shoulders, if only for decoration. It was time to change his strategy somewhat.
"So when are you gonna reciprocate?" he asked as he sat up, wiping his mouth. "I'm kinda putting in all the effort here, partner, and a little encouragement would be just killer. C'mon, it's not rocket science." He grabbed Gilver's hand and unceremoniously shoved it down the front of his own pants. "Just grab hold. Not too hard," he added hastily, having a horrible premonition of Gilver using that death grip he demonstrated earlier on parts Tony preferred to remain intact.
Maybe he needed to rethink this, since he was almost certain Gilver didn't even have a "gentle" setting, unless it meant gently sending some poor bastard into that good night, and -
And good god, those were some talented fingers.
He should have expected this from someone who could handle a sword as well as Gilver could. There was a perfect joke in there, but Tony was a little too busy to formulate it. So he just dropped his forehead onto Gilver's shoulder and decided to enjoy the moment.
And he did, too, at least until he felt something sharp near his neck. A whole row of sharp. Kinda like - teeth?
Sharp upgraded to owshit and he jerked backwards so fast that Gilver nearly did pull it off. Fortunately, he let go in time to avoid dooming Tony's future reproductive prospects.
Tony felt into the area between his neck and left shoulder and then stared at the blood on his fingers. "What the hell, Gilver!"
On the last syllable, he found himself being dragged back fast as anything by the legs until they were slung around Gilver's waist, the other man bending over him to...lick at the wound. He could feel the wet tongue, hot and slick along the bite, cooled by Gilver's breath.
He froze, bewildered. When he'd demanded participation, he hadn't quite been expecting this.
There was that sharpness again, hard enough to bring more blood, and this time Tony recovered enough to make a move towards defending himself before Gilver hit a major artery or something. Gilver caught his wrist and now he felt slight sucking to go along with the steady brush of a tongue.
Vlad? he thought inanely. Those Dracula jokes Tony had been making earlier didn't seem nearly so funny anymore.
Another bite, the hand on his wrist squeezing so hard it seemed on the verge of crushing the bones, and he wanted to call this whole thing off until he felt a ripple of pain shoot through him and straight to his cock. A bizarre sound came out of him from deep in his chest, a cross between a groan and a growl, and he realized he was starting to pant.
"Get - off."
One solid push and the other man abruptly let him go. Tony fell back and would have sprawled on the mattress if he hadn't caught himself with one elbow.
Gilver's eyes looked even brighter than usual, like a filmy layer had just been peeled away from them. His breathing was a little faster than before, too, but he was controlling it better than Tony. There was a spot of red marring the whiteness of a bandage just beneath his mouth.
Jesus.
He had known going into this that Gilver wasn't grade-A normal; his wardrobe was a bit of a clue. But this was just a little beyond the pale.
Before he could say anything, if there was anything to say besides "What the fuck", Gilver started reaching towards him again. Lightning quick, Tony caught the bandaged hand in his own and stopped its progress in its tracks. The other man didn't try to pull free, but Tony didn't push him away, either. Did nothing at all for a long moment, until he came to a decision. Not taking his eyes off Gilver's, he started pulling off the wrappings, one long finger at a time. Gilver made no move to stop him.
Somehow, it seemed more intimate than anything else they had done tonight. This was Gilver's sword hand, his most precious extremity. Any man could survive a little castration, but take away his ability to fight and you might as well kill him then. Though Tony figured if it came down to it, Gilver would evolve into a perfect southpaw simply out of spite.
His hand was as white as what little of the rest of him Tony could see, fine-boned, nails immaculately trimmed (of course). The swordsman's callus in the crook between thumb and index finger mirrored Tony's own, and, impulsively, he ran his tongue over it. His teeth had always been extra sharp, so it wasn't difficult to break the skin. One good turn deserved another.
The splash of blood in his mouth made something inside him seize up, raw and twisting, and suddenly a vision of tearing all the flesh from Gilver's torso came over him, stripping his ribs and sinking his fingers knuckle-deep into his belly. Forget the fucking mask, just skin wasn't good enough, he wanted viscera, muscle and marrow, to see parts of Gilver that the man hadn't even seen himself.
The vision was so intense that he felt his mouth watering, his jaw aching with the need to bite down harder, until bone crunched and red, sweet warmth dribbled down his chin. He could almost fucking taste the meat.
The feeling passed as abruptly as it had smashed into him, and Tony dropped the other man's hand like it was on fire, hoping Gilver couldn't see how shaken he was. But who was he kidding? Of course Gilver could see it. Bastard saw everything with those creature-feature eyes of his.
Eyes that were watching him now with an intensity that sent another one of those ominous ripples of warning up Tony's spine, intent, almost burning. Actually seeing him, instead of around him or, disturbingly, into him, for what seemed to be the first time the whole night. Maybe the first time since they met.
"Shit," he muttered, rubbing his mouth. "You got some rough kinda foreplay, there, buddy."
Gilver said nothing, flexing his fingers until the wound on his hand was gone without a trace. Tony didn't have to touch his own neck to know that it was healed by now as well.
Finally, "You're one to talk."
Tony gave a toothy grin. The ferocity in it felt more natural than the amusement. "I always am." He reached out, grabbed Gilver by the shirt, abruptly yanked him forward and down, and kissed him. It took some maneuvering through the slit in the mask, but Gilver's mouth was full and warm, his teeth as sharp as they had felt before, and there was the hint of blood in his taste, Tony's blood, and that was somehow immensely satisfying.
Some of the guys he had done in the past had a strict "no kissing" policy. Like that somehow made the rest of it fictional. "No, Your Honor, you see, it wasn't gay sex, because I didn't kiss him."
Whatever Gilver's policy was, he kissed like he had done almost everything else tonight, like he was only a spectator, and a bored one at that. Tony was tempted to bite the hell out of him again, but considering the effect drawing blood seemed to have on them both, he decided against it. Good enough that he'd gotten that one flash of color in the grayscale, had seen the bastard's underbelly and knew what it took to access it.
He resolved not to think about what Gilver might know about his vulnerabilities in return.
When he broke the kiss, pleased to hear Gilver's breathing slightly labored again, he said, "Here's what's gonna happen, Batman." Or was it the Joker? "I'm'a give you the rare honor of topping me and you won't disappoint. We clear?"
Gilver looked at him, braced over Tony on both arms, noses almost touching, eyes locked. "Crystal," he said. And it almost, almost sounded as if he was smirking.
"Glad to hear it." With that, Tony shoved back and started squirming out of his pants.
It wasn't that big of a deal, and the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to be the one to break Gilver in the hard way. He could just imagine what kind of Greek tragedy that would be. Though if he'd been a little more sober and had the good sense God gave a walnut, he would have known better than to start this train wreck in the first place. But he wasn't and he didn't. He was committed now, and Tony always saw his commissions through.
In his haste, he would have kicked Gilver square in the head if the masked man hadn't had the wherewithal to duck. The second time, Tony's heel almost knocked his teeth in and Gilver grabbed him by the ankle in order to save his winning smile. "Are you quite finished?"
"Not by a long shot, Blue." Tony flung the pants off his free foot, reached over his head, and yanked the whole drawer out of his nightstand, sending its contents clattering to the floor. Out of the mess of charms and spare bullets, he managed to locate a condom and a packet of lube, the former of which he gave to Gilver.
He should have known better. Gilver dubiously examined the rubber in his fingers like it was an obscure Mayan artifact. "Do I have to do everything around here?" Tony muttered.
Evidently not, because once he was done with the safe sex demonstration, he found Gilver one step ahead of him for once. It happened with no warning and no mercy. It wasn't easy, it wasn't smooth, it hurt like hell and it felt like the best thing in the whole fucking world.
"Jesus Christ," Tony managed through his teeth, heart jack hammering in his ears. "Is there no goddamn moderation with you?"
He wished he could see Gilver's expression at that very moment, though he could tell plenty by the way those red eyes gleamed, too bright, almost hungry.
And then there was this weird little pause. All systems were go, except Gilver wasn't going anywhere. Tony would have thought the hesitation meant the other man was trying to contain himself, what with being freshly deflowered and all, except the way Gilver kept staring at him was too coherent for that.
"Please don't tell me I have to show you what to do now," Tony said through his teeth.
"I have some idea." Gilver's tone didn't match his eyes, as cool and unaffected as if they were playing a rousing game of gin rummy. "What makes this different?"
Stop. Rewind. "Huh?" He shifted underneath Gilver, trying to force the issue, but the other man had better leverage and pinned him in place with relatively little effort.
"You asked me what made you different from other partners I could have had in the past. I doubt even you will sleep with anything with a pulse on a whim. So what is it?"
That was too many words for Tony to process when every drop of blood he possessed had migrated south for the winter. "What?"
"Why me?" Gilver simplified.
Tony was asking himself that very question, for different reasons. "I'm fucking drunk!"
"Not that drunk."
"...I like your bod?"
"You've passed up better."
"What is wrong with you?" Tony nearly howled in frustration. Gilver remained unsympathetic.
He was about to admit it, finally. That it was about the mask, he just wanted to see what was up with that shit, satisfy his never-ending curiosity and hell, why not get off in the process.
But when he opened his mouth, what actually came out was a short, helpless laugh, and then, "Us freaks gotta stick together, right?"
Silence. Gilver kept staring at him for what seemed like years, inscrutable, and right when Tony could just about hear the aneurysm popping in the back of his own head, the other man finally, fucking finally, started to move.
Knowing what he did now about Gilver's total of zero previous partners, he'd expected the man to make like a lightning bolt, all intensity but no staying power. Instead, the bastard was apparently able to apply his fighting stamina to other activities. Which just wasn't fair.
Somehow during all the...whatever the hell this was, he'd gotten sidetracked from the original goal. It seemed almost trivial now, while he was getting his brains fucked out, but Tony was nothing if not able to be trivial at all times.
He slid a hand around the back of Gilver's neck, nails digging in, scraping, tugging just a bit, as if in abandon. Miraculously, Gilver made no move to stop him. There was a definite looseness in the strips of cloth there. The whole thing had to be unraveling by now. It would probably come off in one yank.
He got the feeling he would like what he saw. Maybe the face would match that long, pale, eerily perfect body. Even if there was something wrong with it, something to actually justify the mask, it wouldn't really matter. There were plenty of things wrong with Gilver, and a fucked-up mug would be the very least of his problems.
Besides, Tony had a strong constitution. He figured he could handle just about anything.
Raw, spiking pleasure threatening to shatter his focus, he skimmed his fingers along the edge of Gilver's jaw, careful, testing. Even like this, he wasn't stupid enough to think Gilver wouldn't disembowel him if he realized what Tony was up to.
Gilver's eyes were almost-closed when he did it, but widened a little more to pin him with that same even gaze he always wore. The red was brighter than ever, as if lit from the inside. And there was no missing the hitches in his breathing, the tension in the arch of his hard body, the way his hands gripped Tony's hips as if it was all he could do just to hold on.
A corner of Tony's mouth lifted, not quite a smirk, because he didn't dare do that again. He much preferred Gilver this way, just this side of vulnerable. Never quite there, of course, not with that stupid fucking mask, but Tony was about to amend that little detail.
He found the loosened edge of the bandages on Gilver's left cheekbone. Slid his fingernails into it. One good yank.
It was like being a kid at Christmas - or prom night.
So why was his hand shaking like that?
A monumental shudder went through Gilver's entire body, and though he didn't make any sounds, Tony knew the other man had lost the fight for endurance, and that he wasn't far behind him. Gilver's eyes slid shut completely, he stopped breathing, his fingers dug into Tony's hips with vicious strength. And Tony's arm tensed to rip the mask away.
Gilver's eyes opened and locked onto Tony's, red as fresh blood, glittering, knowing, familiar.
It was as if he'd hit a brick wall going ninety. His hand just stopped. Everything stopped.
Fire. Blood. Sulfur and ash and the stench of death. She was dead. They were coming. And he had to go. He had to find him, before it was too late. Before they...no. No.
VER -
It was then that Tony's body gave out, shattering the impossible lapse in time. His hand dropped. His eyes shut, mercifully, and he didn't have to hold that gaze any longer, or realize what it meant.
Tony fell back onto the bed, desperate to breathe, to keep from coming apart at the seams.
"I can't," he gasped. "Fuck, I can't, I can't."
Later on, he wouldn't remember that he said it.
An indefinite amount of time later, during what was traditionally called the afterglow, but for Tony was usually the afterburn, he stopped staring blankly at the ceiling and rubbed a hand over his face. He muttered, incredulous, "I just screwed a mummy."
There was silence from the other side of the bed, of the tense sort that made Tony's skin prickle. Then, "I just screwed a moron. Hopefully, it's not contagious."
"Aw. Now what kind of pillow talk is that?"
"The apt kind."
Tony smirked, relieved for reasons he couldn't name, and gave a jaw-cracking yawn.
The mattress shifted as Gilver rose. "Tell me you at least have running water," he said.
"Yeah, but it hasn't been hot since...I dunno, ever."
"Charming."
He sensed Gilver moving across the floor - he couldn't actually hear him, since even at leisure the man moved in perfect silence - and when he heard the bathroom door close and shower water spraying the floor of the tub, let loose a breath he felt he'd been holding for hours.
Damn.
All that, and he still knew nothing more about Gilver than he had before he embarked on this nearsighted endeavor. Well...maybe more than most people knew. Not that he felt the knowledge was enviable.
In any case, if he was ever playing "I've Never" and someone mentioned sex with a masked homicidal maniac, he'd have to take a drink, God help him. That counted for something.
Sometimes his life was indescribably strange.
Tony snorted to himself, and turned over for some long-overdue sleep.
The hunter hadn't been exaggerating about the water. At least it was clean, if cool, and only smelled slightly of rust. Living in moderately expensive hotels this past year had spoiled Gilver some, though he didn't need to think that far back to recall squatting in abandoned buildings and unrented flats - or, as he grew older, disposing of the residents of occupied property in order to make use of the place himself. Because of that, he hadn't had the luxury of settling in one spot. People tended to wonder where their family members vanished off to.
After turning off the faucet, he stepped out of the tub onto the faded tile floor. With no steam, he could see himself clearly in the mirror. His face was as pale as the rest of him, and he slicked his hair back with one hand. Red eyes glittered back at him in the dimness of the bathroom.
It would have been ironic if, after all the earlier theatrics over the mask, the hunter came barging into the bathroom just now. But Gilver knew it wouldn't happen. The hunter had had his chance, Gilver had laid it at his feet just to test, to see, and it had been avoided like the trap it had become. It seemed "Tony Redgrave" still had some instincts left, even if they weren't the critical ones that would have kept him out of a tryst like this in the first place.
The bandages were irritating, to say the least. They barely served a purpose at all, save for allowing him to conserve energy and concentration that would otherwise be wasted on a constant glamour. It wouldn't do to let the game end so soon. But he couldn't deny that he had hoped the other man would take it upon himself to...
"I can't. Fuck, I can't, I can't."
Gilver's long, thin fingers clenched on either side of the sink with enough force to splinter the porcelain. No, the hunter clearly did not want to remember. He was not fighting to reclaim his past, his heritage - he was running away from it as fast as he could.
Unfortunately for him, he had come full circle anyway.
Gilver studied himself in the glass, the white hair, the long, aristocratic nose, the strong jaw, the unmarked skin. Every feature identical to the hunter's. Except for the eyes.
As he watched, the red drained out of his irises, leaving only blue. He closed them, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, concentrating. When he looked back, the red had returned, but it was weaker than it had been before, diluted. He had been subsisting on human food for too long and the corruption was losing its potency. Maybe that was why he had even bothered to let this charade come as far as it had: Human emotions seeping back into his veins, infecting him.
But he didn't have to justify tonight. Even demons had a sense of clan. He thought of how the other man had looked for a precious few seconds with Gilver's blood on his tongue, the barest flash of red hunger in his too-blue eyes. The memory had sunk beneath Gilver's skin, leaving a permanent imprint. All the hunter had done was brush the surface, barely tap the underneath.
Gilver raised two fingers and gestured. The torn and crumpled bandages he had removed and left in the sink rolled into a tight ball. When they loosened, were as flawlessly white and whole as his hair. They slid to him, carefully doing their twin serpents' dance around his face and his throat.
When they passed over his nose, he reflected that this wasn't very different from being smothered.
Finding the hunter alive after so long believing him dead had been a shock, but not as disturbing as seeing what was left of him now, devilspawn playing human with all the trappings, believing it. Gilver had been disconcerted to realize that being himself became impossible when there was someone out there with his face, his blood, and potentially, his destiny.
He could not be demon while his brother was human.
He could not be Vergil while Tony still lived.
The bandages completed their winding ritual, no piece out of place. Not sparing the mirror another glance, he walked out of the bathroom.
The hunter was out cold in his bed. A fireball from heaven crashing through the ceiling probably wouldn't wake him. Gilver couldn't handle his liquor, but "Tony" couldn't handle his sex.
After he dressed, Gilver considered the hunter for a long while, stretched out, arm dangling over the side of the mattress, head tilted back, lips parted, throat exposed. So careless. He wondered: if he attacked him now, would the hunter even be able to react? Block the sword before it severed every pulsing artery in his throat, or better, let the blade through, simply to heal within seconds? Such a wound was child's play for a creature of his (their) caliber. But live long enough as a human, one might come to acquire their weaknesses.
Even so...this was a mirror of another sort, through which Gilver could examine his own givens. Fast where the other man was strong. Cool where the other was fiery. Calculating where the other was reckless. The shadows of musculature in his arms and abdomen, the utter lack of scars and birthmarks which another person might have found odd. It was living as a human that had sculpted his body so; if he depended on infernal strength, he would have been as slender as Gilver. It was the only physical area besides the cut of their hair in which they weren't identical. So similar in body and complete opposites in mind and method.
Something would have to give. And it would not be Gilver.
He secured his sword to his side and stood there for a moment. Not hesitating. That was the road to ruin. But he had a thought, and searched the inner pocket of his suit jacket until he found it. It was a gold Roman coin - aureus? solidus? he couldn't be troubled to remember - very old, but in perfect condition. The only thing that made it different from any other coin, in fact, were the identical heads on either side.
Remus and Romulus. The twin sons of War.
His brother was still in there somewhere, underneath the detritus of "Tony", the farce of a human life he had built to replace the one that went up in flames all that time ago. And if he had to suffer in order to reclaim himself, then Gilver would gladly assist in the effort.
They were two halves of the same coin, and he would clean the dust from his brother's side of it.
Gilver left the coin on the nightstand as a parting gift. He wondered if, or when, "Tony" would get the joke.
When Tony woke up, Gilver was gone. All he left behind was some foreign-looking, two-headed trick coin, that somehow Tony felt compelled to keep. A souvenir, maybe, of one weird friggin' hook-up.
He went to Bobby's that evening as usual, and Gilver was already there, as usual. There was no tense conversation, meaningful glances, or otherwise clandestine behavior between them, and Tony hadn't expected anything else. The two of them were a lot of things, but a couple of blushing schoolgirls wasn't one of them.
Tony gobbled down two sundaes and talked business with the other guys - "business" mostly consisting of some girl's rack, hardware, and college football - while Gilver silently cleaned his katana, getting ready for a night on the town. Nothing had changed.
Well, except one thing.
"Hey, Redgrave," one of the guys said as he was about to follow Gilver out on yet another joint job. "It must be drivin' you crazy, trying to figure out what's under that mask of his."
Tony grinned and promptly flipped his new coin in the air. "Heads, I don't give a shit," he caught the coin in one hand, "tails, I do." He slapped it down on the back of his other glove, then showed it off. "Hah. Guess it doesn't matter."
He palmed the coin before anybody could think to examine both sides and walked away. Gilver had been watching him, but he didn't say a word about it.
Shortly after that night, Tony's name would be Dante and he would be fighting Gilver to the death.
But when that mask was unwrapped, the coin would still be in Dante's pocket, identical faces engraved on either side. And he would finally understand.
end