Those people have since gone, either home to their own beds or off to crash in one of the many spare rooms this bunker has on standing invitation to guests. Generous to a fault, Sam and Link apparently think nothing of letting friends use the extra spaces at will, and in fact, they keep a host of beds made up for that express purpose. That’s a fact that a fortunate Ashton learned from experience, the first time he came here and drank slightly too much to drive home safely.
Link, ever the perfect host, hadn’t given him the chance to try. Instead, he insisted Ashton sleep off both the liquor and the post-trauma dump adrenaline crash, doing so without so much as a hint of judgment. Chattering enthusiastically aboutink brands, of all things, Link led him down several hallways, stopping at a somewhat utilitarian space that nonetheless functioned flawlessly for its intended purpose.
Ashton enjoyed his night’s sleep very much. He enjoyed waking up to a cup of coffee from Link even more, and he regretted immensely having to leave.
He wishes he had some of that early-morning tranquility now.
Craning his neck, Ashton attempts to see as much of the atrium as he can without appearing unhinged. At the moment, the common spaces of the Soul-arium appear to be abandoned. That should be reassuring, but there’s no accounting for who might be lurking just out of sight or around a given corner. At bare minimum, Sam is down here somewhere, and this is her home—she could wander in at any moment and be perfectly within her right to do so. Just thinking about that possibility, Ashton’s fingers falter on the buttons of his dress shirt.
Thankfully, Link senses his discomfort immediately. “Hey,” he says, appearing like magic at Ashton’s side, the light touch of fingers on his elbow both reassuring and humiliating at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Ashton murmurs, ducking his head. “I know that I must seem—”
“Don’t.” Link cuts him off, closing his hand the rest of the way around Ashton’s arm and tugging. “You don’t gotta apologize for how you feel, and I’m not gonna listen to you beat yourself up about it.” Taken aback, Ashton lets himself be swept along in Link's wake, uncaring that his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, because at least it’s still covering his back.
Without explanation, Link ferries him down the steps of the library and across the atrium, out through an opening in the far wall. All the while, he hangs on tightly, a steady harbor in the maelstrom of Ashton’s otherwise storm-tossed boat in a sea of anxiety. Exiting the common spaces, Link heads confidently down the residential hallway Ashton recognizes from his drunken stumble and subsequent walk of shame the next morning.
They pass an industrial-style kitchen on the right, the place where Link made him coffee, continuing on but stopping far short of the empty room Link set him up in previously.
“11”. That’s what the brass numbers on the door declare, and Link artlessly shoves a key into the lock before jiggling the handle and pushing it open. “This is mine,” he mumbles, rather unnecessarily, since yes, Ashton does possess reasonable powers of deduction.
Like much of the rest of the bunker and the spare room Ashton borrowed, Link's space has somewhat of a utilitarian feel. There are smooth concrete walls and basic wooden furniture including a queen-sized bed, double nightstands, a tall dresser, and a desk. While simple, the room is homey and tidy, and Ashton can tell from his quick, covert glance around that Link takes pride in keeping it that way.
The head of the bed is pushed against the wall opposite the door, and there’s a shelf built into the wall that runs the length of the room above it. On that shelf, Link has an assortment of trinkets displayed: everything from bobbleheads, action figures, and Batman paraphernalia to books and various DVDs. There’s also a very fancy-looking gun mounted over the shelf, not that Ashton is any kind of a weapons expert.Fancyfeels like a safe label to apply, though, as the weapon boasts intricate carving on the barrel and is meticulously displayed in a glass case.
Of note, amongst Link's book collection is a hardcover set of Michael Shield’s entire arsenal, complete with custom, themed bookends. It makes Ashton smile to see, although oddly, the books are wholly pristine in appearance. It’s as if their bindings haven’t so much as been cracked.
That’s strange,Ashton thinks, but then again, maybe it isn’t. Perhaps Link keeps a reading set in the library, and these are first-edition collectibles. Not everyone is so callous with theirs, the way he is. Ashton lets the thought go and turns his attention to the rest of the room, because something else feels off.
The culprit is easy enough to zero in on. Rather notably, Link doesn’t have a bunch of art or even any color splashed across his space. His bed sports plain white sheets, two nondescript, standard-size pillows, and an army-green knit blanket spread over the top. The bedding is immaculate, tucked in using hospital corners. As a whole, the choices seem better suited to outfitting military barracks than an artist’s private space, but Ashton knows perfectly well that not every artist wears their passion on their sleeve. Or, decorating their home, as it were.
Still, Link's walls feelbare, as if they’re waiting for something to complete them. But maybe Ashton is projecting—he enjoys color.
With a soft click, the door closes behind them and Link moves past Ashton into the open center of the room. He’s not shy about personal space, one hand brushing gently against the small of Ashton’s back as he goes. It’s not unclear what Link is doing, providing him a safe, private space to quite literally put his insecurities on display, and it’s appreciated. What Link does next, though, is the real surprise.
Before Ashton can so much as pop another shirt button free, Link is stripping down to his boxers, right there and without so much as a single word of explanation. When he sees Ashton staring back at him in bewilderment, he flashes the charming, cocky grin that Ashton is quickly coming to adore. He shrugs, lifting his arms as if to say,what did you expect?When Ashton merely continues to look on quizzically, Link drops his arms back to his sides and then rests his hands on his hips.
“Tit for tat,” Link says, presumably by way of explanation, and while (from what Ashton can see) Link's tattoos are gorgeous and flawless (as is the rest of his body, andHeavens,is it difficult to resist staring), Ashton decides that he appreciates the strange gesture all the same. “So? What do you think?”
Stepping closer—purely for objective assessment, one artist to another—Ashton takes his time visually cataloging Link's tattoos. Some are fairly simple, such as the red and raised, almost tribal design on his right forearm. It turns the skin surrounding the ink equally red and veiny when Link squeezes his fist—a basic charm. Then there’s the demon-faced amulet around Link's neck, which of course, Ashton has already noted. On Link's back, a small constellation recognizable as Aquarius, his astrological sign, is adorably constructed by connecting a smattering of existing freckles together.
“What do Ithink?I imagine something along the lines of what Pope Julius II thought when he first laid eyes on the Sistine Chapel.”
“You know, some people just say, ‘I dig it,’ when they like stuff.”
“Hmm. Fascinating. A true anthropological revelation.”
“Dude.”
Ashton smiles, but he’s really focused on the artwork. While some are indeed basic, several are not nearly so simple. The first complex creation to catch Ashton’s eye is an inked version of Link's gorgeous classic muscle car, perfectly depicted down to the characters on the license plate. It’s showcased by several different stretches of roads running across various planes of his body, some disappearing into the distance, allowing the car to power along and do so as well.
The interesting thing about the car is that it actually drives, and not only on the tattooed roads. As Ashton stands there and watches, it circles Link's torso just above the line of his boxers, dips below, and then reappears traversing the back of Link's thigh. Ashton has to lean to see it follow the vanishing stretch of yellow-lined asphalt that narrows to nothing near the posterior hinge of Link's knee.
Fascinated, Ashton finds himself almost gawking as the car shrinks smaller and smaller until it’s out of sight. Even knowing that the tattoo is enchanted, Ashton still startles when the vehicle seems to appear out of thin air, motoring around the curve of Link's neck, down over his left pec, and settling just beneath his ribs on the left side. Link laughs heartily at his reaction, looking extremely pleased—as well he should be, the work is impressive.
“Sometimes she turns into a horse,” Link says casually, his index finger tracing over the car’s curves. “You know, like Black Beauty?” Ashton keeps his eyes fixed on the ink, but the gears in his head are turning. Something about the way Link's speaking is pinging his radar. Honestly, if he didn’t know better, Ashton might think that wasanotherreference—not to the well-known movie, but to the main character of Michael Shield’s novels, or more specifically, the black horse that he rides named Beauty.
His light suspicions evolve into a much more confident surety when Ashton shifts his attention to the other pieces Link has adorning his body.
