In which Aryas throws a lot of things.
New quest acquired; time to pack up and go. Aryas is ready to go, pack by the door, weapons on—Locke’s taking longer. Locke always takes longer. Aryas has accounted for this, because accounting for Locke-time is second nature by now. He uses it to scour the room for forgotten things, of which there are usually several.
Because Locke.
This time it’s a boot under the bed. He chucks it at Locke without warning; Locke yelps, grabbing it before it can clock him in the face, and hugs it to his chest.
“Give me a heads-up lawkeeper, gods’ sakes,” he grouses. Then he realises what he’s holding. “Oh shit, that’s where that went.”
He shoves his foot into the boot, and five Locke-minutes—read, fifteen—later they’re on their way.
*
One of the many advantages to magical storage bags is that you can, in fact, have a nice, cold beer at the end of a long, hot day trekking through the Badlands. Aryas ignores Locke’s increasingly unsubtle hints for as long as possible because it does Locke good not to always immediately get what he wants, and it does Aryas good to practise restraint.
Eventually he rolls his eyes—to let Locke know he hasn’t entirely won—and tosses him a beer. In one quick motion, Locke grabs it out of the air, pops the closure, and tips his head back to take a long draw.
“Ah, much better,” he sighs, grinning. Aryas sips at his own drink and watches the sunset, instead of the sweat trickling down Locke’s neck.
*
“What is wrong with you, why would you throw a knife at me?”
“At the giant spider, actually.”
“Do I look like I have eight legs?”
“Stop whining, you caught it.”
“Because I’m a very dextrous and talented man, and the gods smile on my continued existence—you almost killed me!”
“Don’t be melodramatic.”
“We don’t throw knives at friends, isn’t that a rule? That sounds like it should be a rule. I’m making it a rule.”
“Do you want me to throw another?”
“Oh, please, you don’t have another to—ack!”
*
Locke’s crouched on the ledge above him, scanning the darkness ahead; Aryas can almost see his ears twitching. After a minute or so, he nods.
“All clear.”
With a grunt of effort, Aryas tosses up the small chest—Locke’s ready, catching it as it hits its apex, twisting easily, using the chest’s momentum to spin it down onto the ledge beside him. It’s not big, but it’s heavier than it looks like it should be. If Locke hadn’t lost his lockpicks to thieving goblins two days before they got here, this would have been a lot easier.
Aryas scrambles up the rock, struggling to keep hold of the lantern as he does so. He gets high enough to set it on the ledge, and then Locke’s grabbing his arm, hauling him the last of the way up. He topples onto his back in the process—he’s small, Aryas is not, and half-plate is heavy. Locke lets out an oof, and for a moment Aryas just stares at the half-elf below him, heart thumping in his chest.
“Air, breathing, would very much like to,” Locke squeaks out, shoving at him. Aryas rolls off him.
This is not the place to get distracted.
*
“Here.” Aryas throws the coin purse at Locke, who grabs it and immediately spills half the contents across the table to run his fingers through the glittering gold coins. “Don’t spend it on stupid things.”
“You think everything fun is stupid, lawkeeper.”
“I’m not paying for your food if you run out.”
Locke rolls his eyes. His hair’s loose, the tie dangling around his wrist. He shoves the tangles back from his face and pouts. “You’d let me starve?”
“It’d be what you deserve if you waste all your money on fake magical items again.”
“Once!”
“Twice.”
“Even if I did get scammed again,” Locke starts counting his coin away, a little half-smile crooking the corner of his mouth, “you wouldn’t let me starve.”
No, Aryas knows. He wouldn’t.
*
“You want a drink?”
Locke doesn’t look up from his book. The Antiquarians hadn’t wanted it, just the rest of the chest’s contents, and Locke’s been glued to it since they got back to Caer Cyflen. Something about the stars, his ongoing obsession drawing him in again.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Aryas scratches the back of his neck. “No, I mean—do you want to get a drink with me?”
Now Locke does glance up at him, smirking.
“You scared of the barmaid again?”
“That was one time,” Aryas tries not to growl. Locke laughs, and there’s sunset light streaking the side of his face, turning the flyaways of his auburn hair to gold. “You want a drink or not?”
“Like I said, I’m good.” He holds up the book. “Just getting to a good part, you know?”
“Sure,” Aryas says. Pauses. Thinks. Gives up. “I’ll see you later.”
Locke hums an already-distracted reply, immersed in his occult pages once more. Aryas gets himself halfway down the hall, well out of earshot, before he groans and thumps his head against the wall.
Why is it Locke can catch everything except a hint?