"I want you in my bed tonight."

Wylan's head snapped up, eyes wide. He squeaked desperate syllables for a moment before managing, "You didn't have to phrase it that way!"

"We both know I did," Jesper replied, grinning at Wylan's blush.

Same as last night, Wylan obligingly followed Jesper to the bedroom he already considered his, but this time he didn't pick up his nightshirt and ask Jesper to turn away so he could change. There was a look on his face—a question, something he was nervous to bring up.

Jesper waited.

Wylan reached into his pocket and took out—

"Bullets," Jesper observed. Wylan was no marksman, so those were for Jesper. "Kinky."

"It's not for that," Wylan said, pink.

Jesper had guessed as much. When should reality prevent a joke, though?

"Then you're no good at picking a romantic gift."

"I'll owe you a good one."

"You could have at least got me a whole box."

"I'll get you something new, that I didn't just take from the armory."

"You have an armory?"

"Yes. Well, the house guards have an armory. It's a little armory."

Jesper suspected he knew the reason, but there was so much hope shimmering in Wylan's eyes, he couldn't bring himself to just say, No, and we're not going to discuss it.

Instead he took a breath and blew it out to buy himself some time and calm.

Please explain the contents of your trousers.

That would have been funny. Jesper wished he'd said it earlier, when Wylan first showed him the bullets. Now too much time had passed.

"Why are the not-kinky, not-romantic bullets in our bedroom?"

"I thought maybe we—maybe you could try using your abilities."

Jesper would have criticized the selection, but bullets made the most sense. He had accepted that his zowa abilities likely were behind his skill as a sharpshooter. Not the only thing, he had practice and experience, but his abilities took him from good to extraordinary. He worked more with bullets than anything else.

He wondered if Wylan knew those bullets wouldn't fit his revolvers.

Anyone else and he might have asked questions. What was he supposed to do? What was this going to prove? Couldn't they just take their clothes off and make the other kind of magic?

But…

But Wylan was doing that annoying thing he did again, the one where he looked up at Jesper with so much hope and faith and his too-long hair falling over his eyes. It made Jesper feel like he had been entrusted with something really expensive. He remembered serving as Kaz's second—with Geels, other times as well, how he had hated handing over his revolvers. How he would put fear in the heart of anyone who held them, just to be sure. This, whatever it was, was entrusted to Jesper with no threat.

What? Trust? Plea? He didn't know, but he knew it worked.

He sighed.

"All right, but only because I forgot how much I liked your stupid face. Put them down."

Wylan set the bullets on the dressing table in the corner, near the razor, brush, and the rest of Jesper's shaving kit. They didn't spend enough time in here to clutter it with anything else.

Jesper motioned for Wylan to step away. "Stop distracting me. You're being beautiful while standing too close. Cheating."

"If you don't want to," Wylan began, blushing and trying to ignore it.

"I'm good with bullets, merchling, but what I do with them is kill people."

Wylan stepped back to the wall.

Jesper gave him a nod—thank you. He couldn't do this with Wylan close.

He focused on the bullets. Move the bullets. That was what he usually did. Well, not move, more like nudge, the 'move' came from the gunpowder. Jesper thought about the metal shavings he had moved at the Ice Court.

He held his hand a foot over the bullets, just getting a feeling for them. He felt the impurities in the metal, the completeness of each shape.

No one taught Jesper how to do this. When he was small, he had watched his ma, but mostly she made things do what they naturally did—boiled water, made the dough rise, the same as they naturally did but quicker. He had seen her separate out one thing from another, though, one sort of cell from another kind. It was similar to that, he supposed. Moving one cell apart. Moving one group of cells—

The bullets hit his palm with a dull thud. They moved too slowly to do damage; his staring was not because he thought he was in any danger. No… it was because he had just fabrikated bullets into his hand.

From his spot against the wall, Wylan applauded.

"I know, I'm amazing," Jesper agreed. "Didn't we have an agreement about you in my bed?"

Same as last night, Jesper promised not to look when Wylan changed. He thought about it—not about looking, he had promised, but what he might see if he did. He couldn't know Wylan was almost naked and not imagine freckled shoulders, a dust of hair trailing down, thighs smooth and pale as cream…

It had been a while. Jesper had an itch.

Jesper's instinct was to loop his gun belt around the bedpost so his revolvers were right there if he needed them, but he didn't know if Wylan would mind that. If it would remind him of… something else. Jesper had taken his share of hidings growing up, but always in a context of, I don't like doing this to you but it's to keep you safe. He imagined it had been different for Wylan, knowing how Jan Van Eck talked about his son. Probably a bit more, You're a failure and don't deserve to carry my name.

Jesper settled for putting his revolvers on the table by the bed. They were still close enough to reach in a heartbeat.

Wylan gave the door an uncomfortable look.

"He's not coming back," Jesper said.

He should, could have set the bullets aside, but he was curious about them now. He sat cross-legged under the covers, rolling the bullets idly in his lap.

"I know," Wylan said. Less than convincing.

"Anyway, if he did come back, he would be too busy disapproving of me to think about disapproving of you. He would disapprove of me, wouldn't he?"

"He… yes."

"Good," Jesper sighed. "I'd hate to think I lived a life that made the likes of Jan Van Eck nod their heads."

He made the bullets fly up into his hand again.

"You're good at that."

"It's not what I meant to do. Need more practice," he said, giving Wylan a 'you-told-me-so' grin.

Wylan's returning grin was admittedly less than shining. He had something else on his mind.

"It's not an uncommon name, you know. Van Eck. There are loads of us in Kerch—not all related, it doesn't have to mean him."

Jesper had not known that. He didn't think much about Kerch family names, family names at all. They meant something, yes, but family to him meant people, not words. Family meant his ma and da, not the fact that he was Jesper after his maternal grandfather, Llewellyn like all firstborn sons in his family, Fahey from his da. He never thought about the fact his ma was Aditi Hilli and his da was Colm Fahey beyond that being who they were. Those were… words. Only words.

He dropped the bullets into his lap again and this time tried to push them gently across the covers.

"I can give most of it back," Wylan said. "For the Grisha, too, I—I don't know how, maybe there is a way to make an indenture fair? I can't offer the same sort of protection just by employing someone, not the way I can for an indenture, but there has to be something I can do. And for my mama. The properties, the money—I can restore that. I can bring her home. It doesn't fix everything, it doesn't give her back the years, but I can bring her home. But I can't make her a Van Eck again."

"I don't think the name is the biggest issue."

"But it's hers, she's entitled to it. He didn't have the right—she should have everything given back to her."

"Her things would have been yours in time, you know."

"That's not the point."

"It is the point," Jesper insisted. His hand moved over his lap, directing the bullets. Slowly. "It is. She loves you."

Wylan sighed softly. "I'll be a good son to her," he said, "but I'm his son, too. I can't fix her name. I need to keep mine for the business. She looked for me, Jes. What don't I owe her?"

That was so Kerch.

"You don't owe her anything. You didn't steal from her."

He said the words with a pang. Jesper knew full well how it felt to steal from your own parents. The only difference was he had actually done it, told lies and run a game on his da to diminish his own debts.

"What was it like after she left? When you were little?"

Wylan went quiet for a moment. He shuffled his knees up to his chest. Jesper glanced at Wylan from the corner of his eye, but he continued rolling the bullets.

Then, "Worse. I missed her. He missed her, too. Even if it was his fault, it was hard for him. I think he really loved her. He tried to help. When I whined it was hard on him, and it was unseemly, and he corrected me. I needed to move on, too. She wasn't coming back."

"Sunshine… what exactly does 'corrected' mean?"

Wylan looked away. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Softly, Jesper asked, "Did he hit you?" He had stopped rolling the bullets now.

Wylan began to gnaw at his thumb, then caught himself and stopped. He closed his fingers around his thumb, like a fist made by someone who had never in their life thrown a punch.

Help. He had said that. He tried to help. Jan Van Eck's "help" left his son this way, ashamed and afraid. It gave Jesper a cold, sick feeling.

"I needed guidance. He saw how caught up I was in grief. It wasn't healthy. It was distracting me from my lessons."

So he struck a child for mourning his mother because it led to low marks. Of course he did.

Jesper scooped up the bullets. He set them down beside the revolvers they didn't fit. He wanted to say that Jan Van Eck was a sick bastard. Most people who slapped children were sick bastards, but the way Wylan described it, Jesper knew he would defend his father. He didn't have it in him to explain why that was wrong.

"Da always held me when I was upset after my mother died," Jesper said. He laid down under the covers, like he was going to sleep. He would, soon. Eventually. "I cried a lot. It felt like I cried all the time. He cried, too. Even years later. When I was thirteen, I remember looking at the blooming jurda like I had never seen it before, and I don't know why but it made me think of her. I sat down in the field and cried. Da didn't even ask. We had work to do but it didn't matter. He sat beside me and held me until I was finished."

He had never mentioned that to anyone. It was private. It was also rarely relevant, and right now, talking about his da brought a familiar tight feeling to the back of his throat. Jesper wished Wylan had spent more time with Colm. Maybe they could go to Novyi Zem together… maybe Wylan could see what sort of father a real man was, someone who loved his son no matter his missteps, someone who loved his wife and knew grieving made him human, not weak. Jesper knew grief had torn at Colm. At the time, he didn't understand, but he knew it now. The memories carried even more meaning in the knowing.

He was also beginning to realize how much of being with Wylan meant teaching him.

This is how a good man raises his son.

Until Wylan could spend time with Colm, Jesper would talk about him. It hurt, but he would talk. It was what he did best. Second-best.

This is how a good husband loves his spouse.

Meaning Colm, of course. But Wylan needed to understand that, too, for his mother, what she should have had.

This is how to remember you matter.

It would take being told every day for a while.

This is how someone who loves you should put their hands on you.

Gently. Lingering. Remembering how easily his skin took to a bruise and giving him time to feel the warmth of another human being.

"I'm sorry you lost her, Jes. You deserve… she deserved to watch you grow up."

Jesper's response was a derisive snort. "There's plenty it's better she missed."

It actually hurt more to say than he had realized anything could. All those years he hid what he was. The fights he had enjoyed, every losing hand of cards… the tattoos. Jesper liked his tattoos, but he doubted his mother would have approved, especially of the crow and cup.

"Okay," Wylan agreed, which stung, until he continued, "she probably wouldn't have wanted to hear you flirting with everything on two legs."

"Shut up, you like my flirting."

"I'm not your mother. But yes, I do. I like you, because you're brave and a good friend and funny. Are you happy here?"

"Yes."

"Then what else would she have wanted?"

Jesper stared at him for a moment. He took in the reality of Wylan, his sweet Wylan, who wanted what was best for everyone and had a new explanation every day for why he deserved to be hit, arguing that all Jesper's ma would have wanted was for him to be happy.

"Hey."

Once he had Wylan's attention, Jesper motioned him over. Wylan turned out the lamp. In the dark, Jesper felt the bed shift and heard the rustle of sheets as Wylan laid down and scooted closer.

Memories were stirring again. His mother's face, her voice, the bright she brought into every room. It brought an ache that started to drown itself in the echo of Makker's Wheel. He loved her, still loved her. He just didn't want to hurt.

Jesper reached for Wylan and grabbed an elbow, slid his hand to Wylan's back and nudged him nearer. All he needed was the slightest suggestion. Wylan nestled his head close to Jesper's shoulder and, knowing it was odd and not caring, Jesper inhaled the scent of Wylan. He needed something to wash away the bad feelings. Needed to drown in him.

After a moment, Jesper said, "Do you remember what we were talking about last night?"

"We—oh."

He remembered.

"You really don't need to prove—"

"No, I said I would—"

"And I trust you! I believe you!"

"It's important to me, Wy, I need you to know I won't disappoint you."

"That is the one thing you are not capable of."

"Thank you. But I made a claim, I should prove it."

"That's not necessary."

"Okay," Jesper ceded. "Okay, I won't… if you say one of your profanity words."

He would swear he felt Wylan gasp.

"I… but they…"

"Just one word."

Wylan squirmed. "F…"

"Ooh, starting big!"

A soft whimper. "Sh…"

"You can do it."

"Ghezen's—"

"A real one, not a religious one."

"F… no, I can't," Wylan said, defeated. "I can't. Go ahead."

Jesper grinned… and began listing euphemisms. He did indeed have an impressive vocabulary. He recited euphemisms until Wylan began to shake, until he gave up fighting and laughed.