Hello everybody! Yes, I know I took forever with this, but hey, I wrote it, eventually. I hope no one is disappointed, and everyone completely loves it instead...

This is from Basta's sorta-POV again, just like "Hate". Oh, and the title isn't REALLY accurate, but there is a bit of it going on.

Ooh! And amusing thought: you know celebrity couple names, which get passed on into fandoms? Well, what would Basta/Dustfinger be? Either Dasta, which is rather normal-sounding, or... wait for it... Bustfinger! Hehehe... Um, yeah. On with the story.

Basta knew the instant Dustfinger woke, even before the man moved. He sensed it in the air, and his whole being tensed, ready, though he didn't move from where he was leaning against the wall. But he waited still, until Dustfinger's eyes had fluttered open, and the fire-eater had groaned, putting a hand to his head. He waited, and then Dustfinger looked up and saw him there, and Basta's eyes narrowed, sharpening, focusing in on Dustfinger.

Dustfinger froze, his hand still held to his head, and stared at Basta for a long, long moment. Basta stared back, his plan – to stab Dustfinger as soon as he woke, so that he would barely return to the world before he was forced out of it for the last time – forgotten. His eyes felt caught in Dustfinger's, and a strange disconnected feeling was spreading through him, nothing like the rage or hate he'd felt before.

Dustfinger finally blinked, and swallowed, and the spell was broken. Basta ran his eyes down the figure on the floor in front of him, his throat clenching with the desire to do unspeakable things to it. His hand dropped to the knife at his side, and the disconnectedness was nothing but a faint memory, as the hot, familiar hatred washed over him.

Dustfinger, strangely enough, looked away. This was surprising enough that Basta paused, the knife in his hand halfway up in the air.

Dustfinger never looked away from Basta. He was too afraid, of Basta's knives and of Basta himself. They both knew it, and it had never changed or varied before. Dustfinger would stare at him. He might talk; he might try to get away. He might just shiver in fear. But he would stare at Basta. At Basta, not off to the side. He should be looking at Basta right now.

Something hot and slippery inside Basta's stomach flopped over.

Dustfinger put both his hands flat on the ground, and pushed up with a grunt, climbing wearily to his feet. Basta hadn't tied him up, because he had no rope and because Dustfinger was going to die soon after waking anyway. Not to mention the fact that he'd been hit over the head with something heavy and blunt, that Basta hadn't gotten a good look at.

Dustfinger still wasn't looking at Basta, not even when he spoke. "Basta."

Basta's fingers clenched on the handle of his knife at the sound of the familiar, rasping voice. "Dustfinger," he acknowledged in return, his voice hard and spiteful.

Dustfinger swayed slightly, and put a hand out to the wall. His other hand lifted and explored the matted, bloody hair on the back of his head. He winced. Basta watched in silence, breathing slowly, trying to hold in the desire to cause pain.

Dustfinger looked around again, slowly, eyes scanning straight over Basta, at the same speed as they passed over the dirty walls, as though the man with the knife just blended into the scenery.

Basta bit his lip, hard.

Then Dustfinger looked up and met his eyes, and a bolt of hot lightning, mixed relief and something else, passed through Basta. This was better.

"Where's Gwin?" Dustfinger asked, sounding worried, though his voice was steady.

Basta finished bringing his knife up, holding it in both hands, running a thumb along its razor-sharp edge, playing with it. He didn't know where the marten was. The last he'd seen of it, it was on the ground, unmoving, while the men's attention shifted to Dustfinger.

"Dead," he shrugged, and for perhaps the first time yet, he saw Dustfinger shut down.

His head dropped, and his eyes closed, and he breathed in once, sharply. His shoulders slumped, and for some reason, Dustfinger suddenly appeared very small. Basta didn't know why, but he didn't like it. This wasn't the same kind of small that Dustfinger looked when he was backed up against a wall, Basta's knife to his throat, cornered. This was different entirely, and not at all welcome.

Dustfinger chuckled quietly, sounding far from amused, "Of course." He looked up at Basta again, and there wasn't any fear in his expression. "What happened to him?"

Basta eyed this new Dustfinger uncertainly. Something was very wrong here, and he didn't know what. "You don't remember?"

Dustfinger just stared at him, waiting.

"It was Mortola's men. They were going to kill them, but then you tried to stop them."

Dustfinger's hand, the one not holding him steady against the wall, lifted briefly to his hair, touching the bloodied lump again. "They hit me," he whispered, and shook his head softly.

Basta frowned. Dustfinger was laughing again, quietly but with evident amusement this time.

"What are you laughing at?" he snapped, injecting some venom into his voice, though Dustfinger didn't seem to even notice.

"Just like in the book," Dustfinger muttered quietly, his voice bitter. Then he stopped laughing, as something appeared to occur to him, and he looked up at Basta again, eyes wide. "But, you saved my life."

Basta saw it the moment it entered Dustfinger's eyes – a hint of fear, along with shock and the strange bitter amusement. He pounced on the fear, the familiar expression, and smiled wide. "Yes, that I did."

Basta took a step closer to Dustfinger, playing with his knife again. "I'm sure you can guess why, Dustfinger."

With his step forward, the bitterness had left Dustfinger's eyes, and the shock too, as he glanced down at Basta's advancing boots, then back up into his face. All that was left was a sort of trapped panic, which only seemed to grow with each step forward Basta took.

Basta's deliberate smirk quickly grew genuine, his steps heavier and more certain as he approached, the fear seeming to have filled the air around Dustfinger, making it heavy and alluring.

Dustfinger stepped back, once, his back hitting the wall. His jaw set briefly in defiance, and he moved to defend himself, but before he'd even raised his arms, Basta was there.

His knife found its way easily to Dustfinger's throat, resting in that familiar place, and Basta felt fire ignite itself low in his stomach, as he dismissed the oddity of the past few minutes, focusing on the pulse under his blade. This was it, then. Finally. One slow swipe, and Dustfinger was gone forever, out of his life.

"You wanted to kill me yourself," Dustfinger said, and Basta's smile widened even further, knife pressing just a little harder, denting Dustfinger's skin.

Basta waited until Dustfinger met his eyes before he nodded, grinning with all his teeth shining white in the dim light. "Exactly, fire-eater. Exactly."

Then he pushed in further, and with a single, fluid movement, he… stopped.

He froze right as the first drop of blood spilled down from Dustfinger's neck, staring at it.

It was far from the first time Basta had seen Dustfinger's blood, that wasn't what was stopping him. But what was? He had no clue. Capricorn was… no longer a factor, and Basta didn't serve The Magpie. They were all alone, and there was no one that would look for Dustfinger. No one that would find the body in this abandoned hut, and no one that would put Basta in jail. So what was holding him back?

Dustfinger swallowed, his breathing loud, and another drop of blood welled up beneath the blade, sliding down the fire-breather's neck.

Basta looked back up, from the blood drop to Dustfinger's face, and it hit him. Looking at Dustfinger, taking in the frozen trapped look on Dustfinger's face. He noticed suddenly how close he was standing to the other man, Dustfinger's muscles tense and frozen with fear.

Basta swallowed suddenly himself as he looked down at the frozen man, taking in the scars. One ran diagonally down Dustfinger's cheek and just across his lips.

Basta took a deep breath, fighting with himself. He was going to kill Dustfinger now, he just needed to push forward – that was what was going to happen, nothing related to dreams of any kind, he was going to unlock his muscles and push…

Basta's arm was locked in place, unmoving.

Dustfinger's eyes remained wide with fear, though now he was glancing at Basta almost quizzically, obviously wondering why he wasn't yet dead. Basta willed his fingers to move, his arm to unclench, but nothing happened.

Basta's other hand lifted, though, and shoved against Dustfinger's shoulder, holding him perfectly still against the wall. There was nothing stopping him now. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

Basta's fingers brushed Dustfinger's neck, and he took a sudden breath and moved.

Dustfinger jumped, head jerking slightly in surprise, and pain – the injured back of his head had just been pressed into the wall – but the knife to his throat kept him from moving more, and he just stood there, still, as Basta kissed him.

Basta pressed hard against Dustfinger's lips, heat building in him, so long held back that it was now bubbling over, and his left hand clenched on Dustfinger's shoulder; his right stayed locked in place, the knife not slipping an inch.

Basta drew back suddenly, and took a deep breath, harsh and panting. Dustfinger's eyes were open, and he was staring at Basta in complete shock. His mouth opened, but didn't form any words, and his face was red, the scars standing out in harsh white lines.

Those were Basta's scars. And Dustfinger was here, backed up against the wall, alone in here with Basta. Basta had no master to hold him back; Dustfinger had no wife. No woman, no friends, no pet even now, just Basta in front of him, Basta's knife on his throat.

Just Basta.

Dustfinger looked more afraid than ever, and he pressed back into the wall when Basta leaned forward again, but Basta didn't care. Nothing holding him back now, the hate raging through him not really hate now, but strong and angry all the same, and still directed at Dustfinger.

And Dustfinger didn't move, didn't even say a word of protest when Basta kissed him again, even harder this time, and moved his hand up grip that red hair.

Dustfinger didn't even push Basta away, and Basta could have sworn that he'd relaxed, a little, and then suddenly he knew he wasn't imagining the hand that was on his shoulder.

Basta's stiff right arm suddenly moved, his fingers losing their grip on the knife completely, because Dustfinger wasn't moving away, wasn't fighting back, wasn't fighting an enemy at all. The knife clattered to the ground, forgotten, and Basta's hands gripped hard on Dustfinger's cheeks, as he kissed deeper, mouth opening.

And yes, Dustfinger was definitely kissing back now, and Basta was filled with the sudden urge to go slash the throat of whoever else had done this. Resa, Roxane, they needed to die, because this was Basta's.

It ended, after an indeterminable length of time, and they both stayed standing there, hands on the other's skin, faces just inches away, breath mingling, eyes closed. Then Dustfinger pushed away, and Basta let him.

It was just now sinking in, what he'd just done, and Basta was at a loss. He'd hated Dustfinger for so long, years upon years, because this would never happen. He was Dustfinger's enemy, this wasn't meant to happen.

He wanted to grab Dustfinger again, and forget all of that, just let the heat take over. His heart was thumping oddly, unsteady and loud. He was enveloped in warmth, making his hands sweat.

He watched Dustfinger.

Dustfinger looked at Basta in silence, now away from the wall. He was backing up slowly, crossing the length of the little room, eyes never leaving Basta's face. He was breathing harshly, and his hair was mussed, his lips were red, and blood still dripped down his neck.

For a second, at the door, Dustfinger stopped, staring at Basta, and for a long, frozen instant, the fire-raiser's gut churned; his breath stopped; he waited, heart thumping.

And then Dustfinger was gone, out the door, not looking back, and Basta was alone in the darkness. He could hear Dustfinger through the thin walls, walking through the dry leaves, not running. He could go catch him.

He stayed in the dark room, unmoving, until all was quiet.

Basta licked his lips, and picked up his knife from the ground, smearing his finger on the thin line of blood that clung to it. For a second, once-dreams flashed in his head, and he turned to the wall, almost seeing Dustfinger against it, and he –

Sudden rage flashed through Basta, and with a quick motion, the knife stabbed into the wall with a thunk, quivering in the wood right where Dustfinger's head had been.

Basta hated that man.