Men and Women

2:35am, Glyfada

Rider's longboat drifted lazily to the balcony of Monica's apartment and dropped its gangplank onto the rail, not unlike what it had done at the Alghul Villa earlier that night. By the time they arrived, both girls, Monica and Heping, were sound asleep, both stirring occasionally, the former from the unfamiliar comfort of her Servant's arms, and the second from the torturous pain and hardship that pressed on her even while she slept.

Chrysaor rose as gently as he could and saddled over to the edge, hesitating at the realization that he would have to jump, which would surely wake his Master.

Aaron took the opportunity to get a final word in, "Will you two be fighting Berserker with us tomorrow?"

He kept looking at the gap between himself and the balcony, "Don't know. I'll ask my Master in the morning."

"Fair enough." He bit his lip, "-And good work tonight. You did good."

There was a hint of something in those words, something like malice, but not towards him. In any case, he ignored it, and hopped off the boat.

Sure enough, as Saber landed and the ship behind him sailed away, Monica's eyes stuttered open like heavy curtains. 

"...Chrysaor...?" She smiled, "Another new haircut?"

He rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes. Nothing I do will ever satisfy you." He smiled despite that, and there was none of the usual sadness there, "Do you want me to put you down?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his chest. "No. I'm too tired."

"Right."

Monica had to stifle her own giggles as he fumbled with the door, trying and failing to keep her feet from knocking against the entryway, but he did eventually get her into her bedroom.

She patted the base of his neck, "Put me down, I want to change."

He obeyed, catching her as she lost her balance, and watched as she stumbled towards the dresser.

"Right." He took a deep breath, "I'll leave you to it."

She turned her head with a sharpness that belied her fatigue.

"No. It's fine. Just turn around- and no peeking."

He did as he was told, and was grateful to have his back turned. Facing away with nothing but the moonlight through the blinds, she never would have noticed the slight blush that touched his face as he tried and failed to ignore the sounds of cloth against flesh; trying and failing to imagine what was happening behind him.

When his will did finally break, he saw only the top of her thigh disappear beneath an oversized shirt, and said a silent thanks that he hadn't seen anything more; that his broken will hadn't led to a graver sin.

She cast an eye towards him, but, between the low light, their mutual exhaustion, and everything else, up to and including his own inexperience, he couldn't make out what it was that lied behind her lingering stare. Instead, he pretended to not be watching as she crossed to the other side of the bed and climbed in. He anticipated she'd fall asleep the moment she hit the pillow, but she didn't. She just kept staring at him with that same look; a puzzle he couldn't solve on his own.

He gave his sad smile, "Well, goodnight Monica. And... Thank you."

He turned towards the door.

"Wait. Don't go."

"What?"

She patted the pillow next to her.

"Stay with me, please. I don't want to be alone."

The sad smile remained strong, "Servants don't need to sleep. Besides, you won't even know I'm gone, and won't you feel better knowing I'm on watch protecting you?"

"No. I won't. I just need you."

He considered it. On the one hand, it seemed like such a waste to spend the night in bed when he could be more productive. If Servants didn't need to eat or sleep, then doing either was just a waste of time and resources. On the other, he was, in fact, a Servant, and he had no more important duty than ensuring his Master's desires were fulfilled.

Neither could he fully deny his own desires, even if it shamed him to admit it.

He chuckled, mocking himself, "Well- sure. I will."

He didn't mean it entirely. Even at this point he was plotting to leave her once she was asleep- she really wouldn't notice, she was too exhausted. But then, if he did that, he'd have Hell to pay in the morning...

Her hand drifted down to the sheets and pulled them back, inviting him in.

He realized then that he was already in too deep. There was nowhere to go but forward.

He sat on the exposed sheet and began to disrobe. He took off his newly remodeled jacket and let it disappear into gold ether in his fingertips. He then did the same to the shirt underneath, his boots and his socks, and stopped for a long time before removing his pants as well. His eyes lingered on his underwear.

For a normal man, his body would be blaring sirens and clanging cymbals, but Chrysaor's body was more divinity than flesh, and so these urges, though present, were far weaker, and far easier to control, than for the average man of his apparent age in the same situation. This, along with his own experiences and convictions, the memories of both his mother and himself, kept him chaste. Even so, he was a man, but he was afraid. He was afraid of hurting her, of making a mistake, and of giving in to what he considered to be base, animal desires. Still, those desires were present, and while there were no sirens or cymbals, that persistent tap-tap-tapping at the edge of his mind kept him fully awake.

Although, he realized, it was possible that he was fretting over nothing. He still hadn't confirmed whether he was making wild assumptions or honoring her true desires. He could just climb into bed and watch what happened next, but that, he thought, could all-too-easily give way to painful misunderstandings. Better, he thought, just to ask.

He spoke in a soft whisper, "Hey... Monica?"

He was too late. She was already long asleep with a breath even and fair; her chest rising and falling under the blanket.

He smiled at himself. Once again, in a long-established tradition, he had worried far too much. He at once considered leaving her for now and returning in the morning, and ensuring that nothing went undone, but looking at her sleeping, peaceful face, he remembered that he was a Servant, and not only that, but he was a man, and he had made a promise.

He climbed under the covers and laid his head on the pillow. In a way he couldn't have described, her even, peaceful face and breath hypnotized him. He would've let that time last forever, if he hadn't fallen asleep first.

...

In Heping's Hotel Room,

Aaron sat at the thin bar that separated the kitchen from the living space. When he'd first arrived, the room had been torn to shreds, and even now he had to force himself to stare ahead and not at the sheet he'd hung to hide the bloodied crater in the wall. He himself had spent the last hour or so putting the room back together with the help of Assassin's Master, who'd remained silent the whole time. Even now she was laying on the couch, quiet as a mouse, her eyes touched with tears. The same was true of the pig next to him, who had been barred from the bathroom where Rider and Assassin were washing Heping and dressing her wounds. Now, he laid moping atop the counter. 

Aaron and Lancer both were barred from the bathroom on account of being men, but while the immediate response should've been to ask why Rider was allowed and not them, that accusation never came. None of them could even begin to doubt his goodwill and self-control, or to deny their own past failures of chastity. Assassin's Master was sometimes called to help with one thing or another, a change of clothes, a fresh towel; on one occasion she'd left to dispose of a cloth filled with small shards of metal that had apparently been lodged in Heping's wounds, but it was never any complicated task, and he began to pick up on the presence of some kind of language barrier...

In the bathroom, the sound of running water ceased. They all waited anxiously, and, in a few minutes, Assassin and Rider filed out of the bathroom, each carrying one end of an ironing that they were using as a haphazard stretcher. Atop it was Heping, wearing a new change of comfortable clothes, her hands and especially her right arm bandaged tightly, some red and brown already peaking through, with another series of bandages and wounds visible under her tank top and over her left breast. She was deathly pale, her lips partially withered from dehydration, and her arms were folded over her chest like a corpse.

Pigsy hopped to his feet and watched intently. The procession continued into the other room- the bedroom- where she was delicately moved to the bed and tucked under the covers. The next few minutes were clean-up: bloodied clothes and bandages were thrown away, equipment was cleaned or disposed of, and Assassin's Master took control of cleaning up the red stains on the tile floor and in the tub. Lancer was rushing to and fro, looking for any way to be useful, and finding little things to do here and there. Aaron himself remained sitting, looking at nothing, and keeping a stoic silence as it all unfolded.

Rider, Lugh, was not wearing his armor, and it was the first time that anyone, including Aaron himself, had seen his body for what it was. His face, which he had seen before, was both strong and fair; it was beautiful but still masculine, a unique face that was graceful without becoming androgynous. He wore a tight-fit sleeveless black vest with verdant accents and pants to match. Aaron suspected that this was part of what he wore underneath his armor. What really stood out were his eyes that glowed with the same golden light as the hair which continued to float around him as if underwater.

As everything was being cleaned, Assassin, her Master, and Pigsy were running about to put things back in place and prepare a space for the two girls to spend the night, since they apparently had nowhere else to go, or at least nowhere worth walking to at nearly four in the morning. Rider went to the bedroom and leaned on the wall, watching the sleeping girl with sad eyes.

They were running out of time, and Aaron's anxiety was only growing, and so he wandered over to Rider with the intent to call him away.

Rider spoke without moving his gaze from the girl, "We did fail, Master."

Insofar as their goal was concerned, they had succeeded, but, with the bandaged, half-alive girl in front of them, he couldn't argue with the broader point.

"Yeah..."

"Four women were on the front lines tonight, and where were we? One did nearly die, and another was close to being the same, and where were we?" He shook his head, "War is no place for a lady. Wherever a lady is injured, wherever her innocence is attacked, there is a man who has failed to do his duty. Or men, in our case."

"Rider..." His own eyes locked on Heping, "We did what we could. There's no one to blame but Archer and his Master."

"Perhaps so, aye. And yet, what I doth say is true, is it not? Evil men dirty their hands with the blood of innocents, and so good men must sully their hands with the blood of the guilty. That is manhood, Master. We are those who hold up the sky that she lives under; we are those who bear the burdens of the world so that she does not have to. Why else should our shoulders be so broad?"

"But she handled it well. She's strong."

"Aye, that she is, and I shall spend my life singing her praises. T'is good for a woman to be strong, and should she be stronger than a man or even all men together, I should have no reason to speak ill of 'er," He turned to face his Master, "But for a man to be weaker than a woman: that is shameful; a complete disgrace."

Aaron grimaced, "I know. It won't happen again."

Rider smiled, "And I make the same vow, Master, lest ye think I mean to chastise you. Not at all, for I blame myself more than anyone else." He sighed, "And yet there is always more to be done."

"Seems like it."

At least this time, he said to himself, he wasn't going to get anyone hurt in the crossfire.

Rider dissolved into ether, entering his Spirit Form, and Aaron headed for the door.

Pigsy stopped in the middle of his scrambling, noticing him leave.

"Uh-hey! Where are ya goin'? You- uh- y'know you can stay here for the night -oink-?"

They certainly weren't close enough to merit that kind of hospitality. Pigsy just wanted them there in case things went south, which, honestly, Aaron had a lot of respect for, and he would've accepted the offer, he wanted to, but right now it was safer if he left.

"Assassin will keep you guys safe," He momentarily puzzled over the contradiction in that sentence, but wrote it off, "I'll... see you guys tomorrow, I think. You can follow scents right? Just holler if you need anything."

Without another word, he left the room and took the long elevator ride to the ground floor. At this point, he was almost used to the anxiety. Almost. The issue with anxiety is that you never just 'got used to it', otherwise it would be something else. No, you didn't 'get used to it', you lived with it- while you still could.

He stepped out into the fog that enclosed the city, the early morning dew nipping at his nose. It was frigid, but the man in front of him didn't seem to mind, and why would he? He was used to mornings far colder than this one, and the bristly red hair that blanketed his body and face was more than enough to keep him warm, that and his flannel.

Artorias MacMannan greeted Aaron with a malicious grin, "There ya are. I've been lookin' for ye."

....