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“I’ll ask nicely.”
It had seemed like the obvious answer when Zolf was stood in Wilde's makeshift office and far away from the potential ally they were discussing. In this brave new world of constant distrust and wariness, the week of probation followed by a visual inspection had become an understood necessity, and rarely did Zolf encounter someone who displayed more than the usual mild discomfort with the task. To put it plainly, things like modesty don't matter quite so much when facing the ever-present fear that a trusted ally may just turn and kill you in your sleep.
Cel, though. It’s different with Cel.
They had demonstrated little knowledge of the chaos of Europe, having lived too far away for too long, but the importance of this fact doesn't set in until Zolf is halfway through his awkward but well-practiced explanation that a full exam will be required to check for the blue veins indicating infection. Cel's distracted grin is frozen on their face, like they've forgotten it’s there, and the usual spark of excitement in their eyes has vanished without a trace. They haven't had to do this before, Zolf abruptly realizes. This isn’t an unpleasant precaution, this is an unfamiliar man demanding vulnerability of them, and Zolf hates this necessity for the first time in at least a year.
Backpedalling rapidly, he clumsily adds that any of their party can perform the inspection, though he knows he'd trust his own judgement far more readily than that of Hamid or Azu. And as he stumbles through helpless apologies he hasn't needed in so very long, he can see Cel shutting down. When they blink at him blankly, then spin on an unsteady heel to march back toward their workshop, Zolf isn't particularly surprised.
As the week wears on, endless and much too fast in turns, the inevitable regret rears its head. Cel is clearly competent, possessing quick hands and a quicker mind, though their ramblings often skew into territory unrelated to the task at hand. It isn't difficult for Zolf to imagine how the alchemist might prove very valuable on the mission, and they certainly get on well enough with his team. And thus, all these thoughts turning through his mind, he can't avoid worrying that this clumsiness has ruined any chance of winning Cel's allyship.
(Their trust, Zolf has decided, is no longer on the table. This is fine. Azu is wary of him for good reason and Hamid has grown up impulsive and strange, Bertie is long dead, and Sasha– trust is not important for his team.)
So as Zolf watches the three of them work together so smoothly, he is quietly preparing himself for the inevitable refusal on the seventh day. For a moment, he wishes he hadn't reminded Cel of the simple fact that they can refuse the exam and avoid involvement with the mission entirely. Then he shakes himself out of that shameful reverie, and wishes instead that the whole sordid affair can be skipped. Demanding vulnerability of a near-stranger just to grant them his trust is the worst sort of irony.
But no matter how much Zolf frets and pretends he isn't fretting and throws himself into the work, his time runs out eventually. Finally, it’s evening and he’s rapping on Cel's workbench to get their attention. It takes several attempts before it works.
"Hmm?" Their eyes are still fixed on the part they were tinkering with, goggles down and gaze magnified hundredfold.
"It's time," Zolf says simply, and waits, his grip on his glaive tightening. And waits, because Cel isn't reacting. He gives them an entire, agonizing minute before continuing. "Look, it's late and I'm sure you have work to do. If you'd like us to leave, that's alright, but I'd like to know now."
That was fairly succinct, he feels. In fact, Zolf is rather proud of that little ultimatum, which he'd spent several minutes rewording before entering the workshop. That satisfaction fades rapidly as Cel sets down the part and removes their goggles, turning that two-toned gaze on him.
"I'm ready now," they say evenly, sounding just as rehearsed as Zolf feels. Their hands are clenching on the leather of their coat in a strange rhythm, and the task of meeting Zolf's eyes seems beyond them at the moment. Then they wrench themself around and begin weaving through the many half-built mechanisms on the floor toward the back of the shop. Zolf follows, barking one metallic shin on something that looked far too intricate to be cast aside on the floor. A quiet clong rings through the workshop, and Cel doesn’t look back.
Eventually, Zolf finds himself standing in the doorway of a cramped bedroom, atrociously messy with a few contraptions scattered about the floor. A concerningly spiky hammock hangs in one corner, which upon closer inspection turns out to be made entirely of metal. Despite all the metal, Zolf notes that there appear to be no weapons in the room. Slightly reassured, he forges on.
“Right,” Zolf begins, “d’you know which of us you’d prefer? I can fetch Azu, or– or Hamid, whoever you want.”
“This… this is fine,” Cel says, looking horrendously uncomfortable. “I, um, I talked to them, and they said this would probably be okay. Azu said… yeah, you’re a doctor, or something, right? So it’s fine.”
Something twists in Zolf at that. He wants, suddenly and desperately, to know what Azu said about him. It couldn’t be that bad, if Cel had chosen him. But the knowledge that Cel had felt the need to ask the others in the first place conjures some tangled emotion in him, a mess of regret and misery and resignation. Because it doesn’t matter how uncomfortable this will be, it needs to be done. He doubts waiting will do either of them any good.
“Okay,” Zolf says, letting his voice go soft, softer than he usually would for this. "You can get undressed when you're ready."
Cel's face pinches, just a little, and their jaw clenches tight. Then without prompting, they fling a hand out toward Zolf's glaive, where he holds it ready but not threatening.
"Do you really need the spear? Because, I've gotta say, when I signed up for this I did not know you'd be pointing a whacking great stabby thing at me the whole time."
"It's just a precaution," Zolf says, knowing that’s insufficient but unwilling to compromise, not on this. "I don't plan on using it, not unless you're infected."
"Well, I'm not infected, so you shouldn't need it," Cel retorts, the pace of their words hurtling toward indecipherable. "And you can just put it over there and then we can get this over with and you can– you can just– get it over with."
Cel heaves in a shuddering breath as their words stutter to a halt. Their hands are once again clinging to the worn leather of their sleeves, knuckles going pale with the strain. Zolf takes all this in and makes a snap decision.
“Right. I can’t put it down, but I can stay here, yeah?” He backs off to put Cel out of the weapon’s reach. In a pinch, he could jump forward and land a hit, but he really hopes he won’t need to. “I don’t need to get any closer.”
Cel squints at him, and Zolf can almost see the calculations running lightning quick in their mind.
“This alright?” Zolf asks, just to be sure. He rests the butt of the glaive against the floor with a dull thunk, pointing it upward.
“Sure,” Cel says, after a moment. Then they begin taking off their coat, handling it far too indelicately for the worrying number of tiny glass vials tucked inside. Now in their shirtsleeves and painfully quiet, they seem far smaller than their six-foot frame should allow. They fidget silently for a moment, gaze bouncing around the room and studiously avoiding Zolf.
“You know what, I’m gonna…” They trail off, taking a few tentative steps to their hammock and snatching up the blanket tossed haphazardly over it. Holding the blanket tightly, they cast a wary eye toward Zolf. “Listen, if you tell me I can’t have this then things are not gonna go well.”
“The blanket’s fine,” Zolf is quick to say, and Cel wraps themselves in it the instant the words are out. He decides that he doesn’t need to point out that in the end, he will need to see under the blanket. It seems a bit obvious at this point.
Visibly concentrating, Cel begins wriggling oddly, presumably shedding clothes beneath the blanket. It takes far longer with the blanket in the way, but Zolf chokes down his impatience. There’s not much he can do to make this easier for them, but if this delay makes them feel better, then he’ll wait as long as he must.
Finally, Cel extricates a frankly impressive amount of clothing from the blanket and tosses it to the side. They tug the blanket a little tighter, shifting their weight uncertainly.
"Right," Zolf says, and unobtrusively adjusts his grip on his glaive. He wants to believe that Cel is clean, but he’s seen the infected perform fear and discomfort with worrying accuracy. And Zolf has now seen Cel work for an entire week, they could prove a terrifyingly competent foe if it comes to that. He really hopes it won’t.
“So, just to make sure,” Cel begins, and Zolf rapidly refocuses, “the only way I’m getting stabbed is if I’m infected, right? Because I don’t want to get stabbed today, and it hurts quite a lot, being stabbed–”
“Only if you threaten me or my team,” Zolf corrects, and Cel doesn’t look much happier. He sighs. “Look, I’m a healer. So, this kind of thing– I’ve done it before. I’ve seen, uh, things, and no judgement, alright? And– I don’t know if this’ll help much, but I don’t… enjoy this, er, I wish it wasn’t needed, but…”
“I do understand,” Cel offers hesitantly, sounding a bit like the words are being torn out of them. Then, very deliberately, they pull the blanket away.
From here, it isn’t much different from how this usually goes, Zolf thinks. He concentrates on completing his task as quickly and thoroughly as possible, looking Cel over with the practiced eye of a healer. They are perfectly still, except when responding to Zolf’s quiet directions to raise an arm or turn a certain way. As cooperative as can be expected, considering.
Once Zolf is reasonably sure that Cel is clean, he finally allows some of his worry to drain away. Knowing better than to set his glaive aside, he nonetheless relaxes his stance and makes to look as non-threatening as possible. This is the point when he usually attempts some kind of reassurance, so he pulls himself together and makes the effort.
“Cel?”
They jump at the sound of their name, moving instantly to cover themselves on instinct before remembering. With visible effort, they force their arms back down to their sides. They still aren’t looking at Zolf.
“Looks like you’re fine,” Zolf says simply, seeing no reason to withhold the news. “I’ll need to finish the check, just to be certain, but it shouldn’t be much longer.”
Uncharacteristically, Cel remains silent and simply nods in response. Their shoulders have begun to creep upward, and every so often a tremor will run through their frame. Zolf scowls at the sight and focuses on finishing the check as quickly as possible.
It takes a few minutes, but again, Zolf sees no trace of the telltale blue veins. What he does see is an impressive collection of scars, some clearly from combat, some carrying the familiar aura of magical damage, and some he can’t identify at all. Cel’s skin tells the story of the seventy-or-so years they’d mentioned having lived, and it doesn’t appear as if all those years were kind to them. This knowledge is filed away along with all the other things he isn’t supposed to have seen in his time as a healer, to be steadfastly ignored as long as necessary. And with that done, Zolf steps back and lets out a breath.
“All done,” Zolf announces, nearly wincing as his voice rings uncomfortably loud in the room. Cel twitches, but doesn’t move to get dressed, doesn’t turn away, nothing. “Completely clean, so… we’re good.”
Cel raises their head, and they meet Zolf’s gaze for the first time since this whole thing began. Their eyes are suspiciously glassy, and Zolf is struck by an awful sense of familiarity. He hasn’t seen an ally cry in a very long time, (he hasn’t been the cause in even longer,) and the sight brings to mind a malnourished girl hiding in an oversized coat, an increasing collection of daggers tucked near to make sure no one got too close. He hadn’t known how to be around her. He doesn’t know how to be around Cel, either.
“Look, I’m– I’m really sorry about this,” Zolf says, and he knows this part of him is rusty and out of practice. He knows, but he still wants to try. “I’ll just… I’ll leave you alone now.”
But Cel still isn’t moving, and he doesn’t know them, not really, but it seems worse somehow to leave them shivering in the middle of the room. This hasn’t happened before, Zolf has no template for how to deal with this, but he knows he needs to try.
“Cel, do you want to put the blanket back on?" Zolf briefly considers moving forward to hand it to them, but rejects that out of hand. They won't, he imagines, appreciate him getting too close right now. "That might make you warmer."
Cel's gaze turns to the blanket, and they lurch toward it, strangely uncoordinated. Moving as though they're underwater, they pull the blanket to themselves and wrap it around their shoulders. Their eyes slide shut.
Zolf watches for a moment, as Cel stands stock-still and seems to forget he's there. This is as good as it'll get with him still there, he decides. If his experience with this has taught him anything, it's that Cel will probably not want to see him again for a long while. He knows this, so he doesn't understand what drives him to speak up as he leaves.
"I'll be in my tent, so when you– if you want… yeah."
And with that, Zolf turns and walks out of the room. He doesn't let himself look back.