Ambrose sneaks home well past dark, with his shirt improperly fastened. He was saying a proper goodbye to a lovely Cohort officer of his acquaintance, that's is. He sneaks back in walking on his toes to keep quiet, with no rapier, no badge of office at his hip. Scruffy and undignified and alone. His curls are messy like they've been pulled.

Penthos flicks on the light, arms folded, looking quite cross. He'd left the blood to dry that trickled out of his nose earlier that evening, wanting to make Ambrose guilty for leaving him alone. "Well aren't you a sight. The picture of a Seventh Cavalier, aren't you?"

Ambrose's heart does pang at the sight of that blood, just about instantly. "You ought to be asleep." He says, instantly. "It's late."

"What, like I was going to put myself to bed? All on my own? Come now Epta, you know better than that. You know I need help." He doesn't, of course. Hadn't when he was younger, and certainly doesn't now, but it doesn't matter. Pen would make himself need help if it meant that Ambrose would be the one doing the helping.

"And there wasn't anybody to help you?" He sounds, now, just as he had been prompted to sound. Worried, angry at some unspecified someone. "Come here, come here, let me clean your face."

Penthos rises, his instability there, but exaggerated just slightly, pushing him into Epta's arms. "There isn't anyone else, not anyone who's allowed to." But they both know that. They also both know Penthos has refused to have any sort of nurse.

"You ought to get some extra help, for when I'm out." He scoops an arm around Penthos's, under his arms. "Can you walk to the bathroom?"

FULL GIDEON THE NINTH RETELLING, COMING IN THE FUTURE

And he knows he shouldn’t but oh, how he wants to coax Ambry into the chair with him so he can sit on his lap. Complaining that he's still cold, the cold is like nothing else, and the chair isn't comfortable, and how “really, Ambrose, it’s your duty to make me comfortable.”

And Ambry shouldn't, but he's perfectly happy to pull him into his lap. Where Pen is much happier now, even though he’s still complaining and fussing about everything else. That he has a funny taste in his mouth, like metal, and he can feel it moving through his veins, can feel the cannula and the iv tube in him too and it jostles every time he moves his arm. A feeling he loves and hates at once. If he stares at his arm long enough, he convinces himself he can see the tube in his vein. That bit he dislikes. It gives him the creeps, but he can’t look away. Eventually Ambry has to cover his eyes and turn his head away physically. Kiss his cheeks, his mouth even as they both feel the pressing danger of being seen, knowing they're taking liberties. Especially when Pen keeps letting out happy, sensual gasps and moans against Ambrose’s lips

Ambry puts a hand over his mouth, which, of course, only makes him be louder, and he can lick Ambry's fingers. Lick them, nip at them, try to suck at them, get them in his mouth and tease, one of his favorite pastimes. it's a promise for later, for when they’re back home and he’s a tad woozy and still acting just the same amount of fussy brat. Wanting to be helped and carried still, demanding it, even. Because ‘I can't walk on my own! See how helpless and weak I am? I just can’t do it myself! I'll shake apart! I'll fall! Can’t see how much I need you Ambry?’

And of course he can, he can. Ambry scoops him up Which is probably pen’s favorite place to be. in Ambrose’s arms. Held safe and warm and knowing he won't fall. And its with Ambry, which is, of course, the most important bit

Pen does fall too often, it’s why he has the chair. He tumbles and hurts himself, and he bruises so easy, and gets so faint. Falling and bruising and crying, unable to get up, curling up and wincing every time he moves because it aches everything aches. Crying for Ambry, and they’re so far apart, it takes so long to find Pen.

He’s even annoyed, wondering where Pen is, getting short-tempered at him, all frustrated why he’s disappeared. Wandering long halls, calling out for him, traversing the whole manor, almost, and then he finds Pen, and he's rushing to his side. "Are you hurt?"

“It- I- Ambry—!” He’s sobbing and trembling and he’s in all disarray.

Ambry drops to his knees. "Did you faint? Or trip?"

One stocking is all dirty and no matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to sit up on his own, far too dizzy. “My legs just….”

"Hold your arms up to me, can you?"

He raises his arms, trying to hold back another wave of tears.

"I have you." Ambry murmurs, tugging him up into his arms.

"I was walking and then they just.. I fell."

"Landed hard?"

He nods, miserable. "My hip. And everything was spinning, and now it all flexes when I try to sit up."

"Then close your eyes. Let's get you to bed and check you over."

Penthos does, letting himself surrender to the softly swaying black. Ambry gathers him up, a precious burden. What was he doing so far from bed or a chair with no cane or chair?

"I just... For once I wanted to be able to get from one end of the house to the other on my own." It's so far from how he usually is about his illness. So far from the waifish invalid Penthos usually acts. "I never have, you know. Even as a child it was too far."

"You've never?" Ambrose sounds heartbroken.

"Nope. I wasn't able to walk yet before the illness took proper hold. And after that it was too far. Someone always had to help, or I'd use the crutches."

"I don't blame you for wanting to walk without them."

"It was a stupid choice. A stupid thing to want. I just..." I wanted too, before it gets bad enough, I can't walk hardly at all. But he can't say the words out loud. And in the morning, he'll be back to his usual self, almost relishing in needing others to care for him.

"You got this far. You did well."

Penthos just sighs. "This is the side I started on, Ambry. I thought it would be prudent to collapse into bed after."

"Ah. Well, I'm taking you there now."

"Thank you..." One knee is all scuffed up, and a shoe has somehow come undone. Why oh why had he decided to wear shoes for this venture?

"Get some antiseptic on that scrape, some cream on that bruise."

"Kiss it better too?" he asks, juvenile and pitiable.

"Kiss you all better."

"Like prince charming, I suppose?" It's a beautiful fantasy. Almost as pretty as the other fantasies he has about what Ambrose could do to his unconscious body.

"Like a prince from a fairytale, if I may aim for it. I'd kiss you awake, too, if you'd hit your head."

I'd rather you do more unspeakable things.... But what Penthos actually says is much closer to proper. "So chivalrous for a rake of a cav."

"Who said I wouldn't do worse when you woke up?"

A shiver runs through Pen's body, and he hopes it looks only like a muscle spasm, instead of the jolt of lust it truly is. Pen licks his lips, cracking one eye open to look up at Ambrose. "Then I suppose your reputation would trend down."

"Oh, my reputation is already out the window. I'm sure half of society thinks I take advantage of you on a regular basis."

I wish you did… His eye slips back shut, head nestling closer to Ambry’s chest. He can hear his heart like this. “I rather thought it was the other way around, no? Aren’t all us Adepts supposed to be spooky and sinister and power mad? Or is that just what those outside the Houses say?”

"Depends. Those with necromantic power gossip different than those without."

"Ah. So, you mean all of my ilk think you're taking advantage of me, and all of the common folk think it's the other way around?" It's a rather funny thought.

"Indeed. I was accused to my face the other night."

That makes Penthos' eyes fly open, much to his immediate, nauseated regret. "You were?!"

"Of being too much a rake, taking advantage of my position to take advantage of you when you're unwell."

"They know you've been here since we were children, yes? And that you frequently go out to meet ...companions... yes? If you wanted something to- to debase it's not as if you don't have plenty of vying suitors."

"But it would be such a victory to debase my adept, wouldn't it?"

Pen chews his cheek for a few steps, thinking. "I suppose it could be. Though I wonder what merit victory has when it's over something so pathetic."

"You could kill me easily."

"Ambrose, I couldn't even walk the length of my own home. No one who does not know us personally would think I could kill you, let alone easily."

"But we know."

"We do. We also know I would never."

"You'd never hurt me. And I'd never hurt you, not without it being willed."

"Well...." He drawls. "I wouldn't say I've never hurt you. Sometimes you misbehave horribly and a slap isn't amiss." Nevermind that such thing hasn't happened, despite the numerous times Ambrose has acted outside of propriety over the years.

"I've been waiting to earn one, if I'm to be honest."

"Is that why you keep doing more and more things that you know upset me?"

"Hoping I'll earn a slap? Perhaps in part."

"And the rest?" He hopes it'll be something pleasant, but Penthos knows that Ambrose Epta has never looked at him the way he looks at his Ambry, no matter how much silly flirting the man does. Much as Pen wishes it weren't the case.

"Well, I chase what I want."

"Ah... Of course." And what you want is me upset, while you go off and fuck other people. Good to know, I suppose. Not that it doesn't sting.

I'd chase it at home, if you'd let me. "I don't usually mean to upset you."

"Naturally." What else would leaving him alone to go get the one thing no one wants from Pen be.

"I don't like it when you're unhappy."

But you keep causing it. "There's that chivalry again."

"You're having a bad day. I know."

"I am, I'm sorry." He lets his eyes slip back shut, leaning into Ambrose. Pretending the way his heart speeds up is for him.

It is, of course, it always is. "How can I make it better?"

"I don't even know. I just ache, and my ego is as bruised as I am."

"We'll lie down, I'll give you some iron and tend those wounds, and I'll read to you."

That sounds nice. Sounds better than most things. "Help me get changed too? I don't want to be in what I hit the floor in anymore." And I want, for at least a few minutes. To pretend that you undressing me and redressing me is anything other than pity for an invalid.

"No. You ought to have something clean and soft." And he pretends his hands won't shake when he does it.

"Thank you Ambry. You're the best cavalier a man could hope for."

"You flatter me too much." He lays his precious burden down in the silk ocean of his bed.

"And yet I would never want anyone else. No one would be better suited." Pen takes a moment to just lie there, limp, boneless, before trying to move a leg. It's mostly just pins and needles, and an undercurrent of pain. "Shoes off please?"

Ambrose kneels before the bed to unlace his shoes, judging it the easiest way.

"New shoes, and one is already scuffed. Serves my folly right, I suppose."

"I'll get it polished out."

He smiles, rolling his head to watch. "My hero~"

Ambrose sets the shoes carefully aside, paired. "Let's get you cleaned up first."

"Please do." Toes point at him, wrapped in soft stockings, wiggling a little, as if saying hello.

Ambry tugs the stockings off slow and careful, like he's unwrapping a gift In a way, he is. No one else has seen Penthos naked since he came of age, since his nurse and his doctors got sent away. Since it became a household of two. And Ambry enjoys the sight every time. More than he should.

Just as Pen enjoys being striped like this, far more than he should either. Leagues more than he did when it was a nurse doing it. He flexes his toes, letting them breathe for a few minutes now they're uncovered.

Ambrose's eyes are fixed on pale skin bared for him. "Lift your skirt."

He does, trying not to shiver in excitement. Trying even more to not start getting hard.

Ambrose's fingers ghost over his hip. "That's one nasty bruise." Cruel, wicked, he presses down a little.

Pen gasps, hoping with all his might that his prick didn't twitch. "Yes, it- It was a rather nasty spill as well."

"Red already. It'll come up black. You need some ice."

"Must I? I'll get all chilled." He whines, already pouting.

"Doesn't it feel hot?"

"It does, but if you put ice on it, then I'll get all chilled. Down to the bone."

"I'll get you some blankets, how does that sound?"

Pen would really rather have Ambrose pressed against his side, but blankets will have to do. "And a bed warmer."

"Of course. Anything you want."

"New clothes first? I'll let you do everything to the bruises and scrap before we put them on, but I would really like to get out of these. They're covered in dust and dirt and tears."

"My poor boy. Nightdress, I think. Pink ribbons, or blue?"

Which does Ambrose like him in more…. Pen tries to remember but comes up blank. The brain fog has been getting worse lately, and that’s the one bit that truly frightens him. He can’t do necromancy if he can’t even remember what day it is.

"Blue it is, then." Ambrose decides.

“Thank you.. Sorry, the words all…. Well, they flew right out of my head, it seems.”

"No need for them. I know how to get you looking pretty."

“You always have. Always make me so sweet, so perfect.”

Ambrose shakes out the frothy nightie in question, then bends to tug the dress Ambrose is wearing over his head. It slides off easily, lose and simple, revealing his corset, and cream combinations. Even light off white makes him look even paler. His pallor seems to glow. Ambrose can't help but adore it as he starts loosening laces. Each loosened tie makes it easier to breathe. Silk shifting under the corset. A picture of almost-fainting beauty. A portrait of ill-advised fashion, decaying joy.

There are marks on Pen's skin, even through his chemise. Ambry traces them with a hiss.

“Are they quite bad?”

"They'll last a few hours at least."

“Then I suppose it’s good I have such a lovely caretaker.”

"Isn't it?" For once, Ambrose takes the praise without faking demure.

“Always taking care of me, of what I can’t do.” He smiles at Ambrose, immensely happy to have him.

"See? There's no need to simply push through a bad day, is there?"

“No, not at all.” Pen sighs, rather disappointed in himself. “I really don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry.”

"You're forgiven." Ambrose assures him. "As for all your follies."

A smile, and then he starts wriggling, trying to rid himself if the chemise too. Ambrose is quick to help, tugging it up and off. Penthos shivers, bare now, atop the silken sheets of his bed. Looking just the picture of ephemeral beauty.

“Thank you, Ambry.”

Ambrose could stop and stare his fill, if he wasn't concerned about getting something warm onto him. He can feel those eyes on him. Pretends they’re wanting, instead of anything else. Pretends Ambrose looks at him the way he looks at every other pretty thing he sees walk by. It’s a beautiful dream.

"Sit up. I need to get your nightie on."

But no, Ambrose just wants him covered as soon as possible…. Penthos complies, sitting up and lifting his arms, the way any good little invalid would.

It feels a shame, to cover up such beauty. "Wait." He says, not a little selfish. "I ought to tend to the bruise first."

“Oh, yes, you should…”

Any excuse to keep him bare a little longer. He fetches a pot of cream.

Pen lounges as he waits, secretly giddy at being seen longer. A nasty, deep part of him thinks he ought to be injured more often if it means Ambrose sees him like this.

Ambrose steals looks, he can't help himself. Guilty little glances through his eyelashes. Pen stretches, putting himself even more on display, until the bruises pull too far, and Pen winces, hissing as he curls back in on himself. He’s so delicate. Like a sick porcelain doll laid out and forgotten.

"The cream might be cold." Ambrose warns, starting to rub it in. Penthos whimpers a tad, but it’s mostly put on, a show for his caretaker, for his handler. A show enough to make Ambrose cautious. "It'll feel better after, promise."

“You said you’d kiss it better too…?”

Ambrose bends his head to press a kiss on the bruise.

“Perfect.” He prays his prick behaves, but Penthos wants to feel this every day. Wants to feel Ambrose’s lips on him in other places as well. “It’s feeling better already.”

"Just needed a bit of care, didn't you?"

“From you? Of course.”

"You can always have it. Have only to ask." And he feels a pang of guilt for being unavailable.

I can’t though. Not the kind of care I really want. He smiles, soft. “You seem to just know even when I don’t.”

"It's my job to know what you need."

“And you do it oh so well, Ambry.” He shifts, letting the man continue his ministrations on the other abrasions. Pen is smiling now that he has Ambrose’s hands on his bare flesh. Ambrose is touching perhaps more than strictly necessary. Letting his hands wander, stroke bare skin. Pen hums in contentment, letting his eyes slip shut. “Feels so nice… like you’re moving my blood around for me.”

"You need a proper massage?"

One eye cracks open, looking at Ambrose all wet and pathetic. “Perhaps…”

"Do you think you feel too tender for it, or ought I to give it a go?"

He probably should say no; it’ll likely make the bruises worse but- “Please? It might help the tingling in my legs go away.”

"Turn on your stomach." Ambrose returns to the vanity to fetch some sweet body oil.

Pen is glad for it. Now anything his cock decides to do will be hidden. tucked under himself and pressed into silk. He rests his head on the pillow so he can watch Ambrose. The man looks so beautiful when candle lit, the same warm glow the sun gives him.

He approaches slowly, carefully. Something of ritual to it. Like a worshipper. And truly, this is something worth ritual. Penthos' frail, light body laid out specifically for him, every dip and curve on display. Pale, small limbs you can almost see the veins through, dark hair thin on his head, and the bare plane of his back leading to a small (if pert) behind. Ambrose would love to press a kiss there. He doesn't dare, but he does dare knead his fingers into the muscle.

Penthos lets out a deep groan, sinking into the mattress. "That’s the stuff."

"No wonder you're sore, you're tense as a bag of rocks."

"You try living in constant pain, see how tense you are afterward." It's half muffled by the pillow, but the lack of real bite is still audible.

"I couldn't imagine it. I'd be nothing without my sword arm."

You got lucky, to be born free of this. "That would be a shame. You're more than just that though... We both know that."

"Hardly. A pretty face."

"And an intelligent man. A deft hand at medicine, after taking care of me for over a decade. And, well. Not that it necessarily matters, but I doubt you'd have near as many night companions as you do if you weren't talented there as well."

"Oh, I don't dare brag of those talents." He digs his fingers into a knot in Pen's thigh.

Pen yelps, and it morphs into a pleased sigh as the knot works free. "Mmmhg, yes but you still have them. And the other things besides."

"You've plenty yourself."

"A title and a small fortune and a pretty face that no one wants. Necromantic ability does no good if I can't get anywhere to use it."

"What do you mean, nobody wants your pretty face? You must have suitors."

Pen scoffs into the pillow. "Darling the only ones who have any interest are creeps who want me to be a pretty baby doll for them to play with. I'm ill, I'm small, and I need help with a lot, I'm not actually seven.

"Oh, I certainly know that. Let me know if you need me to get rid of them."