It was all his fault.
The words played over and over in Flynn’s mind. No amount of cheap ale or cheaper whores could distract him. Though plenty of credit to the redhead who was trying her hardest to gain his attention. Eventually even she gave up and left in disgust. He didn’t care. Ale was his friend.
Because he had probably just lost his only two friends. All because he was a moron.
It had been such an easy job too. Flynn had even made plans for dinner, knowing they’d be done before night fall. But he had failed, ruining everything. If it had just been him it wouldn’t have mattered. Ladies love scars and he could have easily escaped with his life.
But he wasn’t the one who took the blow.
The elderly mother of the innkeeper shuffled towards him, clenching a basket full of blood soaked bandages. She reached for her pipe, pausing dramatic in front of him. For a good two minutes she focused on lighting her tobacco until Flynn’s patience dried up.
“Well? What’s the news? Is he alright?” Flynn demanded.
The wrinkled crone gave up on her pipe and gave Flynn a dry look. “Aye, he’ll live. Won’t have use of that eye ever again. His brother has already left, should you be wanting to see him.”
“I doubt he’d want to see me.” The thief moped, already reaching for his next glass. The sharp rap of wood against his knuckles stopped him short.
“That one is not like his brother. Go talk to him.” She started hobbling towards the bar but stopped with a smirk. “He drank quite a bit while I was working on him. I’m sure that improved his mood.”
Figuring the next time he saw the brothers he’d be on the sharp end of a sword Flynn took a swig of ale for courage and walked to the back room that served as the impromptu operating room. Twice he raised a hand to knock and twice he dropped his hand dramatically. Finally he settled for pushing the door open.
“Hey, you.” Flynn called into the mostly dark room. The old woman must have blown out all but a scattered handful of candles which did nothing to raise his confidence. The mute brother, now the one eyed brother, turned to stare at him before turning away as though he hadn’t heard a thing. That wouldn’t do.
Plopping down on the stool next to the bed Flynn tried to think of something to say. He was drawing a blank and the red head wouldn’t be able to help expand the conversation.
“I’m so sorry for what happened today. I should have noticed the guards. I should have distracted them. It’s all my fault.” He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry in front of one of his partners in crime. No matter how much ale he’d had there was no excuse for crying in front of him.
A heavy hand settled on his. Their eyes met and Flynn realized how hard it was to have conversations with the Stabbington who couldn’t talk. Normally his brother would translate his expressions into words, a talent Flynn couldn’t imagine.
“I really am sorry.” Flynn offered, but the one eyed Stabbington was having none of it. Ignoring the fresh bandages and the lingering pain he pushed forward and slammed their lips together. It wasn’t a happily ever after kiss like in the stories he use to tell the other orphans. It was a kiss that could be translated directly into ‘shut up.’ The hand cupping his cheek was saying ‘it was just as much my fault, don’t take all the blame.’ His other hand, squeezing tightly onto Flynn’s hand was saying ‘but don’t get too cocky or I’ll lose more than an eye.’
When Flynn pulled back he noticed the hand on his cheek was slipping down his neck. He couldn’t focus on that, not when the bandages were slipping. But as Flynn tried to adjust the cloth without causing more pain. The younger Stabbington didn’t seem that bothered, if his hand was any indication.
“Yeah, she said you had a lot to drink. Maybe you just want to get some sleep.” Flynn’s chest felt colder as the red head drew his hand away. The now free hand focused on shooing Flynn from the bandages. The remaining eye narrowed angrily and Flynn didn’t need a translator for that.
“Sorry. Just worried about you. I mean, your brother, who cares? He’s an ass.” The dull stare turned into a rare smile. The fact that he hadn’t just been punched spoke volumes to Flynn. “Don’t get hurt again. I won’t forgive you.”
The words did their trick, distracting him from all of Flynn’s mothering. But after a minute he realized what the brunette’s trick was a returned to his goal of removing Flynn’s clothes. The verbal protesting didn’t bother him. Flynn may have been babbling some nonsense about drinking too and needing to recover but his body spoke of the same need. And that was the language he preferred.
Their lips met again, this time less comforting and more forceful. He wrapped his fingers in Flynn’s hair, dragging him closer. Flynn responded with needy moans which in any other situation would have embarrassed him. As he was otherwise occupied it didn’t seem a problem.
Twice he asked if the younger brother was alright until he realized that the red head was reassuring him through touch. Tight grabbing to Flynn’s arms told him when to slow. Light touched to his neck encouraged him to speed up. In the corner of his mind the rogue wondered if he’d eventually be able to understand him better than his brother.
Sharp bites to his neck and nails against his back soon became the only thing he could focus on. Each bite he repaid until the red head would have no choice but to hide his neck. A firm hand reached into his pants, stealing away any words Flynn would be able to conjure. He tried returning the favor before realizing he’d never be able to get the same results. It only upset him for moments before he tried to fill the thief with so much lust he’d be forced to make noise.
At one point Flynn’s passion gave way to a less exciting emotions. The tears he’d been fighting fell and the one eyed Stabbington took him into his arms with a look that Flynn would never be able to translate.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. Don’t read too much into it.” Flynn sighed, settling his head on the vast expanse of chest. “And don’t you dare tell anyone about this.”
The chest under him shook silently and a hand began petting his hair comfortingly. Shouldn’t Flynn be comforting him? But it was comforting to know his partner in crime was still going to be around to give him disbelieving looks each time to made an ass of himself. It would just be with an eye patch in the future.
And as he drifted off to sleep Flynn realized there was more than one way to communicate, and he may have just found his favorite.