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Samuel’s seen what happens when you beat a wolfhound past the point of any sense - not that there’s ever much sense in beating an animal, in Samuel’s opinion. He’s seen the way they get feral; seen how they get just before then, too. The timidity of a beast who hasn’t yet realised it can more than bite the hand that hurts it.
Corvo’s not timid; he’s feral, though Samuel isn’t sure that the rest of them see it. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t - maybe they just don’t view it in the same lens that Samuel does.
The Admiral, definitely Pendleton, and likely Martin now that he’s here, they all think they’ve got a collar leashed around Corvo’s throat. They do in a way, he supposes, though he can’t say for certain whether they honestly think such a thing’d protect them, if it came down to it.
He’d rip through them like paper, if he had to.
Thank every god and all the whales that Corvo’s a decent man, even after all he’s suffered. Corvo won’t lift a hand against any of them - though maybe a kick in the arse wouldn’t be unwarranted, in a couple cases. Corvo doesn’t like violence, though, no matter how good at it he is. He comes and goes like a ghost - from the pub, from the city - and the only bodies he ever leaves are those that deserve it and even then…
High Overseer’s a heretic, now, not a corpse.
Whether Corvo did it to be cruel or whether he simply doesn’t have the heart to kill more than he has to, Samuel can’t say. He’s not the sort of man to speculate about it, either. Couldn’t’ve happened to a nicer man, in Samuel’s opinion.
There’s no way Campbell didn’t know what was happening to Corvo, in Coldridge. Given what little he knows about the man - more than he ever wanted, since Martin arrived - Samuel suspects the man likely involved himself personally. Samuel considers himself a decent sort of man, not more inclined to violence than any other, but he knows himself well enough to know that he’d’ve done a sight worse to Campbell, in Corvo’s shoes.
Samuel saw the Royal Protector once, albeit from a distance. Not especially tall but certainly proud. Broad across the shoulders, spine straight as steel; handsome, too, though Samuel rightly didn’t go around advertising his thoughts on that.
Corvo’s hands still shake, whenever he’s not sinking into that mission ready focus he adopts around the others. Almost all the others only ever talk to Corvo when they want something from him, when there’s something for Corvo to do. Samuel doesn’t even know whether they’ve realised the Royal Protector is still suffering the effects of half a year’s torture.
You get used to scars of your own and the ones born by others, in the navy. That life still hadn’t prepared him for the wounds - not even scars, for some of them - which litter Corvo’s body. Personally, Samuel doesn’t rightly know if he’d be even a shadow of himself, after torture like that. Those elixirs can only do so much, no matter what grand claims are shouted or splashed on posters; they don’t stop old breaks from aching in the cold, and the wet.
Even after being treated like that, there’s still so much kindness in Corvo.
They took the man’s tongue, at the end of it all. The stump of it was still raw and oozing when Samuel picked him up, that first time. He’d flinched from the sunlight; flinched from Samuel’s voice; flinched from the engine noise, and the motion of the waves, and every voice and gull cry that echoed across the waters.
He’d steadied himself by the time they got to the pub, tucked it all away like it never existed at all, but Samuel hadn’t been able to forget. Beat too hard, beat too often, beat just for the pleasure of his pain. Corvo’s the way he is for a reason and, still, he doesn’t hurt a soul he don’t need to, which Samuel had initially feared he might.
He also doesn’t flinch away from Samuel any longer, neither his voice or his touch, when he’s still habitually avoiding every other member of their little conspiracy.
No wonder, when no one else seems to care much that Corvo’s hollowing out further, each mission he returns from without the princess. So long as he’s doing as he’s asked - as he’s told - then that’s that.
Samuel cares. He would say too much, but that might imply that he finds something regrettable about his actions, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Corvo needs someone to show him a little kindness, to remind him that there’s still warmth in the world.
That dark attic room probably wasn’t the best choice to give to a man who’d just spent too long in a dank cell, but no one’s particularly inclined to listen to Samuel’s opinions. No one except Corvo, that is. Corvo who barely sleeps, barely takes off that damned mask, haunting the pub and its surrounds like the ghost he almost was.
He’s better than he used to be but he’s still a man worn too thin, a hound ready to break badly, and Samuel fears he’ll stay that way until the princess is found.
If she’s found dead… It’ll be the end of more than just their conspiracy, Samuel’s pretty sure. Corvo’s a good man, and kind.
Every kind man has his breaking point. Samuel’s wise enough to figure where Corvo’s is.
Until then, though, Samuel’ll continue to coax the other man the way he used to coax stray cats as a boy, before he went to sea. It’s so long ago now that, for a moment, he’d feared he’d lost the knack. Patience and feigned indifference are the key, along with kindness. Rushing’ll only scare ‘em off, and a single rough word or action’ll ruin every bit of progress - or worse.
Luckily, Samuel’s always been a patient man. Sometimes he hasn’t been particularly kind, he doesn’t think, but every day dawns afresh and the ocean currents never stop.
They’ll be headed out again tomorrow, bright and early. As early as possible, nevermind bright, given that this’ll hopefully lead Corvo right to that little girl. Samuel’s torn between being hopeful that she’s there, and hopeful she’s not. Ain’t right for a girl so young to be in a place like that, though Samuel knows sometimes the workers have children, and they’re certainly not working, so far as Samuel’s ever heard. Maybe there’s a safe spot for kids - maybe Lady Emily hasn’t been alone, this whole time.
That’s a nice thought. Maybe he’ll share it with Corvo, when the man eventually stops lurking in the shadows on the roof and sidles up to Samuel’s side.
Moon’s absent tonight, threatening storm clouds blotting out most of the starlight. The lights in the pub are almost all off, bar the barely there glow of a candle here and there, and the rest of this area’s deserted. Apart from some distant lights further up the river, it’s nearly as black as a dark night can be. Samuel shouldn’t have any idea of where Corvo’s lurking, but he still knows.
Maybe it’s less accurate to say that Corvo’s like a feral wolfhound, and more accurate to say he’s like some mythic voidhound.
He’s got a presence about him that pricks at the back of Samuel’s neck, though Samuel’s got no doubt that if Corvo didn’t want to be noticed at all, he wouldn’t be. He doesn’t mind letting Samuel know when he’s being watched, however. The heavy weight of his eyes, the heady knowledge of his attention.
Maybe it’s less what Corvo allows, and more practice. Samuel slowly attuning his senses the more time they spend with each other.
The only sound tonight is the way the water laps against the docks, the distant rumble of thunder, and Samuel’s own quiet humming as he readies himself for bed. His modest shack might be below most people but any further away and Samuel wouldn’t be able to sleep; too far from the sound of water. Too many years in the navy - he can’t sleep a wink if he can’t hear the ocean, or a river, or even the sound of a fountain, in a pinch. Plus, if he were inside, he wouldn’t hear if someone tried to steal his boat.
And he’d have to deal with everyone else, which is almost as big a deterrent as the rest of it, if he’s being honest.
Used to be, Samuel’s modest shack had two sad, old mattresses stacked atop each other and no blanket at all. Cold as Dunwall can sometimes get, it’s still warmer than he used to have it, so he’s never needed anything more. Besides, he’s got Tyvian blood on his mother’s side; Dunwall’s too warm for him sometimes, it must be said.
Samuel might’ve been comfortable enough before but that hadn’t stopped someone from altering his arrangements, though Samuel is grateful for the care. How Corvo’d done it with no one the wiser, Samuel hasn’t the faintest. The top mattress has been replaced with something that isn’t made solely on lumps, bumps and the sharp ends of springs. It’s significantly thicker, too; plush, almost. He’s never slept on anything like it and he’s already making plans on how to cart it back to his home, once all this is over with.
A thick blanket found its way atop it all, heavy enough that Samuel always kicks it off if he’s sleeping alone. After a night of that, a second blanket appeared next to the first; thinner, but shockingly soft. Soft enough that Samuel doesn’t mind cocooning himself, even if he’s puzzled about where Corvo stole it from. He hadn’t brought it back on the boat, so far as Samuel had seen, and this wasn’t exactly a fancy area, pre-plague.
It’s all unnecessary, of course, but mighty nice of Corvo nevertheless.
Samuel shucks his boots and even his socks, tucking them near the audiograph. He pauses for a moment, wonders whether he should make some sort of movement or say something, explicitly inviting Corvo in. It doesn’t seem to matter whether he does, though it is always nice to know without a doubt you’re wanted. So, Samuel turns and nearly jumps out of his skin, Corvo standing two hands widths away from him. Corvo’s eyes crease at the corners, just barely; he’s amused at startling Samuel. It’s subtle enough that, in this dark, there shouldn’t be any way for Samuel to have noticed it.
Corvo’s eyes catch the light, sometimes, reflect it back like a cat does.
Sometimes there’s no light at all and they still shine, otherworldly and heretical.
“Har har,” Samuel says, with a grin of his own. It’s no business of his who Corvo worships, or what being pressed that tattoo against the back of Corvo’s hand. The damned mark is cold to the touch, more like iron in winter than anything human skin should be. Even Samuel shivers when he brushes against it, rare as such an occurrence is. No wonder Corvo’s always cold, always happy to steal a bit of Samuel’s body warmth. More than a bit, not that Samuel’s complaining.
“It’ll be cold tonight.” It’s no use trying to appeal to Corvo for his own sake, that much’s been obvious since his second day of knowing the man. Better to make an innocuous statement, perhaps on which can be interpreted as a request from Samuel.
Corvo nods. The clouds part at the perfect time, just a sliver. Just enough that Samuel can watch Corvo’s hands, as he signs. It’s unnatural, truly, but perhaps simply luck.
“Company?” He asks, keeping it short and simple. Samuel knows sign, of course - Gristol sign. Some Tyvian; more Tyvian than Serkonan, though that’s changing little by little, the more Corvo teaches him. There’s some commonality between the three but occasionally they get stuck enough that Corvo has to trace letters in the dirt until Samuel understands. Sometimes, when Corvo teaches him a new sign, his calloused, scarred hands will touch Samuel’s own. He’ll lead Samuel through the new finger placement and hand movements.
His hands linger, now.
They haven’t known each other too long, really, but Corvo’s hands linger and he waits for Samuel at night instead of wandering off into the darkness to do only the Void knows what.
The chill of Corvo’s hands sinks into Samuel’s skin, into his bones, and clings. The reality of it is more pleasant than it sounds; it reminds Samuel of Corvo himself, the way he is when he crawls into Samuel’s bed.
“A bit of extra warmth would be much appreciated, Corvo.” He smiles, genuine and pleased with the both of them. Corvo, miracle of miracles, actually smiles back. The smallest tilt to his lips, barely visible in the low light. The clouds reform, plunging them both back into the depths of night, but Samuel’s seen enough to burrow the image deep within his heart.
He wonders how many of Corvo’s expressions he misses, hidden behind Corvo’s mask. Not many, in all likelihood, given that he never wears it when it’s just the two of them - and it’s often just the two of them, now.
When he turns and crouches, headed into his shelter, Corvo follows without hesitation. It’s becoming routine, down to the way every hair on Samuel’s body tries to stand on end. It’s only because Corvo’s too close behind him, too intent. This is most likely a similar awareness to what guards across Dunwall have felt, recently. A spark of unknown danger, sizzling across every nerve ending far too late, as strong arms wrap around their neck and choke them out. Well, Samuel doesn’t know if he’s experiencing exactly the same sensation as the guards; he figures not, for all it’s a close enough approximation.
It’s the same feeling that rises when you stand too close to a light wall; imminent danger carried along with a buzz in the air, an undeniable current.
He likes it, would be happy enough to pause here, crouched halfway inside the shack, while Corvo looms strong and deadly above him. Strong, deadly, but infinitely kind. Samuel doesn’t pause like that, of course. It takes time enough to get Corvo to sleep without playing games like that, to wind them both up. Corvo waits outside, his dark eyes focused entirely on Samuel as he strips himself down to bare skin.
If anyone asked, Samuel would say that the blankets will make him hot enough as it is, without being confined in extra layers.
No one asks, no one knows to ask, so there’s no need for the falsehood. He’d strip to skin even if he wasn’t planning on pulling the blanket over Corvo and himself, later. There’s water and a cloth next to his bed for the same reason he’s naked, for the same reason Corvo will soon be naked.
He doesn’t turn on the light, and not simply to lower the chances of discovery. Samuel’s seen Corvo’s scars - he hadn’t been wearing much when he’d escaped from prison, cloth turned to rags, replaced before the pub only because of Samuel’s forethought - and for all they concern him, they don’t bother him but Corvo doesn’t much like looking at his own scars.
After a moment, mattress soft and pleasant after a day on his feet, Samuel hears the soft sounds of cloth against cloth. It’s the first sound he’s heard from Corvo tonight; there hadn’t even been the crunch of dirt or gravel beneath his feet as he’d appeared before Samuel. The only noises Corvo ever makes are the sounds he makes here, in Samuel’s current home. The soft susurrus of cloth as he disrobes; the barely audible pleasure that whispers from his mouth, as Samuel takes care of him.
Both sounds are gentle enough that someone with worse hearing might simply think it’s the Wrenhaven as it winds past. Samuel’s hearing’s as sharp as ever and he treasures every sound Corvo gives him.
The silence is another oddity, along with his eyes, and his preternatural cold, and his tattoo, and the way the stump of his tongue had gone from looking raw and fresh to years old, in the course of a single night.
Samuel’s mattress carries Corvo’s scent now. It mixes together with Samuel’s own, on the pillow Corvo found for them to use. Samuel’s inured to his own river water and sweat scent, mostly, so all he can ever smell is Corvo. Sea salt and the second after a too close lighting strike; something otherworldly that he can’t and doesn’t really want to try and name. He knows what it should be called, terrifying as the thought is, but Samuel thinks of it as starlight instead.
Seems fitting, to him. Corvo might be touched by the void, might even walk through it when he disappears between one blink and the next, but he’s no void creature. No wretched beast, enacting chaos and its masters' whims with cruel indifference. He’s the stars shining in the sky, illuminating a vast expanse which would otherwise be wholly petrifying.
There’s the quiet whumf of Corvo’s great coat thumping down atop Samuel’s clothes, the rest of his things quickly following. The sword, Samuel knows, goes right next to the bed. Corvo never has nightmares, never reaches for it in the middle of the night, and Samuel isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. Where does he go in his mind when he sleeps?
Samuel knows better than to ask.
Maybe Corvo does dream badly, but he simply does it as quietly as he does everything else.
There’s some relief in the way the mattress sags beneath Corvo’s weight; he’s still flesh and blood, despite everything else. Too cold, too skittish, but soft as he crawls into bed and settles against Samuel’s side. Corvo doesn’t seem to be in any sort of amorous mood, the way he sometimes is, and Samuel rarely feels a pressing need, for all he quite enjoys sex when it happens.
The breath that touches Samuel’s chest is brisk like a winter morning’s breeze, chilly enough that Samuel’s nipples pebble near instantly. Corvo’s hand is trembling when it skims up Samuel’s side, barely there and hardly noticeable, except for the way Samuel notices everything about Corvo. A closed mouth kiss is pressed against the base of his throat, followed by another, then the pleasant sensation of Corvo’s too cool tongue dragging up the side of Samuel’s neck. How that works, Samuel hasn't the damnedest idea; phantoms and shadows cloak Corvo inside and out but this, as with all the rest, Samuel takes in stride.
Samuel finally slides his own arms around Corvo, cautiously, keeping his embrace loose. Corvo sags against him, tension finally seeping from his muscles, and Samuel presses a kiss to Corvo’s hair. Sometimes it takes hours until Corvo relaxes like this; sometimes Samuel can’t get him there, even after he drags orgasm after orgasm out of the other man. He wonders how tired Corvo is, for it to happen so quickly.
He hopes that it’s because Corvo trusts him more, because he enjoys Samuel’s presence; feels safe around him, even in this airy shelter made of boats and holes.
With his foot, Samuel feels around for the thick blanket until he can catch the edge of it with his toes and pull it up their legs. He slides a firm hand down Corvo’s side until he can pull it up to their shoulders and tuck it snugly around Corvo. The other man shivers at the sudden warmth, burrowing even closer to Samuel. His fingers dig into Samuel’s side, nowhere near hard enough to bruise; there’s inhuman force in those muscles, Samuel knows, and Corvo’s all the more careful because of it.
Corvo presses another kiss to Samuel’s throat and sighs, a pleased little huff.
Samuel closes his eyes and dreams.