(A/N: Oh my gosh, you guys. Thank you so much for all of the favs, reviews, and follows for this story. I feel so honored. Here's another chapter, and I hope you enjoy.)
Brynjolf nearly choked on the smell before he'd actually registered what it was. His eyes filled with more tears, and he pressed his hand over his mouth and nose, throat stinging. Mercer merely lifted his lip in disgust, drawing his sword as they rounded a corner. Two bloated corpses (both male, a Wood Elf and an Imperial), pooled in decomposition liquids, fingers chewed away to the bone. Brynjolf had to turn away from the sight to keep himself from losing his stomach, but was met with the sight of streaked and slicked dry blood on the golden metal pipework. He closed his eyes briefly as his head swam at the sheer amount.
"Looks like we found them," Mercer muttered, stepping forward with a look of discontent. Raising his blade, he pressed the Imperial's arm aside, sliding it away as casually as one would open a door.
"Ah."
Brynjolf heard the crackling of bones, and Mercer grunted before he heard something snap very dryly, the sound smacking the air around them. He turned to see Mercer walking back towards him, a grim look on his face and a blood printed slip of thick parchment in his fingers.
"Looks like we've got a problem. Someone's been here before us. These two worthless thieves got themselves into trouble before skipping out on the guild. It seems someone was following them before we were." Frey tucked the note into one of the pouches on his jerkin and raised an eyebrow in wait.
"So it was a waste of time?" The Nord knew he was being blunt, but the way Mercer's mouth was pressed into a hard line made him expect as much.
"Not quite. Delvin had a lead they didn't. Let's go."
Brynjolf paused, allowing his eyes to slide to Mercer's eyes. The Breton met him with a hard, stony stare, and Brynjolf could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise for reasons he didn't understand. Mercer stepped forward to him, his face unreadable as Brynjolf struggled to keep composure. With a hint of self-satisfaction, Brynjolf realized he was a bit taller than his guild master.
But seconds later, as the two trudged back down the hallway and out of the ruins the way they came, he realized he felt horribly small next to the man. The Falmer had left the large room, and it relieved Brynjolf a bit, allowing him to relax his shoulder. The cave entrance was no longer peeking sunlight through the holes through the overhead stone, and it left the Nord to wonder how long they'd actually been in the ruins. It had only felt like a few moments, in all actuality, but it must have closer to an hour if the sun was already setting.
It was only until Mercer pushed the gold door open and the Nord stepped back into Skyrim that he felt like his lungs were clean. It was still daylight; that he knew. But grey clouds loomed overhead, heavy with rain and blocking out the warmth of the sun. Mist clouded much of everything, and the Nord couldn't see more than ten feet in front of him.
Mercer pressed past him, his warm breath ghosting on Brynjolf's exposed neck before stepping down the winding stone bridgework. The redhead followed without a sound, his eyes trained on the purposeful way his guild master walked and wondered if others found it oddly entrancing as he did—the commanding presence and haughty air that surrounded him.
He finally caught up with Mercer as the Breton looked back in annoyance after a few minutes of walking; realizing Brynjolf wasn't at his side. Seeing his glare, Brynjolf hurried to his side silently as the two trudged on in complete and utter quiet as Skyrim engulfed the two in thick swirls of fog.
It seemed the trip back was longer than the trip there, but it was mostly because most of it was spent in uncomfortable whist. Nothing around them stirred, and more than a few times, Brynjolf wondered if the were even heading back the right way to Riften.
He gave an internal sigh when they reached the familiar stables of the town, hearing horses whinny and whine in the white mists, feet trampling wet dewy grass and cobble.
The two guards didn't pay the thieves any mind as Mercer opened the gates of Riften and walked inside, leaving Brynjolf to trail after him like a willing puppy.
He turned left at the market circle, ignoring the merchants who straightened as the two passed. He opened the heavy latch to Riftweald and pressed the door open, leaving Brynjolf to uncomfortably wonder if he was supposed to follow or not. Mercer simply turned around and rolled his eyes at the Nord, jerking his head sideways to usher him into the manor. The Breton shut the door after his pet entered, tugging off his pouched belts and finally unlacing his jerkin and tossing it through his open bedroom door. The redhead looked up just in time to see his muscled back straining, faded scars and old wounds tugging at skin. He was very well in shape for someone that Brynjolf assumed was in his mid-thirties; running around Dwemer ruins must have that effect on a man.
He turned slightly to Brynjolf, raising a brow.
"I'll be in bed."
The Nord nodded absentmindedly, thinking the statement completely innocent. Then he caught sight of the smirk working its way across the Breton's face, and his cheeks began to burn.
"What was that?"
Frey walked into his bedroom and Brynjolf stood there frozen, thoughts buzzing around uselessly in his mind. He followed, his jaw clenched in worry. Mercer sat in bed, still in his leathers and boots, and as he stepped inside, the Breton motioned for him to join him on the huge green blankets. Chillrend and its sheath were leaned against the far wall, and Brynjolf set his blade aside as well, unhooking the hostler from his belt and laying it away from the slowly burning hearth.
Brynjolf obeyed, only to be pressed down automatically by demanding hands, unbuckling the various straps to the Nord's armor with quick, well-practiced fingers. Lips replaced those rough pads, nibbling the younger's flesh as Brynjolf's palms tightened, knuckles snow-white as they gripped the bed sheets below. It was all soothing, but Brynjolf couldn't stop his muscles from jumping, his heat from speeding up at the light touches Mercer offered to his skin, his mind from wandering.
He was barely aware of his jerkin being tugged up and over his head, eventually lifting it off the rest of the way himself. With the warmth of his chest exposed, Mercer buried his face into the Nord's neck and the warmth of his breath drove Brynjolf to sudden exhaustion as his muscles finally began to relax.
There were no snarky comments from his guild master, no violent bites and nips to send his flesh to burn, no fingers clenched and bruising his throat. It was just the two of them in a sort of bittersweet soft embrace on Mercer's bed. Unthinking, silent, and there to comfort the other.
The two fell to sleep as the fire died in front of them.
