Archive of Our Own

There's a tapping at Corvo’s window, too sharp and steady to be the wind. It rattles the glass in the frame. And when Corvo does not respond quickly enough, the tapping comes again, faster, louder.

To reach the outside of the window, someone would first have to scale the side of the Tower. No, first they would have to slip past the guards at the gate, then sneak undetected through the gardens. Only then could they scale the wall, hopping from ledge to ledge, using the hot water pipes for leverage, careful not to burn their hands against the copper. Corvo knows the correct sequence. He's followed this particular route many times himself.

Getting out of bed, he pulls on his robe. All the lamps are out. But the streetlights shine in through his bedroom window, casting the stranger’s narrow shadow along the floor.

There is a knife in Corvo’s desk drawer, small enough to conceal in his hand. He reaches for it, hiding the hilt in his sleeve. Whoever is at his window grows more impatient, growling behind the glass.

“Who are you?” Corvo stands just to the side of the window, pressed against the wall and poised to strike if he does not like the stranger’s answer.

He hears his visitor react, their voice hitching when Corvo asks his question. Then a brief silence, as they formulate their cryptic answer.

“You will know me by my face.”

The voice is familiar, though Corvo cannot quite place it, as if he's only heard it before in dreams. “Your name,” he pushes.

“Would be meaningless,” and then, “you knew me as I once was. But I'm not that entity anymore.”

Reaching towards the latch, Corvo unlocks the window, still keeping his body pressed against the wall. The position will give him the advantage, if the intruder bursts through the window, ready to attack. “It's unlocked.” If this man was able to make it this far, opening the window should prove little trouble.

The man on the other side claws at the wood, eventually able to pry the window open. He enters Corvo’s room feet first, shimmying into the room and losing his balance as he falls from the window ledge onto the floor.

Corvo still hasn't lit the lamps, but he doesn't need the light to see. The tousled heap on the floor is unmistakable. Dark hair, pale skin, all limbs with no bulk. The Outsider was right. Corvo knows him by his face.

“Outsider,” Corvo breathes. He's never seen the man so unkempt. The Outsider’s dark clothing is smeared with soot and grime, his hair sticking out at odd angles. There is a tear in his overcoat and a shallow cut on his cheek.

And his eyes, the fathomless dark depth of them, replaced with irises that look like cheap marbles in the waning moon.

“Dear Corvo,” the Outsider beams, nervous energy radiating from every patch of exposed skin. He practically bounces to his feet, all smiles and enthusiasm. “Corvo, Corvo,” he throws his arms around Corvo’s neck, laughing brightly and burying his nose at Corvo’s neck.

Corvo stands stunned, his arms limp at his side. What is going on? The Outsider smells of sweat and ash, his hair soft against Corvo’s neck and face. He's warm, pressed to Corvo’s chest. He shakes with mirth. He is a great many things that he simply should not be.

The Outsider pulls away, a smile still on his lips. He reaches down to take Corvo’s hand, cradling it between his own. The knife slips out of his sleeve. The Outsider catches it, setting it on the window ledge.

“I was worried,” he runs his fingers over the back of Corvo’s hand, wrapped tightly even when he is alone. “That something terrible might have happened. But it still works, yes?” In the low light of the room, the Outsider’s eyes look white to the core.

“That what might have happened?” Corvo tries to pull his hand back. When he does, the Outsider frowns.

“When I became this,” the Outsider takes a half-step back, gesturing to his appearance. “I worried that the Void would cut you off. Turn the Mark against you, singe your flesh. In truth, I had no idea what would happen. I've...never tried this before. This should be impossible,” he laughs again, “yet here I am.” He spins around on his toes, coming to rest in the same position that he began.

Corvo shakes his head. The Outsider isn't making any fucking sense, assuming that Corvo knows information he clearly does not. “What did you become?” He needs a straight fucking answer.

The Outsider frowns, tilting his head to one side, “I am a mortal, Corvo. Like you. I've had my divinity stripped away, utterly smashed. But cut from the umbilical cord of the Void,” he huffs, “I live.”

Shaking his head, Corvo can't help his suspicions, “You're lying.”

“I'm not,” the Outsider snaps with a sudden viciousness, then pulls his hand in front of his face, as if to conceal his outburst. “I'm sorry, wrong tone. It's difficult.”

“What's difficult?”

“Hmm,” the Outsider hums, “even as a god, I had the capacity to feel emotions as humans do. My ascension couldn't kill it all, stamp out that core of humanity. Maybe I would have been a different type of deity, if it did.” He throws up his hands, “but now, now, I feel everything so acutely. Like there is joy and fear and laughter in my blood. It rushes all at once. It still makes me dizzy. Billie has taught me many things. But she also thinks I'm mad.” The Outsider twirls his hands, “and she can't teach me how not to feel.”

“You're not lying,” the truth is there, in the Outsider’s every breath. He moves differently, he speaks with a different musicality. He's clumsy and graceful and hesitant all at once. A messier being than he was in the Void. But that still does not answer the question of how.

But ‘how’ is not the question Corvo asks. Because there is a more pressing matter.

“Why are you here?”

The Outsider claps his hands together, “I wanted to see you. I wanted to see you months ago, when I first died and became a mortal. But it wasn't feasible then. I couldn't have climbed the Tower scaffolding.”

Corvo tries to school his face, to not give so much away. But the pieces that the Outsider offers, like tempting morsels, don't add up to a meal. “Months? You have been a mortal for months?”

The Outsider nods, “Yes, yes. Billie has been helping me along. She said I should not bother with you. Or the Empress. That you would not wish to see me in such a state. But she's not here right now,” he casts a wicked grin, “she can't stop me.”

Corvo’s blood runs cold for a moment. Billie, Billie Lurk. Corvo knew her by the name Meghan Foster, in his time on the Dreadful Wale. She only revealed her past allegiances when Corvo’s hunt was nearly finished. An associate of Delilah’s, of Daud’s, of Sokolov’s, of Corvo’s, and now of a former god. What could possibly be her endgame?

Stepping towards Corvo’s desk, the Outsider runs his hands over every bauble, tool, and scrap of paper. He puts his hands on everything, raking against the varied textures. His face lights up as he grabs Corvo’s pen, scribbling against the back of his own hand, leaving random marks behind.

“She thinks that I am obsessed with you. I think maybe that she's right,” he frowns, setting the pen back down. “Oh but I have ached to see you again. A simple thing, really, to be angry about the powers I have lost. And to think, I was angry when I first received them. I suppose I'll never be happy. But I am happy, when I look at you.” He drags one hand against the other, smearing black ink across his knuckles.

The Outsider picks up Corvo’s empty tumbler, with only a thin film of whiskey clinging to the bottom. He raises it to his nose, shoving his nostrils inside the glass and breathing deep, before putting the glass back down.

“But why did you want to see me?” Corvo means to rouse the Outsider from his curiousity. He has become distracted. “What is it that you need?”

Drumming his fingers against the desk, the Outsider now can't meet Corvo’s eyes, “What I have always wanted. Your company.” He sucks air between his teeth, “Not that Billie isn't beautiful. She's one of the most fantastic women to ever live. If only you knew the things she's capable of.” Shaking his head, the Outsider goes silent.

“You're bored?” Corvo finishes. It would be entirely like the Outsider to come interrupt Corvo’s life for nothing more than amusement. Years ago, when Corvo first accepted the Mark, he had been a desperate, willing fool. But now, age and experience has tempered his decisions, and serving as trifling entertainment of a lonely god no longer interests him.

“Not bored, Corvo,” the Outsider practically whines, “desperate, for you.”

Corvo groans, rubbing at his temples to try and chase away the steadily building tension. “But what have you been doing, for months?” he still can’t quite believe this is happening. Setting aside for the moment the Outsider’s teasing interest in him. There has always been this undercurrent between them, dark and oddly sweet. But Corvo knows it is only a joke the Outsider delights in playing.

“I told you, I’ve been with Billie. She’s been teaching me how to be human...perhaps a bit more than that,” he scowls suddenly, “are you trying to change the subject?”

“Yes,” Corvo deadpans. The Outsider has never managed to break Corvo’s resolve before, and he won’t manage to do it now. The moment Corvo gives in will be the opportunity the Outsider needs to mock him.

“Don’t,” the Outsider snaps, “I want you to focus on me.”

“I believe I am. I want to know what happened,” Corvo insists. And honestly, he would like to know what in the Void is going on. But he doubts very much that he’ll get a straight answer from the Outsider. His best hope might be tracking down Billie Lurk. But, for all he knows, that will be another web of lies.

The Outsider is unrelenting, “that’s not what I meant.”

He is not as graceful as he once was in the Void. Of course not. As a mortal, the Outsider must walk on two feet, like the rest of them. He’s built of long, thin limbs that carry a sort of stunted elegance. As if he has not quite learned how to wield his body. But he must have learned something, if he was able to climb the side of the Tower unassisted. One day, he’ll be a sight to behold, for certain. Handsome and poised and utterly charming. But at the moment he's still rough-hewn and somewhat callous.

The Outsider shoves against Corvo’s chest, trying to back him up towards the bed. Corvo resists being pushed around, holding firm while the Outsider applies heavy pressure to his shoulders.

“Void!” the Outsider shouts in frustration, banging a closed fist against Corvo’s chest.

Reflexively, Corvo covers the Outsider’s mouth with his hand, trying to keep him quiet. The shock in the Outsider’s eyes quickly transitions to something more wicked, narrowing, but still with mirth. He laves his wet tongue against Corvo’s palm, licking it resolutely. Corvo has no choice but to pull his hand back.

“Stop mocking me,” Corvo growls, about done with this surprise visit. Why, even as a mortal man, must the Outsider taunt him so?

The Outsider’s expression shifts again, this time his mouth moving from a smile to a gentle ‘o’ of shock. “Corvo, I’m not mocking you. You’re the one denying me. You’re denying yourself as well.”

Instead of pushing Corvo, this time the Outsider drops to his knees, reaching up to run his hands from Corvo’s bared stomach, under the fabric of his robe, down his thighs, all the way to the knee. He wraps his hands around Corvo’s legs holding on tight. Looking up to Corvo’s face, he looks very small indeed.

“I can show you how serious I am, if you’d let me.” Tipping his head forward, he mouths against Corvo’s groin, through the fabric of his robe. Once, twice, before pulling back. He looks up to Corvo again, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement.

Corvo can’t help but grow hard under the Outsider’s attentions. This is why their games have always been so cruel. The deck has always been stacked against Corvo, the Outsider holding all of the very best cards. And never having to reveal his hand.

But if the Outsider is truly mortal now...there is a possibility. “Stand up,” Corvo rasps. Only when the Outsider tries to move does Corvo realize he has his fingers tangled in his dark hair. Letting go, he permits the Outsider to rise to his feet. His eyes are glossy-wet. The frozen northern sea. That is what they resemble.

Corvo brushes his hand against the Outsider’s groin, trying to find evidence of his arousal. The outline of his cock jumps at Corvo’s subtle affections, twitching against Corvo’s fingers.

“You do want this…” Corvo observes.

The Outsider whines, bucking against Corvo’s hand, “I told you! I told you!”

“Tell me something else,” Corvo keeps his hand still, but doesn’t prevent the Outsider from rubbing up against it. There is something hauntingly intimate about their positions already, even with the Outsider’s insistent energy allowing for few silences. “If you’ve been a mortal for months, have you laid with others? Am I simply a name on a list of fascinating desires?”

The Outsider exhales loudly, his breath rolling against Corvo’s cheek, “Do you wish to hear the truth? Or the answer that you want?”

Corvo considers the question. It is not impossible that the Outsider knows exactly what Corvo wishes to hear. What would make him most amenable to the idea they go to bed together. After all, the Outsider has lost his powers, not his memories. And Corvo knows he has long been favored, observed.

“The truth.”

“You would have liked the lie better,” the Outsider admits, defeat in every syllable. “No, Corvo, no. I have wanted none but you.”

Corvo moves his hands, dropping them on either side of the Outsider’s hips. He squeezes down. There is a right decision to make here, and a wrong one. “It should not be me.”

“I do not see why not,” the Outsider lays his hand against Corvo’s shoulder, grabbing hold of his robe. “You have known. You have always known. And even like this, you push me away?”

“You are built from terrible bones.”

The Outsider pulls his hand away. Hissing, “You think that I do not know?”

Corvo grabs ahold of the Outsider, wrangling him towards the bed. The Outsider is so light in his hands, as if his skeleton is hollow. Maybe it is. There’s no way to be certain, other than to cut him open. The Outsider dips his head against Corvo’s throat, kissing along the bob of his neck, letting his teeth graze, but not quite bite.

“Corvo,” he whines as his back hits the mattress. “Tell me that you want me too.”

Corvo climbs atop him, slotting his bent knee between the Outsider’s thighs. He feels the heat, the weight of the Outsider’s arousal pressing against his leg. The Outsider grinds against it, still pleading that his affections be returned.

The words aren’t ready yet, so Corvo puts his mouth to work another way, sealing his lips over top of the Outsider’s, tasting the reality of the other man’s breathing body. The Outsider is too much messy enthusiasm, and not enough finesse. But Corvo would not want him to be otherwise than who he is. Laying his hands across the Outsider’s flushed cheeks, he tries to slow the pace, to reach a rhythm that is pleasurable for them both.

The Outsider keeps trying to nip at Corvo’s lips, sneak his tongue into his mouth. He laughs when he thinks he’s won, only to have Corvo flip them both over so that the Outsider is on top.

Grinning down at Corvo, the Outsider dips in at his neck. And first he only breathes, then mumbles something Corvo cannot parse.

“What did you say?” Corvo asks, his voice less steady than he hoped. He drags his hands up and down the Outsider’s sides, enjoying the way he squirms at the touch.

“If only you knew,” the Outsider nips at Corvo’s neck, too hard and sharp, just where Corvo’s beard stops. “How long I've waited for this.”

Corvo can only grunt in reply. It is true, he cannot know the intensity of the Outsider’s moods. Even now, as a mortal. Though he can recall the way the Outsider first looked at him at the precipice of the Void, all those years ago. So, Corvo has some idea.

The Outsider’s hands are shaky, as they tug at the belt of Corvo’s robe. He pulls the fabric apart, exposing the broad expanse of Corvo’s chest.

Corvo knows he is cut through with scars, heavy, unattractive burdens of the life he has lived. Patches where wounds became infected, as he rotted in Coldridge Prison. Keloided over slashes, where the scars grew puffy over long months of healing. He counts himself lucky, on the rare occasion one of his scars does not fester, leaving a slim, silvery line that is almost pretty in comparison.

But the Outsider already knows the mess of Corvo’s body. Corvo could not think it otherwise.

The Outsider spreads his fingers wide, touching as much mangled skin as he can manage. His thighs spread over Corvo’s hips. He keeps his body taut, as he lowers his lips to trace over lines his hands have already traveled, licking harshly against Corvo’s scars.

Corvo cannot help but hiss at the rough attention, tangling his fingers in the Outsider’s hair. It's softer than he expects, slightly greasy from a lack of washing, but Corvo doesn't care. When the Outsider’s mouth turns too vicious, Corvo pulls at his hair. The groan that leaves the Outsider’s throat, unbidden, is nearly the fucking death of him.

“What is it that you want,” Corvo murmurs, carding his fingers through the Outsider’s hair instead of pulling. The Outsider has at least gotten the idea that he should ease up on the biting.

With a sincere predictability, the Outsider responds,”Everything.”

Corvo laughs when the Outsider goes back to licking down his chest, touching his tongue against one nipple.

“Try to pick one thing.”

Looking up, the Outsider pouts, “Just one?”

“Be merciful,” Corvo rolls his eyes, “I'm old and...out of practice.”

“Oh,” the Outsider smiles, “I find it hard to believe you'll disappoint.”

Corvo throws his head back against the pillow, trying to forget about the very real likelihood that the Outsider has watched him with his lovers. It has been years, and his encounters after Jessamine were always brief, without affection, few words shared between Corvo and his ever-changing bedmate. He hasn't laid with the same person more than once, since her.

Does he plan on bedding the Outsider again?

It's too overwhelming to admit to as much.

“Make up your mind,” Corvo insists, wanting the Outsider to take the lead.

“Mmm, I want to taste you.”

Corvo thinks about those teeth against his cock, too sharp and unpredictable. He winces at the thought. “Next time.”

The Outsider perks up at that, “There’ll be a next time, of course there will be.” Grinning broadly, he runs his fingers along the band of Corvo’s underwear. “Is that a yes?”

“Next time,” Corvo repeats. “Go into my bedside drawer. There's oil.”

Bouncing at the instruction, the Outsider leans over towards the table, yanking open the drawer to retrieve the bottle. He holds the vial tightly in his hand, waiting on Corvo’s guidance.

“You've at least been touching yourself, right?”

The Outsider’s neck starts to flush, creeping up to his cheeks, “I have...quite a bit. It's all very thrilling. And well, before…”

Of course, the Outsider would at least have some experience with his own body, before he was ever a god.

“You could do the same, to me, let's start with that.”

A crease forms between the Outsider’s eyes and he nods resolutely. Uncapping the vial, he dribbles oil over his fingers. Some of it runs down to his wrist. He shifts his hips just enough as to let Corvo push down his own underwear, pulling out his cock. Not quite hard yet, Corvo strokes his cock once, twice, before the Outsider bats his hand away.

“You said I could do this,” he points out.

Corvo can't argue with that, so he just lays back down, waiting for the Outsider’s hands on his flesh. With his robe open, he's almost fully bared, while the Outsider is still clothed.

The Outsider wraps his slickened hand around the girth of Corvo’s cock. At first, it is too loose, as if the Outsider has suddenly learned restraint. Corvo wraps his hand over top of the Outsider’s, coaxing him into a tighter grip. The Outsider lets himself be moulded, keeping the pace that Corvo sets, even after Corvo pulls his hand away.

That seems to be all the Outsider needs in order to be reduced to quiet contemplation. His attention remains firmly on Corvo’s cock as he works him, watching as his hand glides up and down. Corvo can't help but find his focus charming, sending warm sparks down his spine.

The Outsider wants this, he tells himself. Has wanted this for a long time. And Corvo should stop questioning his sincerity.

“Outsider,” Corvo gasps, and the Outsider breaks into a smile.

“My dear Corvo…”

Corvo wraps his hand around the Outsider’s wrist, slowing the steady rhythm of his hand. “Are you truly mortal?”

“Yes, Corvo,” he blinks, then tilts his head, “have I ever lied to you? I am capable of lying yes. But can you recall a time I lied to you?”

Corvo thinks on it, “No.”

“Believe me now, I am a mortal.”

Corvo nods, grabbing the back of the Outsider’s neck to pull him down into a lingering kiss, pressing his tongue past the Outsider’s teeth to lick into his mouth. The Outsider closes his teeth slightly, letting them scrape against Corvo’s tongue as he works into him.

Patting at the Outsider’s hip, Corvo instructs, “switch places with me. Put your back against the headboard.”

The Outsider compiles without complaint, though he wipes his messy hand against the bedsheets. Corvo will have to have them changed in any case, it doesn't matter. Sitting up against the headboard, the Outsider watches him, his own arousal apparent through the fabric of his trousers.

Corvo reaches to unbuckle the Outsider’s belt, urging him to lift his hips so he can pull everything off his lower half. But that won't do either, and Corvo goes for the buttons on his coat next, plucking them open one by one.

Once the Outsider is bare, Corvo gets into position between the Outsider’s thighs, bent knees on either side of Covo’s shoulders. “I'm going to suck you now,” Corvo says, rubbing his palm flat across the Outsider’s pale stomach. Gaining some weight would suit him.

The Outsider nods in short, punctuated bursts, urging, “Please,” just as Corvo takes his length into his mouth.

Having little control over his body, the Outsider squirms and bucks at every touch, hands flying to grab at Corvo’s hair, his cheeks, his beard. And he is anything but quiet, gasps and cries falling from his mouth like water, streaming over Corvo’s heated skin.

Corvo does his best to keep his teeth away, to make his mouth soft and plush. He cannot quite take the Outsider to the root, but he doubts very much that his technique will be a problem with the Outsider so sensitive to touch.

It is not long before the Outsider lashes out, his whole body seizing as he comes down Corvo’s throat. He didn't have the good sense to warn, and Corvo is not practiced enough to swallow efficiently, come collecting in his mouth. He reaches over the side of the bed to find his discarded underclothes, spitting the remainder into the fabric and tossing them off the side of the bed.

“Oh,” the Outsider laughs, “oh, oh ooohhh.” He squirms in place, reaching out to try and grab at Corvo’s shoulders. “But you have not come? And I want you to?” In the moment, the Outsider looks capable of very little. Well-fucked and relaxed, tangled in Corvo’s sheets.

“It's not a bother,” Corvo assures him. He is not so young as to be unable to ignore his urges.

“But I want it,” the Outsider keens, “I've watched you so many times. And now I want to feel.” Surging forward, the Outsider captures Corvo’s lips, trying to push him onto his back.

Corvo cannot help but smile into the sloppy kiss, it is flattering, to be so utterly wanted, to have the Outsider pawing at his chest, trying to cup his cock again. “Alright, alright,” Corvo concedes, once their mouths part. “Let us finished what we started earlier.”

Switching places once again, Corvo pulls the Outsider into his lap, tucking his goose fleshed thighs on the outside of Corvo’s hips to straddle him. Corvo fishes through the sheets to find the oil again, motioning for the Outsider to hold out his hand.

Once slick, the Outsider starts working Corvo in his hand again. He remembers how tightly to hold, how fast to stroke. As he works Corvo, Corvo touches him, running calloused fingers through his hair, down the line of his neck. He traces over the Outsider’s bony clavicles, down the center of his reddened chest. He is nearly hairless, except for a strip of dark, wiry hair across his sternum, individual strands around each nipple, and a sparse trail from his navel down to a thicker patch around his soft cock.

Corvo cannot help but touch him, warm all over and still responsive. The Outsider breathes heavily as Corvo circles his nipples, squeezing down gently before releasing. He takes his hands down the Outsider’s sides, curious if he's ticklish, now that there is no clothing to get in the way. The Outsider squirms in his lap, half-hard again already, as Corvo clamps down on his hips.

“You're perfect,” Corvo cannot help but whisper. Though there is little light, he now knows by touch. Every inch of the Outsider is without flaw.

Corvo nudges the Outsider’s hand away, wrapping his own around them both. They don't quite fit in his hand, but the added sensation of the Outsider’s erection sliding against his own is enough to make up the difference. The Outsider throws his arms over Corvo’s shoulders, grinding his ass against the tops of Corvo’s thighs as they rut together. Next time, maybe, they will try something more daring. But for now, Corvo is enraptured enough by the warm, solid body pressed against his sweat-damp skin.

The Outsider comes a second time, spilling against Corvo’s chest. Corvo is not far behind, their come mixing together as it slides over his knuckles, dripping back onto their cocks.

He's careful pressing the Outsider back down to his bed, making sure that he is comfortable. The sheets are a mess already, so Corvo thinks little of rubbing his messy hand clean against them.

“Good?” Corvo asks, running his cleaner hand up and down the Outsider’s flank, feeling out the vibrations of his breathing.

The Outsider laughs, nervous, but full of joy. “Oh, Corvo, Cor-vo, You are so, so good. Do not doubt.”

The Outsider stays only thirty minutes more, tucked in close to Corvo’s side, his head resting against Corvo’s shoulder. He cannot stay, he says. At least not this time. Corvo fans his fingers through the Outsider’s hair, enjoying the texture of it against his skin.

“Where are you staying?” Corvo asks.

Frowning, the Outsider responds, “Billie would not wish for you to know.”

Corvo will not press the issue, though he has questions for Billie too. Like how she gained the companionship of a fallen god in the first place.

Once the Outsider has dressed, he insists on slipping back out the window, instead of using the door. “You do not wish to be seen,” Corvo observes.

The Outsider shakes his head, “it would cause trouble, for you. I know this much. My face is known. Perhaps that was a mistake of mine, refusing to be an anonymous god.”

Snickering, Corvo comments, “One mistake of many.”

“Oh,” the Outsider frowns, “don't be cruel to me now.”

“I'm sorry,” and Corvo finds that he truly is. He kisses the Outsider goodbye out of penance, pouring his apologies past his lips.

The Outsider is oddly graceless as he shoves his limbs through the open window. Corvo watches as he leaves, jumping silently to the ventilation duct below, then onto the pipe the floor below that. His movements are as practiced and precise as any experienced assassin. Billie must be a patient and effective teacher.

--

The Outsider intends not to tell her, because she will only think he has been foolish. This is why Billie did not wish to take the ship to Dunwall at all. But it could not be avoided. The trail of Delilah’s converted led them back to Gristol. And there are loose ends left to be mended.

They have been in the capital for nine days. Only this morning Billie departed, opening up the seam in the Void they discovered in the recesses of the oil processing plant and stepping through.

Even standing six feet away from the tear wracked his body with indescribable pain. Though he is mortal now, the scars of the Void still appear intimately tied to his flesh. The anguish means he cannot traverse the portals as Billie can. He can only await her return.

But just the same, their mission would be impossible to complete without his skills. His body acting as a divining rod for arcane powers. He can feel the slow seeping static of nearby Witches. The tangy pulse of bone charms, and the low-constant hum of those with the power to craft them.

Billie herself is a resonant song, singing against his senses with each step. Neither one of them can soon forget that he forced powers upon her, gifts she didn't want. Something different, crueler than the Mark. He was terrified, and desperate, and seen his own demise a hundred times over, all of his deaths at her hand.

Not once has he asked for forgiveness, though he has tried to make amends. Still, despite their months together, he is unsure of her final intentions concerning his life. If he is merely a tool for her own ends.

He lays down against the pallet in their attic hideaway, an unused room in an otherwise crowded building. The ceiling is too slanted for the Outsider to stand up straight. He has to hunch his back in order to move around.

But they have few options for lodging in Dunwall; they have few options anywhere. Billie’s augmentations and his face prevent them from walking easily among the living. And they are thus condemned to the night and shadows.

The thin bedding he's found, shoved inside a broken chest, isn't enough to keep his bones warm. He keeps his clothing on, wrapping the sheets around his body like a soft nest, trying to trap what heat he can.

Corvo’s bed was warm, so was his skin. But Billie would be worried if she returned to find him gone. It was risk enough to slip away, scale the Tower walls, crawl into the arms of the subject of his long-worn affections.

Thinking of it now, the Outsider feels his face warm. He knows his own performance in bed wasn't good. That couldn't much be helped. But if Corvo will have him again, he will get better. He will. For Corvo. He’ll practice until he gets things right.

He covers his mouth with his hand, laughing into it.

The air in the room starts to spark, filling with thick salt. He can taste it on his tongue. The Outsider sits up, looking for where the tear will form. It hurts, but he knows the pain will pass. And once the hole is open, Billie wastes no time stepping through and sealing up the gap behind her. She knows that keeping the portal open too long causes the Outsider distress,

“Did you find her?” the Outsider asks. It's the only question that really matters.

“Yes,” Billie sighs. “She's dead.”

‘She’ isn't a woman of any particular importance, other than numbering among Delilah’s Witches. Billie doesn't kill them all, when she finds them. But sometimes, they give her no choice.

“And her powers?” he asks.

Billie shakes her head, “She was weighed down with bone charms.” Pulling out her bag, Billie dumps the contents onto the floor. A dozen bone charms, maybe more, scatter against the boards. The Outsider listens to them singing. “I'm not certain if the skills I saw her use were through her conduit, or simply powers from the charms.”

“Hmm,” the Outsider frowns, starting to pick through the scattered baubles, “in the morning, I can start cataloguing. You must be tired.”

Billie stares at him, her unblemished eye narrowed, “You're calm. Why are you so calm,” her breath hitches, “what did you do?”

The Outsider feigns confusion, “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm only tired.”

“You're never tired,” she looks him over. “Void,” she curses, “you didn’t, I didn't even leave you alone for one fucking day.”

He bursts into a toothy smile, unable to keep a straight face, “I didn't do anything.”

“Oh yeah? Then why are you smiling?”

“I'm not,” he knows he's grinning ear to ear.

Billie flops down on the floor next to him, knees bent towards her chest. She shakes her head, “You think this is some sort of punishment. Or that I don't want you to be happy.”

“I don't think that at all,” he bumps his shoulder against hers. “I...I don't know why you think I should stay away from him.”

Groaning, Billie rubs her hand against her eye, “You're right. I'm tired. We should do this in the morning...but…” she huffs, “did he even speak to you?”

The Outsider bites the inside of his mouth, “it was a little more than speaking.”

“You’re both fools,” she gets up to lay down on her own pallet.

--

Billie sleeps late while the Outsider starts sorting through the stolen charms. Taking each one in his palm, he works to discern their particular magics. Through the hum of the arcane, he can narrow down the function. Combined with reading the etched enchantment, he can take a pretty good stab at what each is used for.

One increases the mass of the bearer, making their body heavier, more solid than it should be. Useful, for when a thin slip of a woman wants to charge against a much larger opponent. Another allows for quicker digestion, but only fruits, not meats. Another, reflexes sharpened, but whoever crafted that charm made a mistake. So wielding it made the wearer limp.

He scribbles down notes in a paper bound journal he found in a pile of cast-off papers in Karnaca, so that he doesn't have to keep all the information in his head. Or Billie can review the catalogue later. By the time he finishes, it's nearly noon.

They have a small, portable burner, a kettle for water. The noise of boiling is sure to wake Billie. But the Outsider ate nothing but dry bread for breakfast, and surely, Billie will appreciate a meal.

There is not much at all he can cook, despite having watched the finest chefs at their craft. Always from afar. Everything was from afar. He has an endless collection of information in his mind, access to every skill and triumph of the last four-thousand years. But he can already feel his knowledge receding like the tides. Pulling away from him. Besides, watching and doing are different things entirely.

But he has enough skill to boil a kettle of water, the liquid inside starting to pound heavily against the metal sides.

Pulling two bowls from the crate they've been traveling with, the Outsider starts to prepare lunch. They have packaged noodles, which he distributes into the bowls, before pouring water over top. Adding cubes of fish bouillon, he stirs everything together, watching the noodles turn soft.

Shopping for fresh produce is too risky, all the carts close up by dusk. The Outsider wonders if he could risk it. Somehow play off his appearance as a joke if questioned. And it isn't as if every soul in Dunwall has seen “artists’ renditions” of the Outsider. Even more absurd to think that someone would seriously believe he were a god.

After all, he's so perfectly ordinary now.

“Food?” Billie grumbles, pulling the sheets down off her face. She blinks her eye in the brightness of the room, pushing up onto her elbow.

The Outsider hands her one bowl, asking her about the mission. Billie is willing to recount more details now, spelling out how the tracked the Witch down.

“The idea we don't only have to contend with space, but with time,” Billie shakes her head, “what powers did you even give Delilah, that she could be so powerful, even after death?”

The Outsider stares into the bottom of his bowl, the noodles soft and soggy. “These are not the skills I gave her. But ones of her own invention. She took crumbs, and made herself a feast of power. I should have known.”

“You should have known a lot of things,” Billie mumbles, “weird, though. I used to be so curious about you. Whatever thing it was you had with Daud,” taking the fork in her left hand, she shoves noodles into her mouth.

“Sorry to be such a disappointment,” he blows onto his broth to cool it. “It’s easy now, being removed from the Void. To see the missteps I have taken. When in the moment, I was only doing what seemed...right.”

Billie finishes chewing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “I don’t blame you, really. Now that I know you.” She frowns, “I don’t know, maybe I do think you’re a monster. But what choice do either of us have?”

The Outsider laughs, giddiness returning. The fluctuations in his mood are sure to give him whiplash, “We have so many choices. But they seem clearer, now that I cannot see the possible consequences.”

“Fuck,” Billie curses, shaking her head. Her voice is kinder now, “You’re so weird.”

The Outsider is well aware of his strangeness. The oddity of his mind, his behaviors, may fade in time. But there are eccentrics among mortals too, and joining their ranks doesn’t strike him as so terrible.

--

Racing along the Dunwall rooftops, the Outsider stays in step with his prey. A simple, ordinary journal, bound in leather, with messily inked pages. It is of no value to anyone, except himself. Billie too, though indirectly. She will not be able to read the entries. He must interpret.

It is the diary of a man with Void-sickness, a type of madness that comes from living too close to the open wounds between mortals and the Void beyond. The Cultists were so careless when they killed him, forcing a child to become the sole warden of a realm so vast and unknowable. The Outsider does not know if the ruptures in the Void are truly from his birth, or the first few centuries after he became a god, when he tried to throw off his chains. Thrashing and screaming like a cornered animal.

Or maybe, the fissures predate his ascension. He has long suspected that there was a god before him. And that another deity may follow.

But right now, the Outsider needs that journal. He needs to know what the madman saw, what he heard, who he met with.

And he must know who that hooded figure running ahead of him is. Because they must also know the value of those scribbled rantings.

The Outsider has his suspicions to their identity.

The figure races to the next building over, vaulting from the rooftop to grab hold of the opposite balcony, he hoists himself up onto the railing, then jumps to grab hold of the next higher floor.

The Outsider scowls, he can match the thief in agility, though he has had thirty years of experience hopping from ledge to precarious ledge. The Outsider has had mere months. But he knows that he is skilled. Yet the Outsider lacks the upper body strength of his elusive target. There's no way the Outsider can pull himself up like that.

Plus, the fucking Mark.

He's bitter, maybe, that Corvo kept his powers, when he now has none.

When the Outsider leaps, he needs enough height to land on the balcony, not just grab the railing. He only barely makes the jump, collapsing once he's cleared the gap. At least he doesn't smash his face into the glass doors.

“Corvo,” he hisses. But Corvo has already Blinked away, up onto the roof. Hopefully the Outsider hasn't lost his trail.

He has to propel himself to the ventilation duct just below the balcony, then follow the upward slant of the metal paneling. Where the duct turns sharply towards the roof, there’s enough of a lip to find his footing, taking some of the strain off his upper body as he clambers to the next floor.

“Shit,” once he’s reached the next balcony, he has to find his way to the roof.

Someone is inside the apartment, and the Outsider knows he’s not as quiet as Corvo is. Whoever is inside the room must see his shadow, because they start walking towards the window. He has to get out of here, now, but the only possible path is jumping from the railing and hoisting himself up onto the roof.

With enough momentum, he might just make it. He doesn’t have any choice but to try. The Outsider leaps off the metal balcony rail, grabbing hold of the ledge above. Instead of hanging steady, he swings his feet to the side. Underneath his hands, the tiles start to slip, but he manages to throw one foot up onto the roof, using his core muscles to force his other leg up as well. Rolling, he barely gets the rest of himself onto the roof. Shit, shit, his abdomen is going to hurt like the Void tomorrow. His arms too. He’s got to find a better way to to this. Billie makes it all look so effortless, and she’s not as strong as Corvo either.

It’s taken him so long to get to the roof, that Corvo is nowhere to be seen. Huffing, the Outsider refuses to admit defeat. Maybe if he sneaks back into the Tower, he can head Corvo off before he does anything foolish with the journal. Why does Corvo even need it? How did he know of its existence?

Defeated for the moment, the Outsider sits down on the sloped roof to catch his breath. He’ll only rest a minute, before making his way towards the Tower.

Looking out upon the Dunwall skyline, he recognizes the beauty constructed in the hands of humans. Artificial, hard, but transient, this city will one day fall. He’s always known this. But it’s different, knowing now that he will not live to see Dunwall’s destruction. Somehow, that makes him appreciate the city more.

His body jerks as a hand comes to wrap around his mouth, keeping him from screaming out. He thrashes in panic, trying to fight off his assailant, before he realizes it can only be Corvo. Breathing deep, he recognizes the smell, the weight of Corvo crouched behind him. Nonetheless, he breaks out in a cold sweat, his natural response to fight or flee preventing him from acting rationally.

“Quiet, quiet, I was not sure it was you,” Corvo tries to soothe, but doesn’t move his hand. “I had to make sure.”

The Outsider groans, finally starting to relax against Corvo’s hold. Once his body is slack, Corvo moves his hand, letting him speak freely.

“I knew from the start it was you,” the Outsider bites, a little disappointed that Corvo did not recognize him.

Corvo sits behind him, planting his legs on either side of the Outsider’s hips, letting him lean more comfortably against Corvo’s chest. He wraps one arm around the Outsider’s waist, keeping their bodies flush against each other.

“I knew you had learned to climb,” Corvo explains, “but I didn’t realize you had gotten so good, so fast.”

The Outsider can’t help but be pleased with himself. But he’s also smiling because Corvo’s voice is hot against his neck.

“I’m a quick learner, I promise,” he hopes that Corvo catches his suggestion.

Behind him, Corvo hums, “I see that now. But tell me, why were you chasing me down anyway?” he runs his other hand from the Outsider’s waist, up his side. “You know where I sleep.”

The Outsider rests his head back against Corvo’s shoulder, soaking in the steady warmth his embrace provides. Corvo’s un-Marked hand keeps moving, tracing patterns in his flank. While the Marked rests firmly in the center of his chest.

And some still-disjointed part of himself wonders if this was his fate? It can’t possibly be. He knows better than any mortal, any other mortal, that fate is a lie. A children’s tale. He couldn’t have been made a god only to survive until this moment, this civilization, this man. That’s foolish, foolish. But knowing that such romantic fantasies are untrue doesn’t stop the warmth pooling in his abdomen, under the tangible symbol of his and Corvo’s union.

Strange, of all the people the Outsider has Marked. Corvo was his last. And the only one to live past the Outsider’s second death.

Oh, but there will be a third demise. Hopefully not for many years. But the Outsider will die again.

“Outsider?”

“Yes?”

“Nevermind,” whatever it was couldn’t have been very important. “The journal, correct? You were trying to get the book?”

“Oh,” the Outsider rouses from his thoughts, “yes...you won’t be able to read it anyway. Hmm, why did you seek it out?”

“I was told the old man died. And roses grew on his grave….I worry…”

“That you did not destroy her? You did. But that does not mean you should not worry,” the Outsider is worried himself. As is Billie. Which is why they are so dedicated to their mission.

Corvo lets go of him for a moment, to rifle around in his bag. Pulling out the journal, he hands it over to the Outsider. The Outsider parts the cover from the pages, starting at the beginning. At first, the dead man wrote in Common, though it quickly gives way to the complexities of the Void-touched. The Outsider wonders if it is a language he will lose the capacity to read. If one day, he won’t be able to understand the Leviathans when they speak. They no longer speak to him, but he can still eavesdrop on their conversations. The journey from Karnaca was full of gossiping songs. The whales do not know where he has gone.

“Let me keep it,” the Outsider closes the cover. It is too dark and he is already too distracted to read it properly right now. “I will tell you what I find.”

“Will you tell Billie Lurk as well?”

“Of course.”

Corvo does not protest, but the Outsider can tell from the sudden tension against his back that Corvo is being cautious.

“You are not enemies here. I promise. You’ve seen the woman she’s become. Well,” the Outsider corrects, “who she was on the Dreadful Wale. I promise you, Corvo. Your goals here are the same.”

Corvo takes one hand to the Outsider’s neck, brushing the hair away from the nape. He presses his lips against the Outsider’s spine. “Alright, okay,” Corvo says, “This...I don’t have to do this alone.”

“No,” the Outsider puts his hand against Corvo’s, still at his sternum, “Corvo, you never were alone.”

Whale oil means that Dunwall is never truly dark, the streets lit with false stars. But they can only burn so long.

Corvo slips his hand under the Outsider’s shirt, rucking up the fabric. His hand is warm, as it dives under the waistband of the Outsider’s trousers, rubbing against his cock. That’s all the attention the Outsider needs to grow hard. Though it’s somewhat painful, being trapped inside his slacks.

The Outsider undoes his own belt, opening his fly to give Corvo’s hand more room. As Corvo picks up rhythm, the Outsider stretches his arm behind his head, knocking down Corvo’s hood to grab hold of his hair. Tangling his fingers between the strands, gripping tight as he feels himself nearing completion. He wishes he did not come so embarrassingly quickly, that he could stretch these moments he has with Corvo. But this is still too new, too raw. Not even just the friction of Corvo’s hand against his cock. But knowing that Corvo wants him, that the agony of not having him is over, is enough to make his skin bloom with warm desire.

He shudders against Corvo’s chest as he comes, spilling against his jacket and trousers. That’s fine, he’s unlikely to see anyone else before he has the opportunity to change clothes.

Corvo hums against the back of his neck, pressing his nose into the Outsider’s hair. He's sure he must smell of sweat, and the grime that hangs in Duwnall’s air. Burning oil and the dreck of too many bodies in too small a space.

This isn't the life the Outsider could have ever imagined. And he once was spectator to all the possibilities of humanity.

He's still roughly assembled, imperfect, flawed. He will be until he dies, for the third time.

“Corvo, Corvo, Corvo,” he laughs into the air. He wants to scream. Loud enough for all the Isles to hear. Loud enough for his voice to reach the Continent. Loud and joyous enough, that those who condemned him Millennia ago, made him a puppet of magics he could never fully comprehend, can hear that he is still here, when each one of them are gone.

“You're shaking,” Corvo tries to soothe.

“I know,” the Outsider responds, his voice breaking, “and it's everything I could have never dreamed.”