Mustache, a dragaera fanfic

Title: Mustache
By: Ember
Summary: Short-statured and short-lived, with no manners and too much hair. But Morrolan loves them. One-shot
A/N: Bad Ember. Writing this in an e-mail to myself on my grandparent's computer because I couldn't sleep for the inspiration. It comes at the worst times, too. :P

Vladimir Taltos sat up slowly, ignoring the poignant ache situated along his lower back and just below, the ruffled and fluffy state of his hair, and the snide and obnoxious comments in the back of his mind, courtesy of Loiosh, who was safely situated in the library with Telda serving him bits and peices of whatever he wanted. He couldn't have told a casual observer just how Telda KNEW what Loiosh wanted. It was part of her talent. She knew it offhand, with the same unconcious skill with which Loiosh flew, Vlad killed things, and Morrolan destroyed souls.

Morrolan, of course, was good at a lot of things. Vlad wouldn't tell him that, because the damned elf was arrogant enough as it was without it, but he was acutely aware- once more, courtesy of Loiosh- that he might have implied appreciation of certain skills during the act itself. Which was more than a little bit humiliating, thinking back on it, but Cawti hadn't called it 'being intimate' for nothing, on reflection.

"Can I offer you wine?" Morrolan was, of course, completely composed, as if seducing one's guests was a regular occurance in Castle Black. Which, for all Vlad knew, it was. He tried not to spend overmuch time in Morrolan's floating castle- foremost, because it was floating and therefore only accessible via teleportation, which was unpleasant enough without the second reason, that it was Morrolan's, and while Vlad never had anything against Morrolan- quite the opposite, thank you Loiosh- that did entail a certain amount of flair, which always seemed just a bit too much. If he'd wanted a lesson in luxaries not permitted to Easterners, he could have gone to talk to Noishpa.

And then, of course, there was Blackwand, which sent shivers down the Goddess's spine. And of course, thinking of Blackwand made Vlad think of his current visit to Castle Black, which allowed several more reasons occurr to him, not the last of which was his current situation.

"No, thank you," he said to the wine, although maybe if he drank enough he could forget that the wine came after the sex and blame it. Of course, at that moment, he was reminded that reptiles do not get drunk and therefore Loiosh could always remind him again. So he simply offered a half-hearted grin towards Morrolan- one that did not provide for too much looking at the Dragaeran, who was still completely uncovered and still- not unattractive- and grabbed for his discarded clothing. It was embarrassing how scattered the various articles were. The same scathing voice in his head reminded him that he'd been in a hurry to get out of it at the time. Still, now he would have liked to be back in it, and he was distinctly aware of Morrolan's eyes on him as he walked naked around in his guest room. "Actually," he continued, now just to fill up the silence that had descended as soon as he had left the relative shelter of the sheets, "I think it's time to go home now."

Morrolan looked mildly surprised. "Is that how you Easterners do things?" he asked, wishing briefly that he'd bothered to take a lover those first few hundred years of his life in the East. It seemed so long ago, though.

"Fuck and run, yeah," was the forcedly cheerful reply, as Vlad, now not looking at Morrolan at all, slid first one leg and then the other into his pants. "Like fucking animals."

Morrolan scowled, and, hesitantly, reached one hand over to touch Vlad's arm. The human froze as if shocked, then backed shakily away. "I won't believe that."

Vlad laughed lightly and shook his head. "And you'd like to think that you're a good Dragaeran, wouldn't you? Like to think you're different than the rest, when you play with the Easterner after hunting him down like a dog."

Vlad had never seen Morrolan like this. Eyes wide and furious, the Dragaeran touched Blackwand's hilt threatening- or maybe for reassurance, who could tell with Dragons?- and took one slow step forward, like a dzur stalking closer to a sleeping teckla. "He was under my protection."

Vlad had shrugged. "He paid you for it." As if that justified everything.

"That doesn't mean that I am not held by my word. I told him-"

"It was money, not honor." Vlad's smirk was just short of mocking. "Of course, you Dragaerans are famous for blurring the line when it goes your way. You'd make a good Jhereg, Morrolan."

And that, of course, tipped the scales.

With a quiet but nonetheless frightening growl, Morrolan threw himself forward and pulled Blackwand out of her sheath at the same time, arcing the Morganti around so that it pointed at Vlad's throat.

Loioish tumbled into the sky, but Vlad didn't move. Loiosh had a couple well-articulated words of wisdom to say about this decision.

"I came here to appologize," the human offered, bluntly. It was sometimes amazing how someone with such precision and finesse could be so blunt sometimes.

"I waited for you to come here so I could kill you," Morrolan informed him calmly, careful not to show his anger, or his nerves, or his sense of betrayal, or his premature grief.

"Then why don't you?" And they waited, with the sword at the human's throat, the Dragon at its hilt, feeling more affected by this second in time than by every life and every soul he had ever taken. And it was an Eastener, wasn't it? Give him another eighty years and he'd be dead anyway, how did it make it so much worse than the thousands of years he stole from his own kin?

The blade was touching skin. If the skin on Vlad's throat broke, even just a tiny cut, he would die. He would be worse than dead. "You aren't afraid at all, are you?"

-If you would be willing to kill me, there wouldn't be a point to having a soul.-

Vlad decided to pretend that this thought didn't occur, and for once, Loiosh said nothing.

"Not as afraid as you are."

"I'm not the one with a Morganti weapon at my throat."

"You're the one who's shaking."

It was true, Morrolan realized after a moment's pause.

Morrolan, personally, was equally surprised to find himself next to Vladimir, ruffled and touseled and smelling disconcertingly like human. Perhaps, a few weeks ago, he wouldn't have been surprised; certainly he had allowed himself to hope, if not expect, something like this to happen.

But now was certainly not a convenient time, because Vlad had recently betrayed him, had recently killed someone under his protection, and done so with full knowlege of the protection Morrolan had extended over the man.

And at the same time, Morrolan did not regret it. He watched the human go and pick up his clothes with just the slightest hint of a blush around his ears as he remembered their haste to get it out of the way, and the peculiar yet fetching fashion his hair hung, or stuck up, or stuck out, depending on the area of his head. With just a slight glimmer of sweat that was quickly drying in the cool room.

"You are not an animal," he told the belligerant Easterner, calmly.

"And you are not a human. And you will never understand." Vlad pulled completely away and started buttoning up his shirt. There were a few new buttons missing, but neither of them commented on it. If Loiosh did, Morrlan didn't hear it. "I don't know if you've figured this out yet, Morrolan, but this is a matter of Honor. And I'm standing in the way."

Vlad killed someone under Morrolan's protection. If Morrolan didn't avenge his friend, there would be a stain on his honor that no amounts of wealth could ever heal. This had not escaped Morrolan's attention.

"I know," he said, quietly.

Vlad smirked. "Loiosh will kill you. He'll find a way to."

Morrolan stared at his human for a long time.

Shaking, Morrolan pulled Blackwand away from Vlad's throat.

Anyone else, and the sword would have growled at the loss of blood. But she never seemed to mind if he protected Vlad, and she didn't mind this. It might have been an omen.

"You are braver than I am, I suppose. You can face your death easily; but I cannot take the idea." And then he hesitated, and almost thought about it, and then jerked forward almost clumsily on impulse to grab the human's jaw in his hand and kiss him possessively on the mouth.

Morrolan could not imagine a world without honor.

And he could not imagine a world without Vlad Taltos.

If one had to fall, he would postpone the fall of the second with the fall of the first.

"Loiosh," he said, quietly, "should not have a reason to kill me, I believe."

That seemed to piss Vlad off more, because he was in deep waters and seemed almost confused- not a flattering trait in an assassin. "I thought," he said in a voice that was half growl and half sneer and shaking with emotion that he normally didn't let out, "that all you Dragonlords cared about was honor."

Morrolan smirked; he couldn't help himself. "You know," he said, quietly, "you're a lot like a Dragaeran in a lot of ways. You just can't stand anyone acting outside of what you define as Easterner, or Dragaeran, or Dragonlord. You can't stand anyone superceding your expectations." He raised one black eyebrow in question. "I thought you were leaving."

Somehow, they both went a little bit insane. There was a slight last-chance mentality; what-the-hell-I'm-dying-anyway. Loiosh was quiet; amusing himself elsewhere while his confused and overwhelmed and suddenly overly open witch was off being ravished. Somehow, there wasn't much restraint; just some sort of mutual fire between them that needed to burn itself out before they could figure out any more.

Slowly, Vlad smiled in appreciation- not of Morrolan's sacrifice or his leniency or even his obvious- even the Dragon couldn't think the word, he wouldn't want to be in Vladimir's head, and see the maelstrom he had created- but of his comment, and of the possible truths inside it.

"That might be so," he said quietly, and smirked. "So tell me, Morrolan, before I leave. What the hell are you trying to achieve?"

"Nothing," Morrolan said in reply, because honestly, there wasn't anything in it for him. Unless Vlad decided to be his lover- which wasn't overly likely- which would last for not even a century. He had nothing -to- achieve.

Vlad almost seemed to read his mind. "Why an Easterner? Our entire lives pass in a fucking second to you."

Morrolan smirked. "Besides that," he said, getting up and walking closer to his fully-clothed friend with a lack of self-conciousness that was almost conspicuous- "you're short, rude, foolish, crass, and sprout hair out of your face like a dzur."

Rubbing his mustache as it was mentioned, Vlad was quiet for a second, as if processing this information for the first time. "Then why not some Dragonlord who you don't have to protect or excuse or shave?"

Morrolan snorted at the last, and tried to think of some way to express it. He and Aliera had argued over it, once; the way that a Dragaeran in two thousand years can feel barely half the pasison for life as a human could in sixty. How Easterners could feel things elves wouldn't ever know; a thoughtless marriage purely for love, an entire life spent fully immersing oneself in the love of a God or Goddess. How things a Dragaeran might have time to barely enjoy as a pasttime, a human would dedicate their lives to. How different love could be for each. Aliera had enjoyed the debate as a debate, but hadn't understood.

Vlad, of course, wouldn't understand. He could spend half his life trying and he would never understand how in only a few centuries, the thirst for life is gone, the passion in thriving fades away.

And so he kissed him. And Vlad let him. And when they pulled away, he said, "I, personally, like you're mustache."