I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

Croe’s touch was intoxicating. Her voice was like soft music. I’m here. I’m here.

Could you just repeat that, Mallos thought, forever.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and relaxed into her embrace, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. The smell of saltwater was stronger on her, more akin to the scent she’d carried in her days of piracy when they’d first started fooling around. There was no better word than fooling for what they’d done; nothing could have been more foolhardy than the pursuit of ongoing relations between a notorious pirate lord and a sponsor of the king. That the relationship had not only survived its relentless testing, but strengthened in spite (or perhaps because) of it, spoke volumes about something no one quite dared to name. Compatibility? Likeness? A mutual desire to say fuck you to the world?

Love?

It felt unreal, after all those hours in helpless wait, that she was really here, really awake. She ran her hands around his shoulders to his back and pulled him closer, as though she could read his mind and wanted to reassure him of the reality of her touch. The muscles in his face tightened, a burning sensation behind his closed eyes. Mallos gritted his teeth and regained control before the tears could spill out, glad that no one could see his face.

Croe’s grip on him tightened, if that was possible, a moment before she asked her question. Mallos latched onto it. Ángela was easy to focus on.

“Got her. She’s fine.” The short, incomplete sentences were a departure from his normal, fluent manner of speaking. Words were hard, for some reason.

They got harder still when she asked the second question. Mallos inhaled sharply; the knot in his stomach which had just started to loosen tightened up again. He’d talked to Ciara, to Tristan, to Ángela – at no point had it gotten any easier. At no point had it made more sense or hurt less.

Maybe with Croe it would be different. Mallos ran his hand through her hair, clinging to the sense of groundedness just being in her arms would give him.

“Mordred,” the name felt alien now, the connotations dramatically redrawn, “murdered Arthur.”

No. No easier.

His hold on her loosened a little and he moved one hand up to his forehead, gripping his own hair. Tristan’s words burned on the edge of his memory: where were you? You could have saved him. Why can’t you fix it?

“Pinned it on Tristan, took the kingdom. Morgana with him.” He muttered. “Took Ángela, took you – ”

His voice broke.

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go