Realized I had not posted a couple of Type Moon fics here because I write primarily when possessed by the purpose and muse of a fic exchange, and even that has been a few years. This one is from when I was matched to a friend for Yuletide in 2021. It can be read as Gen-fic or Pre-slash of Waver and Iskandar during Fate/Zero. I know this won't be to the taste of a lot of people who prefer really lore-heavy and experimental fics, but it's just a little scene, which is what I was prompted to do. Dare I hope, someone will like it and tell me so.


Presence

Waver knows what a Servant is. He had spent feverish hours with his stolen prize, in a secret library halfway around the world, during those first hours. He had been more fascinated with the prospect of undertaking something that Lord El-Melloi alone had believed himself worthy to do. But Waver is a good student, if nothing else, and he had not neglected to absorb the knowledge of what a Servant really is.

They are Ghost Liners. They are a page ripped from a book, touched upon by every page before it but none after, in terms of their own lives. The Grail has granted Rider with knowledge of the modern world, even if the nuances of culture and custom seem to be lost on a man who so often claims to care greatly for them. However, he knows little of the life he once led after the moment in which he had best-encapsulated the essence of this form. He is Rider Iskandar, not Saber, though such a page could exist in his book.

He does not seem much like a book. Not now, when he is lying on a futon on the floor. He breathes deeply, and he isn’t at all shy about snoring. It’s making it difficult for Waver to get any sleep, but he dreads waking him to complain.

Waver sits up in bed, leaning back only a little.

Adrenaline could also be to blame. He doesn’t want to think about coming to, some time after the confrontation had already passed, in a lump that Iskandar had taken to shaking awake. Instead, he looks down at his palms and flexes his fingers.

The ability to summon a Heroic Spirit is somewhat different than the ability to summon another creature. The Grail and the force of human history did some of the work for them. Still, he longs to feel that something of this power, this experience, is his own.

His hands are soft. The only calluses he feels are those that line where a pen rests in his hand. He taps the pad of his thumb to the bad of each of his fingers. Gray light is starting to seep in through the windows, as magical warfare is best conducted at night.

He still sighs a little at the fact that it might make it a little harder to sleep. Jet lag still has his body confused, if nothing else.

He is about to try and roll over, back to the sun, to try to sleep again. As his eyes scan the room, he starts and straightens a little as he sees two eyes staring at him. They are a warm, bronzed color that goes with the rest of the man before him. Snoring and displaced by the carelessness of sleep, he could be considered crude and even boorish, but now the lines of his face have softened into a more intelligent stare.

Waver thinks that one makes him more nervous.

Rider’s raw physical might is impossible to ignore, but the thought that this oaf of a man could be anything but a source of power is something that feels distinctly un-magelike. And Waver isn’t sure that, so far away from the Clock Tower, that isn’t a better thought to have. It isn’t as if toeing the line of Clock Tower policy and belief has been getting him anywhere.

Waver’s throat issues an undignified, prolonged sound of surprise, a moment after the shock should have passed. He watches Iskandar’s gaze, unblinking, and thinks of the lightning that arcs around his chariot. Waver is forced to blink first. He looks toward the wall by his bed, sullen.

“Don’t scare me,” he admonishes.

“Do I frighten you?” Iskandar asks. Waver hears some movement that he does not immediately track with his eyes. Apparently not very much. He doesn’t offer an immediate answer, because it’s the only dignified response. “Hmm,” Iskandar ponders.

His voice is much closer, and Waver looks down to see that Iskandar has moved to be seated at the side of the bed. His shoulders easily clear it in his seated position. It seems that his grace comes much in the form of being able to do so much with so little, to be able to scarcely move and to command a room. Waver feels himself swallow as he manages to keep eye contact for a moment.

“What is it that troubles you, Master?” he asks. At the moment, there is only a little derision in the title, and Waver can’t be sure if he is imagining it.

Waver thinks about insisting that it is nothing. Back home, that would be the smart thing to do. Nothing about looking at Iskandar makes him feel like he is at home, though.

Iskandar has a scent, and it smells like what men’s cologne evoking warmth and sand and wood only dream to capture. He smells of sweat but never smells dirty for more than a few moments. He is perfect in a way that no other person Waver has ever met has been. He frowns and is made aware of it mostly by the sudden invasion of Iskandar’s hand into his line of sight. He cowers back, but it’s too late to escape the gentle flick.

This time, it only smarts a bit. It doesn’t knock him backward.

“I asked what troubles you,” Iskandar prompts again.

Waver bats his hand away and regrets thinking anything like praise for him for a moment. He says the first thing that comes to mind so as to avoid anymore humiliation or pain.

“When you’re in the room with me, I don’t feel any particular pull on my mana. I know you’re here. I feel it when I dream... your dreams... and I know when you call to me,” he said, tapping his temple to indicate the telepathic sort of connection that existed between them. “But when you’re... here, I just feel like another person is in the room.”

There is silence between them for a moment. It feels almost comfortable. Then Iskandar laughs. He doesn’t just laugh; he guffaws, and Waver feels compelled to lunge forward onto his hands and knees. He waves one hand in front of Iskandar, though he does not quite strike him. He isn’t brave enough. Instead, he mashes his palm against his mouth.

The thunderous laugh dies down a bit toward a still too deep chuckle. Iskandar turns his head, and Waver feels the brush of his beard against his hand. It’s an unfamiliar feeling.

“Stop laughing at me,” Waver says. He feels he has very little authority.

“What am I but a man? An ox?” Iskandar suggests.

“With your manners, I might think so!” Waver says.

“I have never known magi to be particularly concerned with manners,” Iskandar says. He grins, and Waver realizes that his hand is still pressed there where he can feel the corner of it. He draws his hand back and rubs his opposite thumb against his palm, feeling a bit chastened or fascinated. He isn’t sure which.

“Have you known other magi?” he scoffs.

“It would be a better use of your time to ask me what kind of man I have not known,” Iskandar replies.

Waver looks at him, actually pushed into silence for a moment. He rubs his lips together as he considers his next move, his next response. It would seem that Iskandar is not just a man, in the fact of his perception, but that he is a wiser man than Waver, perhaps, will ever be.