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One thing about Talon you have to know is that he’s damn good with his hands.
That’s what Sett would’ve told you, anyway, sitting in a tiny barstool by your side as you two drank the world away in some backwater planet. You’d sit there wondering what he meant, and it would dawn on you that it could mean so many things and you ought not to assume what. This is one of the heads of a huge criminal empire spread over the entire Known Universe we’re talking about, after all, and it could very well be a threat to your pathetic, drunken self.
Luckily for you, however, the man wasn’t talking about murder. Hell, he wasn’t even talking about sex — you’d imply they had done the deed and Sett would fall off the damn barstool and hit his head, all the while laughing on his way down.
You see, it was about the scritching.
We’re talking hypotheticals, of course. The infamous Sett wouldn’t be caught dead admitting anyone had ever gotten close enough for such a daunting job — let alone implicate Talon on the deed —, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
. . .
“You sure you wanna do this tonight, nightingale?”
‘Course, Sett knew it made little sense to ask. It was Talon and Talon alone who came to him with the offer after the first time, and the Boss felt powerless to refuse. From an outside perspective, it seems hilarious until you witness the lengths Talon du Couteau goes for something he wants.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” The door closes behind them. Talon shrugs off the adorned cape and leaves it hanging on the same hook the Boss had left his coat on. It was endearing to look at them side by side, given how they had a significant difference in height. Then, again, Sett would tower over almost anyone.
It wasn’t about having his hands tied or whatever. Obviously. Pfft. It was just— there was something about him that made Sett unwilling to refuse. The opportunity to spend time together that wasn’t rooted in their work, perhaps?
No. No, that wasn’t it. Even if they weren’t actively at work, it was no easy task to alleviate their dynamic as boss and… not-boss. Worker? Subordinate? Employee? All of that felt so wrong when it came to Talon.
“‘Suppose so,” Sett shrugs.
Blonde hair falls gently over the assassin’s face, the golden strands tied into this shitty ponytail that wouldn’t hold up at all if they had to fight their way out of the room. That’s the difference between Talon in his leisure time and Talon whilst working: the latter wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything other than a slick back, military-style updo with at least two blades hidden in the hair. It’s the Demaxian in him, or so Sett thinks.
Only thing Sett hates about the whole “Demaxian in him” thing is… well, everything that has to do with the Empire. It wasn’t really about Talon. More about the Demaxian Empire being a cancer growing on the Known Universe’s rear-end, and Talon’s family, even if not by blood, was Demaxian. A high-profile Demaxian house, in fact. It made him wonder. What would’ve happened if their first meeting was—
“Settrigh.”
‘Course the damn name is what snaps him out of it. If it were any other person, the Boss would’ve dragged them face down on hot asphalt in whatever edgeworld they found themselves in. But it’s his right hand man calling him by the government name in private, and so he grits his teeth. Endures the murderous fire in his heart.
“What.”
And he swears he sees a sketch of a smile in that bastard’s lips. Talon, who always kept his cards close to his chest, who never showed emotion, whose voice often reflected the absent look in his eyes. In that, they diverged — tragically, Sett had always been betrayed by his ears. They lay flat against his head now, annoyed to no end. To think there was a smile there, even if he’d just imagined it, makes something stir within his chest.
“I’m waiting,” Talon affirms with a vague gesture. He sat against the board of Sett’s bed, as luxurious as the rest of his chambers — and he looked so small among it all, the Boss noted, but not in that pathetic, sad way you might be thinking of. It’s as if, when surrounded by all the fine silk and the draperies and the far too expensive furniture, he suddenly became the only thing that stood out. That caught his eye.
Like a perfect pearl surrounded by a thousand fakes.
“...right, yeah.” He mumbles, refusing to make eye contact. Instead, the Boss climbs onto the bed and up to Talon’s side. Slowly, he moves to rest his head against the man’s chest and, with a sigh, closes his eyes.
What they had, this, it always felt a little awkward. All of it was a bit of a trust exercise. But whatever embarrassment Sett felt by being so vulnerable in the face of a trained assassin who — let’s be real — could slit his throat without so much of a second thought is replaced by peace when his hands first caress his hair.
Everything about what they did and were doing was a strange conundrum. For one, Talon wasn’t a gentle man — he’d been forged by pain and torture, a weapon being bent and burnt by a blacksmith before taking glorious shape. If he’d ever been loved, it was through how useful he might’ve been or his worth to the Demaxian Empire. Hell, he’d risen past general and commander: before his whole life went downhill, he was one High Ordinal of the Demaxian Empire. The one woman he dared to care about, like a brother would to a sister, almost left him blind. There was no time nor place for gentleness in his life. Yet here he was, calloused fingers caressing the reddish brown strands of Sett’s silken hair like it was the most precious thing he could ever do. Nails scratched against the back of his ears and, embarrassingly, the man lets out a sound undescribable if not for the comparison of a cat’s purring.
Sett, too, was no stranger to misery. He only swam in luxury because of all the guts he punched and the throats he cut along the way. At first, all for his family — his ma —, but now? It couldn’t be that simple. Working for the Syndicate wasn’t a life for those who wanted to make a quick buck and leave. You wouldn’t ever fully get out, even if you were a snitch, and you wouldn’t ever get close to anyone if you loved them enough to keep them safe… or if you didn’t want to be stabbed in the back. Yet here he was, eyes closed as his head rests on top of another man’s chest. So vulnerable. Mindlessly, Sett wraps his arms around the assassin’s waist like he would to a lover and nudges his head closer to his heart.
He doesn’t get to notice how Talon’s lips briefly part for a gasp. Doesn’t see the break in a perfect mask of indifference, with risen eyebrows and widened eyes. No, he never quite gets to realize how it always catches him off guard, despite happening nearly every time. The Boss only feels a strange stiffness for what feels like a second before he’s right back to scritching the back of his ears.
Maybe it’s for the best, he thought. It’s not the first time they lay like this, and the assassin hoped it wouldn’t doubted it’d be the last. With the rumors of the Demaxian Emperor’s personal attack dog — Ordinal Shieda Kayn, a deranged man Talon always held what could only be categorized as a strong distaste for — being on the loose, the Syndicate was understandably panicking. More than ever, they’ve had reports of attacks on previously considered secure locations, and their ora-smuggling operations were going awry.
More importantly, Sett was stressed out of his mind trying to “fix it”. Too many skills had he learned during his time serving the Demaxian Empire, and learning when people lie was one of the most useful ones. And the Boss lied through his teeth all the time. Every job the assassin picked was one Sett questioned him about — if he was prepared, if he was sure of what he was doing, if he wouldn’t rather stay here, if he wouldn’t prefer just being paid to be his bodyguard while “all of this” was going on. And the look in his eyes?
That was fear.
After all, chances were he’d fall where everyone else had. And they both knew what happened when Talon failed. How couldn’t they? Failures stared at them, stood in front of them like a sore thumb — a deep scar mirrored with the one he left on his sister, a prosthetic arm to replace the one he horribly, humiliatingly lost.
The assassin was gravely offended, of course. He spat on the floor, called Sett a tool and made sure to bring back the targets’ heads, just to prove the Boss was wrong to doubt him. To even think he would fail again. Don’t even get me started on how livid he was when Sett actually looked relieved to see him walk through those doors, back in one piece. Didn’t even ask him about the damn job, just— just treated him like a child who had inadvertently done something dangerous. It was infuriating, and Talon wasn’t even sure why he’d even forgiven him in the first place.
“Oi, nightingale.” Focus returns to him once Sett calls. It's amusing how he'd switch from “the Boss” to a drowsy mess of a man in seconds, given a pat on the head and a lap to sleep on. Talon almost smiles. Almost.
“What is it?”
Suddenly, Sett turns himself around to lay right on top of the assassin's body. If glares could kill, the Boss would be a limp and heavy corpse obstructing all the ways out of that damn bed. How unprofessional, he wanted to snark, but found himself silent instead.
“Why d’you always call me Boss?”
Like a damned weighted blanket, Talon mused. The gears in his head try to figure out what exactly is the most vulnerable point on his jugular if there was any need to run away. He's sure the venae are the same in almost any known humanoid species, but it's difficult when he knows little to nothing about the anatomy specifics of Sett's vastayan side. A new personal task for himself, it seemed.
“You do complain when I call you Settrigh,” he noted. There was a tinge of amusement to his voice, a subtle sing-song rhythm of the spoken word. Between the lines, you’d note his confidence: Talon is right. He knows it, and Sett knows it, and his annoyed grunt of a reply only confirms what they already knew.
“Stop sayin’ that—!” The Boss raises his head just to stare at Talon. If glares could kill, indeed, the assassin knows he’d be lying dead a thousand times over — or maybe that was an exaggeration. He didn’t ever seem truly angry. Point proven: Sett flops right back to his chest and sighs, resigned to a lifetime of ‘Settrighs’ and ‘the Bosses’. “You could just… call me Sett when it’s just the two of us. I dunno. ‘S better than the government name, y’know.”
Fair enough, he supposes. The assassin tilts his head, always quick and eager to change the subject instead of admitting fault.
“And you could call me Talon, but you call me ‘nightingale’,” he noted again. His fingers brush away the strands falling in front of Sett's face. “Why?”
“It sounds... I dunno, mysterious. And you like birds, and— and you look like a nightingale. They're pretty,” the Boss admits quietly. He's unsure Talon has actually heard the last part, which probably wasn't meant to be said by the way his left ear flickers nervously — it earns no external reaction, though. “Do you— d'you want me to stop?”
And you like birds. An assumption given his name, Talon wrongly assumed. He'd never mentioned it was one given to him by the du Couteau's patriarch — a weapon's codename that quickly became the only thing he had to call his own. Father used to say he was swift and deadly, like an eagle's talon. Never the eagle itself — that was him —, only its sharpest tool. Yet it stuck, and that's the only name he had now.
Until Sett's sweet calls of “nightingale”, that is. Talon isn't quite sure it's a nickname. Isn't it too long for something supposed to be quick and short?
“No. I quite like it,” he replies after a moment. Funnily enough, Sett wasn't even wrong about his feelings towards birds — though it extended towards most avian xenocreatures. Once again, he switches the subject. “Do you not like being called ‘Boss’?”
The question lingers in the air, quiet, the truth dawning on them like the sun in their homelands, a thousand worlds apart.
“Not by you,” the man admits, quietly. Sett almost tries to hide his face in the assassin's chest, but he soon realizes that's more embarrassing than whatever he was saying out loud. “You're— you're my right hand man. Feels wrong. Like you're supposed to be below me, 'n I don't like that.”
Below him? Suddenly, Talon felt the urge to protest. Of course I'm below you, you tool. A part of him wanted to be angry, to push him away and tell him to act like the leader he's supposed to be. Accept the assassin's place as his weapon, nothing more and nothing less — isn't that what he was made for? Yet something else, another thing buried deep within him, wanted to crumble. To hold his face and thank him for not relegating him to yet another blade in his arsenal. To be recognized? Praised, just like that? How could he tell Sett to resign himself into being the Boss and nothing else? No, no.
“Sett, then.” Whatever those bubbling emotions were, he doesn't act on it. Always a mask, always a layer of indifference. His touch still strangely gentle, his eyes warm. “I can work with that.”
“Thanks, Tal.”
Right. He remembers now — the old tale of “forgive, not forget”. Rarely does Talon follow the former, much less the latter. Offended as he felt that day, he then decided there was no coming back from it: Sett wouldn't have his blade anymore, even if it meant Talon had no one else to lean on. Nothing to live for beyond the constant outrunning of the law, of the Empire and of the Boss himself.
But what was the cost of such a freedom? There was a bittersweetness to it all — to a nightingale, it meant no more cages. Freedom to spread his wings. Yet the hawks and the eagles would eat him alive, given the chance, and the robins and hummingbirds would tell on him while the jackdaws would help to pin him down.
Talon always savours that memory with the bittersweetness it deserves. The way he stepped into those very same bedchambers, blades hidden in his clothes, knowing he'd catch the Boss off-guard. Telling himself it’d be easy, that he’d gotten close enough for a knife in the back to be easy work.
How he set eyes on the figure laying in bed, a bottle in his hands, tears puddled on the sheets beneath him.
See, vulnerability wasn’t either of the men’s strengths. No, they both saw it as a weakness one could not afford in their line of work — though while Talon would look down at the Boss for it, the reverse was never, and wouldn’t ever be, true. There would be “soft words” and “reassurances” (whatever that meant) whenever the mask slipped away, and the assassin hated it. Hated how confusing it all felt, that stirring in his chest, a tightening in his throat. Hated even more that he somehow sought after those feelings without ever coming to realize that was what he was doing.
It was terrifying to realize he started to think of Sett as home.
And Talon remembers sitting by the bedside, back turned to the Boss. Asking questions and getting answers that wouldn't ever leave his mind or mouth. The blade in his hand, his metaphorical feathers yearning for a freedom that he knew was short-sighted — it would all end so quickly. He only had to do it.
Yet the very next thing he knew was that Sett cried on his lap and his hands, not quite knowing what to do with them, went to his hair.
The rest — well, that's history.
“You sure ‘s okay?” It's his voice that once again breaks the influx of thoughts. Talon glances towards the Boss, nuzzling against his chest. “This, I mean. You always seem so… out of it. I don't wanna force you, y'know. It's already above your paygrade.”
“I'm your right hand man,” Talon notes rather quickly. The answer, it seems, was at the tip of his tongue. Right hand man. It rolled out so naturally, it brought a smile to the Boss. “Would you have anyone else in my place?”
“I mean— no, but this ain't a job. It isn't somethin’ I'd pay anyone for.” Unlike the assassin, however, whatever's at the tip of Sett's tongue is usually what goes unsaid. Like telling him he sees this as intimate, as something only lovers would do — and how they were so far from being that. The little things Talon didn't ever pick up on, believing it to be a senseless worry. “What do I even pay you with, booze?”
“I don't drink, Sett.”
“But you could. Y'know I've got the best stuff — Nove gin, Targoven wine, whatever you fancy.” A shrug of his shoulders. The offer itself was pointless. Talon, paranoid as he were, wouldn't ever make himself drunk. Saw it as too much of a weakness, as far as Sett knew. “Could be your pick, if you wanted some.”
“And end up like you after you broke things up with that Templar?” And there it is: a tinge of amusement in something that makes the Boss gasp, that sketch of a smile threatening his mouth. “I'll pass.”
“Tal, you gossip!”
He'd always feign surprise if it meant seeing that ghost in his lips. A reminder of the humanity Talon so often tried to deny, to bury deep down below the floorboards.
“I'm your acting spymaster. Something like this shouldn't surprise you.”
Like a tell-tale heart, it was a dead sign of what gnaws at the back of your mind, the memories you try to forget, the feelings you'd like to bury six feet under — but you can't, and it shows, and you have to act on it lest it consumes your waking mind.
A shadow of a smile hangs on Talon's lips, and Sett finds himself staring with a grin of his own.
“Oh, trust me. It really doesn't.”