III. Distillation

"Restrict the wandering gaze," Callista murmured in Martin's ear as she cinched the blindfold tight, then removed her hands entirely from his body.

The distillery room was cold despite what he remembered being blinding sunlight coming in through the skylights, and he shivered as he heard her footsteps retreat. He had a split-second vision of her removing the barricades they'd set up to give them some privacy, and leaving him to be found some time later by- oh, who would be worse? Treavor, throwing up all over him? Havelock, berating him? Emily Kaldwin, giggling and telling him he reminded her of some fool at the Cat?

No, no, there she was, returning again. Closer, closer. He knew those footsteps well by now. He'd gotten her alone about four times in the last six days, and that had to be some kind of unholy feat. He hadn't really noticed the lack of privacy at the Pits, not even when he'd first bedded down in the servants' room, but it was getting harder and harder to find new and interesting ways to get her out of sight and against a wall or over a table or (on the most recent occasion) on top of the stair railing.

He could feel himself getting hard by the time he heard the pull of fabric and creak of her shoes as she crouched, this time in front of him. He twisted his wrists against the bonds restraining them behind his back.

"And the restless hands," Callista chided, voice pitched low and rough enough to make him arch and lick his lips.

"I thought you liked my restless hands," he said, smirking and leaning towards her voice.

"If you'd only lie," she said, catching his chin in her hands and holding him in place, "I'd gag you, too."

"Come closer," he said. "It's damn cold in here like this." Like this being stark naked, his clothing no doubt neatly folded a good distance off.

She didn't move at first, and he wondered if a good pout would help. Then she leaned in, and he felt the warm ghost of her breath against his lips. "I thought I told you," she said, "that I'm the one in charge this time." He exhaled shakily, leaning into her touch.

If he said Kiss me, would she slap him? Outsider's eyes, he kind of wanted her to. Tightly wound little Callista, coming undone? Nails grabbing at his scalp, biting into his skin, teeth where soft lips should be-

She let go of him and stood again, and he lurched forward, suddenly unbalanced.

"We can't spend all day in here," he reminded her, as her footsteps faded. "I can't stay all day in here. When Corvo gets back-"

His voice faltered.

When Corvo got back, Hiram Burrows would be dead, and their little fantasy world would have to be put on hold, if not burned to the ground. He swallowed, thickly.

"Please come back," he said.

He couldn't hear her moving, or breathing, or existing over the faint bubbling sounds coming from the nearby pot still. If it hadn't been for the furniture wedged squarely against the doors, he would have thought she had snuck out. No, she had to be somewhere. Watching him?

Or worse- ignoring him?

He could feel his cheeks begin to burn, and he squirmed a little where he knelt. "Callista," he said, a bit louder this time. "I'm sorry, I'll play your game. I'll listen. Whatever you ask of me."

Her voice sounded right in his ear as she leaned forward, "Shut up, Teague."

The touch of her hands splayed on his back almost made him moan, warm and soft and surprising. Had Corvo been teaching her how to sneak? Had she been there the whole time? Her hands slid up and over his shoulders, along his neck, into his hair. She pulled his head back, exposing his throat, and he leaned back into it.

She waited, as if expecting him to protest, or cajole, but he stayed silent.

"You must promise me something," she said at last, murmuring the words against his throat. When had rat-brown, tired, proper little Callista become as sensual as a girl from the Golden Cat? Maybe it was the blindfold, messing with his perception. She was probably hunched over, awkwardly holding onto him, unsure of how to do any of this.

That just made her more attractive to him. His throat bobbed again as he swallowed, heartbeat loud in his ears.

"Promise me," she said, and now her face was pressed to his overheating skin, her words muffled and distorted and barely audible, "that no matter what, you'll do your best not to die."

He blinked beneath the fabric, eyelashes brushing and catching on it. "I- die? I don't plan on it, no. Callista-"

"Promise me."

"I'll do my best. Callista, is something wrong?" Her breathing was uneven and ragged and- frightened? No, no, that wasn't how this was supposed to go. He turned, awkwardly, and tried to lean against her. He couldn't pull her close, not like this, but-

Callista stood up, and he fell to the ground.

"Nothing at all," she said, the mask she usually wore back in place. Standing, she nudged him onto his back with her shod toe. He groaned and shifted, trying not to put too much weight onto his hands and arms. He was still struggling when she sank to her knees and straddled him, leaning down to kiss him with all the fervor he'd been praying for all afternoon.

She was hungry, and desperate, and he answered her eagerly, yielding when her tongue played against his lips, letting her fill his mouth instead of the other way 'round. He forgot about his hands and their quick-growing ache, and focused instead on how warm she was, how certain, how determined. Her hands slid over his chest and shoulders and belly, exploring every inch of him that, he realized, she hadn't gotten a chance to before now.

Then he realized she was, aside from her stockings and shoes, completely naked, and he arched up helplessly against the heat of her thighs and groin, gasping her name.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd let anybody tie him up willingly, let alone cover his eyes, but it had been obvious since that first foolish night out by the Wrenhaven that Callista was a little different, primed to wiggle under his defenses and into his thoughts and fuck but her lips going to his neck and collarbone was perfect, undeniably perfect. He bit his lip and hissed out another groan, trying to imagine her. He'd seen her thighs and her ass and her belly and her lovely breasts, but never altogether. She was naked down to her calves, as far as he can tell by the brushes of skin over skin, and she was arching, back curving and spine standing out, no doubt, in countable knobs along her back.

The floor was damnably cold and hard, and his wrists finally protested loudly enough at being crushed that he hissed and tried to sit up again. Callista sat back, and hooked an arm under his, helping him up. He sat forward and balanced himself precariously on his hands, and she adjusted easily, rolling her hips up against his length and belly.

Leaning forward, he buried his face against her neck. Her hands carded into his hair again, gentle at first, then scraping light patterns across his scalp. He groaned. The sensation was better than he had imagined for its deliberate slowness.

He'd already used up his night's supply of begging, so he wordlessly rocked his hips up against her, hoping she'd take the hint. She'd tortured him long enough, in his opinion.

She seemed to agree.

Callista rested, curled against Teague's side, tucked between him and a wall of barrels. The sun had set upwards of an hour ago, maybe more. Time had lost much of its meaning, now that they had an uninterrupted stretch of it.

Teague's wrists had an unfortunate spot of bruising on them, but she'd kissed it better, and then some. He'd returned the favor (despite the fact that he had caused all those bruises a day or two ago). There had been some more rolling on an unforgiving floor, more kisses, a creative second use for the cloth that had served as a blindfold. All in all, it had been a good evening.

"Callista," Teague murmured, and she lifted her head.

"Hm?"

He plucked at the collar of her shirt. "I think I liked you better without all of this silly clothing involved."

"It's cold," she pointed out, and he smirked in agreement.

"So it is," he said. He traced his finger along the neckline. "... So where did that come from, earlier? The promise you extracted from me?"

Callista stilled. She had hoped he wouldn't ask.

Gingerly, she pulled away from him and stood up, moving over to the barricade and beginning to take it down, piece by piece. Teague followed shortly after. He moved some of the heavier scraps and furniture, then put himself between her and the door, arms crossed over his chest.

"You had me worried that you were about to start, I don't know, playing games with me and molten lead."

"That clearly wasn't it," she said.

He didn't smile.

He did, however, reach out and catch her wrist when she tried to turn away. "Callista," he said, voice quiet but firm. "You can tell me. If you made me promise, you can tell me."

Her throat felt thick, words unwieldy. "It's silly," she said.

"It clearly wasn't," he said, echoing her. "You were terrified, when you asked me."

Callista shifted uncomfortably. "Let go, please."

He did, and she wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn't look at him, not with how he was frowning. All that concern in his eyes - for her? It wasn't healthy.

"Callista," he said again, this time just a pleading whisper.

She took a deep breath. "Everybody I've ever- cared about has ended up dead," she said. "Or close to it, anyway. Uncle Geoff would have died if Corvo had been a second later. He'd have made it a perfect record."

Callista waited for him to catch on cared about, translate it into the enormity of the attachment she'd found herself with, mock her with it or crow about it or, maybe worse still, return the sentiment out loud. Instead, he reached out and clasped her shoulder, like a soldier to his brother in arms.

"Well," he said, "I did make a promise. I intend to keep it. Or you may restrict my lying tongue in any way you seem fit."

She stared at him, wanting to scream and laugh and kiss him all at once. Instead, she just said, "Teague, you're suggesting I mutilate your corpse?"

His mouth opened before he could come up with a suitable excuse or retort, but before he could put his words together, the voice of Dunwall came faint through the walls and windows:

"The corrupt reign of our Lord Regent has ended. Hiram Burrows has been apprehended for crimes against the city and people of Dunwall. The corrupt reign of our Lord Regent has ended. Hiram Burrows..."

Callista's nervous smile fell. Martin's expression was frozen, shuttered and withdrawn.

He turned away from her. "I had better go see Havelock."