[Infinity's End] We All Need Saving

[n_wilkinson]

a/n: This fic is WAY overdue. It was for mandalee1013's birthday back in October. I so very much fail on getting this done on time. *hangs head* My only consolation is that it's way longer than I meant it to be, it has porn, and I actually think it turned out pretty good. So a very belated happy birthday. I hope you enjoy! Beware this is definitely NSFW and may contain spoilers for the end of Whispers of Yesterday though this isn't exactly what happens.

Title: We All Need Saving
Universe: Infinity's End, Whispers of Yesterday, NOT CANON
Rating: M
Words: 9500
Warnings: Het, slash, threesome, implied torture, offscreen minor character death
Desc: GalexMalcolmxIone. Malcolm is forced to confront his feelings regarding his two closest friends when Gale goes missing, and Ione enlists Malcolm's help in finding him.


The smell of smoke is thick in the air, clogging Gale's lungs, making him cough. He's been separated from the others and he has no clue where Inari has gotten herself. But at least the sounds of battle are fading, though he does not like the subtle trembling in the walls.

Whatever Grayshire has planned, it can't be good.

Shouts echo down the corridor – friend or foe, Gale can't be certain. Either way, he's quite certain that it's past time that he should be going. The evacuations should be complete by now and he doesn't dare linger. Not with the Brigade surrounding them at an advanced rate.

Lifting a hand to cover his mouth with his sleeve, Gale ducks through a hole in the wall and into another corridor, thick with smoke and the evidence of lingering fires. The ground gives another alarming rumble, nearly tossing him to the floor.

“Gale,” Quetz hisses, urging with his name alone.

“I know. I'm hurrying,” he responds, breaking into a jog, his gaze sweeping through abandoned rooms, performing a final check. He doesn't want to inadvertently leave anyone behind.

He turns a corner and nearly runs smack into five members of the Brigade, who whirl toward him, weapons raised and aether brimming. Gale immediately steps back into a defensive position, his own aether rising around him, cloaking him in a protective layer.

“Lord Arlen,” one of the men drawls, his dark skin identifying him as a member of the Misae in some connection. “Just the man we were looking for.”

Gale doesn't give them a moment to explain. He slams his right hand forward, sending a sharp burst toward one of the soldiers, knocking him backward and into a wall. He then spins and launches himself at the next, drawing his sword mid-attack.

His blade clashes with a weighted metal rod, not unlike what Helene had used, and his opponent smirks at him over their joined weapons. “I don't suppose you'll come along quietly?”

Gale's eyes narrow and he spins away, pulling his aether tight around him. Another soldier approaches from the left, and his only saving grace is that this corridor is to narrow for all five of them to attack at once. A source of water is too far away to be of use. Damn it.

The walls give a warning tremble, pieces of rock dribbling down from above. Gale doesn't have time to fight!

“I didn't think so,” one of the soldiers comments, and leaps at him, weighted rod raised high.

Gale bats him with a flick of his sword, and spins to counter the man approaching from behind, fire brimming between his fingertips. Gale ducks backward to avoid the flaming sphere, charging forward and swapping the flat of his blade against the side of the fire-user's head. He drops like a stone, crumpling, leaving Gale to face the others.

The sharp sound of cracking rock is all the warning they get.

Gale freezes, looks upward, and is treated to the view of the ceiling above him splintering. He has a split-second to be alarmed before he realizes there's nowhere to run.

And then his world drops out beneath him.

o0o0o

In all of the madness of fighting for their lives, fleeing from the flames, and desperately trying to stay alive, the idea of performing a head count doesn't hit anyone – much less Ione – until a full twenty-four hours after the attack. Several people turn out to be missing and search parties are thus assigned, though filled with those of a more sneaky nature so as to avoid patrolling teams of the Brigade, determined to catch the fleeing rebels.

Ione suspects that most of the missing will be found in a Grayshire cell, and whether or not they will be alive come the next morning is up to Grand Lord Wyndham's will.

It's only when the final numbers come down and the list is made that Ione realizes Gale's name is on it. No one's seen him or heard from him since they were separated in a desperate bid to protect Paragon and the rebels. Inari is frantic, claiming she can't feel him, and Quetz is missing, too.

Ione's consoled by the fact that Quetz is most likely with Gale but still... He's missing, has been missing, and Ione hasn't the first clue where to look. He's not dead, can't be dead; he's too valuable to be dead, for both sides. She expects Grayshire to start bragging any day now that they have finally captured the head of the rebels and that the uprising will soon be quenched.

Azriel tells her not to worry. That they have to be calm and patient. Ione wants to be neither. There's a shaking in her limbs, a tremble in her aether. She paces back and forth in the hallway – oh, how she misses her private quarters! – unable to be still.

“He's the strongest of us, outside of Azriel I mean,” Malcolm tells her, from where he's sitting cross-legged in the hall, one of his many weapons across his lap. “He's fine.” But he can't hide the worry in his tone either.

There's a reason Malcolm's sharpening his half-hand sword, and it's not because the blade needs honing. He's as worried as Ione, and this is the only way he can show it.

Ione turns sharply, beginning another circuit. “I need to be out looking for him.”

“It's too dangerous.” His words sound rote by now.

“I don't care.” Ione grits her teeth. All she can think about is Ophelia, bleeding and broken and gone. Hayden, downcast eyes and alone. “He would look for me.”

This she knows for certain. Gale would never stop looking, in fact, until he found her or her body, and then there would be vengeance and fury. Ione wouldn't settle for anything less.

The sound of rock scraping over blade pauses. Approaching footsteps cause both of them to quiet as Ione hovers against the wall, making way for a few of the guards whose names she couldn't remember. Faces are difficult anyway, and they are all so weary and soot-stained and ragged that it's hard to tell people apart anymore.

They all murmur polite words in passing, but Malcolm doesn't respond to hear until they are out of earshot.

“I won't let you look alone,” he says firmly, a stubborn set to his jaw. “I want to find him, too.”

Ione jerks her head up sharply. There's something in Malcolm's tone, some undercurrent that she just can't identify. He's looking back at her, blue eyes imploring. Ione has no intention of saying no, but she wishes she knew what is going on in that head of his. Sometimes, Malcolm can be so inscrutable.

“Okay,” Ione says, because she's not going to say no to help. “But we have to leave now. Before Azriel can tell us not to.”

Malcolm gets up from the floor with grace that would make some women envy him, carefully sliding his blade into its sheath. “Where do you want to check first? Paragon's going to be swarming with the Brigade by now.”

Ione taps her chin, whirling on a heel to head down an adjoining corridor, Malcolm following her. “Unless they left him for dead – which I highly doubt – he won't be anywhere around there anywhere. They'll have taken him somewhere.”

“You want to head into Grayshire? Check the prison?”

She sighs, shoulders slumping. “Probably should. But that's a task best left to Azriel's spies. Neither of us is good for sneaking around. At least, not that much.”

“Then where should we go?”

“I don't know.” Ione huffs, frustrated, running a hand over her hair. “I'll figure something out.”

o0o0o

The blackness recedes slowly, peeling away from the corners of his conscious and leaving behind a fuzzy grey. Gale bites back a groan as he wakes, pain suffusing his every being, skin itchy where blood has dried and crusted. He twitches, and clamps down on a cry of pain as he registers what is clearly a broken finger and a cracked rib. He smells blood and wood fire, but he's alive and he supposes that is what counts.

Peeling his eyes open is like lifting a heavy curtain over a window. He can see nothing at first but the bright, flickering flame of a campfire. He smells the heavy odor of fresh pine, and he hears a continuous trickle, like a small stream.

There is no familiar weight on his chest, and he can't access his aether. That gives Gale cause for alarm. Even more than the feeling of his hands bound behind his back, arms banded to the tree which serves as his back rest. He's been taken prisoner, but by whom? Members of the Brigade? Wouldn't they have taken him straight to Grayshire? And where is Quetz?

Repeated attempts to access his aether prove fruitless. Whatever they've given him, it's put a block on his mana. He can feel the power swirling within him, but when he reaches for it, the aether slips out of his hold, like smoke on the wind.

Footsteps. A broken branch. Someone appears in Gale's peripheral vision, face obscured by shadow as he slips around the fire.

“Oh good,” the stranger says, accent thick, like he's from one of the more distant villages. “You're finally awake.”

Another person steps out on the other side of the campfire, bracketing Gale between them.

His eyes flicker between his captors. “Who are you?”

The one on the left, who hadn't spoken yet, laughs. Higher-pitched. A female then. “Oh, you'll find out soon enough.”

Hmm. Ominous. Gale contemplates asking over Quetz, but worries that if he does, they will realize her importance to him. He hopes that she managed to escape.

“We should wait until Garrett gets back,” the unnamed male says.

The woman barks out another laughter, crackling the knuckles of one hand with the other. “Why should he get all the fun? I say a little priming goes a long way.” Her aether flares, like a stinging slap to Gale's unprotected body.

Gale is now quite certain that these people have nothing to do with Grayshire. Or if they did, they no longer cared what Grayshire or the Brigade would have of them. This seems to have taken on the air of personal business, though Gale can't think of anyone he could have wronged.

Then again... he is an Arlen. And there are many who have resented the Arlen clan for one reason or another. Gale may be about to pay for his family's sins.

If he were to count, how many could he name? How many assassinations had Gale himself ordered? How many things had the Arlen done in the name of Grayshire's “greater good?”

“Whatever you want,” the male says, holding up his hands and taking a step back. “But don't whine to me if Garrett disapproves.”

“He won't,” the woman says, surety in her voice. “We have the same goals after all.”

She takes a fluid step closer to Gale and crouches down in front of him, some of her features coming into clarity with her new proximity. Her eyes are dark, almost black, and there's a scar ridge above her left brow. Gale, for the life of him, doesn't recognize her.

He wishes he could.

The woman reaches out, stroking the back of her hand over his right cheek in a parody of a lover's caress, making Gale's skin crawl. “Poor thing,” she croons. “You must be missing your magic right now. Sageroot is quite effective, isn't it?”

Gale digs deep down, for the calm Azriel always taught him, and the training against interrogation he had been forced to take many, many years ago. “What do you want?” he asks, no trace of fear in his voice.

Blunt fingernails hook behind his ear, hardly a caress. “A little revenge. A little information. A lot of satisfaction on my part. But you'll learn.”

No. This doesn't bode well for Gale at all.

o0o0o

Malcolm has never seen Ione like this, prowling through the forest like a feline huntress, her aether twisting and writhing with fury and fear and worry. He pities whoever has Gale in custody, for Ione won't have any mercy. Then again, Malcolm doesn't feel inclined to grant them mercy either.

He doesn't like seeing Ione this frazzled, and he certainly doesn't enjoy thinking of Gale in danger. Malcolm has grown far too used to Gale being the powerful one, the one that never requires any worrying. This is far, far from what Malcolm is prepared to deal with. And he knows, should Azriel truly think Gale's in trouble, that no force in Talemar could stop him from rescuing his protege.

A part of Malcolm is glad that only he and Ione are taking this so seriously. Azriel's wrath could do more than save Gale, it could destroy all of Grayshire and Talemar if he truly wished it. A frightening thing.

“Ione!”

A small, sinuous form launches itself out of the foggy gloom and aims for Ione. She blinks in startled surprise, hands reaching to catch the projectile. A flare of aether and Malcolm recognizes the speaker.

Quetz.

Inari comes bounding up to them out of the forest, having heard Quetz's voice and likely feeling her aether as well. She circles around Ione's feet, worry emanating outward.

The little snake trembles as Ione holds her close. “They took him!” Quetz says, winding around Ione's neck as she often does to Gale. “He's gone!”

Ione's eyes flash as Malcolm's heart drops into his belly. “Who did?” she demands.

“I don't know,” Quetz says, or wails rather. Blood streaks the dark ridges of her skin. “I couldn't keep up to them and then they cut off Gale's aether somehow and I can't feel him either.”

Ione shifts her gaze to Malcolm. “They've blocked his aether somehow. They are skilled. Taught.”

He agrees. “But we're better.”

“Yes. We are.” Ione's jaw firms, and she gently tucks Quetz under her tunic. “We'll find him, Quetz. I promise. Let's go, Malcolm.”

o0o0o

His world is a kaleidoscope of pain. Gale still doesn't know why they loathe him so much, but that hasn't stopped them from inflicting as much damage as they can, yet never enough to kill him, or cause life-threatening damage.

The smell of blood is strong, the taste of it thick on his tongue. Or maybe that's blood itself, gummy and raw. His body feels like one large bruise, more cracked ribs added to the one he had when he first woke. His aether remains an untouchable wisp.

He doesn't think the fingers of his left hand will ever bend the right way again, not with how they've been bent and twisted and smashed and mangled beyond recognition. Not even Miss Neorah's famed healing abilities can help him now. He'll be lucky if they ever bend properly again, much less curl around a sword or form a fist.

He coughs, and something rattles unnaturally in his lungs. He coughs blood, and can't, for the life of him, remember what anything else takes like. His clothes are in tatters, of no comfort to him. And a chill has settled over the forest, something the dying fire cannot chase away.

Right now, he's alone. But Gale knows it won't be for long. They always return, and with new ways to inflict more agony.

Someone dumps an armful of wood on the fire, causing it to flare brightly, pink around the edges. A chemical of some sort on the wood perhaps.

Gale flinches. His one eye wincing at the brightness, the other swollen and gummed shut with blood. He wouldn't call the emotion settling within him fear, but there is a distinct wariness.

They haven't asked him any questions. This isn't an interrogation. He doesn't know what it will take to make them stop. He doesn't know if they're aiming for his death or not. He doesn't know anything, and it's the not knowing that makes this so terrible.

He's floating on the edge of consciousness, and it takes everything he has to stay aware. He fears what they might do to him if he's unconscious.

Gale doesn't dare anticipate rescue. He can only hope for it. Surely Azriel and the others have realized he's missing by now. Ione, for certain, must be frantic, relying on Malcolm to comfort her. They must be looking, though without being able to track him by his aether, makes things several degrees more difficult.

His tormentors return, this time with a third man whom Gale can only assume is Garrett. Garrett is a big brute of a man, with hulking shoulders and a scar running through his right eye socket. His face is a pockmark of old injuries.

“Gale Arlen,” he says, voice a rumbling bass of disdain. “So nice to meet you again.”

Again? Gale doesn't know this man. He's quite certain of it. But he says nothing. He doesn't trust himself to speak, and moving his jaw isn't appealing right now. He's in enough pain as it is. He glares, with his one good eye, tilting his head in defiance.

The woman snickers. “I don't think he wants to talk you, Garrett.”

“That is fine with me, as I have nothing I want to hear him say.” Garrett crouches down in front of Gale, elbows draped on his knees, hands dangling. “You probably don't even remember me. When do the nobles ever care about the commoners they toss aside, hmm?”

Liam, whom had been named earlier, circles around Garrett to Gale's other side, one hand tangling in blood-crusted hair and jerking Gale's head back, baring his throat to their tender mercies.

“You should kill him now,” Liam says, fingers tightening in Gale's hair.

“And spoil our fun?” The woman is tapping something against her palm, something long and thin, but also heavy as each time it smacks her hand it makes a dull noise. “Are you getting bored, Liam?”

Gale has a morbid curiosity to find out which new torture she's devised. She is the more vicious of them, the more creative. He also wishes to never discover. He always thought he could bear pain. And certainly he can. But everyone has a breaking point.

“Something like that,” Liam drawls.

Garrett is watching Gale, something unnameable in his dark eyes. “Then we should end this soon. Arian?”

“Sure thing, boss,” the woman – Arian – replies, somehow understanding the vague command.

She turns away, thrusting the item in her hands into the fire. Only then does Gale realize what it is – either a poker or a prod. Neither bode well for his safety.

“Don't worry,” Garrett says, seemingly noticing the way Gale is watching Arian's every movement. “Once we get what we want, it'll all be over.”

Gale forces himself to speak, forcing his dislocated jaw to obey his commands, despite the pain it produces. “And what... is it... that you... want?” he says, with a wheeze, gritting out each word and panting through the pain.

Garrett laughs as Arian approaches from the other side, clutching the bit of metal in one hand, the other end of it bright red and glowing. Gale can feel the heat of it. They must have magically altered the fire to make it so hot. Ropy bits of melted metal drip off the end of the poker.

“To watch you suffer,” Arian purrs, bringing the poker closer and closer with each passing second. “Just as the Arlen has done to so many others.” The heat of the poker is tangible. Terrifying.

And at the first touch of metal to his bare skin, Gale screams, a wholly unearthly sound.

o0o0o

Ione's entire being snaps into focus as every part of her which is Gale snaps into awareness. She suddenly feels him, the tangible presence of his aether. Quetz quivers around her neck, also sensing Gale's presence, and Inari takes off like a shot, bounding into the underbrush.

“What is it?” Malcolm demands, hand instantly going to his blades.

Ione has to catch a breath. “Gale,” she says, and breaks into a run, chasing after Inari, who can guide the way. Though even Ione can track it now, what with the way Gale's aether is calling to her, strong and vibrating with pain and desperation and fear.

Judging by the curses, snapping branches, and rattling metal behind her, Malcolm is on her heels. He doesn't need a further explanation.

It feels like they run for hours, though it can't be more than ten minutes, Ione's heart beating wildly in her chest. And when they do arrive, pelting straight into the middle of an obvious campsite with little regard for stealth, Ione gasps in horror. The dim light of dawn illuminates a small clearing which looks to have been laid to waste by some unnatural phenomena.

Trees and bushes have been flattened. The remains of a campfire are scattered to the four winds, ash and charred wood littering the ground. Ione counts four bodies, but only one of them does she care a whit about.

Gale, broken and bleeding, is currently tied to a tree, slumped down, his head dangling. Inari has already found him, keening as she curls up in his lap, nosing at his blood-streaked chest.

Ione feels the blood drain from her face as she stumbles toward Gale, ignoring the other broken bodies, and drops to her knees beside her lover. One hand gently reaches for his head, tilting his face up toward her. The other rests on his chest with shaking fingers, struggling to find so much as a heartbeat or an aether pulse. Quetz is a quivering coil of worry around her neck, beyond words.

His eyes are closed, breathing shallow, but he's alive. And there's a faint thrumming of aether, as though Gale has either exhausted himself, or his captors found a way to inhibit it.

He's a mess. There's no kinder way of putting it. Ione is no healer by any means, but even she can identify wounds, broken bones, and what seems to be the burnt skin of a brand. She growls in her throat, those monsters. If they weren't already dead...

“By Kaiyu!” Malcolm's horrified gasp nearly startles Ione as he drops to the ground on Gale's other side, tossing his weapons aside in favor of digging out the first aid kit he'd brought with him.

Malcolm is no more a healer than Ione, but he has a better knowledge of field medicine and emergency wound treatment.

“He's alive,” Ione says, fingers gently stroking Gale's face. She lets out a gentle wave of her aether, letting it wash over Gale, hoping to coax him into waking. “But we need to get him back to base.”

“Let me patch a few of these wounds and then we'll go,” Malcolm says, pulling out wads of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic healing salve. “What in seven hells happened here?”

Ione glances over her shoulder, only sparing the three corpses a single glance. “Does it matter? They're dead. And I'm sure it's what they deserve.”

Beneath her touch, she feels Gale's heartbeat quicken. He stirs, a moan falling from chapped lips as one eye flutters open.

“Ione?” he sounds confused, as though he believes himself to have woken in a dream. In his lap, Inari gives a yip of relief, nuzzling against him.

“It's me. Both of us actually,” Ione says, keeping her voice soft and gentle. “Malcolm came, too. And Inari and Quetz.”

Fenris and Aponi, for that matter, had been left back at the base. Aponi because Ione couldn't find her in time, and Fenris because he was helping Azriel track down other missing persons after the attack. Ione hadn't wanted to distract him from that.

Ione reluctantly releases him, if only to pull out a small knife and start hacking away at his bonds. The twine is thin, something Gale could have probably snapped were he at full strength, but his captors had taken that from him.

Malcolm kneels next to Gale and starts to attend to his wounds, murmuring soft apologies every time Gale winces at the application of antiseptic. “I'm going to have to set these fingers now, if you ever want to use them again.”

“Just... do it,” Gale replies with a grated out hiss.

His bonds finally cut, Ione gently eases him out of them and pulls Gale into her lap, even as Malcolm takes his hand with infinite gentleness and starts to fix each broken finger. Malcolm, a man who's tougher than most Ione knows, turns grey with every snap that echoes in the forest. He apologizes with every fixed finger, like it's his fault they were broken in the first place.

“I'm okay,” Gale says, though every sharp inhalation belies his reassurance.

When he sinks back into unconsciousness, Ione doesn't know who's more relieved: Gale or Malcolm. Quiet, oddly quiet, Malcolm finishes his temporary first aid. Ione, knowing little of field medicine, can only sit and stroke Gale's head softly, feeling ashamed that she hadn't found him sooner. Might have not found him in time if not for Gale's sudden flare of aether.

“We should get him back to Cyrus,” Malcolm says, tucking away the small bag he'd brought with him. “I've done all I can.”

Ione nods absently, stroking her fingers down Gale's face one more time. He doesn't stir. His breathing is labored and his reiatsu a dull, out of rhythm pulse. “We should have started looking sooner.”

A warm hand rests on her shoulder, squeezing companionably. She looks up, Malcolm's gaze as full of so much guilt and worry. “Let's self-recriminate later. He needs medical attention first.”

Malcolm's right, of course. They'll be plenty of time to feel guilty later.

o0o0o

He's hovering in the background, feeling vastly out of place as he watches Ione sit by Gale's side, her hand clasped in his.

Gale's sleeping right now, restfully at last. He's clean, his wounds treated, and his aether is finally starting to feel a bit like usual. Cyrus is optimistic that he'll recover completely, though his hand will ache in the winter and swell in the summer. He'll always have the burn marks, reminders of his ordeal.

Even his aether will recover, with enough rest and relaxation. He'd over-exerted himself, much like the time he'd attempted to use aether in the Varos Flats.

But he's alive. In the end, Malcolm believes that is all that matters.

Some of the tension eases out of Malcolm's body, his shoulders slumping. Not so much in relaxation, but enough to let him breathe easily.

Gale and Ione... they are all the family he has right now. He's been abandoned by Grayshire, and hasn't spoken to his brother or father since his unit was sacrificed to the Varos Flats. Malcolm has friends that he has gained here with the Theravada, but no one as close to him as Ione and now, Gale as well. Because wherever Ione is, Gale is to be found.

Which is fine with Malcolm. He likes Gale. The former noble is not as rigid and rude as Malcolm would have expected. In many ways, he's softer than Ione, but with a sharp, battle-ready nature that Malcolm can appreciate.

It helps, too, that both of them have no problem inviting Malcolm into their bed, for a night of play if nothing else. He adores that they are so confident with each other that they can involve a third and it causes no problems.

For them anyway.

Sighing, Malcolm leans against the door frame, watching Ione's thumb stroke Gale's palm, her eyelids drooping sleepily. Gale has curled toward her, his aether tangibly reaching out to tangle with hers. Something inside of Malcolm clenches with a tangible jolt.

He straightens and twists out of the door frame, stalking away from the small room Cyrus had designated as Gale's recovery area. There is no reason for Malcolm to be hovering like that. He's played his part. He helped get Gale back. That is where his involvement ends.

There is nothing left for him to do. Except, perhaps, to find Sabriel and see if he'd be willing to indulge in a jug or two of hard liquor. A man should never drink alone.

o0o0o

He wakes feeling like he's swum through a field of cotton laced with thorns to find consciousness. Gale wakes to echoes of pain, the dull pulse of his aether, and Ione's hand warm in his. He can also feel a weight around his neck – Quetz – and the blanketing warmth on his left foot – Inari. He's surrounded by his girls and if that's not a great way to wake – pain aside – Gale doesn't know what is.

He peels open his eyes, wary of encroaching sunlight, until he remembers that Paragon is gone – demolished – and they are likely in the Catacombs. There won't be any sunlight here, as evidenced by the wan flicker of torches in the four corners of the room. Torches, and not Kieran's new-fangled magically scientific lighting.

The room is small, practically a closet barely big enough for Gale's narrow bed, a chair, and a small set of drawers. The door is actually a thick sheet of cloth, bearing the semblance of privacy only.

He's alive. And healing.

His last memories are a jumbled, dark mess of pain and screaming – which might not have been his own – and the smell of blood. Ugly wet spatters. His aether going haywire. His skin feeling stretched thin...

“You're awake.” Ione squeezes his hand.

Gale turns his head, looking into her amber eyes, his lips curving upward. “I am awake,” he replies, squeezing back. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did!” she says, almost indignant, but she has to know he's teasing. “Malcolm did, too. Could hardly keep him away, you know.”

Gale blinks, letting his gaze wander over the room again. “... He's not here.”

Ione lets go of his hand, if only to fuss around the blankets and poke at the bandages over his wounds, trying to distract herself. “He was really worried about you, Gale. And Azriel... he's upset with himself for not sending someone to look sooner.”

“They didn't have anything to do with the Brigade,” Gale is quick to explain, and when he struggles to sit up, lets Ione help him. He feels weak and helpless, a sensation he doesn't like. But he's reassured that his strength will return quickly. “He couldn't have known.”

“Still...” Ione plucks at a loose string on the threadbare blanket covering him. The Catacombs is the bare minimum compared to the sheer comfort Paragon had been. “Well, I'll leave his convincing to you. I'm just glad to see you're getting better. For a minute there, we were worried that we were too late.”

“We?”

“Me and Malcolm.”

Who still isn't here. Which feels unusual to Gale. If anything, Malcolm's usually around to support Ione. And he thought them to be friends, if he was being vague about it, and something else, if he wanted to be specific.

Done fussing with the covers, Ione sits on the edge of the bed next to him, her hand resting on his chest, over his heart beat. She looks as though she wants to say something, but the words catch in her throat and she doesn't speak. Gale understands. For Ione, action is easier.

“You should get some rest,” Ione finally says, clearly nothing close to what she meant to say. “Cyrus says you'll need to sleep for a couple days before you'll be up to your usual antics.”

Gale can feel the fatigue tugging at him, trying to pull him under. “I know. And I'll get some sleep. But... find Malcolm for me?”

“You didn't even need to ask,” Ione replies, and leans over, kissing his forehead. “You rest. I'll deal with our missing friend.”

o0o0o

She finds him in the commissary, or what they are calling the small, stuffy room cluttered with tables, cabinets, and an aether-powered stove. This late at night, the commissary is empty of all patrons, save Malcolm, who's sitting in a back corner with a jug of what can be only alcohol and drinking by his lonesome.

Ione frowns. This is not typical Malcolm behavior.

“Hey,” she says, winding her way through the cluttered collection of furniture to get to the back of the room. “Gale was looking for you.”

Malcolm takes a long sip from his cup and drops it back to the table with a loud thunk. He reaches for the jug with fumbling fingers, pouring himself more and spilling some onto the table. Hmm. Clumsiness is not typical Malcolm either.

“Eh, you know me,” he replies with a touch of a slur. “I can't do that mushy crap.”

Ione's eyebrows try to mate with her hairline. “Yeah, but... he wanted to thank you. For helping save him.”

“It's what any one of us would've done.” Malcolm chugs another cup and then gestures toward her with his hand, cup flinging droplets in all directions. “Gale is important to Paragon.”

Tugging a chair out and turning it around, Ione plants herself down and folds her arms across the back of the chair. “But that's not why you helped me.”

Malcolm's gaze drops away from hers, and he reaches for the jug again, but not a drop emerges as he tries to pour it out. “Huh. Empty.”

Ione reaches across the table, taking his hand in his. “Malcolm. What's really bothering you?”

His eyes seem locked on their joined hands, the way her finger strokes over the back of his hand. “I helped him because he's the man you love.”

A small smile curves Ione's lips, one borne of both happiness and sadness. “You do know that I'll always love you.”

“Of course I do. But in a different way.” His hand squeezes hers before he gently extricates her fingers from his, folds her hand into a fist, and pushes it back toward her. “I helped him because you two need to be together,” he adds and rises to his feet, wobbling, a bit unsteady. “And I think it's best if we don't play anymore.”

Ione tilts her head to the side as this seems to come from a random place. “What do you mean?”

“I'm only in the way and I don't want to ruin what you two have,” Malcolm replies in all honesty, his face flushed red with drink and the force of his emotions. “In fact, it would be best all around if I didn't see you guys for a couple weeks.”

Ione's jaw drops before she can stop herself. “Malcolm that's... why, that's ridiculous,” she says, and climbs to her feet as well. “We never said anything like that.”

“I know you didn't,” he says, and starts making his way through the furniture, at a faster pace than should be wise with the amount of alcohol he's consumed. “And it probably never occurred to either of you to think it. But I'm a practical man, Ione. And I know when it's time to stop playing and to start being serious.”

She tries to follow him, confusion running rampant through her thoughts. “It's not a game. It never was.”

Malcolm pauses at the door, whirling toward her, and she has no idea what to call the look in his eyes. “It was a game because it wasn't serious. It was fun. It was good. But anything more is improbable. And I'm tired of thinking of something I'm never going to have.” His fingers rap over the doorframe as he drags in a heavy breath. “Just... please, Ione. This is hard enough. Let me have my space.”

Words fail her. She wishes she could say all the right things, but she's never been good at that. Instead, she can only watch as Malcolm turns and heads out the door. She could follow; he doesn't have that much of a head start. But he'd said “please.” He'd actually pleaded with her.

Ione flounders. She doesn't know what to do.

Distressed, Ione hesitates. Should she follow him? No, not yet. This involves Gale, too. He needs to know. Somehow, the game has changed, and Ione doesn't know the rules anymore.

o0o0o

He spends several days in an alcohol induced fog. Drinking until he passes out, waking up with a terrible hangover, feeling ill from head to toe, but picking up another jug and starting all over again. Both Sabriel and Irvine try to corner him, figure out what's wrong, but Malcolm won't talk. It's not exactly common knowledge that he's been sharing Gale and Ione's bed, and he couldn't bear it if the rest of the Theravada looked at them any differently.

Better that his friends believe him to be mourning Paragon's loss. It's more believable anyway. No one's been the same since Grayshire stomped all over their safe haven.

He doesn't visit Gale in the makeshift infirmary. Idle chatter reassure Malcolm that Gale's healing well and rumors indicate he should be relieved any hour now. Good. Malcolm resolves to keep his distance from now on. For his own sake.

It'll be easier, he tells himself, if he cuts himself off cold. Like pulling off a scab or a blood-gummed bandage. Hurts all at once, but it's over quickly. And the pain might linger, but it'll eventually heal. They do that, wounds do. And it'll be easier for Malcolm if he doesn't get tempted by going to see them, by getting drawn into their world of easy affection.

He's a stupid, stupid man. That's all there is to it. Malcolm is an idiot and a fool to boot.

He takes another swig of whatever rotgut Irvine's brought to him today. It's been watered down, no surprise there. Irvine thinks he's drinking too much, but figures he's too drunk to notice the water. Well, tell him what, Malcolm does. He won't complain though. Irvine's worried; Malcolm gets it.

It doesn't even burn anymore. Malcolm can hardly taste it now.

A couple more days and he can leave. He's already talked to Ishmael who has agreed to let Malcolm help staff one of the Theravada's outer posts, helping to protect the defenseless villagers on the distant borders of Meropis. The villagers that the Brigade aren't ordered to care about.

In the end, it's the best plan for everyone.

Malcolm tips up his jug again. Nothing emerges. Damn. Empty again. He tosses the jar, hearing it shatter against one of the half-empty crates.

The door to the storage room opens, and Malcolm squints at the unexpected bright light. He'd turned off the lantern himself because he hadn't wanted to waste what little oil they had. It's a bit wobbly but he manages to push himself to his feet, the person in the doorway a mere shadow.

A small surge of aether sweeps through the room before the lantern flares to life, dim glow spreading throughout the room and illuminating his visitor.

Gale.

Malcolm's shoulders slump. There's only one way out and it's through the former high lord. He tries for nonchalance. “Gale,” he greets with a wobbly wave. “Good to see you on your feet again. Though I'm surprised Cyrus let you out so soon.”

The door closes behind Gale with a quiet snick. “I heal quickly,” Gale says, his gaze tracking through the storage room, the little nest Malcolm has made for himself, and the visible detritus of days spent in a liquor haze. “We need to talk.”

Malcolm offers a lop-sided smile. “I can't think of a reason why.”

“I can,” Gale says flatly, and those bright eyes of us turn on Malcolm, giving him full, eerie focus. “Ione told me what you said.”

There's no point in playing the fool. Malcolm sags, leaning against a crate. “I'm standing by my decision. I can't do it. I'm not strong enough to pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

Ah. He hadn't meant to let it slip like that. Malcolm hesitates, dropping his gaze. He could lie, but his liquor-soaked mind can't think of anything more plausible. More capable of sending Gale and Ione away quickly.

In the end, what does he have left but the truth?

“That I'm not in love with both of you,” he says, resigned.

A moment of shocked silence sweeps into the room, surprise echoing in Gale's aether before he hastily shields it once more.

Yeah, Malcolm thinks he's an idiot, too. At least a hundred men and women in the Theravada and he had to go and fall in love with two who were already practically married. Way to go, fool.

Malcolm sighs. “Look. Forget it. I'm going to a forward post. That's the only way this is going to work.”

“No.”

His head snaps up. “Gale, I can't stay,” Malcolm says, something squeezing his chest, making his head spin.

Gale's expression is firm, his chin tilted upward, the very picture of noble mulishness. “You're not leaving either.”

Words fail him. “... What?”

Somehow, a decision has been made without Malcolm's input. “I can't begin to imagine how this will function, but I do know this.” He pauses, as though to consider his words carefully. Neither he nor Ione have ever been the most socially astute of people. “Ione needs you and I... I would miss you.”

Malcolm stares at him, the words heard through a fog, but his disbelief more prominent. He shakes his head, pushes himself to his feet, and heads toward the door. He'll have to pass Gale, but hopefully, the other man won't press the issue.

“It won't work,” he says, head swimming a little. “You two... fit. You don't need a third.” He looks at Gale, measuring the space between the blond and the door. “We had fun. Leave it at that.”

He only manages a step before Gale grabs his arm, a firm grip on his elbow. “I can't,” Gale says, his voice strangely soft. “No. I won't.”

Gently, Malcolm reaches for Gale's fingers and detaches his hold, something Gale must have allowed. “You have to,” he says, and that strange feeling of being squeezed grabs hold of his chest again. It hurts.

He opens the door, a strange heat banking behind his eyes, and thinking only of needing distance. Of finding Ishmael, even in his current state, and asking to leave tonight. It's too hard. He can't wait another week.

But Ione and Gale once again prove how well they fit together. She's standing outside the door, looking up at him with amber eyes soft and hurting. She knows how he can't resist it when she does that. She knows just how to strike a man where it hurts.

“The Malcolm I know would never flee out of fear,” Ione says, tilting her chin upward. Challenging.

He swallows thickly, well aware of Gale standing behind him, green gaze prickling on the back of Malcolm's neck. “There are some battles not meant to be won.”

Ione reaches for him, and damn if he can't avoid it. Damn if he doesn't even try to. Her hand lands on his chest, and he can feel it through the layer of his thin tunic, not nearly enough to keep out the chill of the Catacombs. He truly hadn't noticed, not with the alcohol in his veins. But he notices now, if only because her hand is so very warm.

“We know what we want,” Ione says, stepping closer, right into his space. “Please don't leave us.”

“I--”

His mouth clamps shut as a hand settles on his shoulder from behind, the familiar buzz of aether identifying Gale. “Ione speaks for us both.”

Malcolm's hands clench and unclench at his sides, his willpower crackling underneath Ione's intent gaze, and the calm pushing at him from Gale's aether. He doesn't know what to say. Words have never been his greatest asset.

Ione looks at him, something passing through her gaze, and then her hand slides up from his chest, brushes over the sensitive skin of his neck, and cups his face. Ione rises up, and Malcolm is helpless to do anything but let her kiss him. Let her lips brush over his, let the familiar scent of her overwhelm him, the familiar taste of her linger on his lips.

He shudders, from head to toe, but it's not one of disgust, but utter longing. One exacerbated by the fact that Gale is behind him, both hands on his shoulders, sliding down to caress his arms. Gale is leaning closer, exhaling on the nape of Malcolm's neck. His aether reaches out to twine with Malcolm's own, an intangible caress that makes Malcolm feel as though he's been embraced.

They are dangerous, these two. He should have fled when he still had the chance. They could break a man without trying. They could heal a fool with just one word.

His breath hitches. The tight feeling in his chest easing by a fraction.

The kiss ends, with only the barest brush of their lips, and Ione looks at him. “Come with us. Let us show you.”

And what else can he say but, “all right.”

The walk is a blur. Malcolm's focus is pinned on Gale's hand, latched on his and leading him, as Ione presses against his side, somehow keeping in step. The corridors are mostly empty of passing fellow Theravada, though it must be late. And somewhere, in the twisting, labyrinthine halls of the Catacombs, Gale leads them to a door. A private one that doesn't lead to the open barracks.

The Catacombs is too small to have private rooms for everyone. Even Gale and Ione sleep in the barracks with everyone else.

But when Gale pushes open the door and Ione tugs Malcolm inside, he finds that this must be an empty room. There's a large bed, furniture, evidence of habitation. Who...?

“It's just for tonight,” Ione says, tugging Malcolm toward her and backing them toward the bed. “So we have to make this count.”

“But who...?” His question wanders away as he looks down at her hands, deftly reaching for his clothes while he wobbles on precarious, liquor-heavy legs.

“Not important,” Gale says, suddenly behind him, hands divesting Malcolm of clothes so quickly they might as well have been magicked away.

Curiosity tries to rear it's annoying head again, but then Ione grabs him and kisses him and Malcolm's thoughts sizzle out. He kisses her back, more hunger than anything this time, her tongue pushing through the seam of his lips and mapping the contours of his mouth. She has a wicked tongue, Ione does, and Malcolm moans into the kiss.

She pulls him back onto the bed, over her, and Malcolm goes willingly. Everything feels like a haze, and maybe that's the liquor talking. He can't be sure. He feels hands everywhere, sweeping over the broad planes of his back, squeezing his ass, caressing down his belly. Fingers curling around his cock, already rigid and wanting, giving him a light squeeze.

Malcolm groans, mouth hungrily chasing Ione's, feeling the heat of her beneath him and loving every moment of it. Feeling the heat of Gale behind him, too. Gale's mouth on his shoulder, teeth nibbling at skin and muscle, the tickles of blond hair on his skin.

Ione has pulled him completely on the bed, her knees and thighs serving as a path for him to take, guiding him where she wants him. When had she gotten naked? No, Malcolm supposes that doesn't matter. What does is that her amber eyes are bright and hungry, her skin flushed with arousal. Malcolm lowers his mouth, taking a peaked nipple with lips and tongue, feeling her arch beneath him, a small keen echoing in her throat.

She breathes his name, scrabbling at his shoulders, trying to pull him up toward her. He obeys, crawling up her body, latching his mouth over hers. Ione bucks her hips against his, silky skin sliding against his eager arousal, wordlessly inviting him inside her. Something he would never be able to deny her.

She's wet, oh so wet, for him and he moves within her slick heat with a deep-felt groan. Ione's squeezing him with her inner muscles, making desire and pleasure surge throughout Malcolm. He loses his tenuous grip on his aether and it spills out of him, aggressively seeking to blend with Ione's and reaching hungrily for Gale.

Gale who has yet to cease his caresses on Malcolm from behind. Gale who is pressed against his back, as nude as Malcolm himself, one hand helping guide Malcolm into Ione, the other clamped possessively on Malcolm's hip.

It is an uncommon and yet wholly arousing thing, for Gale to be the aggressor here. For Gale to be grinding against Malcolm's ass, his arousal seeping fluid on the inside of Malcolm's thighs. Usually, it is Malcolm and Ione who must tackle Gale, must help him overcome his lack of experience with eager teaching.

This time, Gale is the one with his hands all over Malcolm. With his mouth eagerly exploring, fingers slick with lubricant teasing at Malcolm's entrance and sliding inside of him. Stretching him diligently though the liquor has done a fair job of relaxing him already. That and the feel of Ione wet and tight around him.

If the two intend to kill Malcolm with pleasure, then they are certainly on their way to accomplishing their goals. It's almost unbearably hot in here, pressed between their bodies, aether tangled so tightly that he can't tell where his begins and theirs ends.

Words are unnecessary. Malcolm can feel what they want right now. Ione's fear that he'll leave. Gale's desperation to keep him. Ione's love for him. Gale's affection. And Malcolm's own stronger emotions, sweeping over and through them, completely overtaking the twined aether.

Malcolm shudders, burying his face in Ione's neck, feeling her arms wrap around him. Gale presses against him from behind, cock sliding into Malcolm. He clenches, unaccustomed, and hears Gale suck in a sharp breath. It's the headiest thing, to knock someone like Gale out of his usual reserve.

Gale's hands are sweeping over his back and shoulders and hips, as though trying to map out every inch of him. Malcolm's skin tingles, something inside him swelling with affection and need. He wishes he could hold both of them at once, but right now, they are doing their best to keep him between them. Gale behind, Ione below, and Malcolm trapped in the middle. He can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be.

For a moment, time pauses. That could be the liquor talking, making him more sentimental than usual. Malcolm isn't sure. All he knows is the sensation of Ione beneath him, her body pulsing warmly around him, her hands cupping his face. And the sensation of Gale inside him, throbbing, hands on Malcolm's hips. Their woven aether beats a subtle pulse in the quiet air.

Gale is the first to move, a slow rocking thrust that pushes Malcolm into Ione and elicits a pleasure-filled moan from all three of them. Malcolm can feel his pulse throbbing, heat flooding through him, pleasure twisting in his gut. Gale sets the rhythm, moving them in harmony, his hands never ceasing in gentle caresses. Ione is more eager, her knees nudging at Malcolm's hips, her hands grasping and pulling him into her.

Malcolm, awash in sensation overload, can't do anything more than gasp and moan as they manipulate his body, using every trick they've learned over the past year. Every moment he's spent in bed with them, every erotic zone they've uncovered. He feels bare, stripped to the bone, emotion on display, as the pleasure builds inside of him.

Gale thrusts, hard and deep, making Malcolm clench. Ione squeezes her inner muscles around him, dragging out a gasp. His fingers knot in the knitted blanket beneath all of them, and he pants against Ione's skin. He's broken into a sweat, his gut a tangle of pleasure and emotion.

Gale has made aether manipulation an art, turning his incredible breadth of magic into something tangible. Into ghostly flickers of sensation that tease over Malcolm's skin, pushing pleasure at him from all directions. Ione shivers, catching the edge of Gale's caressing aether, her moans growing lower and hotter.

Malcolm pants, sliding into Ione each time that Gale thrusts into him, pleasure shaking him from his foundations. The heat is overwhelming, as is the caressing press of their combined aether. Ione's scent surrounds him. He can feel Gale's hands. He's not alone. They want him.

He shudders from head to toe, the coil in his belly tightening until it can bear the tension no more. He shouts, jerks, and comes, spilling into Ione, squeezing around Gale's length. Their moans echo in tandem with his as the pleasure pours over him, making him tingle, stutter. His aether rises over them all, thick with bliss. And then Malcolm remembers nothing else.

o0o0o

He wakes, incredibly warm, incredibly comfortable, and a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He's thirsty, his thoughts more than muddled, but he can remember most of last night. He can remember passing out after his first orgasm and he dearly hopes he hadn't left his lovers in the cold. He also feels more than satiated. He feels content.

Considering the state of melancholy he's woken in over the past week, Malcolm considers a little thirst a step up.

His aether is not his own right now. It's still tangled strongly with Ione's and Gale's. It's strange how comfortable this is.

Beneath him, his head rises and falls with Ione's breathing. Her belly is serving as his pillow, her arms wrapped around his upper body. He can hear her heart beat, too. Soft and somnolent. There's warmth pressed against his back, and an arm draped over the side, the hand connected to said arm entangling fingers with Malcolm's own.

His fuzzy vision focuses and he can barely make out the evidence of healing wounds around the hand's wrist. Wounds from a recent ordeal.

They'd come this close to losing Gale.

Malcolm exhales quietly and tugs the wrist toward him, pressing a gentle kiss over those healing marks. Behind him, there's a bare sound, a shift in the aether web. Gale is awake, perhaps contemplating the same as Malcolm.

Words need to be said. Malcolm's thoughts are still too liquor-dry and pleasure-shocked to connect with any sort of elegance.

“You don't love me,” he says, voice hoarse.

Gale's fingers tighten around his. “Not yet,” he agrees. “And you know why.”

How well Malcolm does. Love. Emotion. Such things are difficult for any of the upper echelon to understand. They are dangerous to define, to accept. How long had it taken for Gale to realize he wanted more from Ione than their friendship? How long did it take him to admit that he loved her?

Malcolm understands all too well. It will be months, maybe even years, before Gale can admit anything close to that for Malcolm. If he ever does.

“Ione loves you,” Gale adds, his breath puffing warm and ticklish on the back of Malcolm's neck.

He smiles at the thought, until reality whisks the smile away. “I really should leave.” It would be better, no matter how much he enjoys being pressed between them at the moment. It's the first time he's felt right in a long time.

“Nothing worth having is easy to obtain,” Gale says.

Malcolm thinks about it. “It's not just Ione, you know.”

“I know.” Gale nuzzles against the nape of his neck, lips tickling. “Sleep. We'll talk – all three of us – tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Yes, that sounds like a plan to Malcolm.

He sleeps.

* * *
a/n: Whew. Bout time. As much as Gale and Ione really fit together, it always surprises me how well Malcolm slides right into their relationship. The threesome won't be canon but it always feels so natural.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Yes, I'm working on the flash fiction. Promise.