It was a long road to Caldeum, and thieves and scoundrels were very easy to bore. Lyndon in particular was extremely easy to bore, at least when there were no pretty (or not-so-pretty) girls to flirt with or tumble, nothing valuable to steal (that wasn't protected by people even he didn't want to annoy), or even a man around he could charm.
Strangely, he found himself drifting to the demon hunter in his boredom. Not because of any shared affection; he certainly didn't like her, and she'd made her opinion of him quite plain. She struggled to tolerate him when his mouth was shut, and that was no common occurrence.
But she was the one who'd decided to bring him in to this rag-tag group, for whatever cryptic reason she refused to share; in agreement with that something indefinable in everyone's actions said that she was the one responsible for him. A part of him bridled at this – he was no one's pet – but he dealt with it. He was getting far more gold out of this than ever he had before; at this rate he was going to earn enough for what he wanted while still having a great deal left over.
He drifted to the head of the caravan where she sat in the deepest shadows, barely visible even to the sharpest eyes in the deepening gloom. She sat with her back to him; he ghosted over, quieter than the breeze. He reached out to tap her on the shoulder, mischievous grin firmly in place.
"Lyndon."
He froze at the sound of his name, fingers only an instant from touching her back. She got to her feet and turned to face him.
"You are very good," she told him, as calm and distant as ever. "Practicing is a good idea; however I would advise refraining from such… dangerous… games. It is not safe to startle me."
"What, will you kill me if I actually surprise you?" Lyndon laughed. He stopped laughing when he heard the honesty in the silence she regarded him with. "My god, you would."
The hunter didn't dignify that with an answer, turning back to her surveillance, dark eyes shifting restlessly across the area.
Lyndon had never been gifted with the ability to leave well enough alone. "What on Sanctuary happened to you that you respond to surprises with murder?!"
She returned her gaze him, a charming crinkle between her brows. "I'm a demon hunter," she told him, as if that explained everything.
"Uh huh," Lyndon replied flatly, "you go around shooting demons in very flattering armour. I think I get that. What I don't get is why."
Her dark eyes lingered on his for another moment, something glittering and deadly flickering in their depths, before shifting away to watch the dark woods closing around the road.
Lyndon thought she was ignoring him, and prepared to unleash several sharp comments; he was caught by surprise when she suddenly asked, "What do you know about demon hunters?" Her tone was as sharp and to the point as ever.
"I know a grand total of…" he paused for drama.
For all the attention she appeared to be paying him, he could have been a buzzing fly. He wasn't sulking. Really he wasn't.
"Are you paying me any attention at all?" he exclaimed. Damn it, that definitely sounded like whining.
He half-heard a heartfelt sigh, but he couldn't be sure as she was still facing away. "I'm paying far more attention to you than you could possibly be comfortable with," she told him, as dry as desert sands.
"I doubt that," Lyndon grinned.
"At this point in time there are 67 ways I could kill you. 107 if you include somewhat minor variations on certain attacks."
Lyndon gulped.
"Okay, yeah, more attention that I'm comfortable with," he agreed quickly. Then he frowned. "You're planning on killing me?"
"No."
"Then why do you know how to kill me that many times over?"
"I practiced."
Lyndon flung his arms up and looked to the Heavens. "What. On. Sanctuary happened to you?!"
This time her one-word answer was more of an explanation than anyone could want. "Demons," she whispered, so quiet he could barely hear her; lifetimes' worth of grief and guilt and hatred in that single word. She didn't elaborate, but she didn't need to.
"Oh."
She looked at him again, and Lyndon knew in his bones and his soul that she still didn't care for him, that her tolerance of him was still stretching to breaking point daily. But she'd offered him something rare, precious, something he knew that very few others got.
But Lyndon was Lyndon, and he didn't know what to do with that small, vulnerable word.
"So, what, did demons drag you off to eat and the demon hunters saved you?" he laughed awkwardly. That same bright shine entered her eyes again for an instant; perhaps he imagined it.
"It wasn't me they dragged off to eat," she told him, unutterably sad. She turned away again. "Get some sleep, Lyndon. Tomorrow will be busy."
"We could make tonight busier," he offered suggestively, but was left without an answer.
That night he slept without dreams; without nightmares or bittersweet wishes.