A/N: I'm not dead, I swear! I didn't drop off the face of the earth! I just haven't been inspired to write lately… But here! I wrote something! And there'll be more soon!

Also, new UN~

…

"Alright, lad, go ahead and choose."

Kylius nodded quickly, amber eyes leaving Vilkas in favor of the array of weapons laid out before him. He'd waited forever for this (three years, to be exact) and had chosen the weapon he wanted to train in a long while ago. So he didn't hesitate to step forward and choose the pair of simple iron daggers set on the ground before him.

Yet, behind where the daggers had been, Athis' eyes flashed. "No."

"Excuse you?" Dalamus inquired, the steel in his voice partly borne of the Harbinger and partly of an irritated parent as his son looked up at the swordsman in disbelief.

Athis met his gaze evenly as he repeated himself.

Vilkas, Aela, and all the others began to back away, sensing the firefight that was now sure to come, and little Ky's voice cut through the tense silence. "B-but, why?"

Dalamus glanced down at his son, brows reaching for each other at the confusion on the boy's face. He grabbed Athis by the front of his armor and all but dragged him out of Jorrvaskr, the other Dunmer offering no resistance on the way.

The silverhead bristled as his counterpart answered Kylius' question without missing a beat. "Because the boy is a halfbreed. I refuse to relay the training you and I received as children to someone who will not appreciate it as we did."

"This coming from the one who's trained scores of Nords and Imperials." The Harbinger raised his chin, glaring down his nose at Athis, oblivious to the single amber eye peering outside through a crack in the door. "His being only half Dunmer will not restrict his ability to learn and you know it."

"Your words don't make me any more willing to train him, sera."

Dal's eyes narrowed at the sarcastic spin put on the term of respect. "Upon becoming a master swordsman you swore to train any brought to you."

"I did not." Athis frowned, crossing his arms. "I don't know what Kodlak told you, but I reserve the right to refuse training to anyone I choose. Including your little halfbreed boy."

Oh, that was it.

…

"Papa, Papa! Daddy made a fly noise!"

Marcurio looked up from his book as Dal ducked into the door, the boy on his Daddy's shoulders. "A what?"

"A fly noise!" he flapped his arms as Dalamus kicked the door shut behind him. Marc didn't miss the guilt that flashed across his face when Kylius went on, "Serjo Athis was being a meanie so Daddy took him outside and went POOF! And he went flying!"

"He did what." The mage's tone went flat, book forgotten in his lap, and Dal at least had the decency to blush. "Dal –"

"We'll talk about it later." The dovahkiin stressed, putting Ky down and cracking his neck. "Gods, boy, you're getting heavy."

"It's cuz I'm big now, Daddy." He stuck his chest out, stomping about in circles. "Can I go play?"

"What are the rules?"

Ky's chest deflated in an exaggerated sigh. "No leaving the city, and stay away from Dragonsreach, don't talk to strangers. I know, I know. Can I go now?"

Dalamus chuckled and ruffled his hair. "Have fun, kiddo."

"Bye!"

It wasn't until after he was gone that Dal realized he was in for it.

"You do realize you just broke your own rule." Marc was still in that chair, in front of the fire pit, chin propped on one fist and expression somewhere between perplexed and amused.

The Dunmer sighed. "I know, I know. It was an accident."

"As these things usually are. C'mere, tell me all about it." Marcurio sat back, patting his lap with a little smile. Dal rolled his eyes, but went right over and sat across his thighs, resting his head against the mage's shoulder.

"Ky wants to fight using daggers," the Dragonborn murmured, nuzzling his face into his husband's neck. "But Athis wouldn't train him because he's not full-blooded Dunmer. It pissed me off."

"So you Shouted him across Jorrvaskr?" there was no hiding the smirk in Marcurio's voice, but there was an edge to it that Dal could hear as well.

"We were outside, okay. Don't interrupt me."

The mage raised a brow. "There's more?"

"… Well, no, but that's beside the point. Interrupting is rude." Damn, now he was smiling too.

"Have you really ever known me to be exceptionally polite?"

The chuckle came completely by its own volition. "You were never impolite, Marc. A cocky bastard, maybe, but not impolite."

"Yeah, well you love this cocky bastard." Marcurio tilted his head, seeking a kiss, and Dal leaned up to meet him. It was chaste, sweet; before long the Dunmer murmured against his husband's lips, "More than you'll ever know."

"I know more than you think, love." The Imperial smiled, lips traveling down Dal's jaw to his neck. "Though, you could always just show me yourself…"

"No." even if the mention did stir up a soft warmth in the pit of his belly… "Ky's outside. He could come back at any time, or what if he needs us for something?"

"I know, I know, I was just joking." That was a lie, and they both knew it.

So Dal littered light kisses over his husband's face with a whisper of, "Later. I promise."

"You better." That smirk was back, the silverhead could hear it. He twisted in Marcurio's lap, placed a hand on either side of his face and kissed him soundly on the lips. And just as the Imperial parted his lips, tightened his arms around Dal's waist—

"Hey, Papa, Lars and Mila and me wanna— EW, DADDY!"

Dal got down from Marc's lap, chuckling at the little wrinkle in his son's nose as the mage asked, "What's up, kiddo?"

"Me and Lars and Mila wanna play Stormcloaks and Imperials. Can I have the wood daggers?"

A white brow arched. "'Can I have the wood daggers' what?"

"Please?"

"Alright." Dal nodded and went to retrieve them. "Be careful, okay? And maybe, soon, you can teach Mila and Lars how to use these, eh?"

The little one nodded excitedly. "Yeah! With serjo teaching me, I'll be the best fighter ever! Bye Daddy!"

And he scampered right back out the door, three wooden daggers in his arms.

Yep. Best mistake he's made in a while.

…

A/N: Oh god, sucky ending is sucky. Short one-shot is short. Fail attempt at returning to writing is fail. *cries*