Read
Title: Read Fandom: Assassin's Creed/Kuroshitsuji. Sort of.
Author: write_rewrite
Rating: G.
Pairings: William/Grell..
Warnings: Universe-mixing.
Notes: Nothing much to detail here. William and Grell are both Assassins - or, well, they used to be, but William is now a crippled blind extra, and Grell has taken the esteemed position he once held. Very weird tense. Odd plot in general.
Summary: William misses reading at the end of a long day.
On cold winter nights like these, William would sit by a warm fire and read a chapter of a book - just one chapter, from one book - before the time for sleep was upon him. It was a ritual carried over from a tough and rigorous childhood training beneath the Master Assassin, and the nightly interruption of that brat, Grell, was expected and, perhaps, even anticipated.
Gently, William fingered the rough linen edge of the bandage across his face, and scowled heavily.
No reading tonight. No reading, ever.
The fire was lit, and he knew only because he could smell the logs turning to ash, could feel the heat, could even smell the smoke for an instant.
"Come and sit by the fire, William. I've poured you a glass of wine."
Grell's voice is much deeper than when he had his eyes, and William cannot tell if it is maturity, or if he just has never noticed, and it's far warmer, and more comforting, than it should be.
He knows that the Assassin is sprawled with legs open, hair loose, eyes bright and warm from liquor, incredibly lucid despite the drink in him; it is how he always sits.
Grell won't change, if everything else does. And did.
"The last thing I want to do is drink, Grell."
"Don't drink. But you still need to come into the light if I'm to change your bandages - and you do need them changing, William, you're starting to look like a street beggar. The dirty kind, that mothers warn their children away from."
Grell's voice ended the sentence laughing, and William scowled in his direction.
"How flattering of you," he said, sour and dully, but walked to the chair regardless, refusing to feel his way across, refusing aid, refusing Grell's little verbal hints -- there's a chair there, there's the edge of the rug -- because he does not need help here. This is his home. He knows every inch of it, and has the bruises on his body to show it. "Don't do that. I'm blind, not stupid."
Grell is rolling his eyes, and muttering, "I'm trying to help," though it's too soft to be heard, and he'll lean forwards, in a minute, and that damned hair of his will fall over William's hands like a blanket, knotted at the ends, tangled from running and jumping and climbing and brothel tasks.
He brushed his fingers over the knots, letting them ripple beneath his fingers, and inhaled sharply as Grell's nails peel away the bandage on his face - and there's a moment, there's always a moment, where he feels the cold wind on his face and thinks, this is it, I can see again, but he never can.
It never fails to turn the corners of his mouth down farther, though he knows it's a stupid thing to do.
Grell's fingers stroke softly, down one cheek, and over his mouth.
"Stop touching me," William reached out to touch, but just with one hand, because he likes the feeling of Grell's hair on the other, and shoves the Assassin's shoulder back. There's a harsh breath, a sound that grates. The idiot has gotten himself injured again. "How bad?"
"Just a throwing knife."
"That's not what I asked. Tell me how bad it is."
Logs pop in the fireplace, and settle.
"Bad, but manageable."
There is a smell of apples, and William lifted his other hand, presses a lock of Grell's hair to his mouth - that's where the apples are, and it's such a stupid, foolish, ridiculous, unprofessional thing, it's so him, that William laughed.
Grell picked away at his face, rubbing icy medicine, muttering instructions. He does it every night, though William is certain that the movements are carved into his bones by now. He's done it every night for three years.
"You don't have to take care of me," William said, and the sullen, sulky, childish tone is not his. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"That would be entirely believable if you hadn't spent an hour talking to the broom the other day." Grell snapped; tired, he sounds tired.
"And whose fault is it that I can't see who I'm talking to?"
It's a nasty shot - William's still an Assassin, even if he is blind, and he does not take kindly to pity, to this molly-coddling, to Grell's vapid attention.
"Mine. Alright? It's mine. It will always be my fault. When are you going to forgive me?"
"When you restore my sight," And William shoved Grell's hand off his cheek, and fumbled for the bandage himself, but it slipped through his fingers, and goes to the ground.
In the next moment, it is in his hand, and William is tempted to throw it into the fire, and tell Grell to get it, but some part of him suspects that the Assassin would do it. Guilt is a powerful weapon. William knows how to use it.
"If I could, William, I'd give you my own."
Grell's chair scraped on the ground, and a glass of wine is placed in his hand, metal warm from the close fire, and then a book.
"I can't read this."
"I can."
"My bandage--"
"Leave it. I'll put it on before bed."
"Does it give you some kind of pleasure to see me ruined? To see these scars?"
William reached up, passed his fingers, felt them press onto his blank eyes, felt the pain, but only distantly. "Do you enjoy it?"
Grell is so silent now. It took him a tragedy to turn mature - how funny! William would like to see him, stern and serious, studying the book, knowing the weight of the sins he has to bear, but the thing is that the image of a serious Grell does not go, and is not pleasant.
"No," Grell said, and the pages are turned, he can hear the sound of them turning, "no, I do not."
"Enough. Read to me, then. You kn-"
"The second chapter."
William smiled, faintly and briefly, and wondered how long it has been that Grell has seen him read, how he's remembered what he was reading, how he remembers the place. On a whim, William patted his lap, and reached to find Grell's hand.
It's not there, but Grell is, snuggled up warm against him, helping his hand onto the page. The feeling of paper is odd and rough - after a moment, William lets his fingers rove up to where the leather spine is creased, and touches that, and then feels Grell's fingers, an odd blend of soft and hard.
"I meant at my feet," William whispered, though whether it was to Grell's hair or shoulder or ear, he had no clue.
"I prefer your lap, and I will keep you warm. If you would really like me to go down--"
"No, no. Stay. It is fine. Next time, sit on the floor."
For a moment, he expected Grell to argue, and the soft 'yes, William' is a shock in itself.
Guilt is a powerful weapon.
Even strong men bend beneath it.