In which our fish receives a confession.

When you awake it is to find Estel sitting on your bench, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped between them. It seems he has been waiting for you.

"There is somewhat I must tell you," he says when you catch sight of him and twist about on the cot to get a better look at his face in the dim light just before dawn.

Shit. He looks like he got even less sleep than you did.

You flop back on the pillow and rub at your eyes.

Oh god. It is much too early for this.

"Hold on," you say and untangle yourself from your blanket.

If you're going to have to listen to this, you want to be both fully awake and fully dressed. And so you make him wait. Why? Because fuck it. Your head hurts. This better be good.

And so Estel holds on, from you tying your winter woolen hose to your braies, wrapping a strip of wool from the knees down to your toes cuz, damn it, something's eaten holes in your hose, and yes, damn it, the strips of wool are two different colors, sue you, all the way through you pulling on your pants and tunic, to your belt, and scarf, and boots. It's not until you've built up the fire, splashed water on your face, fixed your hair, and thoroughly rubbed your teeth that you admit you're ready.

You spit bits of shredded bark and wood into the hearth and, placing the hawthorn stick carefully back on its place on the shelf, drop down to sitting on your cot.

"Okay," you say finally. "Spill."

Throughout your morning routine, Estel's eyes tracked your movements but he remained silent, showing no signs of impatience. He's all grim and resolute, like he's sure the world is going to come crashing down on him but he's still got to do this thing he's set himself to do.

Even with the wait he looks like he has to psych himself up, letting out a long breath and grinding his hands into each other before he speaks.

"I knew of you even ere I came to Bree."

You blink at him. In all the universe of things he could have possibly said, this was in no way, shape, or form one of them.

"I'm sorry. What?"

He clears his throat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Indeed, I journeyed hither to Bree in the spring with no other intent but of finding you."

"Finding me and what?" bursts out of your mouth.

"Learning more of you, should I be able." He looks at his hands, squeezing his fingers so that his knuckles show white before he releases them and sighs. "We had heard rumor of a stranger appearing in Bree from some unknown parts, whose manner of speaking was strange, and who knew little of life amongst the men of the Northlands. But none could say from whence you had come, nor your purpose in traveling hither."

Wait. Just. Hold up a second.

"You are not the first of whom we have heard such things," he goes on, his voice low and grim and oddly flat, "strangers whose origin they will not tell. But to hear one had been sighted nigh the Shire when bands of strange men have appeared upon the Road where there were none before, and then to learn Master Ferny took an interest in you?" He licks at his lips, twisting his hands together, before very deliberately stopping.

Shit. That flash of his eyes when he had passed you in the hall at The Pony. Like he was trying to bore a hole into your head.

Oh.

Oh fuck. Way, way before the whole phone thing.

"Hala," he says, looking at you earnestly, as if pleading for you to understand, "I can but say in my defense the deceptions of the Enemy are many. It would not have been the first of his traps set for me. How could it have been otherwise, that it was you who came to my aid when I was helpless and made me dependent on you?"

Jesus!

He had been naked and helpless and terrified and you touched him and held him down when he fought you. You fucking pretended to be his mother when he was disoriented and he fucking wept in grief and confusion.

"Hala?"

And the thing is - Oh god - the thing is, he's not entirely wrong. You had been just lonely and desperate and selfish enough to take him in and hope, maybe just a little bit, okay maybe a lot more than a little bit, that you'd have at least one person who thought well enough of you that they could tolerate your company.

A shadow brushes across your vision and you startle, nearly leaping to your feet. The rushes bend and creak beneath his boots and then he's kneeling, sitting on his heels in front of you with his hands clasped between his thighs.

Oh god, that look on his face.

"Ai! Hala," he says, his voice low and wretched. When you can't think of anything to say but just stare blankly at him, his hands come up to hover within inches of touching you only to then withdraw. "I shall bear your harsh words for me, only should you then permit me to attempt to earn your forgiveness."

"You fucking asshole!" bursts out of your mouth. Next thing you know, you've grabbed him about the neck, dragging him up from where he was sitting back on his heels until you can wrap your arms about him.

It takes him a second to catch on and then he's wrapping you up in those gargantuan arms of his, practically lifting you off the cot with the strength with which he is crushing you against him and laughing wetly.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper against his ear where he has pressed your head, forcing the words out of a throat that is clenched so hard you can barely swallow. "I wouldn't have…" and here you stop. You wouldn't have what? Touched him like you had permission? Played on his grief so that you could get close to him? Fuck!

"Ai, Halanya! I have heard much you have kept from me," he says before you can go on. He untangles himself from your arms and takes you firmly about the shoulders in his huge fucking hands. "Had I known then what I know now of you, I would have told you the truth of the matter from the very first, and you would not have needed to suffer for how long it took me to unlearn my mistrust of you."

"We're such fucking idiots," you say, biting at your lip, and he chokes on a laugh. You brush at the skin below his eyes where they are wet.

"There may be some truth to that," is what he says.

Oh god, the way he's looking at you.

The pit of your stomach just simply drops away at the pride and yearning on his face. And that's not even when he starts touching you. When he does, it's tender and slow, as though he doesn't want to spook you. They're just delicate brushes of his fingers on your cheek before he cups your face in his hand. His thumb is still brushing at your cheekbone when his eyes fix on your lips.

Oh fuck.

He's about to kiss you, isn't he.

It's a mere brush of lips, a sweet ache and tickle of the short hairs of his beard as he breathes in deep and his chest heaves beneath your palms.

Fuck it's good. You could keep doing this for a while, this gentle press and slip of his mouth on yours -

Oh, wait! You're kissing. You have ideas about this, damn it!

You wrench yourself back, pushing him away, and get a glimpse of his face, his eyes half-lidded and lips open and wet. He swallows and drags in air like he'd completely forgotten how to breathe, and that's it, fuck, he's the hottest thing you've seen in years.

So that's when you grab the base of his head in your hands, his skin on his neck damp with the early morning air and his stubble catching on the skin of your thumbs. His eyes widen a little but he's watching you like he really really wants to know what's coming next. That's right, asshole. Think you get to be the one in control because you've got the body and moves like a tight end? He can probably hit like a mac truck but that doesn't mean he gets to be in charge.

His hands tighten on you but his mouth goes soft and compliant when you kiss him, bending him back with your head hovering over his. You latch onto his lower lip, sliding the tip of your tongue along its edge. He gives a soft startled grunt before he opens his mouth to yours. Wet and heat and tingling skin and, yeah, fuck, even better. He's just letting you tilt his head where you want it as you move your lips on his, setting the pace. So that's what you do, god damn it, set the pace, sliding your lips and tongue on his like they're the sweetest thing you've ever tasted and you want to lap it all up until the both of you are sticky and kiss-drunk.

You press him back, pursuing his mouth and his lips melt and he lets loose sounds deep in his chest you're not even sure he's aware he's making. You lead him on the chase and he surges forward, sucking on your lip and sliding his hands up to clasp your waist and then shoulders and back to press you close. It's the explosive puffs of air from his nose when you refuse to let go of his mouth because he hasn't quite figured out how to breathe through it and the sounds surprised out of him while you rock in place with the push and pull and tug of your kisses that is slowly driving you abso-fucking-lutely insane with how hot this is. He's still chasing after your mouth when you finally stop and pull back.

He opens his eyes.

Fuck.

The wonder shining from them is absolutely stunning.

God damn you want to lay him out on the rushes and strip his clothes off so you can feel him all over you.

You run your finger over that soft bump forming on his lower lip where you'd trapped it between yours and sucked and licked at it. He tongues at the spot as if he suddenly realizes how sensitive it is.

"There," you say, "now you can say that you've been properly kissed."

His eyes sharpen and a smile flashes over his face before he leans his forehead against yours.

"Ai! Halanya," he sighs and then laughs. "Indeed I have."

His skin is warm, and as he runs his hands along your back he lets loose some sound in between a hum and a moan and lets you tilt his head just where you want it so you can press your lips to his temple, the tip of his cheekbone, that fucking divot in his chin, and then the corner of his mouth on the other side. There are more places that you need to put your mouth, but you'll start there.

"What do you want?" you ask between kisses, meaning, obviously, what other things the two of you could be doing now that you've both decided to quit being idiots. So, when he pulls away and looks up at you, you're not sure what to make of the uncertainty on his face. His hands slide down your arms until he takes your hands in his, clasping them warmly in his and resting them on your knees.

"I would have you come with me," he says, his eyes chasing across your face.

What?

He's not talking about the fun-times kind of coming, is he. You stare at him, completely at a loss. You could probably be forgiven if it takes a moment for your brain to catch up. Most of your blood has abandoned it for other places.

Oh fuck. This isn't a visit. You don't have days or even hours to figure things out. The train is already on a roll and ready to leave the station.

"The way is clear, Hala," he says and his hands squeeze yours, "or it is the best I could ensure it. From Bree to the east I have found no sign of those men who have preyed upon travelers upon the Road this summer past, but I cannot guarantee it shall stay so. Our hope for safe passage is best placed in secrecy, and for that we must act swiftly."

God he looks so beautiful like this, his face earnest and looking up at you. Your heart's doing that thing where it feels like it's blowing up like a balloon in your chest until it explodes.

You don't care where he wants to take you or what kind of life he's going to ask you to live that results in all those scars he's accumulated on his body. Merry band of fellows engaged in a little light highway robbery? Selling their services to the local lords and militias and distributing the proceeds to the country folk? Fuck it. You're in.

But… shit.

You almost wish you didn't know what you know now.

You lick at your lips, your mouth suddenly dry. Yeah, it's not looking like you're going to suck less anytime soon.

"I can't go," you say and his face goes abruptly blank. He pulls his hands away and sits back on his heels. "I'm sorry."

"Do you not - " he begins, and then halts as if he can't force the rest of that thought out of his throat, but you shake your head quickly. Fuck no. That's not what's happening here and you don't want him thinking he's rallied his courage to crack his chest open just to be found wanting for a second time.

So now he just stares at you, confused and waiting while your tongue seems permanently wedged to the roof of your mouth.

Fuck. He's already had his heart broken once and it nearly killed him it left him so lost and hopeless.

And now he's starting to look all kinds of concerned because no matter how much you swallow and rub at your knees you can't seem to open your mouth, and, fuck, that is not at all like you. Well, the fact that everything's getting all blurry and when you blink it doesn't really help is not making things any better.

Okay okay. Don't make him sit here waiting for it.

You scrub at your face and wipe your palms on the hem of your tunic, crumpling it in between your fingers.

Shit. Okay.

Fuck. He's decided he can't take just watching you start to fall apart like this and so his hands light on the outside of your thighs and he starts just kinda of rubbing you gently. It's kind of helping, and kind of really not, too.

"It's, uh," you say, studying his chin so you don't have to stare at that bereft look on his face. "It's not just Ferny, you know," you go on, squinting at him. "I, uh - " You stop to sniff. "I saw him and Harry Goatleaf and Blackthorn in the market yesterday."

He makes a soft, thought-filled noise, catching your attention.

"Something pretty big's brewing here, Estel," you say, but he doesn't look terribly surprised. He's nodding a little, like he doesn't even really realize he's doing it. "There's money coming in and Blackthorn's right in the middle of it."

"Aye," says Estel softly, his hands so fucking gentle where they're touching your legs, "so I had heard said upon the Road and hastened my return."

Oh. He knows about it. Or at least, well, he knows about part of it.

"So, uh," you say and wipe at your nose, looking away. Shit, you're all snot and hot tears he's just watching you all patient and worried and accepting and, fuck, that's somehow worse. "Shit, Estel," you blurt out, "it's going to get bad, and uh, I can't, I mean, even now, they're already putting the squeeze on people and the pledgeholders are afraid to stand up to Blackthorn, and shit, he's got his fingers hooked into everything everywhere, you know, well, except for The Pony, and even Barliman is pretty hamstrung in what he can do-"

"Hala-," he begins, but that does not help.

Your voice has gone all shaky and you're not even sure what you're saying anymore. It's just all coming out in a rush, cuz, fuck... "They were good to me, Estel. They didn't have to, they could have turned their backs on me but they were good to me and didn't make me pay for it in any way and even now with everything that's going on they're all worried about me and they don't know what's coming and so, you know, maybe they won't listen to me, I mean, fuck, they're not going to listen to me, but I've got to try-"

"Hala!" cries Estel. He's got his hands on your shoulders and maybe he might have been saying your name trying to get your attention for some time now.

"Ai! Halanya," he says when you just kind of collapse on him, pressing your forehead into his shoulder, because, fuck…

With that his hands are rubbing up and down your back and he's getting you all tucked in up against him.

Fuck, he's all warm and solid and his hands are all gentle on you and it's making your throat ache because, fuck, you don't want to hurt him but you hate this. You hate it. All of it. Fucking spies and highwaymen and guard dogs and a judicial system warped to meet the needs of a pissant merchant with delusional ideas of grandeur because in the reality outside of his head he's a small fry in comparison to whoever is bankrolling him, got to be cuz who sends away for loads of goods this time of the season, Barliman with his head in the sand just hoping it will all blow over, and every cotter and peasant and craftsman caught in a vice that's just going to keep tightening until there's nowhere to go and then that's when whoever's behind all this is going to step in and things are going to get bad, bad, bad. And you're sitting over here seeing it unfold like the ground slowly crumbling out from beneath everyone and there's not a single fucking thing you can do to stop it. Because who are you kidding? They're not going to listen to you. There's not a snowflake's chance in hell they're going to take you seriously enough to do anything about it.

But, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter one damn bit. You still have to try.

Because someone has to, and it turns out it's you.

"They're going to suffer, Estel," you say, your voice muffled in his coat.

"Halanya," Estel says and, god damn it, he's pushing at your shoulders and making you sit up like he thinks you're actually going to be able to hold a conversation.

You sigh and give in to the inevitable. "I mean if nothing else I have to at least try to get Barliman-"

"Hala," Estel says and attempts to catch your eye.

"Estel! He's the only one with any kind of power-"

"Hala!" Estel say, raising his voice and ducking his head to catch your eye, "I have just come from there."

Oh.

He has?

"You are not alone," he says and there's that earnest, pleading look again. "The burden of this is not destined for your shoulders to bear on your own."

"Well, yeah, but -" you say but he cuts you off, his voice rising.

"For what gain?" he cries. "For what could you possibly hope? Aye, somewhat must be done and the time to begin is now, ere the chance is lost, but you are not the one to do it."

When you say nothing and just sit there looking sour and miserable and fighting tears, he sighs.

"Hala." He uses that big fucking paw of his to brush the hair back off your temple as he speaks. "I wish you would not hold what you have achieved here so lightly," he says and you snort.

"Oh yes, let's do an annual review of my performance."

It's not likely that he has any frame of reference for what you just said, but the tone of your voice probably gives it away, because he stops touching you and drops his head, shaking it and sighing like he knows exactly how much work is ahead of him and he's really wishing you weren't so pigheaded.

"What goals have I achieved this year?" you go on, because, you know, let's be real about this. "Pissed off the most powerful man in the region? Check. Learned exactly which middens and slop buckets hold the most promise of something to fill my belly? Check. Developed a rep as a numpty with a head empty of -"

"Enough!" he says, his head up and scowling at you. He rubs roughly at his face before his hands clap down on his thighs. "Ai, Hala but you confound me, atimes! So willful and stubborn you are, I can only take comfort in the depths to which you must have frustrated them because of it."

"I prefer principled and resolute, thank you very much," you say and it's his turn to snort.

"Aye, that too," he says and pulls your hands inexorably into his even though you may not be helping him out very much, "and so you were at every pass in their attempt to use you to further their aims, else they would not have been forced to bring such cruel methods to bear upon you as they have."

Yeah, well.

"Hala, think on it, aye?" he pleads. "You have proven so little use to them, you are most like to be sacrificed as some abject lesson in what happens should the folk of Bree attempt to resist them. Aye, there are times when such a thing may be deemed worth the cost, but the time is unripe! Too few of the good folk of Bree have felt the pinch of it, yet. They are not ready to take up the cause and band together, and your sacrifice would be for naught. Yours would be but one lone voice. Indeed, in truth it would most like serve but to delay any uprising. For how much longer, then, shall it take ere another of the Breefolk dare speak against Blackthorn and his allies once they have witnessed what shall happen to you should you stay."

"Well, yeah, but-" you say but he shakes your hands. God damn. The man is firmly settled on his soapbox.

"Again I say to you, you are not alone in this cause," he says. "I come to you after many hours of conversation about these very concerns with Master Butterbur, and I shall send out word to those who can provide aid and protection in our absence. You have more friends than you know," he says and when you scoff he goes on, "Aye, or more rightly, than I can speak of until you are beyond the reach of those who would expose and use them cruelly.

"Nor," he goes on, his voice wry, "would I think, your friends who have worked so hard to provide you with aid and comfort take it kindly should you, and how did you say this, 'grind yourself into the dust' for them when they did not ask it of you."

Well. Shit.

"Fuck you, Estel," you say, "you're one to talk," but he just looks all the more fondly at you, chuckling and drawing your hands to his lips. His eyes twinkle at you from where he presses a kiss to your knuckles.

"Who do you think taught me the lesson of it, aye?" He grins broadly at you.

Fucker. Using your own words against you.

"They're going to try to use me to get to you," you say miserably, but his eyes spark coldly.

"They may try."

Yeah, yeah. The big lug and his sharp, pointy sword.

"Come with me," he says, his smile softening. He rubs his thumb against your wrist. "Be rid of this place, aye? No matter what you have heard of the Rangers of the Northland and my kin, they are an honorable folk. I doubt not you shall find a place among them fit for your skills and temperament. There is much to be done to preserve the folk of the North and I could use all the hands to help that are willing. There will be more you can do to aid your friends that will not require you to throw your life away so rashly. I cannot promise you a life in which there is no pain or fear, but you need not face them alone. And aye, even should I not wish it, mayhap I shall need ask you to face death, but not alone, Halanya, never alone."

"C'mon," you sigh and say, drawing your hands out of his grasp, "quit pretending like I'm going to throw you out and take off your goddamn coat and boots, would you?" His eyes follow you when you stand up. "When's the last you slept, anyway?

"Some time ago." He groans, leaning heavily on the edge of the cot to get his feet beneath him.

"Having some trouble there, old man?" you ask as you pull on his arm and he grunts, pushing off and rising to his full height with a stumble. He stamps his foot in the reeds trying to get rid of the pins and needles of it waking up.

"Once I learned of Blackthorn's dealings I pressed my return as hard as I dared and then spent rather more hours o'er the night in speech than I hoped the conversation would require," he says, easing his coat off his shoulders as he hobbles around the hearth, "but I learned much during it that mayhap even Barliman did not fully discern, himself."

"Yeah, well," you say, bobbling on one leg as you pull the boot off your other foot, "don't be hard on ole Butterbur, yeah? He pretty much likes to believe the best of people."

You catch that look from over Estel's shoulder. Yeah, okay, maybe he has cause to be that skeptical.

"Well, if you're from Bree or the Shire." You drop your boot at the end of the cot and start on the other one. "And don't walk around on stilts you call those legs of yours and lurk in shadows all hooded up and rattling your chains and warning of a nasty future if he doesn't change his ways."

"I did no such thing," Estel protests, his voice muffled in this vest as he pulls it off over his head.

"Yeah, but I bet you enjoyed the look on his face when you stepped out from the shadows and loomed over him," you say and Estel grins from where he is shaking out his vest before it joins his coat on the pegs.

"Aye, I may have," he allows and, tugging at the heel, off comes one boot. "I have not forgotten who it was who gave me shelter in my need and who did not, nor his appeasement of Mistress Blackthorn and her companions and the harm it did you."

Oh. He heard about that, too, huh?

"It seems I am not above all pettiness," he says and then turns to see you pulling on your belt.

"I didn't exactly get much sleep last night either," you say when he halts, looking at you warily. "I think we both deserve a bit of lying in before we start tramping off into the Wild, don't you?"

His eyes flick to where your hands are pulling your belt from around you. You drop it in the basket at the end of the cot.

"I'm just taking it off so I don't poke you," you say and he presses his lips together and then smooths his hair back from his forehead from where he had gotten all rumpled.

"Hala," he says, clearly uncomfortable.

Oh.

Okay, okay. You get it. It's not the cot that is the problem.

"Just sleeping, Estel. That's all," you say. "Okay?"

"You think we shall both fit upon your cot together?" he asks, squinting at it skeptically.

"You're okay sleeping on your side, yeah?"

"Aye," he says, but he's still hanging back and looking at the cot like he's not quite so sure it's safe.

"Sorry," you say and stop from where you were pulling off the blanket and plumping up the pillow. You hold the blanket against your chest. "Are you okay with snuggling?"

He shrugs, taking a step closer, still not quite able to meet your eyes. "That would depend upon what this 'snuggling' is."

Ah.

"Snug," you say, "up against each other, probably a fair amount of caressing and holding before we fall asleep, a few kisses maybe, mostly of the chaste and sweet kind, but no making out."

You go on when he gives you a puzzled look, "No touching below the waist."

"Ah," his face says and his shoulders climb down from about his ears.

With that he closes the distance between you and sits on the edge of the cot, watching as you rummage through the basket and pull out the other pillow.

It takes some doing, what with Estel being built like an NBA point guard and all awkward and pointy-limbed and unsure where to put everything, but you get it done, and he's laying on his back. You tap on his hip, bending over him.

"You gotta give me some room," you say and he shifts over, angling against the wall. Once you pull his arm out to dangle out over the floor, you ease your way onto the cot. Shit, if it keeps creaking like this, you're both going to end up on the floor. But, soon enough, you're all wrapped over him, arm and leg, your head laying on the pillow on his shoulder.

"You can put your arm around me," you say and he says, "Oh."

He pulls you closer and worms his arm beneath you so you're not pinning the bony point of his shoulder against the frame.

"This okay?" you ask.

He's staring at the ceiling.

"Aye," he says, "though I am unsure should your cot survive should we move too quickly."

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," you offer but he turns his head, examining your face.

"Nay," he says as he shifts about and the cot creaks beneath you. He's got this puzzled look on his face as he runs his hand along your arm for a little until he settles on placing it over your hand where you've laid it on his chest. "I was remembering."

"Yeah?"

He frowns at you. "I seem to recall you singing over me, naught but snatches of memory."

Oh. He remembers that.

"Look, Estel," you say, "I didn't know -"

"I have but one question, Hala," he says, stopping you.

Well. Shit.

Okay.

"Yeah?" you ask and his puzzled frown deepens.

"What are square pants?" he asks.

What?

"Shut up," you say and he smiles down at where you're tucked against his chest, the creases deepening around his eyes.

"In truth, Hala," he protests, "I have long puzzled over it."

Fucker. No he hasn't.

"Go to sleep, you big lug," you command, closing your eyes and squirming your face deeper into the pillow.

He chuckles, jostling you against his chest before he lets go of your hand to wrap both of his arms about you, and, releasing a long hum, melts into the cot.

"Aye, Halanya," he says and tucks his face against the top of your head. "Sui aníradh."