Chapter Text
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If asked his opinions of his station, Assassin Trevor Belmont would answer with two things: Venice smells like shit, and his Italian is no good. Each grazie, or buongiorno feels like a garble coming out of his mouth. Not even to mention the humidity—the insulated robes he wore up in France and England were quickly swapped out to account for the subtropical climate of the Italian coast.
To escape visibility in the crowded streets, he would slip himself into the lower Venetian catacombs. Sometimes they were cavernous, crumbling; at other times the tunnels were narrow, claustrophobic corridors lined with varying degrees of ochre-hued skulls and various shapes of bones Trevor didn’t quite recognize. He’d never really cared for the catacombs of other northern countries, but here? A dreadful place could become solace. An easy cover to slip from straggling guards, providing quiet asylum until morning. Any sound echoed from walls or any light would be easy to catch. So Trevor would slip into the blackness, slow his breathing, and…
Imagine his surprise those months ago when he blinked his eyes open to see a golden pair staring back at him.
Jewels, he thought at first. Amber, or citrine. Gold. The Belmonts had loved their gold. His late mother, especially. Big, gold earrings. Golden rings and golden bangles. Were they something in the architecture of this dilapidated catacomb? Something scavengers had missed? Trevor struck flint down the back of his bracer, drew sparks, and lit aflame in a sudden whoosh of fire, an innovation of an Assassin torch he kept on his belt for the times he’d get lost in these tunnels.
A phantom! Trevor yelped. Or, grunted, or some awkward sound in the middle. He gracelessly jumped back and nearly tripped over his boots. Recovering quickly, Trevor’s hackles remained raised with a hand on his shortsword as he took in the appearance of the similarly stunned man not ten paces before him.
The cloaked man was not a phantom, but a dhampir. Trevor had questioned him, once they’d realized they weren’t going to leap upon one another with intent to kill:
You’re a vampire? Not quite.
You’re a Templar, then. No.
Both men spoke English. Oh.
In Alucard, the lonely Assassin had found a strange sort of friend. The gloomy, stony San Michele mortuary became a refuge from time to time. When nearby on a clear-skied night, he’d paddle over a gondola and pull himself atop to the flat roof. There was a nice view of the stars, and he knew he would be safe there. Trevor disliked the dorms at the Order anyway.
This evening, however, Venice is in the midst of a torrential downpour. Visibility low, Trevor practically slips with each lunge off of the clay-tile rooftops while evading a deceptively agile armored guard. Just when Trevor thinks he is just out of the woods, an arrow slices across his outer bicep. Fuck! This time he does fall, tearing through a merchant’s cloth awning and cracking the wide wooden tabletop below. With no choice but to recover quickly, Trevor pushes himself up just in time to duck down below the nearby bridge. Clutching at his throbbing arm and straining to listen for voices above, painful awareness overtakes the Assassin that he will need to take shelter for the night.
Far from the Venetian Assassin headquarters and much too soggy with blood and rain to be allowed into a bordello, Trevor knows that he is near Alucard’s residence.
That is how he ends up on the dhampir’s stoop, the Assassin’s appearance resembling a half-drowned stray more than ferocious soldier, rapping his knuckles against the locked door hastily. He reaches his uninjured arm up to repeat his actions again when it swiftly swings open.
The Reaper of Venice grasps the Assassin's wrist, yanking him inside and promptly sitting him down in the living room. Pulled this way and that, the Assassin curses.
"Have you found me another body?" Alucard calls behind him while rummaging through his cabinets for gauze, honey, and vinegar. After quickly washing his hands, he kneels at Trevor's side with the supplies. "What have you—stop moving—gotten yourself into this time?" He pours vinegar into some of the fabric and dabs the gash on his arm.
Sucking in a hiss, Trevor scowls under knitted brows. “I was nearly your next dead one. Hey!”
The dhampir tugs at the myriad of buckles that fasten Trevor’s garb and various belts together. One handed, the brunet helps, though it’s Alucard who rids him of his hidden blade. As a thing rarely removed in the company of others, an unarmed Trevor feels exposed.
After the energy dies down, Alucard tends the wounds without him even needing to ask. Trevor finally formulates a response.
“Arrow. It was an arrow.”
He was lucky that it didn’t stick. Or that it seemingly wasn’t dipped in shit or poison. He sniffs, looking away because despite his own gruesome work, he just can’t watch. “Forgive my intrusion, I—ow.”
Alucard soaks another rag of vinegar and continues cleaning. "Well, it would've been hell to examine your body anyway. Bring me one soon, or I'll have to go on Watch again."
“Sure. Soon, you have my word.”
"It will be a big help, Assassino."
Alucard dabs away blood, wood dust and something wet and chunky.
"...There's bits of pear down here." Remnants near his elbow pit are flicked away.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mutters with the enthusiasm of a cat with ears flat to its head.
After discarding the gauze, the Reaper slathers a thin layer of honey on top of the clean wound and wraps it off.
"Rest here for tonight. Since you came here in a hurry, I presume you need to." Alucard rises and gathers the waste into a wooden bin in the kitchen.
“Are you sure?” Trevor asks, but where the hell else could he go?
Small flames conjure from Alucard’s fingertips, igniting a bundle of logs under an iron stove. A silver kettle full of red wine then lands on the metal grate on top and in goes the rest of the honey, along with cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. The kettle slowly works towards a boil until a supply of hippocras is ready to serve.
"Don't make me laugh. I'll check on your wound in the morning."
Alucard strides over carrying a wide-rimmed mug filled with the homemade tonic. Trevor graduates from the wooden chair to the sofa where he is ordered to relax, and his host takes a seat at the adjacent loveseat with a cup of his own. The slashes all over Trevor catch his eye, like a bloom of light, though it's nothing he hasn't seen dozens of times. Most of them were healed by him after all.
He takes a strong sip of his drink. "The extra room is ready for you. Still made from last time."
“The night brings no visitors?” Trevor tilts his head towards Alucard, examining him from beneath browbone. He teases, suppressing a lopsided grin by blowing on the hot tonic he clasps between palms. In the firelight of the evening, the Reaper’s irises are backlit like that first night that feels like ages ago now. The tonic permeates through Trevor. Life blooms back into his cheeks.
Alucard wrestles a smirk down by running his tongue over one of his fangs. "Not any that are alive."
“Grim fucking bastard,” the Assassin chuckles into his tonic and winces. God, his ribs hurt. He kicks some of the drink back. “You must be so very lonely without me.” Another jest, though there’s some truth to it. Pot meet kettle and all.
"Show me that you're good company then. Tell me a story. What of the town as of late? I've run out of charcoal so I haven't been out." He eyes the dying embers under the stove, cataloging what amount he'll have by tomorrow.
The Assassin gestures to and fro with his hands as he speaks. “Well,” he huffs out a laugh after he contemplates for a moment over his tonic, “Venezia is a bustling mess with preparation right about now. Carnevale is in a couple of weeks, yes?”
"Oh. I must've been locked away longer than I thought," Alucard muses, reminiscing at the weeks of isolation that have passed him by. Aside from Trevor and an endearing Venetian polymath, he hasn't seen a living soul—the two undecaying elderly bodies in the Salotto Morte surely don't count. He listens closely, taking generous sips as Trevor continues.
“I have this assignment that’s arriving from Baghdad. Wealthy man, very nasty business. He’s attending a party. I’m back and forth on the method. Shall I poison him or wait until he is alone?” The question is not so much directed at the dhampir as it is a thought made external. “I’d rather not get my hands dirty, though with the former, I’d have to slip in and out unnoticed.”
"Well, poison him while he's alone. Easy."
“Perhaps late into the evening, yes,” Trevor mumbles into the tonic, taking a long gulp, then another to finish it off. “That’s best. I’ll find his suite. Ideal case scenario, his carafe. He will be drunk and thirsty. You’re brilliant, Mietitore.”
Alucard nods. "I'll go in behind you so I can take the body. I've been wanting to examine a man for a few weeks."
Stretching his limbs upwards after depositing his cup on the nearest surface, the Assassin winces at the painful flare of his shoulder.
"Look at you," the Reaper shakes his head. "How are you going to wash your hair?”
He focuses, using his powers of spatial manipulation to locate the tub in the bathroom down the hall. When he reaches it, the nozzle rotates counterclockwise until a stream of hot water flows out.
“Come," he gathers their empty cups. "I've drawn a bath for you already."
Not one to scrutinize such a generosity, Trevor allows himself to be taken care of. A bath sounds divine right about now. When Alucard follows him to the washroom, Trevor begins undressing further anyway as he assumes his presence is just to point out whatever fragrances or oils would be of suitable use. The Assassin is anything but a shameful man—slipping into the sudsy water, thickly muscled arms prop onto either side of the tub rim. The expanse of Trevor’s tawny chest and arms are littered with scars of varying ages.
A tired hum escapes Trevor, pleased. When he opens his eyes, he realizes that his friend lingers.
The Reaper hangs his cloak on the wall, having just set out a fresh set of nightwear for his guest on a wooden stool by the tub. The Assassin makes some comfortable small talk until scrapes rake across the floor. Alucard flushes himself to the tub, having brought another stool over. The sleeves of his tunic have been rolled to his elbows, his hair strewn into a high knot.
"Keep your shoulders at this height or lower." He adjusts Trevor's arms. "We don't need you pulling something." He rubs a bar of minty soap between his palms, then lathers it into his hair, adjusting a minimal amount of sharpness to his nails for some exfoliation.
Fuck, nails on his scalp and Trevor is completely blissed out. Better than wine—better than sex.
Alucard massages in circles along his scalp. Now, Trevor’s eyes could roll out of his head. As opposed to pain, pleasure comes few and far between in the career of an Assassin.
Something suddenly hits the Reaper with clarity: the contrary biomes of running from violence, and a quiet bath on a remote island where the dead sleep. He asks softly, "Do you ever tire of this life? The Brotherhood?"
“Uhm,” Trevor mumbles out in a babble as Alucard’s question registers several seconds after it’s asked. “Of course I do.” All too honest of an answer, it’s the first thing that tumbles directly from Trevor’s unclouded mind and out of his mouth. There likely isn’t a soul in the Order he would’ve admitted this to. Husky voice, he continues. “I mean, the work is right. The evil just… doesn’t stop. Not that I expect it to.”
Alucard contemplates. Fingertips nudge Trevor up, pushing him forward enough to dip his head back into the water. As he lays down, the dhampir cups his head in his palms, creamy suds melting out from chocolate strands over the steamy bath top. He forks his fingers through, rinsing.
"Neither do I. I've seen great evil over the years. Tried to fight it at some point or another, but even I, alone, cannot tame it all. I regard your work and the Brotherhood with great pride. You are protectors. Guardians of the everyday citizen, of knowledge. It's the kind of work that will safely guide us towards a better future." He grins above Trevor's face.
Trevor blinks upward at Alucard and somewhere, distantly, he is aware that he hasn’t been this close to someone without either murdering them in cold blood or pressing his lips to theirs.
“—Thank you,” was what Trevor settled on because he couldn’t think of what else to say. Blue irises peer up to golden, lashes fluttering. What else was there to say? Most of what he heard on a regular basis was death-bed Templar rebuke or mission-related Assassin sermon. ’We work in the dark to serve the light,’ and all that. It was rare to be recognized.
“It’s not all that glamorous, really,” he responds. The Assassin could kick himself. Touch and exhaustion leaves his mind crumbling. Of course he knows that. He’s scrubbing the grime from your skull for Christ’s sake.
Alucard sends a small chuff across Trevor's cheeks. "Anything worth fighting for isn't glamorous. At least, the 'fight' part isn't." The Reaper holds his guest's upside down gaze, counting each wet lash and sodden pin of stubble. His voice dips low. "It's just what we do.”
Rotating Trevor's head to each side for any more dirt only greets him with pristine glistening skin. With a bit more soap, he applies moderate pressure to his neck. Starting under his ears, dragging all the way down the wound tendons, his fingers work through another massage in oblique ovals.
Eyes landing on the obscured torso and legs ahead of him, Alucard asks, "Have you got the rest?" He releases his grip after one last glide. Standing up, he reaches towards the wall for a towel to give Trevor after he's done.
Face warm, Trevor realizes what exactly the dhampir means by his genuine question.
Except—“Wait,” Trevor interjects, after Alucard had started to turn his back. “If you truly don’t mind. My wrists. The right one, I…”
His wrists constantly ached. Nonstop climbing, gripping a blade or sword, thrusting said blades through ribs again and again. The ache of overuse hardly subsided, especially on his dominant side.
"...I know," Alucard finishes. An easy smile curves his lips. The towel he was in the middle of folding returns to the hook it came from. His heart is drawn towards his friend’s pain and whatever he could do to relieve it—a native philanthropic quality passed down from his mother.
Deft fingers go to straighten Trevor's arm while pulling a flat palm back towards the shoulder, gently straining the tendons for a few seconds. Knotted tension unravels in Trevor’s radial nerves. Pain blooms, especially at first. Alucard’s fingers are cool as they press into his thick forearm, a beautiful juxtaposition to the steaming bathwater. After gathering a fair amount of soap in hand, the Reaper proceeds to slowly pirouette along the muscles around his wrist. Small, shallow rotations, like a cursive letter "u", travel up his lower forearm as he incorporates both hands now, trading off fingers to maintain a continuous sensation.
"Perhaps you should dual-wield," he half-jokes. "Take some pressure off of this one."
“I try, though I don’t have a second hidden blade.” It takes a particular sort of craftsman to build such things. A trustworthy one. Trevor could repair small parts, sharpen it, but construct the thing on his own? Impossible.
If Alucard could do it himself, he would. Where he's talented with the human body and other biomedical advances, he lacks in engineering and forging. He searches his mind for a moment.
"Hmm. Allow me to find you one. Tomorrow." Pressure relents on the Assassin’s forearm. He finally retrieves the towel and leaves it on the stool. "Let me know when you're finished. I'll clean up here."
Alucard is gone before Trevor can question his methods of just locating a hidden blade. The Brotherhood typically grants and manufactures one per Assassin, so any request Trevor could attempt through the system itself wouldn’t be permitted. If anyone could track such a thing down, it would be the Reaper. Hell, the expertly crafted shortsword Trevor keeps at his hip was a gift Alucard himself had scavenged.
Thoughts wandering wayward, Trevor scrubs the remaining stench and filth away with the aid of the oils and fragrances Alucard keeps stock of.
Redressing and retiring then to the guest room, Trevor becomes one with the mattress, proceeding to slip into the unconscious with a practiced ease. It’s become a skill necessary for his time in the Brotherhood, falling asleep wherever he can get a wink in. Yet here? It’s safe. Awareness of this brings an additional rare comfort.
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