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Mort had to be in control. Had to be in charge. That was the only way he knew how to function or to feel safe. He realized then and there, covered in dust out the front of Tristan’s old house, that being in charge was sometimes just as much about avoiding vulnerability as it was allowing someone else to be vulnerable.
He flickered a glance at Tristan, then looked away again. Was Tris capable of being in control? These last several weeks, he’d stopped his self-destructive ways almost entirely, and Mort knew it was because Tristan had been looking after him.
Maybe Tris had changed. Maybe love had helped to heal some of the wounds on his soul and psyche. Mort couldn’t be sure anymore, because Mort was now just a plain old stock standard human with no supernatural insight.
Tris reached out and stroked Mort’s cheek, more to get his attention than anything else. When Mort moved his eyes back to Tristan, he saw a new expression in that blue gaze.
“Kneel for me,” Tristan crooned, seducing him into submission.
Mort wanted to refuse, or rather, everything in him demanded he refuse. But this was a request the man he loved was making and there were greater parts of him that wanted much more to give Tristan everything he wanted. He truly asked for so little.
So it was that the great and powerful Mort, erstwhile Grim Reaper, sank to his knees before the man he had once entertained ideas of owning.
Tristan looked down at him with a smile, not a smug smirk, but a loving look of pure approval. “You are so fucking hot,” he said, his voice thick with love. “And I will do anything for you. I would fucking die for you.”
Mort didn’t feel like he was submitting. Mort felt like he was being watched over and loved. He felt like he was special, and like the weight of the world no longer rested squarely on his shoulders. In paradox of all his expectations, he felt free.
For the first time in his mortal existence, Mort began to cry. Thick tears pooled in his eyes, then ran down his nose and fell to the dry desert sands. He was experiencing true release for the first time, and all from a simple command to kneel.
“Aw.” Tristan made a sympathetic sound and crouched down in front of him, shirtless torso rippling. He did not allow Mort to stand, did not release him from the moment of intensity, but he did join him in it.
“You’re such a good boy,” Tristan crooned. The words went through Mort like a warm wave. “You’ve always tried so hard, given everything to me. From the moment we met, you’ve wanted to make me safe and whole. You’ve loved me so hard, back from the edge. And you’ve never asked for anything in return. Not once.”
“I asked for you,” Mort said through his tears.
“And you have me, but you deserve more than that too. You deserve happiness. And you deserve…” Tristan looked up at the home he clung to so fervently. “You deserve more than this old house. You deserve the fucking world.”
“I don’t need anything beside you.”
WELL, DAMN!
The words were not spoken. The were drawn from the creaking of the earth. There was a rumble and a puff of smoke, harbingers of the presence of something very powerful and utterly unpredictable.
“That was quick!” Loki appeared, mai tai in hand, little pink umbrella placed at a jaunty angle next to two brightly-colored orange and yellow straws.
“It would take most gods an eternity to learn humility, lifetime after lifetime, but you,” he said, propping his shades up on his head, dark sea water wet hair tangling over his shoulders like a cool aunt. “You worked it out in a matter of weeks.”
Mort wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve and bit his tongue. He very much wanted to tell Loki to fuck off, but he remembered the consequences of his impertinence from the previous encounter.
“Seriously. Usually a challenge like love each other and get your head out of your ass is harder than any of the twelve tasks of Hercules. I’m impressed.” Loki drew on his drink, making a bubbling sound with the remnants.
Tristan and Mort looked at one another.
“While you’re down there,” Loki said to Mort, making Mort think something untenable was about to happen. Instead of any lewd references, Loki plucked something seemingly out of thin air and gave it to Mort.
When Mort turned it over in his hand, he discovered that it was a ring. It was a pretty cool one, made of obsidian, if he had to guess, very sleek, very stylish. There was a small jewel inset into the band, an oval-shaped amethyst. He liked it, but soon discovered it was not meant for him.
“Give it to him,” Loki prompted, gesturing at Tristan.
