Explanation

He had fallen asleep sometime late into the night, not in his bed or in any other bed, quite possibly on the floor, though he had no recollection of when or where it had happened exactly. It had been some kind of movie night, watching an old tape of one of their performances, their performance and not his, but Moha had wanted to watch it and so they had, along with everyone else, him not really interested in anything but the man sitting on top of him and eventually falling asleep, still not used to a schedule this insanely late. And now, obviously but still not welcomely, the dreams were coming back again.

Back in Kooza, alone on the stage, all the skeletons, and the man in the mask and I'm in Mystere now, would you shut up, subconscious, I am not interested... blurred black and white and purple and falling backwards in slow motion...

And someone, with real fingers attached to real hands in the real world, was slowly easing off his jacket.

He went from off to emergency mode in less time than was even measurable by human standards. Rolled over, shoved whoever was standing over him hard in the chest, flipped backward off the bed, conjuring up his wand, backed up fast until he slammed into the wall, crouching, snarling, his heart beating hard and his breathing fast. And then stopped.

It was Moha-Samedi sitting on the bed, staring at him, wide-eyed, his face registering shock on more levels than he could even acknowledge in the time it had taken for Trickster to push him there. And the Trickster realized how he looked, like a wounded, cornered wild animal, feral and crazy and terrified.

He straightened up, slowly. "Narrator?" he asked, trying to push his voice back into the register of calmness. "What are you doing?"

The emcee of Mystere stared at him, and swallowed. "You fell asleep on the couch." His voice was surprisingly unshaky. "I didn't want to leave you there. Are you..." He trailed off, his voice less firm, obviously having no idea how to finish the sentence.

The Trickster took a step toward him, and Samedi flinched away. They were afraid of each other, he thought. A supreme paradox. "Moha," he said softly. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

The rest of the steps to the bed were taken more easily. He sat down, his breathing slower but his heart not calming down yet. "Moha..."

The Man in Pink didn't answer, still shocked, still afraid. Trickster took his hand, not saying anything more. They sat in silence for what felt like a long time, Trickster trying to get his head together.

He wasn't sorry he had fast reflexes, though the one time he'd really needed them had been the time they hadn't been fast enough. But he hadn't wanted Moha to be on the receiving end of them.

He hadn't wanted to have this talk. Hadn't wanted to have to explain this. But if he was going to stay in Mystere now, it was obvious that he was going to have to. This wasn't going to pass with an 'I'm sorry'.

"Narrator," he said quietly to Samedi. "Take off my jacket."

Samedi did as he was told, his fingers fumbling with the hooks on the inside, clumsier than usual even though this was the first time he'd done it in light. Trickster had always been careful before this to always make sure they did what they did in the dark.

Moha lay the jacket on the bed. "The shirt too," Trickster instructed him, and he obeyed wordlessly again, unknotting Trickster's tie, undoing the three buttons down from the neck. Trickster turned around, his back to Moha, as he raised his arms so the other man could slip his shirt off over his head.

He couldn't see the narrator's face, but he could hear his breath stop momentarily and then start again. "Wh... what are these?" Samedi's fingers traced the lines on his shoulder blades and down his back lightly, wonderingly.

It would have been so easy to lie, he thought. He'd known Samedi would have to see them eventually, but it would have been so easy to say they were natural markings, or tattoos. But he couldn't lie now.

"Scars, narrator," he said. "They're scars."

Moha's fingers stopped. "What from?" he asked, after a period of white silence.

"I've told you about the Skeleton King, haven't I? He tried to steal my magic. My life, if you prefer. He almost took it from me."

Moha swallowed - Trickster-hearing picking it up. "What did he do to you?"

Trickster shrugged slightly, and sighed. "It's a bit metaphysical, narrator. It hurt a lot, that's all."

"It's your entire back."

"I know."

"Do they hurt now?"

"No."

"Good," Moha whispered, a bit hoarsely.

Trickster lay down on the bed, chest down, head resting on his arms. Moha traced the lines down his back again, with one finger, in a manner which would have been extremely attractive had the circumstances been a bit different. "When did... it happen?" he asked.

"About a month ago."

"That's when you came to Mystere."

"Yes."

Trickster lay still, trying to guess Samedi's thoughts, never a good idea if he could help it. He gave up when Samedi started to massage his shoulders gently, and relaxed, letting the narrator's warm hands work farther down his back. He'd never, he realized, had Moha be so gentle with him before. He was always the one who had to be gentle and careful to get anywhere with the emcee at all, while Moha shouted and screamed at him and cursed him and fought him and finally gave himself up to him, but never easily. Never like this before.

"You thought that I was... the Skeleton King, didn't you," Moha said, his voice coming through Trickster's thoughts. Trickster sighed. "I didn't think at all, narrator. It was a reflex reaction. But... yes."

Moha's hands rubbed down his spine, still softly and carefully. Trickster closed his eyes, almost asleep when he heard the narrator whisper "I'm sorry, Trickster."

He turned his head to the other side. "Don't feel sorry for me, narrator. It's not as bad as all that."

"I didn't mean that..."

"I know what you meant, narrator. Thank you."

The animal inside, still feral but no longer frightened and panicked, curled up on itself and purred.

A/N: A slightly gentler continuation of Even Gods. Written in about equal measure because I really, really wanted to write a fanfic which showed the fact that Trickster really is not human, he may wear a suit but he is a god, basically a feral force of chaos anthropomorphised, and I feel like that gets lost in almost all Kooza fics; and because I had some very sore shoulders the day that I wrote this and really wanted a Moha-Samedi to give me a shoulder massage. XD