Fic: Caesar/Posca, Rome, PG.

[mooging]

I still have no sight, as I still can't wear my glasses. RIGHT NOW I AM WEARING A HAT WITH MY GLASSES HANGING FROM IT ON A STRING SO THEY DON'T TOUCH MY NOSE. GO AHEAD, LAUGH. *headdesk*

Anyway.

Have an untitled little Rome fic, that 

misplacedmarblerequested, and I wrote whilst squinting at the page and trying not to go blind.

Pairing: Caesar/Posca
Fandom: Rome
Rating: PG, with one fairly strong swear word
Disclaimer: Rome = not mine (the tv programme nor the place), but there is just about the same amount of man-kissing.
Word Count:
Summary: For misplacedmarble. A little look at Caesar, and Posca, and there are spoilers for 2x01.

 

It is odd how strong loyalty can be. Unexpected, even. Slavery isn't glamourous, is often painful and usually degrading and the masters are often harsh and usually cruel, yet still there is loyalty.

Posca is lucky.

It's not that Caesar isn't harsh - he is - and it's not that Caesar isn't cruel - he can be - it's that he's not harsh or cruel to Posca. That's what matters, really, all that matters.

And so Posca fetches water. Posca folds clothes. Posca stays with Caesar through most of each day and although he'd have to do this anyway, he does it and he cares. He cares, and Caesar - Caesar doesn't not care, which is something. Posca can't tell any further than that: Caesar is hard to read.

Posca stays with Caesar. He's seen him through most things. He's seen him eat, drink, curse, shout, fight and even fuck (for there is always something wanted in the moments of cool-down and sated breathing, and Posca has to be close to hear), although of course he pretends otherwise. He's seen him happy, sad, angry, vicious and everything else and everything in between. He knows everything about Caesar.

He's bathed him after fights, when Caesar has been too hurt or too weary to do it himself. He's dressed him for battle. He's said the things that have needed to be said and he's said nothing when it has been more pertinent to stay silent. He's sent Caesar into battle fed and bathed and soothed, gritted his teeth through hours of waiting and received him back, and cleaned and fed and soothed again.

He cares now. He's always cared, if he's really honest, but he doesn't follow that line of thought any further because he is a slave and Caesar the master, and that is - well, that is all.

And sometimes, only sometimes, Posca will bring this or carry that or fetch something else entirely, and Caesar will look at him with big, dark, deep eyes and Posca will think yes, that's it, that's all I needed. Other times, Caesar's eyes are as cold and closed to him as to any other, and Posca will be pretending not to mind for the rest of the day, and he might not sleep well that night.

He knows it's stupid. Futile, even.

But then there are the days when Posca does what he does every other day, and Caesar is still and quiet, and Posca thinks he's intruding (although slaves can never intrude, because no-one ever cares enough to notice their presence), and Caesar looks at him like he might understand. These days are better.

The times Caesar is ill, Posca is always there, letting each quake and each shudder ease out of Caesar's body, shushing and quelling the pain with water, blankets, anything, everything. These times don't shock Posca like they did, as everything unfamiliar soon becomes common-place, but they scare him, right down to the bone and back again, and each time is the time Posca fears will be the last breath, the last moment.

Despite the fear, the illness is, selfishly, a blessing. When Caesar is recovering, sweating and weak, and Posca is attending to him like always, Caesar will cup a hand gently under Posca's chin and sigh, "Oh, Posca," like he means so much more than he can express, and Posca will dutifully ignore it like he should, and Caesar will lean on him to get up, and the extra weight is like absolution.

So it is.

It is only right, really, that Posca should be the one with Caesar in the empty senate house. It is only right that Posca be the one to sooth away the blood from Caesar's blank, dead face. It is only right, but it doesn't stop Posca from sobbing into the thin air, mourning, too fast, what he hoped never to see.

Later, Calpurnia will clasp his hands and thank him like she knows, and Posca will think maybe she does, maybe she always has done.

 It's odd how strong loyalty can be.

Now Posca is loyal to a dead man, and loyal he'll stay.

After all, that's all that matters.

*

Er, who else watches Rome? Anyone?