In which Locke does not enjoy Tent Time.
Sunny, shiny day in the big bad Badlands—Locke’s sweating and Aryas is worse, on day three of refusing to ditch the half-plate. Dumb decision to leave their spellcasters behind for this one, but too late now to change their minds.
“If this turns out to be another scam…” Aryas huffs. His dark hair hangs lank and lifeless against his deep brown face, braid at the back unravelling into unhappy tangles. Locke grins, wipes sweat from a pale forehead that’s only not sunburnt because of the charm he acquired last summer and will maybe-maybe give back one day when he doesn’t start peeling like an onion every time the overenthusiastic day-star puts in an extended appearance.
“It won’t be. I have a good feeling.”
“I hate your good feelings.”
“No, you don’t, you love my intuition—and you love the money it makes you.” Locke lets his voice go sing-song, because it makes the lawkeeper roll his eyes in that adorable way he does. Humming something that’s been stuck in his head since weeks back in Coparann, he hops up onto a run of sun-baked rocks. Light step, easy jump, one boulder to the next like an attractive, pointy-eared goat. Did goats have an elf equivalent? Or were goats the elf equivalent to sheep? And that being the case, what would constitute a half-elf?
Sun in his eyes, Locke’s foot twists. His mind snaps back to the real as his ankle starts to go. He compensates the other way, arms a windmill—too late, he’s already sliding, shit, fuck, gods damn it—!
Aryas grabs him. Strong hands around his waist, lifting him off the rock he’s tumbling from and he’s set down in front of a scowling lawkeeper.
“Do not,” Aryas says, “break your ankle out here. Or your neck.”
“Right,” says Locke. Reprimand, sure, sure—his brain is stuck on hands and lifting and being moved around good, actually?
Send help.
Aryas frowns at him, pale-eyed concern. “What’s wrong? Your chest again?”
Locke’s occasional breathing problems aren’t catching him up right now, but Aryas is a moron who can’t tell the difference between a debatably medical—Locke thinks curse, lawkeeper thinks different—issue, and the kind caused by being very gay and in close proximity to Man, Handsome.
He shakes his head. “Peachy keen, lawkeeper. Nice save.”
“Stay on the ground.” Aryas’ hands are still on his waist. “Where I can see you.”
Send help, immediately. What kind of unjust universe is it where this man is straight? Locke’s tempted to feign a heat-swoon, full bodice-ripper; he doesn’t because it won’t help and there’s only so much he can take in a day. So he shrugs and he smiles and he goes back up on the rocks. Aryas curses after him, swears he won’t catch him again.
He will. Locke knows he will—the lawkeeper has been catching him since they were kiddos playing hero in the forest out back of town.
And maybe one day, if Locke’s lucky, he’ll catch a clue.