(A/N): With Results Day done with, and a minor surge of relief, I return to writing with a fic that's been postponed for almost two years!
Now, quite some time ago I wrote a fic featuring the relationship between Swain and LeBlanc called "Grey and Gray". It was written during an incredibly potent period of writer's block, and before I even released it I knew for a fact that it didn't do my view of their relationship any justice at all.
What with Swain being my favourite character and all, I felt it was necessary to essentially remake that story from the ground up in order to correctly portray my own view of how the pair interact with eachother. While it's nice and lovey dovey to give them a cutesy relationship with lots of kisses and cuddles and all that junk, I feel there's a hell of a lot more than that to the pair. They're incredibly high profile players in politics, not schoolchildren in the playground!
In the words of Marvin Gaye, let's get it on! Do hope that my writing skill hasn't degenerated following the stress of the past week :P
WARNING: Spelling errors, tea tables, me trying to write a cock tease, dull dialogue, unsubtle attempts at being subtle, OOC characters if you consider the current lore as official, weird pacing, repetition, me trying to bolster the word count in the warning and generally nothing happening!
Bravado
She was looking him in the eye again.
It should come as no surprise, but she always did this. Constantly vigilant she'd keep you under her watchful gaze. Every hour, every minute, and every second, forever in search for the slightest hiccup. All it took was a single mistake or error, and she'd exploit it for all of its worth. It was quite an amazing talent, honestly. When it worked out at least.
Of course, with him it never worked. A pair of alluring eyes - gold like smooth honey - weren't the sort of thing to get him tripping on his tongue. She likely knew this by now, but she refused to step down. There was no such thing as an infallible man in her eyes, no matter how disciplined or honed they be.
"Sugar?" Jericho Swain suddenly muttered across the table, sounding very much like a mind numbed parent stuck at a school pantomime. He clearly didn't want to be here, as if that was a mind-blowing development. He was a military officer at heart, not a pencil-pushing secretary.
"Yes. Please." LeBlanc smiled that false smile of hers, bowing her head ever so slightly. They'd gone through this charade time and time again for years, from the Master Tactician's early days in the academy to where he was now; the highest seat of authority in all of Noxus. Believe it or not, she was quite proud of what they'd managed to achieve together. It had taken them over two decades.
One heaped spoonful and an unenthusiastic minute of stirring later, Swain nudged his guest's cup and saucer ahead hastily as if it was a motionless spider on the bathroom floor. She snickered at the effect of her actions on him over the years - perhaps the old general was afraid that he might brush her hand? That there might be a sudden bout of intimacy out of absolutely nowhere?
The isolated council chamber, sat high above the rampant sprawl of Noxus, was silent beyond the clutter of fancy china and the subdued growl of the hearthfire. LeBlanc returned to her fixating stare, as if deriving some sort of strange pleasure from observing the withered man's stoic guise. If there was one thing she found interesting, it was reading the expressions of the repressed.
There were no faces she recognised more than the general's. No visage she'd examined and studied more than his. She could tell what he was thinking from the slightest crook in his brow, or so she reckoned.
That would've been quite romantic.
If only the air weren't so heavy
Like all tall buildings, there was an unnecessarily large window adjacent to their little tea table. It gave a perfect view of the nation that sat under their thumbs. The stare was broken for but a moment, her eyes like a hawk as they panned across the vast landscape. "We made this, Jericho." she said, biting her lip in mock wonder. "I didn't think we would make it this far. Did you?"
Swain spared a gander at the city-state in twilight. Under the blanket of night, Noxus had always looked magnificent. It seemed that was a necessity for all the cities and metropolises across the entirety of Valoran, for when shadows loomed over the rugged scene the towering skyscrapers and glowing torches remained forever gleaming. While in the day bleak and conservative blocks of slag and stone, the rows of watchposts that littered the city became glazed candles amidst the darkness.
They were watchful sentinels, erected to hold vigil across a dangerous world.
They were beacons of hope amidst a never ending void of despair.
A path of breadcrumbs, leading to the future.
He'd called this place home from the moment he could stand. Home didn't have to be welcoming or warm or pleasing to the senses; it merely was. The skies were cloudless tonight, letting the many stars and constellation flock across the sky to gaze and spy on the strange ball of water and land that spun so many million miles away. Always there, but forever out of reach. The air was thick with the familiar crisp fumes of Noxian war machines and refineries, churning out endless weaponry to fuel their ongoing conquest.
And still the city grew, more and more skyscrapers rising from the ashes and ruin of the war torn city state every day and night. At long last the past mistakes of their forefathers were irrelevant, the issues that mattered finding the forefront and attention that they had deserved for so long. She could be rebuilt. They had the technology, and the manpower, and the sheer will of the Noxian people at their back.
The Deceiver was right. They had made this city after years upon years of joint effort, climbing with tooth and claw through the pile of bodies in the dishevelled military and ascending the rungs of the ladder of Noxian politics. Together they had purged the pitiful excuse of the Noxian aristocracy, usurping the pompous Darkwill and all his ilk like poison is drawn from a wound, and at last ending the self destruction of the nation. Together they had renewed the vigour and fame of their homeland. Noxus had been reborn, after centuries of mindless abuse at the hand of simpletons.
What they had offered Noxus was a future. A return to the glory days of centuries past, when the hordes of Noxus were feared by all, and their empire rolled across the hills of Valoran for all to see. The people of this great nation could at last be proud of their namesakes once more, in spite of a world that misunderstood true greatness. A world of Demacians, and Ionians, and Targonites, and so many others that banded together against a great power they couldn't fathom.
And people fear what they do not understand.
Unannounced a delicate hand sat upon his own, tapping his large knuckles with mischievous intent. The Grand General of Noxus turned from his reverie to meet a smirking illusionist, pleased with her successful distraction. Knowing her, that'd been the entire point of her inspiring words mere moments prior. To set him off on a tangent that she could blissfully take advantage of. It was the sort of thing she'd do.
Yanking his palm away, he felt for his cup and sipped with formality. His rough appearance and scarred features betrayed his class and refinement, for certain. He had no time for nonsense; this was a council meeting, not a birthday party.
No matter what he did, the bitter politician only ever seemed to provide more and more ammunition for the manipulative magician. "You've been so distant lately." LeBlanc pouted childishly, leaning forward - in that sort of way - against the table. Her lips pursed ever so slightly, as if prepared for a smooch. "Do you have a crush on me, Jericho? How scandalous."
Swain waded through the torrent of her womanly wiles, ignoring the perverse display she was trying to force upon him. He honestly wondered how little she thought of him to honestly think that such an action would affect him. How scandalous? How disappointing. "New taxes need to be levied on the Market Quarter of the city in order to meet the expenses of our next shipment of experimental hextech generators from Zaun." Swain began a political tangent, focusing the conversation on the appropriate topic. These meetings were about the state of the nation. They weren't social gatherings. "I believe that our own workers can learn from these technologies, and perhaps become efficient in creating Noxian approximations of hextech. It would be a large investment in the short term, but it would offer self sufficiency in the coming season."
A long leg had quietly extended from under the table throughout his rant, a manicured foot that had vacated its heels nudging at Swain's shin flirtatiously. It stroked at the tactician's leg provocatively, running up and down like a throbbing paint brush upon an artisan's canvas. Her colourful toes pressed against him deviously, eager to get him all hot under the collar.
Prompting no response in spite of her best efforts, LeBlanc had elegantly crossed her lower limbs and sat side-saddled upon her seat to accentuate her fair and youthful thighs. Patiently she let her bare leg dangle back and forth, swaying about like a hammock upon a lovely tropical island and showing off her tantalising curves.
The most beautiful rose has the sharpest thorns.
He never quite understood her strange dress sense. While he was no connoisseur of fashion or trends, the peculiar garments she trounced around with just seemed impractical to be blunt. She'd looked the same for decades - like an impudent hussy at a shady street corner. His weathered fingertips tapped at his saucer, waiting for her to respond and ignoring her little display. It was her own time she was wasting.
Her show had been a complete flop from the get go, so it seemed. The Deceiver rested her head against her fist in apparent defeat, her eyelids fluttering with a frightening allure. To be fair to himself the General would have found her quite handsome, were it not for truth behind her devilish good looks. "Jericho?" she sighed sadly, knowing full well how much he hated her use of his first name. How she loved to get under his skin. "You don't trust me, do you?"
Swain was a man who expressed all of his emotions with the form of his brow. It was fascinating just how much a person could convey through the positioning of their eyebrows alone, but with his constant use of masks to obscure his countless scars and disfigurements he often had no choice. Regardless, his raised brow conveyed his feelings entirely. "I sincerely hope you didn't just realise that."
Those golden jewels of hers flickered ever so slightly as she stared into his lifeless sockets once more, as if his snarky words had some semblance of a genuine impact on the breathtaking charlatan. She was legitimately speechless for a moment, which was an achievement and a half in the Grand General's eyes. If they'd had any further effect, she quickly suppressed it as she returned to the usual teasing charade she saved just for him. "Don't you just miss the good old days?" she asked, resting her chin between her hands like a fresh faced schoolgirl when the dreamy school hunk came strutting on by. "Just you and me, against the world?"
In some ways he did.
They were simpler times. Their aims sat so far away that they seemed almost unattainable, their combined skills and resources being required for even the slightest of progress to be made. Shoulder to shoulder they'd beaten their way forward, forged onward to the throne they now shared.
Today, there was no grand scheme. No romantic aspirations or dramatic coups for the history books to retell. Now all they seemed to do was administrate, slowly rebuilding Noxus from the ground up. Two sovereigns, but only one seat.
The Tactician and the Deceiver no longer needed one-another. Having grown in power from the cradle they were now stuck in a perpetual standoff, contending for the throne of Noxus and for absolute control of the whole nation. Swain and LeBlanc were the closest of allies, having made eachother who they were straight from the start. Yet conversely, they were also the greatest of enemies. Dearest friends, out for their comrades' throats.
That's politics.
Oh, the humanity.
Dismissing the question, the general reached for the ornate teapot between them and poured out another round of tea like a bartender in Bilgewater. They both drank from the same pot with little fear. There was no poison here, beyond that which sat at the back of their tongues like virile venom. A creature of habit, Swain asked the same question as always. He knew the answer full well. "Sugar?"
LeBlanc shook her head in a womanly fashion. It was impossible to explain how one shook their head in a "womanly" way, but the old officer knew it when he saw it. She tapped the bridge of her slender nose, smiling deviously. "I'm sweet enough already."
Believe it or not Swain somehow managed to look even more bitter than usual after that comment, his nostrils flaring in indignation. The cheeky LeBlanc folded her arms confidently, accentuating her perfect form; primarily the breasts, of course. She did enjoy flaunting her curvaceous beauty, especially in the presence of a man as sexless as the Grand General. For someone who prided herself in her subtlety, she wasn't doing too well at the moment.
The Deceiver was a gorgeous woman, without a doubt. Yet to Swain she looked far too perfect, to the point that it was frightfully unsettling. No woman could truly look that beautiful. Only a master of deception who hid behind a vain facade could make such a convincing mirage. Real beauty, in his eyes, was not infallible.
"Your choice of clothing has always been unsightly." he suddenly commented, at last bringing his long-thought opinions to light. LeBlanc almost seemed amused, amazed that the general was actually commenting on how she looked. For the longest of times she had began to wonder if he'd gone blind over the past few weeks, showing no reaction to her aggravating actions. He glared at her grudgingly, examining her outfit analytically. "Hardly practical."
"I never thought you spent so much time ogling at me." she smirked, flashing her teeth in a toothpaste-sponsored grin. Swain kept his cool with ease, not too impressed by her warm up. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"I've said what I wanted to say." he replied, "I can't imagine the effort it takes to put on such a... Unique... Set of clothing."
She took some time to retort, not that she had trouble bringing her words to bear. It would've been far too easy to simply say "you imagine me getting dressed? My my, how forward of you!" or "I have another set if you'd like to borrow it!". She'd rather give the tactician at least some semblance of a chance. "You're one to talk, Jericho." she teased, tensing her folded arms even more for additional emphasis. Despite her efforts the scarred officer continued to focus on her eye with stern intensity, prompting her to let her arms fall to her lap in defeat. "You've always dressed up just for me."
Swain did a good job of hiding his double take to be fair. It was true that he wore his ceremonial garb to their talks rather than the shabby old robes that he tended to call his "casual" clothing. But he did it because this chamber was an official council meeting place, where important and sensitive political matters were discussed. It was a traditional uniform for a man of his rank, and nothing more. She could humour herself with such thoughts of male bravado, however false they were, as she pranced about in her peculiar garments. It meant nothing to him.
There it was. His brow had knitted ever so slightly in response to her words. His attempts to hide his confusion weren't good enough, despite their effort. She'd gotten him for a moment, no matter how small. That was a success in her eyes. A victory. A triumph.
She loved exercising power over the general, no matter how slight or subtle it was. No one else in the whole world could get to him quite like her. Honestly, no other man or woman in Valoran could speak to him in such an informal atmosphere. She was like the court jester, pardoned for acting brashly for the sake of amusement.
No one else in the world knew him as well as her.
Not even him.
There was a sudden rattle of iron and tin from the far corner of the room, sending a surge of surprise down the spines of them both. In a drab looking cage shrouded by shadow, a feisty Beatrice had awoken from a lengthy snooze in her favourite spot in the council chambers. Law forbade her from flying freely about indoors, but the general had managed to pull a few strings to keep her close at hand at all times.
Beatrice flicked her sizeable beak at the bars of her prison like a forgotten convict clinking their mug against their cell bars. She squawked irritably, eager for something to nibble on. Before Swain could act the seemingly younger LeBlanc shot to her feet keenly, her elaborate set of heels still resting together under the tea table. Skipping across the carpet on bare feet, she made for the cage and pulled at the lock.
Opening the cell door, the raven calmly hopped from her pedestal onto the foot of the cage before floating to LeBlanc's vacant shoulder. She didn't mind in the slightest. She'd known the old bird just as long as she'd known Jericho. The two girls got along famously. As if to exemplify their chemistry, the avian pecked at her ear ever so gently. Now if it was a human woman doing that, it'd be a tad bit more dubious that's for sure. "See? Beatrice trusts me." LeBlanc called out to Swain, who remained a bystander at his seat. A "bysitter" as it were. "Don't you? Of course you do." she giggled slightly, scratching at her beak affectionately.
As if unable to take the embarrassment of physical contact Beatrice suddenly took off, having a quick trip across the room before landing on the tea table. She almost looked surprised when her owner firmly grabbed her and yanked at her beak like a father brushing their daughter's teeth, roughly pulling out a shining jewel. It was one of LeBlanc's earrings. The general gave an addendum: "Or she thinks you have seed." he flicked its beak authoritatively, much to its apparent chagrin. "That's the only reason she's ever friendly."
"Women are complex creatures." LeBlanc pointed out, mockingly leaping to the defence of the poor little birdie. She was certain that there was more to her than a mere want for food; why else would she have stuck by the tactician's side for so many years? She cocked her hip, striking a pose worthy of a Zaunite beauty magazine cover. "You've always been a fish out of water with the ladies, haven't you?"
He fished into the single pocket of his fancy uniform, inexplicably pulling out a hefty handful of corn seed. For someone who spoke so poorly of his familiar, he certainly seemed prepared for her needs. "I've never been interested in relationships. You know this." he dismissed her small talk with his own, offering his palm for the raven's nourishment. "If I wanted love, I'd have pursued it long ago."
LeBlanc tried to imagine a love stricken Jericho prancing about, his knees high in the air as he sang serenades to the dames of Noxus. It was an image that was impossible to stomach. Knowing him, his attempts at courtship would've probably involved monotone readings of moody poetry. Still, she asked the question. "Has there ever been a woman in your life?"
Swain's answer was simple. "A gentleman would never kiss and tell."
Somebody was frigid, weren't they? If he was trying to curb her interest, he was doing an awful job of it. "Of course, of course." she acknowledged, continuing to observe as Beatrice pecked at her seeds. For every one that she snagged, another three flew into the air and bounced off onto the carpet before making a beeline for the nearest cover. The bitter old coot clutched at her powerfully, keeping her wings under wrap. "... Although some 'birds' do like rough, distant men."
Beatrice continued to tap at his hands for more to snack on, but he was quick to fist what remained into his pocket and manhandle her into submission. "You'll get more later." he gave the crow a sizing glare to ensure her obedience, before placing her back onto the table and patting her back to get her to return to her cage. He understood her discomfort being stuck indoors for so long but that was life, and life tended to be tough on you. She'd best get used to it. "Go."
She was off once more, circling the room like a moth getting frisky with a candlestick, until reluctantly diving for her cage and returning to her cell. LeBlanc kindly left the lock undone, just in case the dastardly bird wanted to stretch her wings again. It wasn't nice being caged up all day, that was for sure. She turned back to Swain, who watched on dubiously. "You're not very kind to us girls, are you Jericho?" she returned to the pout that had been frequenting her lips as of late. Now that the initial tension of the night had dissipated, he could see some amusement from her comment. It wasn't his sort of comedy, but he could respect it at least. "Beatrice and I should give you the silent treatment. That would teach you."
The general called her bluff, stirring his tea furiously for no particular reason. "Please do." he encouraged, wiping his corn-smelling palm on a napkin. "That would be wonderful."
Of course the Deceiver didn't fall for that, as much as an example it would make. That bluff was far too obvious. LeBlanc returned to her seat with elegant poise, flicking her hair back like a surfacing siren as she silently sat without so much as a creak of wood. Moments later Swain nudged her earring across the table like a monk on an oath of celibacy, sending the rough sphere rolling towards her and clunking against her cup. She sighed, plucking it from the tablecloth and getting to work putting the fiddly thing back in.
He couldn't help but wonder why LeBlanc had settled on such a specific appearance in his company. For a master of deception, you'd expect her to be the sort who constantly changed her looks to suit whatever she felt like at the time. Instead the faceless woman had made a face and called it her own. And conveniently, it was a face that appealed to the Grand General's palate.
Cynicism abound, no doubt that was the point. It was much easier to try and influence someone by being appealing to them, wasn't it? Perhaps her compatriots had recommended her guise, hoping that it would give her more pull on their makeshift puppet?
Alas, he had cut at their strings.
The hanged man would never dance.
LeBlanc placed a finger on her glossy lips, winking at him seductively. She practically looked like a model, her expression and body just as fake. Eager to get on his nerves, she chimed in a childish sing-song. "How do I look, Jericho?"
He kept his gaze low, not wanting to be over exposed. Sipping from his cup, he replied without much of a pause. "With your eyes, Evaine."
There was a brief pause as the pair considered what had just been said, befitting of a sitcom written by the greatest comedians Noxus had to offer. Swain lowered his lukewarm tea, licking his lips methodically before - like his counterpart - sharing a brief chuckle. It wasn't even particularly funny; they were laughing at just how bad it was.
The tactician may have been a stern man, but he was human. He did laugh. And if there was one thing the Deceiver loved, it was making her long time companion laugh. It was slight and dull, sounding like a dry cackle from a joyless loner who spent far too much time on his lonesome, but it was what it was. A delicacy, as it were. It made the newfound enmity between them vanish, even if it was just for a moment.
Eventually the air calmed down, the pair returning to their eternal staring contest. Honeyed eyes like honeyed words, LeBlanc fidgeted on her seat and assumed a less scandalous position. "It would be an appropriate course of action. The Zaunites can't be trusted for too long. Noxus needs to reduce reliance on external exportation." she advised, suddenly assuming her authoritative persona without announcement and answering his age-old question. "Much of the Market Quarter is occupied by members of the Black Rose. They can be convinced, for a time, to accept a higher tax rate. One-hundred and fifty percent would be adequate."
Her sudden formality only seemed to reaffirm his suspicions, her life so fake that she could switch at a moment's notice - two faces to a single coin. No matter what she said or did, it didn't change the simple fact that she was part of the Black Rose; the people who were doing all that they could to keep him under their thumb, using the Deceiver as their instrument. No doubt they were losing their patience with the general. They intended to remove him from the picture eventually, and were entirely aware that he understood this.
LeBlanc was aware that he understood this.
But Swain wasn't a cornered raven baring its talons. If anything, this antagonism was mutual. He had his own forces at hand, and vied to slit the throat of the serpent and destroy the Black Rose once and for all as soon as it had outlived its use in his grand plan for Noxus. The Black Rose and LeBlanc knew this, and she was entirely aware of his plans.
Swain was aware that she understood this.
They were trapped at a perpetual standoff, the Deceiver and Tactician needing eachother to survive yet needing their counterpart removed in order to advance any further in controlling Noxus. Until that day came, they were caught in an eternal impasse where little change could occur.
LeBlanc tilted her head to catch his lowered gaze, having left her seat and knelt by the side of the table within the last few moments without him even noticing. Had he truly been that lost in thought, or was she just that deceptive? She smiled at him deviously, her eyes glinting with uncertain intent. "Wake up, sleepy head."
He stirred from his thought, briefly caught unawares. A forced cough led to a uncommon stutter, as he did his best to regain his composure. "V-Very well." he agreed, ignoring her smirk at his stumbling. It was hard to remember that this woman by his side, all childish and teasing, was a cold hearted murderer and master of the arcane arts. If she wanted him dead, she could do it in an instant before he even cleared leather. He tugged at his mask in discomfort, freeing his nose. Within moments he was back to business. "Now in regards to increased crime rates in the frontier villages, there have been requests for one-hundred levies to assist in policing the streets from the local elders."
She could kill him right now.
He could kill her just as fast.
But neither had drawn the long knife.
Satisfied that she'd manage to break him out of character for just the slightest of moments, LeBlanc returned to her chair with sigh of whimsy. Leaning back in her seat she stretched outwards, mewling with relief as her muscles unwound.
To think that long ago during the early days of their conquest, before the game for Noxus had truly begun, he legitimately housed the makings of actual feelings for the Deceiver.
Romantic feelings.
Thankfully the pessimism and jaded cynicism of age had managed to shake some sense into him and solve that issue, as he quickly realised the sheer lie that her entire existence was built upon. And that, as they say, was that.
Their talks continued throughout the night, barely cutting into the meat of the many day-to-day issues of the city-state they ruled together. Noxus was still far from the state of perfection it yearned to regain, and until that day came both the Tactician and the Deceiver would be stuck in their uneasy alliance.
He was relieved when they'd finished for the day, barely scratching the surface of the matters he hoped to highlight. It was always a test when LeBlanc was about, forever unsure as to what the night could bring. He owed her so much, but she was an obstacle now. They were both desperate to remove one-another from the chessboard, and achieve undisputed dominance over the country after so many decades of closely knit camaraderie.
Even if their alliance had - from the very start - been for nothing more than individual gain, sometimes he honestly wished that in another world they could've been friends. That there would be no bitter reality, no politics, and they could continue to ally with no fear of treachery or betrayal.
Because in the end, he respected LeBlanc for who she was. An intelligent, charismatic leader as skilled in battle as she was at getting on his nerves.
And he could tell that she returned this respect, in spite of all these bitter truths.
But then that wasn't the circumstance, was it?
They were enemies. And that was the reality of it.
After giving Beatrice an unnecessarily lengthy goodbye all in spite of the general she called her colleague, she walked to door with a saucy slink in her step in full knowledge that her doorman for the moment would have to watch. Of course this was all in hope that she could muddle his fatigued mind just one last time. Alas, there was no reaction as she seductively leant against the doorframe, mere inches away from his flushed face. She couldn't find his gaze, much to her disappointment. "Same time tomorrow?"
Her soft breaths warming his cheeks, Swain half nodded reservedly. The Deceiver reached out and held his hand, furrowing her brow knowingly. His stare was absent, his shoulders sagging haphazardly. Was it out of fatigue, of relief? Or was it despair? He broke her grip after a noticeable pause, flexing his knuckles.
"Same time tomorrow."
X
(A/N): HOT DAMN THAT DIDN'T WORK
You can see why this fic took so long to finally churn out! Beyond the original concept of the relationship I was trying to portray, there just wasn't much to go from and as a result you get what you've just read. A dull fic where nothing happens!
Perhaps one day I'll finally be able to do their relationship justice. It just seems that it's not this day... Toodle pip :l