a wager or two

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The crowd reeled back as one of the men in the ring was thrown back, stumbling over his feet but not enough to take him out of bounds. Vico could barely see the fight as it was going on, lingering near the stairs leading to the barracks basement. The mercenaries were crowding around the ring as if there were a courtesan strip show going on in the center, and no doubt, to some of them, the prospect of a hot-blooded fight probably offered the same level of intrigue. He could barely see past the line of their shoulders - unlike the Assassins, these were all broad-framed, large, stocky men, wearing heavy armor and heavier weapons at their waists, waving thick arms in the air as they cheered on the combatants.

No doubt, Adamo was the underdog here if it was such a mercenary he was fighting against. Although Adamo was taller than Vico (which really wasn't as much of a feat as one would have thought), he was still much smaller than even el Maestro himself, let alone such weathered, burly soldiers. By necessity, an assassin's build was naturally more lithe and quick-footed, after all.

A chorus of "Oooohs," swept through the crowd. Perhaps a particularly showy blow had knocked a contestant off his feet? Perhaps it had been an underhanded move? (Though these men were honorable, they were still not above using such tactics.) Perhaps it had been a jaw-dropping, acrobatic, complicated maneuver with insurmountable grace that had elicited their awe, but ha, thought Vico, rolling his eyes, as if Adamo would be capable of it, as much as he would have liked to be. He huffed in amusement to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to another, simply waiting for the spectacle to end so that he could collect his bet money and be done with it.

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Vico pulled a face. "You should be," he said, and now that they were safe, he allowed his anger to boil through to the surface. His expression tightened, eyes growing dark underneath his hood. "But all this apologizing is making me sick. It would do you better to save your breath and not pull stunts like this in the future. I will not always be there to carry your sorry hide out of there."

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An odd feeling struck Adamo - was he being... scolded? It never happened like this. His head ducked just a fraction, where his hair almost hid his eyes.

"You make it sound like it's my fault," he answered quietly.

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"Just go rest," Vico sighed, long-sufferingly. He pushed open the door with his shoulder, and just as he expected, there were already a few recruits settling in there for the night. They attracted a few glances but few questions - assassins knew when to ask and when not to, and considering their profession, it wasn't as if a few scrapes and cuts were anything out of the ordinary, though. What was, though, was perhaps their state of dress, or, rather, Adamo's state of undress.

"A wild night, eh, Liberatore?" Bianca commented, from one corner of the room. Her partner was nowhere to be seen. She rubbed her chin, and after a pause, thoughtfully added, "Do you need help, brothers?

"He will be fine," Vico answered, waving a hand to assuage her worries, but he didn't offer more explanation than that. It was Adamo's story to tell or keep secret, and Vico had never been the gossiping sort anyway. As explosive as his personality was, he was, at the same time, incredibly private with his affairs.

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Adamo wore a frown all down the stairwell, until the very last step, when the shadows no longer hid his dissatisfied face, nor the pain on it. He forced his usual grin on, and although that was rather ordinary of him, the sleeveless tunic (that definitely wasn't his, with the way it didn't fit properly), the bandages, and blood stains peeking just barely through the dark fabrics were not so ordinary. Perhaps it was instinct, but assassins seemed to know when blood belonged to either their brethren or their brethren's prey.

Adamo's hand fell from his chest, and his posture straightened as much as his wound would allow without feeling like it was going to stretch right off his stitches. His skin was paler than usual, but in the flickering candle light, that was easier to play off.

"You have no idea. And your help would be great," Adamo said pleasantly, something vindictive in his tone. He didn't like Vico answering for him. "Vico can be so rough."

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Bianca raised a brow. "So I've been told."

Vico tensed, going from tired to strung taut enough to snap in record time. "You-!"

She was all smiles and by Adamo's side in a moment, though - fast, as she should be. "My, my, I didn't know you liked it rough, Adamo," she commented, but the hand and shoulders that slung his arm around her neck were strong, and the arm that wrapped around the man's waist were knowing as they held him up.

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"Keeps things exciting, you know?" Adamo laughed, giving Bianca's arm a grateful pat. Usually Adamo wouldn't credit Bianca to be the gentle at all, but there was a subtle caution in the way she helped him up. He was thankful for that too. "I'll return your tunic later, Vico."

Adamo made it a point to wink at him.

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Amidst the good-natured laughing of their brothers, Vico just made a frustrated sound and slapped a hand to his face. It still smeared red on his forehead from where he had carried Adamo out of the barracks, and his shirt was still stained in patches on both the front and back, though thankfully, the material was dark and hid it relatively well. "Go die in a watery ditch, you idiotic piece of horse shit!" he shouted, only eliciting more laughs as he stormed further inside the hideout to clean himself up, a small little ball of fury.

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"Always so angry," Adamo said, amused, but his brow was wrinkled. He and Bianca went the opposite way, where a few cots were set up in a spare room, where they would have a few more laughs (Bianca isn't so bad after all, but maybe she was toning it down for an injured comrade), Adamo wouldn't tell his story beyond 'got in a fight', and he would sleep almost ten hours longer than usual.