A/N: was busy reading about 16th century spanish military stuff cause, y'know, research, and i hit the musket section. ya'll know i love muskets. i love muskets. so, yeah, a dribble-drabble because i need to keep writing to avoid writers-block and lose momentum, y'know? also i'm trying to impress breathless ivory. fight me.

Miguel had never regretted joining Tulio's company. He wasn't one for regrets, but he didn't doubt his decision. Their life together was different than what he'd known before, but he learnt; he adjusted. He experienced and grew and made that kind of life his own.

His partner - from the beginning - had been acutely aware of the differences between them. Tulio found ways to remind Miguel, and Miguel would brush them off. Because the blond didn't see them, not in the way his partner did.

They were both people. They lived and laughed and sometimes they'd get angry or hungry or sad, just like anyone. They planned and plotted, they talked and dreamed; they were on the same page. They weren't so different. Miguel never understood why anyone thought they were. 'Opposites attract', but him and Tulio wren't opposites. He didn't see it. It wasn't as obvious to him as it seemed to be to everybody else; to the passers by on the street, to the guardsmen and stall vendors, to his family and past friends, and, strangest of all, to Tulio himself.

Though it failed to interfere with their friendship, Miguel knew his partner thought that way. The side glances - whether of surprised approval or fond frustration - the blond knew that he was foreign in Tulio's eyes. A mystery, maybe. No; more of a tourist, someone who seemed somehow out of place in the conman's eyes.

Miguel didn't see it that way. But then, people were very easy to categorise for him. There were good people, and there were bad people. Those who helped, and those who hurt. It was simple to see the two sides, to sort those he met within moments into their places.

It was easy to tell the good from the bad. Or at least, it had been back then.

When he looked back, Miguel could see his sense of only black and white. Good, bad. Kind, evil. He hadn't known different, met someone akin to the middle. Even when he met Tulio, with his tattered clothes and sharp words, he had only seen good. White.

He supposed he just wasn't looking for anything else.

He'd never thought about there being a shade of grey.

"Mi-gueel-!"

The frustrated whine came out through gritted teeth, the blond trying to hold his laughter in at the barely contained rage on his partner's face. A strong hand clasped around the front of his shirt, dragging him forward and out of the swinging range of the guards' swords. Miguel could have sworn he felt the blades slice some of his hair.

Just like every day, then. He'd whine about it later, get Tulio to check it for him. Despite the man's grumbling, it was surprisingly comforting for the blond to have his partner's fingers combing through his locks, even if he got a swat round the head afterwards for making his friend worry.

Maybe he should invest in a ponytail like Tulio. Couldn't hurt, certainly might make running away easier.

"Miguel, move!"

Oh, right. Escaping, yes. That's what was happening.

Miguel couldn't help but laugh as his partner all but launched him forward into a sprint, their muscles flexing as they started up the familiar motions. Running away seemed to take up a large amount of their day. Maybe it was in the job description. Or maybe - and Miguel refused to believe this - they just weren't very good at what they did, and messed up so much that they had to run away from their mistakes.

What rubbish. The sailor back there was just mean, couldn't stand to lose. And besides, how were they to know he was a captain of one of the King's fleets? He looked like any old drunken, pompous, terribly-dressed sailor to Miguel.

"Left! Left!"

That was Tulio's voice, from somewhere in front of him. The swine, the blond thought fondly as he realised his partner had managed to overtake him. Well, they could both play that game. The taller Spaniard had made for some fruit crates, stacked up against the alley wall. In a bound he was scrambling up them, heading for the low villa roof.

Miguel gave up resisting his smirk, taking to the crates himself. In two bounds his feet landed on his partner's back and head, his hands pawing at the roof as he almost toppled over. Despite his laughter at the colourful curses that followed him, he was quick to reach down and grab Tulio's outstretched hand, hoisting them both up and back onto the safety of the roof.

"If you think I'm sharing these pesetas with you now, forget it." Tulio panted, his arms moving in a sweeping gesture of denial.

"Aw." The blond whined sadly, "But I was going to buy you a present."

His partner was unamused by his joke, opening his mouth to snap back before being interrupted. The guards started to appear around the corner, spotting the two conmen before heading for the boxes themselves.

"Presents can wait." Tulio huffed, lifting his leg to plant his foot on the pile of crates, "Right now, I just want to get out of Besalu with my head still on my shoulders."

Miguel took the hint, copying the movements of his partner. He couldn't help but chuckle at the man's words, contradicting his stern expression so much. The blond could only focus on him as they pushed the crates together, their feet working as leverage to bring the the pile toppling into the street. The soldiers climbing the stack were none too happy, to say the least.

"Come back here, you no good thieves!" The captain was shouting, shaking his fist comically, "Have you no honour?! Get down here and fight like men!"

"Men don't whine like kittens who got tricked out of their milk." Tulio called back, already turning to leave the scene, "Especially when they lose at craps because they're not as good at shooting dice as they claim!"

Miguel turned away, his hand pressed to his mouth to hide his snigger. He'd never understand why some people thought Tulio had no sense of humour. The man may have been frosty at times, but even that couldn't hide his deadpan jokes. Just one of the many things the blond loved about their friendship.

"Laughing at me, eh?!" The captain cried from below, his voice shrill with blistering rage, "Well - try laughing with lead in your lungs!"

Miguel wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention, doubled over in breathless laughter. His rubbed at his eyes, expecting to find tears there. It was just so ridiculous.

"Er, Miguel-!"

"Just a minute, Tulio." The blond huffed, trying to force back his chuckles.

"Miguel-!"

The hasty grip on his shirt, dragging him down towards the roof tiles brought Miguel back to his senses as his partner all but dived on top of him. He would have asked why, was he not deafened by the boom of gunfire, smoke and sparks erupting from the street as the soldiers squeezed their arquebus' triggers. The tiles of the roof exploded, shattering, rearing up into the air as the two conmen shielded their faces from the blast. The damage ripped through the spot the pair had just occupied, stray tiles sliding off the crumbling roof to crash down into the street.

Miguel was stunned, sprawled out on the roof, and probably would have stayed that way if not for the sharp tug on his collar. Tulio had recovered already, sharp as ever, and was quick to drag his friend behind him as he made a break for the next house over. They fell back into their running, one foot in front of the other as before, but there was no humour in it this time. Only a silence infused with a sense of panic as they leapt onto the tiles of the neighbouring roof.

"You didn't tell me they had guns!" Miguel shouted, an unfamiliar terror riding on his words.

"I didn't know they had guns until they brought them out to shoot us!" Tulio hissed, his grip leaving his partner's collar in favour jumping into the next street.

The blond swiftly followed, scrambling from window ledge to garden wall before his feet met the hard stone. Tulio was already ahead, waving him to follow as he yelled for his friend.

"C'mon, Miguel!"

Not needing to be told twice, the blond straightened up from the fall, taking off again up the alley. This was not what he'd had in mind when he'd mentioned a 'short stop in Besalu'. Sure, it wasn't like danger didn't lurk around every corner for the two, but this was something else entirely. Those guns could take them out in one shot.

Miguel didn't have to gamble to know he didn't like those odds.

He rounded the corner with a shout, not paying attention to where he was going. He collided full force with one of the guards, knocking the man's loaded arquebus to the floor. Miguel stumbled back, finding himself face to face with the soldier. There was a moment of confused glances before the blond smiled apologetically, drawing back a fist to punch the man in the face.

A helmet clattered into the street as the man fell, knocked off his feet. He seemed dazed, trying to push himself up whilst he cradled his bloody nose. His eyes looked to his fallen weapon, and Miguel took the hint.

Snatching it off the ground with a sweep of his hand, the conman brandished it with a flourish, giving the floored guard a look of challenge. The young man's hands shot up, his feet sliding on the coble stones as he tried to push himself further away. He fled, and Miguel felt smugly satisfied.

"Miguel!"

The thought of his partner pierced through the blond's mind and he turned, eyes wide with hope, and fear.

"A little help!" His partner shouted, fists flying as he tried to fight off the soldier tackling him.

It took a moment for Miguel to take in the sight, and he found it a lot less comical than he would have before. There was blood on Tulio's lip and a bruise on his cheek, and his expression didn't hold its usual sour humour. He was quick, but his opponent was quicker. Steel flashed, the guard drew his sword. The time for fist fighting was gone as he advanced, swiping with the blade at his prey.

The blond was horrified as he saw his partner's back hit the courtyard wall, his expression one of enraged panic.

"Any time, Miguel!"

Tulio's voice was strained, sounded near cracking as he ducked to avoid the sword's lethal jab. His partner's eyes flicked from one man to the other, his brain frozen for what to do.

"Miguel!" His partner shrieked, the blade slicing through his clothes as he stumbled out of it's reach, "Shoot him!"

What?

The blond glanced down at the loaded arquebus in his grip, clamped firmly in his hands. It seemed to glint in the light, its match-lock primed to fire.

"What are you waiting for, Miguel?! Shoot him!"

Fingers shaking, Miguel raised the weapon. The butt of the gun pressed snugly against his shoulder, jogged only by his heaving chest. He was panting, shaking, his aim wavering.

"MIGUEL! SHOOT HIM!"

The blond's wide eyes followed their target, but his finger couldn't pull the trigger. Tulio was on the floor now, shuffling backwards as slash after slash missed him by a hair. His face was panicked, each swing on the sword coming closer and closer to spilling blood.

Miguel steeled himself, tried to focus only on the back of the guard, only on his attacks, only on the look of fear on his partner's face.

His fingers tensed, jammed, and would not respond.

But Miguel could not fire.

He never had before, and he could not now. What was he, after all. A conman. A thief. A street-rat, scoundrel, and queer.

But not a killer.

Not a murderer.

It dawned on Miguel, as he watched the guard's blade impale its target, that even the right action was a terrible one. Cruel irony, the spray of blood from the sword as it swung away, ready for a new target. An unfair world, Miguel knew, as he felt the gun knocked from his grip. It skidded on the tiles, fleeing, coming to rest by his fallen partner.

He was falling too, then, his back hitting the floor with a crack as he was shoved down. He wasn't sure who shoved him.

All evidence pointed to the guard towering above him, sword raised, an air of victory reflected in the red that coated the steel. Miguel stared up at him, laying in the dust, his gaze only able to see that red. That terrible, terrible red.

Cruel irony. Refuse to be a killer; and kill your best friend.

Stupid. Ridiculous.

Comical.

Miguel wanted to close his eyes, to not see the blade falling down upon him, ready to slice through skin and bone alike. But he couldn't. Just like he couldn't pull the trigger.

He could only watch.

Black and white. Good, bad. Kind, evil. He hadn't known different, met someone akin to the middle. Even when he met Tulio, with his tattered clothes and sharp words, he had only seen good. White.

He supposed he just wasn't looking for anything else.

He'd never thought about there being a shade of grey.

A shot rang out.

Miguel could have sworn he felt the ground shake, saw the buildings tremble. Or maybe that was just the tears.

Something sprayed his clothes, leaving moist stains. They were dark, but barely showed. With a clatter of steel, the sword fell to the ground. The guard followed, collapsing, a pile of armour and muscle. The blond knew he was trembling. Everything seemed to blur, even as he raised his head to look across the square.

He'd never thought about there being a shade of grey.

Tulio had already lowered the arquebus, shrugging its weight from his bloody shoulder. Even amongst the smoke, Miguel could see him cast the gun away without thought, let it fall back to the tiles it had come from. When his partner ran a hand across his forehead, pushing back his dark hair, Miguel could see the streak of ash it left on his skin.

A strange smudge of grey.

If you saved someone's life, but took another's in doing it, were you good, or bad?

A toss of a coin, the question was two-sided. A shining, perfect white on one face, that reflected the clear sky and the warm sun. And a dark, filthy black on the other, swallowing the colour of the day. It left marks on the hand, the skin of the fingertips.

Maybe even on the white side of the coin. Maybe that's how it became so dull, worn, no longer its pure colour. But the black didn't get blacker, either, as each touch dislodged some of the dirt on its face. It became brighter, softer, a mid-tone.

Not black, not white.

A shade of grey.

A familiar grip on his collar pulled him up, set his legs in motion. The hand pulled him along, down the street, away from the scene. His feet followed, the running began again. When he was finally released, trusted to flee and follow without a physical guide, Miguel couldn't ignore the smudges of grey his partner's hand has left.

A/N: this was supposed to be a short drabble but it turned into this full blown ethical crisis! i planned to finish this a few days ago when i started writing it but that didn't happen! anyway, thanks for reading, i hope you enjoyed this dribble in all its glory!