Small note: "here's the fucking cheese and toes" may be the best line I've ever written. Just saying.

Hope you enjoy!

topside

Vilkas shoulders his way into the main room of Jorrvaskr, Farkas grumbling along behind him. They've got sore backs from lugging bags of mammoth cheese and giant's toes back from the edge of Whiterun Hold, not to mention the brilliant shiner blossoming around Farkas's right eye. Aela and Skjor are bent in conversation at one of the small side tables away from the main fire, but the brothers ignore the obvious intimacy of their discussion and drop their sacks at the Council members' feet. Skjor looks up at them, scowling.

"There's the fucking cheese and toes," Vilkas grunts, foul mood apparently worsening despite being home. "Divines, what the fuck are we doing, Skjor? Since when are the Companions errand boys for the Jarl? There wasn't even a bounty on that giant camp! What was the point?"

"You know the townsfolk have been complaining about the dogs howling," Skjor replies, words slow and purposeful. "They insist we let them hunt too close to the Hold walls." Here he pins Farkas with a pointed look, and the man fidgets guiltily. The last full moon, he had decided to stray from their usual hunting grounds and had ended up blooding a sabre cat just outside the city walls. "Doing favors for the Jarl keeps him from asking too many questions. Now, you two are dismissed."

Vilkas considers pressing the point, but the look in Skjor's eye warns him to drop it. While Farkas wanders over to the table to partake in the apple pie that caught his eye the moment they walked in, Vilkas finds himself absently scanning the faces of his fellow Companions, searching for Mayenor among the crowd. He's gotten used to hearing her smart comments as he walks by and even more used to muffling her moans in the middle of the night, and it's gotten to the point that he's afraid he's becoming dependent on her. He's developed a habit of knowing where she is at all times, and that's a habit he knows he'll eventually have to overcome—her injured arm is nearly back to full strength already: it's only a matter of time before she disappears to continue her never-ending adventures.

Upon realizing that Mayenor is nowhere to be found in the Main Hall, Vilkas checks the training yard and then the whelps' bedroom. Finally, he admits defeat and circles back to find Ria sitting on her bed repairing a fishing net.

"Where's Mayenor?" Vilkas asks gruffly, startling the girl.

"Why do you want to know?" She asks, eyes narrowing. He quirks an eyebrow, and she quickly recants. "She's down by the river gathering alchemy supplies. Apparently she's completely wiped out Belethor and Arcadia's stocks." Vilkas has to remind himself not to grin at this news: ever since he'd decimated her alchemical ingredients when she'd been injured, she spends countless hours trying to regain what she's lost. He doesn't even thank Ria as he turns his back on her, and he doesn't say a word to Farkas as he slams out the doors of Jorrvaskr, apparently headed to the training yard. Once outside, though, he circles back around the building and descends the steps into the market.

Though people try to stop him for a chat as he walks toward the city gate, Vilkas snubs them all, eager to see his beloved after a grueling assignment. Normally giants were no trouble for the brothers, but this particular camp had an oddly intelligent leader, and he had managed to orchestrate an ambush. The fact that they made it out at all, much less unbroken and with bags full of loot, is miraculous.

Vilkas follows the road outside the city down to Pelagia Farms, then walks alongside the river at a comfortable pace, face turned toward the warmth of the afternoon sun. As much as he wants to find Mayenor, he can't help but take a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of his homeland. Skyrim is a harsh mistress, with cruel winters and summers that often leave crops withered and dry, but her beauty is unmatched—or, he assumes it is, seeing as he's never traveled anywhere else, unlike May. A few times, as he lay sleepily beside his snoozing lover, he's thought about the possibility of traveling with her, of leaving Jorrvaskr behind and setting out to see the world with the feisty little blonde at his side. But Whiterun is his home, where he's spent his entire life, where his brother lives and always will live. And, a factor he refuses to consider, Mayenor might not want a companion on her journeys.

Vilkas had expected to find Mayenor near Honningbrew Meadery, maybe even under the bridge that crosses the river, but he quickly realizes she's nowhere to be seen, and worry begins to tickle at the back of his mind. Though he knows, logically, that she's perfectly capable of protecting herself from most anything Skyrim's wilderness could throw at her, he feels responsible for her now, like it's his job—his duty, his honor—to protect her at all times. He picks up his pace a bit, stepping off the road to walk into the valley that stretches between the walls of Whiterun and the river of the same name. In the near distance, he can see a figure splashing around on the shore, and, as he gets closer, he can't stop a smile from stretching across his face.

Mayenor's boots lie on the ground a few feet away from her, and the pants of her newly-repaired leather armor are rolled up around her calves, just as her sleeves are pulled over her elbows. She's ankle-deep in the cool, rushing water, eyes trained on something below the surface, looking intense. He approaches quietly, not wanting to startle whatever she's tracking, but she sighs and stomps out of the water shortly before he arrives.

"Having a tough time?" He asks in a low rumble. His voice does that around her: its pitch deepens and its edges soften and its volume drops. She changes him just by being near, and it scares him,

"Damn fish aren't biting today," she answers, nose wrinkled in frustrated disgust. He loves the way she scrunches up her face when she doesn't get her way, and he chuckles at the sight. His amusement makes her scowl. "Keep laughing, see if I come see you tonight."

It's an empty threat, and they both know it. Nighttime is the only chance they get to be together without the other Companions discovering their secret romance. Vilkas wants to keep it hidden because even he's not sure what to make of it, and he likes to think that she wants it secret for the same reason. Whatever her motivation, Vilkas knows she won't sacrifice their time together.

"What are you trying to catch, anyway?" He asks, ignoring her threat.

"I was just gathering nirnroot," she says, "but then I figured I'd try to catch some fish—any fish—while I was out here. But they just don't bite here like they do in Riften."

The mention of Brynjolf's city sends a tightness through Vilkas' gut: he's had Mayenor to himself for over a fortnight now, but he knows it's only temporary—and he knows she was someone else's long before she became his. He can't help but wonder sometimes if she'll go back to the thief once she decides to leave Whiterun again.

As though sensing Vilkas' uneasiness, Mayenor leans up to ghost a kiss across his jaw, and his fights back a shudder. The simplest touch of her lips is enough to make him weak-kneed.

"Go back to Jorrvaskr," she murmurs, looking up at him through her lashes the way she does when she wants to get her way. "I'll be back in a little while. And the sun's almost down… The town will go to sleep soon." She doesn't have to elaborate: he knows that when sleep descends on Whiterun, his night has only just begun. After another swift kiss, he treks back toward the city.

It's well before dawn when Mayenor slips from beneath the furs of Vilkas' bed. Once standing, she turns to look at him over her bare shoulder, and it's hard for her to hold back a small smile. She's not as attached to him as he is to her, but something about him touches her heart in a way Brynjolf never did. Brynjolf had been a skilled lover, to say the least, and had taken her to places she'd never known existed. Vilkas is clumsier, true, but he has an authenticity that takes her breath away.

She shakes her head to clear it, then turns to gather her clothes from where they'd ended up strewn across the room. Each item she dons reminds her of how it was removed, and, for a second, she considers sneaking back into bed, retreating back into Vilkas' strong, warm arms. But she doesn't. She retrieves her supply pack from behind a bookcase and slings it over her shoulder, then, with one final look at her slumbering lover, she flits into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

On the main floor, the ever-cleaning Tilma sweeps diligently at a corner, and Mayenor sighs. She'd known the chances of making a clean getaway were slim, but she'd still hoped. As she steps off the stairs, Tilma looks up. Her tired eye flick between Mayenor's sheepish face and the stuffed pack on her back, and she knows what's happening.

"Safe travels, Companions," she says stiffly. Mayenor isn't surprised she's brusque: she had practically raised the twins, and here Mayenor is sneaking out on one after getting his hopes up.

"Thank you," she mumbles, shuffling toward the front door without looking at Tilma again. As she slips out into the muggy night air, the door closes behind her with a click that seems deafening in the silence.