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handy-dandy-monster-candy · 3 years

Text

Inyez

Rating: NSFW Length: 5331 Pairing: Male Bat Creature x Male Reader (both cis)

xxx

Winter comes early up in the mountains, but I'm used to that. I like to sit by my living room windows and look down into the valley where I work, enjoying the way the city lights give the snow a warm glow. I figure myself lucky; I come from a happy family, I have a good career in a field I love, and I've managed to make a home out of the old observatory that sits like a squat little guardian at the top of a hill twenty minutes from the city.

My job gives me incredibly flexible hours, so I work whenever I'm awake and sleep whenever I want to. I've ended up with a mostly vespertine sleep schedule, which means I get to watch the sunset while I break for lunch. I'm a workaholic, though, so this "break" usually means that I step away from active work and focus on replying to emails from clients or looking up resources and reference images for my latest project as the sun goes down, and this time is no different.

I don't even notice the dark settling around me until I realise that I've been squinting at my laptop for the past half hour, and by then, the only source of light is its screen. I have outdoor lights, sure, and there's a street lamp or two on the way up the hill, but they amount to nothing unless they're on or nearby. I sigh and close my laptop to give my eyes a break, waiting for my vision to adjust properly to the lack of light around me.

I'm just contemplating making myself another cup of coffee when the window beside me explodes, and I have no qualms with admitting that despite being over six feet tall, I scream like a frightened squirrel. Instinct takes over and I find myself taking shelter behind my chair, waiting for the glass to settle before I risk peering around it. Adrenaline has made my vision sharper faster, but there's only so much I can make out in the darkness. I know I heard something heavy hit the floor after the crash, but nothing moves in the shadows, so I take the risk and scuttle over to the nearest switch plate to flick the lights on.

There's blood on what's left of the window and the scattered glass, and wide smears of it left in skid marks across the floorboards. Whatever has bled on my flooring is crumpled halfway behind my couch between me and my kitchen, cutting me off from any makeshift weapons I could use to defend myself. I creep around the other end of the couch with all the exaggerated stealth of a cartoon cat burglar, getting my first real look at the thing. It's dark and huge—about the size of a very large dog, at least—and even as my fingers grope for something to defend myself with, I don't take my eyes off of it for a second.

I approach the wounded creature with a skillet in one hand and a broom in the other, using the broom handle to prod gingerly at the thing that seems to be bleeding out on my living room floor. The first few pokes don't garner any reactions from the beast, and so I grow bolder, sending a silent prayer up to whatever gods might be listening that the thing doesn't have rabies or worse. I feel myself grimace as I lift one large, leathery wing to see more of the creature, only to snatch the broom handle back and away.

Whatever it was was awake, and it had been staring right at me with large, luminous eyes.

It takes me several seconds to work up the courage to repeat the action, and only then do I notice that those eyes are dazed and unfocused, shock settling in as blood dribbles down along its flat face. The creature murmurs when I prod it again—nothing I understand, but definitely something meant to be words—and that's when I realise that the thing on my floor is not a what, but a who. I swear and pace in my kitchen while keeping the thing well within sight at all times, but eventually my conscience wins out; I can't just let them bleed to death in front of me. Even knowing this, I know I don’t have the skills for what I need to do, so I pull an earpiece on and dial my cousin on my cell phone, grimacing when I glance at the time on my oven.

The phone rings a few times before there’s a shuffling on the other end, and then her groggy voice mumbles, “Hello?”

“Hey, Maraia,” I say, taking my first aid kit from beneath my sink and slipping a chef’s knife into my belt just in case. “I need your help.”

“Cuz? Do you know what time it is? I just got to bed an hour ago!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s an emergency.”

I hear more shuffling, and then Maraia’s voice is much more alert. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Some sort of bat crashed through my window,” I say, hurrying over with my first aid kit and kneeling in the blood beside the lump on my floor. “It’s hurt real bad. Blood everywhere. It won’t make it to the vet if I don’t do something now.”

“You’re treating a wild animal?!”

“Maraia. It’s dying!”

“Fuck,” my cousin mutters, slipping back into her role as an ER nurse. “You owe me. Okay, tell me what you see.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, and try to turn off my anxiety as I listen to her expertise. First and foremost, I rush to apply pressure to a particularly ugly wound on the creature’s pelvis and thigh, cleaning and bandaging it up as best as I can once I’ve stopped the majority of the bleeding. This is about when I bump into the creature's, er, fiddly bits, barely hidden by a thick patch of fur. I work around them as I wrap him up in long bandages.

Per Maraia’s guidance, I check the creature's eyes and find wide, fixed pupils that indicate significant head trauma; it doesn't seem like he can see me, or even sense that I'm here. Still, I speak softly to him as I work, carefully picking glass and small twigs from open wounds and doing my best to clean and close them with a combination of butterfly closures and careful stitches. He whimpers and whines very softly when the discomfort is too great, but for the most part he hardly makes any sound at all, which Maraia and I agree is more worrying than if the creature were screeching and struggling with all his might.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I sit back on my legs with a sigh, certain that I’ve gotten to every wound that there is to be found. “I don’t think I can move it,” I say to Maraia, wiping my shaking hands clean with antibacterial wipes. “Not without popping something open.”

“You can’t keep it there with you,” she replies, using the same stern, reasonable tone that she uses on her children and patients. “Bats have rabies. What if it bites you?”

“I don’t think it can. I don’t even know if it will survive the night. For all I know, it’s haemorrhaging somewhere and this will all be for nothing.”

“All the more reason for you to take it to a vet! They can treat it there, maybe put it down if they have to. Whatever they decide will be better than what you can do at home.”

“I know,” I murmur, packing away my supplies. “Thanks, Raia. I’ll take care of it.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Maraia sighs, and I can hear her exhaustion creeping back into her voice when she says, “Alright. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will. Sorry for waking you.”

“Oh, bull,” Maraia scoffs. “You were scared and came to me. That’s a good thing. Love you, kiddo.”

I can’t help but smile, despite my weariness. “Love you, too,” I say, and hang up once we’ve said our goodbyes. It would be cruel to leave this poor creature on my living room floor, so I haul my inflatable mattress out of storage and set it up in my bedroom, grateful for the large amount of floor space in the converted observatory. I check on my guest several times during the time it takes the bed to inflate, and then I carry him into my bedroom, careful not to jostle him too much when I place him on the air mattress.

I watch the shallow rise and fall of the creature’s chest for a moment before I look up into his elongated face, taking in his small, black, dog-like nose and the sharp teeth that I can see peeking out from behind parted lips. Two large, velvety ears poke up from the thick fur on his head, motionless in his unconsciousness.

From what I can tell, whatever this creature is appears to be around four feet tall, with long curled toes on each slender, delicate foot and sharp claws on the tips of his hairless fingers. He's barrel-chested from the musculature needed to support both arms and wings, with a slightly narrower waist and wide hips that lead to lithe, muscular legs. The majority of his body is covered in a short, dense layer of dark russet fur over deep brown skin, perhaps a shade or two darker than mine.

Whatever he is, I've read enough books and watched enough movies to know with certainty that I can't take him anywhere—not without possibly endangering him further. The last thing I want is this creature ending up dissected in a lab somewhere, or worse. I scrub my hands over my face and get up to go clean my living room, taking one last glance at the creature in my bedroom before closing the door behind me as quietly as I can.

The first night is harrowing. Batty—as I've taken to calling my guest in my head—has his first of three seizures shortly after I finish taping garbage bags over the hole in my window. I drop the duct tape and run to him when he lets out an unearthly wail, all of the air in his lungs being forced out by seizing muscles. There's nothing I can do but make sure that he doesn't hurt himself further, sitting vigil beside him until his convulsions die down and praying that he'll still draw breath when they're over.

He's unconscious for the entirety of the next day, so thoroughly insensate that I risk calling out a repairman to replace the broken window so that the cold stops seeping in. Other than supervising the appointment, I hardly dare to leave Batty's side, taking my laptop into my bedroom to do as much work there as I possibly can. I clean him up when he messes himself in his sleep, though I worry about him dying of dehydration. To prevent this, I pulse ice cubes in my blender and carefully feed him ice chips at first, being mindful of his body temperature by keeping him thoroughly bundled in blankets.

By the third day, Batty makes as if to swallow, and I drip water into his mouth in an effort to keep him hydrated. I don't know what he eats, so I climb into my car and make the drive into the city, buying a variety of potted baby foods with what I'm sure is a wild look in my eyes that keeps the cashier from attempting any small talk with me. I make it back to the observatory in record time, and though Batty doesn't stir when I waft different foods under his nose, I still manage to coax him into swallowing mixtures of meat and vegetables.

He runs a temperature that night, and I spend most of the early morning hours before dawn wiping him down with a cool cloth and stroking my fingers along his brow when he starts to shiver and mumble in his sleep. His fever finally breaks the following afternoon, and in the fading light of sunset, his eyes crack open. He's still exhausted and disoriented, though, so he only blinks sluggishly at me when I ask him gentle questions, eventually fading back into unconsciousness again. I figure it's progress.

Batty recovers slowly. For a long time, I only hear his voice when he mumbles in his sleep or when he whimpers as I tend to his wounds. Eventually, he begins to communicate with me using little humming noises, or he summons me from other parts of the house with plaintive chirps that break my heart. I carry him into the bathroom and find that he's fascinated by the toilet after startling at the sound of the first flush, though that's nothing compared to his awe when I decide to show off the shower. He's visibly disappointed when I deny his peeping requests to be carried under its spray, but he seems to understand when I explain that we should wait for his stitches to come out.

He gets a little stronger every day. After a couple of weeks, he's able to sit up for short periods of time as long as he's propped up with pillows. He holds his water bottle by himself a few days after that. Eating still takes more coordination than he's capable of, at least when it comes to utensils, but he's happy enough to nibble at the fruits I cut up for him. I take him out to the living room with me when he’s well enough, and there I play nature documentaries for him and keep him warm as the snow falls outside. He stares at the television in reverent silence when the voice of David Attenborough warbles through my speakers, and he spends the majority of the day curled around a couch cushion in a nest of blankets.

I learn that he’s as omnivorous as I’d hoped he’d be, and so I go to the store and get him a few different meats. I cook them with little to no seasoning at first, feeding him like one would a dog, but it isn’t long before he begins showing interest in my own meals, too. This urges me to start buying healthier food for myself; I figure that if I wouldn’t feed it to Batty for fear of his health, I probably shouldn’t be eating it, either. That doesn’t stop me from indulging in the odd treat, and his face when he tastes my favourite soft drink is priceless before he spits it out in shock, smacking his lips and looking at the bottle as though it’s bitten him.

“What?” I chuckle, taking the bottle from his hands and offering him a cloth. “Don’t like the fizz?”

“‘Fizz’?” Batty echoes, and I nearly drop the bottle before I can get the cap on.

“You can talk?” I ask, and I feel my eyes widen when he nods. “All this time?”

Batty hesitantly shakes his head, claws gently scratching at the cloth on his lap. “Don’t know,” he slowly replies, brows furrowing over his big, dark eyes. “I remember some. It’s hard.”

“It’s okay,” I assure him, reaching out to stroke between his ears in a way I’ve learned soothes him. “You took a bad blow to the head. I’m sorry that I couldn’t take you to someone who could treat you better. I didn’t want someone bad getting their hands on you.”

Batty nods his understanding, sighing deeply and nosing up into my palm to guide my hand along his muzzle. “Wanted to say all this time,” he murmurs, his soft, fluting voice growing weaker. “Thank you.”

I smile; my heart warms. “I’m just glad that you’re okay. I’ll take care of you for as long as it takes. Do you have a name?”

He frowns again, briefly closing his eyes. “Inyez.”

“Inyez,” I murmur, testing the name in my mouth and finding it fitting. I introduce myself in turn.

Inyez’s face relaxes into a small, sleepy smile. He echoes my name, and doesn’t resist when I tuck him back under the covers.

“Rest,” I whisper, brushing my fingertips between Inyez’s eyes. They flutter closed and don’t open again as he lets exhaustion pull him under, and I turn down the lights to let him fall asleep to the sound of whale song.

Once I know that Inyez can speak with me, I go a little bonkers with the need to provide enrichment for my guest. It’s been a while since I’ve had the company with which to play games, so I’m at once overwhelmed and exhilarated when I stand in front of the tabletop game section of the city mall’s toy store. I grab classics like Jenga and Parcheesi, but I also pick up games like Tokaido, Wingspan, and Betrayal at House on the Hill. Inyez fawns over the beautiful illustrations and pretty trinkets needed to play each of the games, and he’s held rapt by the game mechanics and advancements.

I can’t help but mirror his delighted smiles, watching him delicately place tokens on the boards with his slender fingers. The furrow in his brow as he puts together jigsaw puzzles is incredibly endearing, and he’s quick to summon me from where I’m working to show me his accomplishments. “Come!” he cries. “Hurry, come see!” My name on his tongue is the sweetest sound to my ears, and I look forward to hearing it in that cheerful tone throughout the day.

I buy an extension for the desk in my office and give Inyez his own space while I work, though more often than not, he ends up watching my monitors at my elbow, marveling at my work and asking countless questions. At his urging, I show him my digital portfolio, where I have most of my character designs, logos, and even a few structural blueprints and landscapes.

“Where is this?” he asks, hardly daring to tap my monitor screen with a claw.

“Nowhere,” I say, enlarging the image so that he can drink in the details. “Nowhere real, anyway. It’s a fantasy world.”

Inyez frowns. “A fantasy world? But it looks so real.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Well, I specialise in realism. There’s a lot of research that goes into it.”

Inyez doesn’t look entirely mollified by this response, but he subsides for the most part, only murmuring, “You even got the horns right.”

I turn my head to look down at him where he’s resting his cheek against my arm. “The dragon’s?”

“Yes.”

I can’t hold back my surprise. “There are dragons? They’re real?”

Inyez looks up at me, and I briefly get lost in his eyes. “Of course they are. They’re rare, though. Rarer than most everything else.”

“Rarer than you?”

Inyez bares his tiny sharp teeth at me in a cheeky little grin. “No. I’m one of a kind.”

I laugh, helplessly charmed. “That you are. Maybe I’ll draw you sometime.”

Inyez’s mouth drops open, eyes growing wider until I can just about see the whites. “Would you really? Me?”

“Why not?” I pull up a new canvas on my illustration programme, sketching up a quick little scene from the memory of looking down into his upturned face. He gasps softly at my side and shifts to cling to my shirt, murmuring in his strange language and making soft little cooing noises as I add colour and detail.

“Do I really look like that?” he breathes, looking from my face to the screen and back.

“Mhm.” I zoom in on the eyes, adding depth and highlights before moving to adjust the shape and fullness of the lips. Inyez goes very quiet for a few minutes as he watches the portrait come to life, only stirring to place his hand at the crook of my elbow to call my attention back to him. “What is it?”

“Do you really think I am so lovely?” asks Inyez, voice very soft and gaze shy.

I’m grateful for my dark skin as I feel warmth creep up into my face. “I do. You’re very beautiful.”

Inyez scoffs, but I can tell that he’s flustered. “You’ve only met one of us. Who are you to say that?”

“Sometimes one is enough,” I murmur, gently stroking Inyez’s small chin with a crooked finger. He makes an odd little twittering noise and hides behind his wings, and I feel my heart flutter wildly in my chest. I'm falling for this creature, I realise, and I can't bring myself to care; as far as I'm concerned, Inyez is the best thing to happen to me in a long time.

“Where do you go when you get into that terrible thing?” Inyez murmurs some nights later when we’re cuddled on the couch, his head on a pillow in my lap and my fingers gently stroking his head.

“In the car? To the city, mostly. To get food and toilet paper and other supplies.”

Inyez shifts to look up at me, confused. “You get food in that noisy place?”

I nod, brushing my hand along his cheek. “Everything we’ve eaten here, I’ve bought there.”

“But it doesn’t smell.”

“Smell?”

“The city. It smells, but the food doesn’t.”

I feel myself frown in thought. “Probably because a lot of it is washed and kept in clean places, or in airtight packaging.”

“I smell,” Inyez mumbles unhappily, tucking himself up in his wings. “When may I wash?”

I hum thoughtfully, rubbing one of his velvety ears between my fingers in a way that he likes. “Probably tonight, if we’re careful. If you really feel that bad.”

“I do.” Big, dark eyes look up from my lap, beseeching. “I don’t want to smell anymore. I want to be clean.”

“Alright,” I say, shifting to gather him up in my arms and carry him to the bathroom. “As long as we don’t scrub too hard or get your wounds too wet. I’ll still need to clean and redress them after we’re done.”

“You’ll wash me?” asks Inyez, a note of excitement in his voice. “Like lovers do! Could we be lovers?”

I can’t help but laugh, startled at the sudden change in conversation; I distract myself by fiddling with the shower controls. “We could be,” I reasonably reply, “if we both felt the same about one another.”

“Then we can,” says Inyez as he slips under the spray, cooing softly at the water’s warmth. “You think I’m lovely, and I think you’re lovely, too. It’s really that simple.”

“Is it?” I ask, dubious, even as I pull my clothing off and over my head to join him.

“Why does it have to be complicated? Is it more for humans? Is it not enough to feel safe and happy and goodness when I look at you? It’s like my heart has bitten a big, juicy apricot—it’s full of sweetness and the juice is overflowing!”

“A heart-apricot?” I chuckle, shaking my head at the silliness of the comparison. “Well, I’ll try to find you an apricot next time I’m in town.”

“Would you?” asks Inyez, burrowing against my chest and sighing. “I’d like that. I like you. Can that be enough?”

I run my hands carefully between his wings, earning myself a sleepy little burble. “I think it can.” I curb my enthusiastic reaction to this new turn of events and focus on gently cleaning Inyez’s fur to his satisfaction, and then I blow dry him until he’s warm and redress his wounds. By the time I carry him to bed—my bed, our bed—he’s limp as a noodle and snoring softly in his exhaustion, and I take great pleasure in tucking him in so that he’s safe and sound.

The next morning, I am kissed awake. That night, we kiss until we drift to sleep. Kisses and affection make up the bulk of my ‘duties’ as Inyez’s lover, and I take to the task of keeping him satisfied with relish. For his part, Inyez is content to groom me seemingly at random, running his small, clawed fingers delicately through my hair and humming to himself as he does so. I get a little less work done, but I don’t mind it if it’s to see Inyez so pleased with himself when he’s decided I’m primped to perfection.

It’s another couple of days before I give Inyez the all-clear to fly after his injuries have healed for a couple of months. We have to wait until nightfall until he takes to the air, but then he’s a dark blur against a darkening sky until I cannot see him at all. It makes me breathless when I realise that he’s lost to the night—what if, I think, he decides right then that he prefers the night and its freedoms to me? What if he misses his family, his friends, his former life. When he lands in front of me, panting and exhilarated and beautiful, I wrap him into my arms and crush him to my chest, burying my face against the side of his neck.

“What’s happened?” he asks, petting fretfully at my face and hair. “What’s wrong? Did you think I’d not come back?”

“Yes,” I say, and the word chokes me, making me realise that I’m crying.

“Oh, sweet one,” Inyez coos, wrapping me in his wings as best as he can. “I would never. Why would I? I am fed and loved and pampered, and you are a very good snuggler. You don’t even have fur, but you are very warm! Why would I leave, mm? Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” I laugh damply. “Missing your family. Your friends.”

“I’ll visit my family when my body is stronger,” Inyez tells me, tutting softly and nosing at my ear. “They deserve to know where I am, and they can come and visit us when the spring comes. They’ll be jealous of my roost and my mate.”

“Am I that?” I ask, sniffling and pulling away to look down into Inyez’s eyes. Inyez turns his face away, however, and I recognise that he is shy.

“You could be,” he murmurs, “but it’s not official yet. To do that, we have to—well, have sex. Hopefully more than once.”

“Do you want to?” I ask him, stroking between his wings so that they relax and rustle softly.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” Inyez says all in a gust, looking up at me plaintively. “I’ve been wanting to have sex with you for days. Weeks, maybe.”

I can’t help but laugh again. “You could have asked.”

“I could have.” Inyez pouts. “You would have said no, because of my wounds. You treat me like I’m fragile.”

“You are fragile, in comparison. But you’re right, I would have denied you. Now I won’t. So, ask.”

Big eyes blink up at me from that small, furry face, hopeful to their core. “Really? You’ll be my mate?”

I can feel myself grinning. “I’ll be your mate.”

Inyez wriggles against me, clutching at my clothing with a sudden fervour. “Mine?”

“Yours,” I assure him, drawing him against me and carrying him back up into the observatory. The next few minutes are a blur as we leave my clothing strewn across the apartment in a trail that leads to the bed, and I manage to find a bottle of lube I haven’t touched in months but mercifully has enough for at least a round or two.

Preparation happens before all else. Normally, this is the part where I would begin to lose interest because my previous partners have treated it like a means to an end, but Inyez is so sensitive and receptive that every little touch I give him sends him into a fluttering little tizzy on the bed. His prick is slick and red when it hardens out of its sheath, tapered at the end and thicker at the base. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I play with it with a careful touch that seems to frustrate and overwhelm the small creature beneath me in equal measure.

I drink Inyez in as he squeaks and squirms with my fingers inside him, watching his claws tear tiny little holes in the sheets as he grips them in his hands and trembles like a taut bowstring. When I finally push into him, he makes a noise like an exultation, and I fight to keep myself from coming right there and then when he wraps his legs around my hips and digs his feet into my ass to drive me in deeper. He wants more of me and I give until there’s nothing left to give, letting him adjust for a moment before I take up a rhythm that rocks the bed against the wall.

I need him, too, and I tell him so as I fuck him down into the mattress, listening to him mew and moan and say my name in a way more beautiful than any I’ve heard yet. He clings to the headboard when I roll him over onto his stomach, breathless and gasping raggedly, wings trembling like they’re weathering a storm.

“There!” he cries when I angle my hips a certain way, one of his hands diving between himself and the sheets to pump away at his hard, leaking cock. “Oh, please, there! There!”

“You want it?” I ask, and I hardly recognise my own voice, so low and guttural it is.

“Yes, gods, I want it,” Inyez mewns, almost sobbing with his need. “I’m close. I’m gonna—I’m—Please—“

“Tell me you’ll stay.”

“I’ll stay!” Inyez squeaks, not a hint of hesitation in his desperate tones. “I’ll stay, I’ll stay, I’ll never leave this roost! I swear!”

“Yes,” I growl, pushing my chest down against his back and reaching a crescendo that makes the headboard hammer against the wall. I come so hard and so suddenly that it feels like I get pulled inside out from the toes on up, and my vision whites out to the sound of Inyez wailing beneath me. When I come around, we’re tangled together in the sheets and I have him on top of me, both of us panting heavily and both of my hands buried into the soft, downy fur at the small of Inyez’s back.

“Christ,” says Inyez, and I choke on a laugh, turning my head to cough.

“That’s not an expletive.”

Inyez grunts. “You use it like one.”

I laugh. “That’s fair.”

Inyez takes a long moment to gather his thoughts, stroking the skin of my torso with careful fingers. “Would you be willing to meet my family?”

I blink up at the ceiling. “Of course. How many of them are there?”

“I have six brothers and eight sisters. I’m fifth down in the birthing line.”

My eyes bulge. “How old is the youngest?”

“Tiisa? She’s six months old. The oldest is in her forties.” I can feel Inyez smother a smile against my chest. “Mother says she’s done for now. We don’t quite believe her.”

I laugh, shaking my head up at the ceiling. “I would offer them shelter for the winter, but I don’t think they’d all fit in here.”

“Oh, Mother would hate it here,” Inyez chuckles. “It would be much too quiet for her liking. She likes life with the roost. I’ve always preferred quiet. This roost is perfect for us.”

Us. The word makes my heart swell, and I bury a smile against the top of Inyez’s head. “We’ll figure something out for their visit.”

“Mm,” hums Inyez, sighing softly before he sits up and smiles impishly down at me in the darkness.

“What?”

“Again.”

“Again?” I laugh, wrapping my hands around Inyez’s hips as they begin to rock and wriggle on my lap. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Your monster,” Inyez smugly coos, kissing my chest right over my heart.

#exophilia #gay exophilia #mlm exophilia #exophilia fic #exophilia lemon #monster lemon #monster fic #monster boyfriend #bat boyfriend #Inyez #a twink for you monster toppers out there ;3 #My work

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foxtophat · 3 years

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MERRY CHRISTMAS IN JANUARY EVERYONE yeah i know ~nothing is fixed~ but whatever, fuck you, have some fanfic

so anyway i’ve been planning this for a while, i’m kinda shocked tho b/c i finished writing it in like less than 3 days??? (aside from editing) usually it takes me longer to at least figure out how to wrap things up, but at least this one was easy money. i’m sure none of the other ones will be so kind to me

this one takes place a month or so after the last one; it’s set in spring 2028 (omfg finally on a new year!!!!) and it has a little something to do with carmina finally getting some chickens!!!! one thing about new dawn that i think was really lacking is the explanation of how life... restarted before the highwaymen. i definitely remember a few houses having chicken coops, too, so i know i’m not crazy putting these feathered friends in. to me, chickens are the most sensible post-apocalyptic pet outside of a dog; easy to care for, provide food while alive AND after death, and they can reproduce easily enough if you’ve got a rooster on hand. i can imagine a family making quite a life for themselves as a poultry farm in the apocalypse!

ugh idk what else to say so i’ll just say it: thank you so much for all of your comments and kudos on this series. i am so stoked to know that my self-indulgent trash is delicious to more than just my possum ass! i’ve had a lot of fun worldbuilding in ubisoft’s playground, and i hope to continue doing more fun stuff that other people will enjoy too!!!

with all that said, i hope you enjoy the fic :) i’ll put it below the cut for you if you don’t wanna leave tumblr, but ao3 looks so much better. anyway, thank you and have a great jan 20th!!!!

Winter melts away the same way it does every year, leaving in its path wet dirt and green buds of spring growth. John, nursing what's likely the last cup of coffee they can wring from this batch of grounds, stares out over the back yard and idly marvels at how quickly the snow had disappeared. Montana had been his first experience with white winters; even though he's gotten used to the changing seasons in theory, though, he can't help but be distracted by it year after year.

Across the yard, situated just in sight by the hangar, John can plainly see Carmina's new chickens looking for breakfast. They're the newest addition to the homestead, but so far John has only had to watch from afar as the Ryes worked to adjust them to their new home. He's not sure who's raising chickens out here, but at least they were willing to barter. Fresh eggs are going to mean a lot more than the dwindling supplies out of Jacob's cache.

The misty-gray of early morning has almost evaporated in the rising sunlight, and still the chickens haven't been fed. John watches them from where he stands, their frustration leading to subdued crows as they scratch at the dirt. He doesn't know who's noisier — them, or Nick and Kim arguing at the table behind him. Thank Christ the wet end of winter is over; John doesn't think he can tolerate much more of their married nagging. On some level, he's glad they don't make a habit of yelling at him instead of each other, but Jesus, he can't wait for them to both get some space from one another.

"This is why we said we weren't gonna do pets, remember?" Nick says. "Because if she got a pet, we would end up taking care of it. Remember?"

"Yes, Nick, I remember."

"Yeah, and here we are!"

Kim sighs. John doesn't have to look to see the exasperated eye-roll that comes with it. "It wasn't me who kept her up late last night! Which one of us was egging her on when she should have been asleep?"

This is exactly why John has never owned a pet. They're more trouble than they're worth, and the only thing they seem to be good for is teaching shitty life lessons to kids who don't care enough to learn. The only good thing about the chickens is that they provide something in return other than obnoxious crowing.

Carmina thumps around upstairs. John isn't looking forward to having to listen to Kim lecture her on responsibility, but he's not thrilled to listen to much more of this bickering, either. If his choices are to stay inside and fester or go out into the first nice day of the year — well, that's not much of a choice, is it?

"Fine," John sighs before either of the Ryes can set their sights on him, "I'll do it."

"Nobody's asking you to do it," Kim replies. "It's Carmina's responsibility."

John shakes his head. "Of course it is. Where's the feed?"

Nick points out a white plastic container sitting on the pass-through to the kitchen. "Not gonna wait for us to boss you around?" he asks.

John picks up the container and rattles it to make sure it's full. "I'm streamlining the process," he replies. "Unless you enjoy giving me orders."

Sure enough, implying Nick might like being a bossy piece of shit is enough to get him to shut up. He sighs with a deep frown at John, who ignores him as he heads out to the coop. It's a petty satisfaction to take the rug out from under Nick's feet, but John's not above it. Not by a long shot.

Some of it might be compensating for the disintegrating peace that had come with winter. Before the blizzard set in, they'd had enough on their collective plates as they prepared for the worst of the season. Afterward, the snow had prevented them from doing much more than what was necessary to survive, and the resulting downtime had settled like a comfortable blanket. Even now, with a few weeks of grating interpersonal interactions, John feels more focused, more rested than he can ever remember feeling. Living underground for eight years, he'd naively thought that he'd gotten enough rest to last him a lifetime — but he'd been strung out on Bliss and trying not to suffocate, and he hadn't known what he was doing. He's starting to suspect that the Bliss might've had a worse effect on him than the myriad other drugs he'd ingested. Hell, he's not sure he's clean even now — but he's managing, and that's what matters.

It's only once he's halfway across the yard that John realizes Kim forgot to argue about him going off on his own. Sure, he's only going as far as the hangar, but it's become something of a pleasantry she uses whenever John pretends to have the freedom to go where he pleases. Her irritation at Carmina and Nick probably made her forget. She's gotten so used to trusting John that she's finally found other things to take up her attention.

Weirdly enough, the casual disregard for his potential backslide irritates him. It really shouldn't. He should be thrilled that he can finally disappear from view for an hour without somebody calling out a search party. He's more than earned it, he thinks, but their trust highlights their naivety. Luckily for them, John means it when he says he's changed — but it's a line they're going to hear time and again from people far less genuine than he's been. They're so willing to help everyone and anyone that they don't even realize how much of a target they're making themselves. John's had to hold his tongue whenever Nick gives free supplies to shifty-eyed tweakers who are "just passing through," and while he trusts Kim not to let anyone obviously suspicious into the house, he doesn't trust her to recognize a cunning liar.

The last thing John needs is for the Ryes to put their trust in the wrong reformed psychopath. At least he's capable of picking up their slack. After all, John has his time at law school and years of psychological abuse under his belt — plenty of real-world experience dealing with unrepentant garbage. He'll notice it when somebody cases the hangar or acts too erratically, and hopefully the Ryes will listen to him if he gets the nerve to voice his concerns.

Not for the first time since summer, John is struck with a newfound respect for Jacob and the role he'd inhabited in the Project. It used to be his job to look out for insurrectionists, and he'd taken on that burden even when John and Joseph would openly dismiss his concerns. John can't imagine how many fires Jacob must've put out while the rest of the family was distracted by the Bliss. Looking back on it now, it's honestly a surprise they maintained their operation as long as they did, considering only one of the four of them was ever sober.

The chickens are hopping at his arrival, scuttling around the dirt and crowing as John reaches the pen. They don't notice him so much as the bin he rattles on approach, full of vegetable cuttings and strange white worms that come out whenever it rains. John doesn't mind one lick — he's never been much of an animal person, and he certainly doesn't care if Carmina's so-called pets notice his existence. Of course, knowing Carmina, she's going to use this as an excuse to shift breakfast duty to John full-time, and John won't have much of a say in the matter.

Well, that's not strictly true, but if Carmina asked, he knows he would do it, if only to give his day more structure. Truthfully, he's grown to depend on routine, when before it was impossible to keep to a schedule that didn't involve other people's expectations of him. There's probably a metaphor to be made about trains on and off the tracks, but John has never been particularly interested in locomotives.

John shakes the dead bugs and scraps out into the pen, watching the hens as they race to be the first to eat. They're perfectly happy now that they've been fed, cooing and clucking as they peck the dirt. They certainly seem content with safety and food — not entirely unlike the survivors living day-to-day in the town and beyond. Sure, John might not always be satisfied by bare sustenance, and one day he'll chafe under the grind of surviving week to week, but for now, he might as well be a dumb chicken crowing in the morning sun.

He throws some more feed into the pen, watching the three hens waddle after their meal. One of them lingers by the fence, freezing for a moment as her head swivels back and forth. She pecks at the dirt away from the feed before hustling after her two companions. John watches as she stops again; when he tosses a few worms in her direction, she pecks briefly at them before lifting her head to survey her surroundings.

The primal sensation of something being wrong nearly overtakes John's reasoning, before he manages to remind himself that a chicken's predators aren't exactly his to worry about. Still, he rattles the container to bring the hens scuttling towards him; all three are easily distracted by food now, but John can't shake the feeling that he'd missed something they hadn't. A fox, maybe? A snake? Anything could be lurking in the woods on the other side of the wash. Not a whole lot that could hurt him , of course, but he's not about to be blamed for Carmina's chickens being eaten by a wild dog.

The fence-line is... nebulous past the hangar, sure, but John's positive Kim doesn't consider the rest of the old airport off-limits. Then again, she might be in the mood to lecture him once she gets through with Carmina. It's a risk he's not sure he's willing to take.

Two chickens continue to eat as one keeps watch, their heads bobbing up and down as they switch off. Their unease mirrors his own, and John can imagine Faith giggling at him for being swayed by some dumb birds.

"Very well, ladies," he sighs, shaking the remainder of their breakfast onto the ground. "Don't let them say I don't care."

The chickens don't give three shits about John's motivations, of course; they watch him go, pecking at the food with increasing carelessness as the distance grows. John rolls his eyes at their sudden fearlessness, half-convinced to let whatever animal is lurking eat them out of spite.

There's a wide swath of dirt behind the hangar, separating it from the mostly-overgrown remnants of Rye Aviation that couldn't be saved. John can see the edge of the chicken pen from here, but the hangar is blocking him from the house. Even though he knows the Ryes trust him not to run off, he still feels distinctly uneasy going somewhere where they can't see him. At this point, Nick would probably only tease him for it, but John's not about to linger out here and risk turning Kim's irritation on himself.

To the right of the derelict hangars is a sparse wedge of trees that have grown in uninterrupted. John knows there's a path cut between the trunks, one he'd made himself while hauling the tire-planters for Kim last year, and there's a long stretch of unused runway beyond it. It isn't a great place for anything bigger than a fox to lurk in. That doesn't explain the feeling of being watched that comes over him as he stops halfway across the empty dirt lot; he looks around, but there's no place for anything to hide out here. The overgrowth on the old hangars can't be more than two feet high, and the bushes in the copse are brambly and sparse. The only place anything could hide would be in the trees, which is why John approaches them with more caution than they're worth.

The thinned underbrush is easy to explore, but John goes carefully as he picks through the trees and bushes. He doesn't know exactly what he's looking for — some sign of predators, whatever those might be — but he doesn't find much. There are some hoof-prints clear in the dirt, curving sharply away from the Rye homestead and back out to the airstrip, which tells John that the goddamn deer are back, probably looking to eat their hard-grown crops. Other than that, there's no sign of anything that might be stalking the hen-house. The ground is still somewhat soft from the rain a few nights ago, but it barely takes the imprint of John's boots as he explores the small grove.

That's why it's such a shock to see the tread of a narrow boot in the dirt by the trunk of one of the trees, well off the beaten path. It's an old print, he thinks — but he doesn't remember the last time any one of them had been out this way. Certainly not since the last time it rained.

An electric shock conducts itself down his spine. Somebody had been out here, hiding here in the trees, and it's only been two, three days since the last rain. John turns, and from his vantage point, he can clearly see the coop and the back of the hangar, but not the house. For that, he'd have to move out of the trees, into direct view of the porch.

It has to be Grace's boot. She's the only one he could imagine creeping around the property with good intentions. But even that explanation doesn't settle the anxious flip of his stomach; he tries not to let it show as he marches from the trees, intent on dragging Nick over and proving to him once and for all that they need to be more goddamn careful about who they let around the property. Somebody is going to want the copper fixtures they've salvaged, even if there's nobody to sell the metal to these days.

John gets halfway back to the coop when he catches something in his peripheral vision. Terrible, primal terror grips him as he fixes his gaze on the trick of the light that had scared him, ready to catch Grace peering at him over the abandoned hangars, or maybe a pack of wild dogs. What he sees instead turns his blood to ice, caught like a deer in headlights as the low-hanging shrubbery and thick vines shift and part for a rising mass of dark brown fur. The shape that rises from the underbrush is a tall, dark smudge against the blue sky, and John nearly swallows his tongue when he sees its face — or the horrifying absence of one, replaced with white, flaking skin and two huge, empty eye-sockets that are fixed on John's position.

It doesn't move. Neither does John, frozen to the spot as the chickens begin to crow and fuss. He can't fathom what he's looking at — a bear, a person, a fucking mutant? — but whatever it is, he suspects it's infected with Bliss. Who knows how many angels ended up underground after the Collapse? What might've happened to them in the years since? All John knows about them is that they're dangerous to everybody but Faith, and Faith died a decade ago. If this is an angel — God, there'll be no stopping it. And if it isn't — then what the hell is it ?

There's no way for John to get from here to the house without the thing chasing him. The hangar is blocking his brutal oncoming murder from the two people who might actually be able to do something about it. He doesn't have to look to know the distance from here to the house is insurmountable.

The creature lifts its arm, and the situation that couldn't get any worse takes an even more horrifying turn as it reveals its weapon of choice: a crudely fashioned bow, the same kind of handmade weaponry that Joseph's followers have been seen with.

All at once, Nick's voice is ringing in John's ears, warning him of what's going to happen if this gargoyle takes him away. The things John hadn't considered before — the Ryes' reputation, Carmina's safety, the hard-won trust John's gained from the survivors — it's all in jeopardy. The situation barrels into him all at once — the realization that whatever Joseph did to create this thing , he won't hesitate to turn on John.

He tries to shout a warning, but his breath is caught in his throat. Faith's voice, faint on the breeze, laughs and whispers sing-song into his ear:

They've found you!

The monster barrels down the slope of the hill as if prodded into action by a hot poker. Its gait is wide, bringing it towards John at speeds impossible to outrun. This time, John's shout comes out clear as a bell, panic screaming through him as he turns and bolts for the house. He nearly clips himself on the pen as he hangs a sharp right turn, the porch coming into full sight —

Something snags the back of John's shirt, and his momentum briefly chokes him. A thick arm bears down across his neck before he can rip free, the creature grunting in exertion as it yanks him backward. John feels his boots scrape on the dirt as he's dragged towards the trees, away from the safety that's plain in sight.

Animal instinct kicks in. John gnashes his teeth but there's nothing to bite, so he kicks out his feet instead, first in front of him and then harshly backward until he can hook his shin behind his assailant's and trip them both to the ground. The creature goes down with a surprised grunt; John does his best to roll away, only to be yanked back by his hair. He's distantly aware that he's spitting like a cat in a sack, clawing and biting, the two of them rolling in the dirt as John screams profanities and heresy at the monster trying to pin him down, anything to convince the universe to take mercy on him for once in his fucking life!

The creature manages to grab him by the shoulder, throwing him into the dirt before backhanding him violently across the face. It's enough to daze him; for one horrible second, he's unable to do anything as the monster begins to drag him across the dirt by the legs.

There's a commotion coming from the house. For a split second, the creature looks up, and John realizes his opening at the same time the monster realizes its mistake. It looks down just in time for John to kick it square in its barky, hollow-eyed face, sending a split down the wooden facade.

" John !"

The monster reels backward as if burned, grabbing at the mask as it falls away. John catches sight of a single dark, wild eye behind the broken wood before he kicks out again, sending both boots into his assailant's chest. As soon as the creature staggers back, John bolts, scrambling towards Kim as she races toward him with the rifle drawn. Nick is hot behind her; he grabs John's shoulder and drags him partway back to the house. John doesn't need the escort, and so Nick quickly leaves him to scramble up the porch as he goes after his wife.

John gets all the way to the stairs inside before he realizes there's no safe place to hide. He'd found out this winter just how flimsy the prisoner story had been; if somebody wants to take him, all they have to do is climb onto the roof and jimmy the lock on the nearest window. Whether it's through the broken window in his room or a gap in the roof leading to the attic, the Project will find him. He can't possibly outrun them forever. He'd be stupid to even try. God, he'd been a fool for thinking Joseph wouldn't send someone looking for him, that he wouldn't want to snatch John back from the clutches of apostasy. There's no way Joseph will leave a loose end like him untied.

John sinks to the bottom steps in his mounting despair, only to realize for a second time that he's being watched. The realization is less of a shock as Carmina peers at him around the kitchen archway; she jumps at the distant rapport of gunfire, staring owl-eyed at John as though she expects him to do something.

"Stay down," John hisses, setting an example as he keeps low on his way into the kitchen.

"What happened?" Carmina asks, frantic, "Is mom gonna be okay?"

"Yes," John replies, although he can't possibly know that for sure. He waits a beat, listening for more gunshots, then carefully lifts his head to check out the window when none come. He lets out the breath he'd been holding when he sees Nick standing with his hands on his hips, staring at Kim further down the yard. Whatever the danger had been, it's not pressing enough to warrant immediate action.

"Seriously," Carmina whines, as if that could hide her fear. "What was it? Was it a bear? Grace says there are bears in the woods but I've never seen —"

John sinks to the ground, his mind reeling even as the panic passes, leaving him numb. "It wasn't a bear."

Carmina chews on her lower lip, looking up towards the window as though she might try looking for herself. "Are the chickens okay?" she asks.

"They're fine," he sighs. He pushes his hair from his face, only to realize that his hands have started to tremble with run-off adrenaline.

"Are... you okay?" she asks, frowning as though she can't decide whether or not his wellbeing is her problem to deal with.

Goodwill must be genetic, John laments. "I'm fine," he tells her. She gives his shaking hands a hard look; he sighs and reiterates, "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not," Carmina huffs. Apparently, Nick's attempts to teach Carmina how to bluff haven't worked out.

John is saved from needing to reassure her as Nick abruptly appears in the kitchen arch, out of breath and red-faced. His shock gives way to relief at the sight of the two of them huddled by the counter. He's out of breath and visibly bewildered.

"Shit, John, you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, although he doubts Nick will believe it any more than Carmina had. His foot jogs uselessly against the floor. "Kim — did she...?"

Nick shakes his head. "She tried," he says, "But it was too fast. What the fuck was it ?"

"Somebody from the Project."

"No shit. But — look, it wasn't an angel , was it?"

John shakes his head. "I don't know."

Kim storms into view, making her way to the pass-through from the living room side. She sets the rifle down on the counter, catching John's eye with a glare. John hurries to explain himself, as if he could possibly apologize for bringing the cult back to her doorstep.

"I was checking for foxes," he tells her, "I didn't think it — if I'd known what it was, I wouldn't have gone on my own."

Despite the fury in her eyes and the hard edge to her voice, Kim seems to mean it when she replies, "As long as nobody's hurt."

But the damage is done, and John can't help but babble on uselessly. "I wasn't looking in the right place. But I shouted as soon as I saw it. I just — couldn't outrun it. I wasn't fast enough. And I wasn't — it was stronger than I expected, stronger than..." Even he can hear the panic edging into his voice, cutting himself off with one last worried question. "Do you think it's gone?"

"It better be, if it knows what's good for it," Kim replies. "Are you sure you're okay?"

At any other time, John would be irritated to have to reassure every single Rye individually that he isn't in the throes of a panic attack. Right now, he's only grateful to realize that Kim doesn't blame him for the thing's appearance.

"I am," he says. "Thank you."

Nick groans, covering his eyes with one hand as he leans against the counter. "So much for it being safe to go out alone. Damn it, we got too comfortable."

" I got too comfortable," John says. "It wouldn't have cared about either of you."

"What about the chickens?" Carmina asks, "Are they safe there?"

Kim crosses her arms. "What I want to know is what the hell the Project is doing out here."

Her question is the only one John has any insight into, although he doesn't know how realistic his theory is. "They might be hunting deer," he says. "The only thing I saw, other than — than that , were deer tracks."

"All the way out here?" Kim asks skeptically.

"The hunting can't be any good in that swamp they're hiding in," Nick points out, frowning as he considers the idea. "And there are more survivors around the river these days. I'd bet that'd make for slim pickings."

"I doubt we'd even know they come out this far if I hadn't been the one out there. At least we've confirmed they're actively searching for resources beyond their compound — and they're relying on traditional methods to do so. Most likely because the armory was destroyed."

"Thank God for the Deputy," Nick sighs. "Okay. We're just gonna have to... I dunno, be willing to shoot, I guess." He doesn't sound so sure about it, and he quickly softens the intention. "At least a couple more warning shots. Once they remember guns outstrip arrows every way but sustainability, they'll probably keep back."

"We can push the fence-line out, too," Kim says. "It won't necessarily stop them, but at least it'll give them a line to cross. They're not cavemen — they remember property laws and how those get enforced around here."

"We'll have to start checking the traps more often. They might be living like bloodthirsty Mennonites right now, but that doesn't mean they aren't willing to steal to survive."

"They'll justify it one way or another," John sighs.

"So I guess we don't have to move the chickens after all," Nick says, "So long as we establish a perimeter. Sound good, Carmina?"

Carmina must have slipped out at some point during the conversation because she's nowhere to be found in the kitchen. Nick glances over John's head and out the window, swearing loudly.

"What the hell is she doing out there?"

John gets to his feet as Nick and Kim take off. He watches them through the window as they chase after Carmina, who's stopped to look around partway towards the coop. Either she's dumber than she seems, or she's inherited both of her parents' reckless streaks. Either way, she's going to leave herself open the same way John had. She's too confident that nobody wants to hurt her. The only way John knows how to teach that lesson, though, is not one that Kim or Nick would approve of — and so he sidelines his worries in favor of sticking with whoever is more armed than he is.

By the time John comes outside, Kim is knee-deep in the middle of a heated lecture about safety and responsibility. Carmina scowls at her feet, her face turning red as she's scolded. John ignores them, passing them by in favor of catching up with Nick, who's come to a stop a few yards past the coop. He's staring out into the unoccupied land — land that used to be his property, once. Now Nick is as much a stranger here as John is.

"Check it out," Nick says, holding out a thin, white-barked piece of wood. John takes it and recognizes it immediately as part of the mask he'd broken in two. The hole for the eye is a roughly cut gouge in the soft wood, and the bark flakes as he wipes his thumb across it.

"I hadn't even considered a mask," John admits. "I thought it was a monster."

"You and me both," Nick replies. He heaves a sigh. "Still waiting for the mutants to crawl out of the sewers, I guess. But I think we can handle a couple of jackasses with arrows."

John squints across the clearing, as if maybe his assailant has hung around waiting for them to reappear. "Next time, it might be Joseph," he points out grimly. "That hunter recognized me immediately. They'll tell him I'm here, and he'll want to find me."

"Come on. Like Joseph's gonna risk crossing enemy territory on foot. I'd be more worried about those goddamn hunting parties you used to send out."

John unconsciously reaches up to rub his throat. "Yeah," he says. "You're right. One of them clearly wasn't enough, but if Joseph decides I'm worthwhile, they'll come as a pack. If he's still manufacturing Bliss somehow, it would be easy to subdue me. And then..."

He's surprised out of his would-be reverie as Nick slaps his shoulder with a heavy hand. "We're not gonna let that happen," he says. "As long as you put up the same fight you did today, Kim and I are gonna come running."

Despite the reality of hidden archers and surprise ambushes, John allows himself to be reassured by the sentiment. At the very least, he pretends for Nick's sake. "I suppose you two were quick to the rescue," he drawls. "But if they get me to the tree-line, I'd rather you just put me down before I get dragged all the way back to the compound."

Nick chuckles. "We'll try to avoid that for now."

Looking over his shoulder, John catches Kim crouched down in front of Carmina, hands on her shoulders. Whatever she's saying, it's too quiet for John to hear, but Carmina's sniffles are a loud precursor to a lot of tears.

"I guess she believed you when you said the Project wouldn't care about us," Nick sighs. "At this rate, we're gonna have to put a bell on her."

"I could tell her about the child soldiers from the summer camp, if that would prove the gravity of the situation."

Just the mention of it makes Nick look a little queasy, and John immediately regrets bringing it up. "I don't want to scare her that badly," Nick says. "She's a good kid, she means well. She just needs to stop going off half-cocked, is all." He rubs his hand across his forehead and complains, "I thought we taught her to be smarter than this."

"She's still your kid," John says. Nick gives him a sour look, but it's the truth no matter how bitter Nick might feel about it. "You can't expect her to be utterly obedient, given her genetics."

"I guess ." He sighs, shaking his head. "At any rate, it's time we stop sugar-coating the cult for her benefit. She's obviously not taking it seriously."

John looks again and sees Kim embracing Carmina tightly. He can't help but worry about what might happen if the hunters come back. When he'd been with the Project, he'd understood Joseph's motivations — at least superficially — but now he's completely in the dark. They used to fill their ranks with abducted children and their desperate parents. He has no idea if Joseph is in a position to expand his flock, but if he is... John does not doubt that they'll start with the young and impressionable. Carmina, being young but not as impressionable as they'd like, probably wouldn't make it back to the compound before she got herself killed. He can't imagine anyone having enough patience to break her.

"You... uh, think we should be worried?" Nick asks after a brief stretch of silence.

"Not yet," John replies grimly. After all, the Ryes have a bargaining chip like no other, in case their daughter is ever taken. John can see to it that she's left alone, but it will only work once — and after that, who knows which brother will be sending hunters after her.

"Good thing we got ourselves a couple of extra guns," Nick says. "You and her are gonna have to start carrying pretty much everywhere."

"I'm sure people will love that."

"Fuck people, man, did you see the size of that fucking guy?"

John can't help a wry smile. "They weren't so big. If I were a couple of years younger, I would have taken them."

"Yeah, sure. "

The lecture must be over with for now, as Carmina's attention has turned back to her chickens. Kim watches her from a distance; John can't read her expression from here, but her posture is tense and defensive. John can't blame her — he doesn't have a parental bone in his body, but the stress of raising a child in these conditions isn't lost on him. Trying to instill a sense of fear into somebody who lived their formative years without a threat in sight can't be easy. Doubly so, considering Carmina can no doubt outgun the rudimentary weaponry the Project is utilizing. Hell, maybe they really are only a threat to him. Maybe it doesn't matter if Carmina sneaks out of the house.

"She won't leave unnoticed again," John decides, because it's the only promise he can genuinely keep.

"Oh yeah? You're gonna eat those words when she's a teenager."

"I'd hope she would be smart enough to bring back up by then."

"Me too." Nick exhales loudly enough to get Kim's attention, stretching one arm over his chest, then the other. "Well, I guess we better get started if we want to have anything to show for it by nightfall."

Even so, it takes Nick another moment before he brings himself to move. John lingers behind, unable to help himself as he eyes the trees distrustfully. There's nothing saying that hunter isn't still out there, watching them from a safe distance. If Jacob had a hand in training them, it's unlikely that John will ever see them coming again. He's likely lost the one chance at a level playing field, and he hadn't even realized it was something he could lose.

Fuck it. It doesn't matter. John has adapted time and again to every disaster in his life, and there's something to be said for the person who he's become. If this is the next catastrophe that he'll have to weather, then so be it. If he isn't capable of dealing with Joseph by now, then it's likely he never will be — and if that turns out to be the case, he can only hope that Kim is as quick on the trigger as she seemed to be today.

#far cry new dawn #fcnd #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #carmina rye #far cry fanfic #my fic #ugh tagging sucks on this site #mercyverse

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pilot-boi · 4 years

Text

New Residents: Chapter 1

Okay fine, maybe running off on a space adventure with no money and jobs wasn’t the best idea in the world. They needed more help, the kind that could actually help out.

Now all Ren had to do to achieve that was corral his friend. A friend who had the best intentions in the galaxy, but the attention span of a golden retriever.

They could barely support themselves enough to keep fuel in the ship and food on the table. And it didn’t help anything that Jaune kept trying to bring home strays.

Man’s Best Friend

Traveling the galaxy unsupervised was all well and good. Unless you got distracted by everything that moved.

AO3 LINK

“We are just here to get food, and that is it,” Ren told Jaune. “No distractions this time. We don’t have enough money for that.”

“I didn’t get that distracted,” Jaune argued.

Ren gave him a stern look.

“I said I was sorry! They were very persistent.”

“Sorry doesn’t buy fuel, Jaune. Or food. We don’t have that much money left, and we need to get supplies.”

“I’ll be careful this time. I promise.”

“Good,” Ren grabbed their packs, leaving their ship. “Let’s go.”

The planet that they were on was mostly markets. Ships came and went, buying and selling goods constantly. There were some shops that stayed, but most were only around for a day or two at a time. It was a merchants dream.

Buyers from all around the galaxy, a vibrant array of items to sell and buy, and a reputation that could improve a merchant’s sales immensely. Fortunately, despite the ever-changing layout of shops, it was always easy to find whatever was needed, and sometimes, what wasn’t.

Jaune and Ren made their way into the depths of the crowds. Merchants shouted their various wares from stalls lining the streets. A few kids pushed through the legs of the adults, chasing after a ball. Scents from food stalls wafted over the crowds.

Jaune’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten all day, and he swore he could smell dinosaur chicken nuggets standing out among the other scents. He looked up at Ren, who was scanning the stalls around them for one selling fuel.

“I’m hungry,” he whined, putting on his best sad face.

“We’re buying food.”

“No, I’m hungry right now.”

“We’ll have food we can make on the ship.”

“You sound like my mother,” Jaune grumbled, folding his arms and pouting.

“At least one of us does,” Ren countered. “We can’t afford to buy from the stalls here. They’re all going to be overpriced, and you know it.”

They passed by a stall selling juicy racks of meat with roasted vegetables. Jaune’s stomach rumbled loud enough to hear over the crowds.

“Please,” Jaune begged. “I’m gonna starve, Ren.”

“You’ll live,” he handed a list to Jaune. “Now go see if you can find a stall that sells this fuel. I’ll handle food, since I don’t trust you to not spend all our money on vendor food.”

Jaune huffed and snatched the list out of Ren’s hand. “Aren’t you going to give me any money to buy said fuel with?”

“No, because I don’t trust you.”

Jaune rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, stalking out into the crowd. It was impossible to walk without bumping into someone. The crowds were tightly packed, and it seemed that every tall species had decided that today was the day to shop. Jaune couldn’t see a damn thing.

He pushed past a pair of bickering Velms, not bothering to apologize, and emerged in front of a food stall selling fresh fruits. One of the people who had just bought some of the fruit took a bite, the juice dribbling down their chin.

“Shut up,” he muttered to his growling stomach. Jaune had to strongly resist the urge to just pick one fruit from the basket of an unsuspecting customer. He couldn’t get in trouble here, especially not when he was separated from Ren.

Ren wouldn’t know. It would be fine. Right?

No, it would be wrong to steal. Jaune didn’t want to steal.

Suddenly, the customer he had been eying pushed past him, jostling the basket hooked on their arm. A single pear-shaped fruit bounced out, and Jaune caught it deftly in his hand. The alien appeared to be completely unaware of their loss, and disappeared into the crowd.

Jaune looked around, checking to see if anyone noticed him holding the sort-of-not-really-stolen-fruit. He then took a bite of the delicious fruit and kept walking, a grin plastered on his face.

Ha! Take that Ren. He’d gotten food without spending money or stealing.

He was just about to take the last bite of the fruit when he noticed something staring at him from one of the alleyways. Curious, Jaune took a few steps towards it, keeping his body low.

The creature backed up into the alleyway, keeping their distance. They were afraid of him.

“It’s okay,” Jaune said softly. “Here.” He held the rest of his fruit out in front of him.

It slowly moved forwards, stepping cautiously out of the shadows. It looked like a dog, but made of a green, goopy substance. The goo was dirty, like they hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.

Jaune smiled at the creature, and it cautiously moved towards him, taking the fruit out of his hand and leaving behind some green slobber.

“Aren’t you just the cutest?” He moved to sit down. The goopy dog scuttled backwards and Jaune froze. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. See?” He held up his hands, slowly lowering himself down. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m nice. Nice Jaune.”

The creature hesitated, and then approached again. It licked one of Jaune’s hands with its gooey tongue, licking off the remaining juice from the fruit. It felt almost soft, and was hardly stickier than the fruit had been.

“See? Nice,” Jaune smiled at the dog. Slowly, he lifted his other hand and began to pick off bits of litter that had gotten stuck in the poor animal. He moved slowly, making sure that the dog knew he was trying to help. Sudden movements still seemed to scare her.

Suddenly, Jaune’s communicator began to blink and beep softly. The dog seemed intrigued by the flashing blue light. She moved closer, almost touching Jaune. He stayed as still as he could, letting the dog stare at the dancing lights.

Slowly, Jaune moved his other hand to press the answer button. Ren’s voice came through suddenly, slightly muffled by the crowd apparently around him.

“Jaune, where are you? Have you found fuel yet?” Ren sounded worried, as usual.

“No, not yet,” Jaune replied standing up slowly. “I got sidetracked.” He could hear Ren’s frustration from across the communicator.

“By what, Jaune?”

“I found a dog? I think. It looks like a dog, anyways. Like if a dog were made of green goop. She’s really friendly.”

“We’re not getting a dog, Jaune,” Ren said sternly. “We can hardly afford to feed ourselves.”

Jaune sighed. He looked down at the dog, searching for a collar. There was none. “Can I at least try to find the owners? I can’t just leave her here.”

Ren sighed, “Fine. Where are you?”

---

They had been going around to stalls for what felt like ages. The twin suns were beginning to set, and floating lanterns began to light up. They had everything they needed to leave, but Jaune was dead set on finding the owner, or owners, of the dog, which he had named Petey, much to Ren’s chagrin.

Jaune refused to be embarrassed when Ren brought up that he’d named an actual living creature after his favourite cereal. And also shut up Ren, Petey could be a girl’s name, shut up.

“Why are you so determined to find this thing’s owner?” Ren asked as they walked away from a fish-selling stand. “It’s not really your business.”

Jaune looked over at him. “It’s… it’s just a thing my dad taught me.”

Ren faltered. Jaune didn’t talk much about his dad anymore. His dad had died when they were in high school… it had taken a lot out of him.

“One time my dad took me to one of the few lakes on Ventos Beta,” Jaune began, “His home planet was almost entirely water, so he always liked it near the lake. We were walking along the shore, and there was this Balces dying on the dry land. That wasn’t unusual.”

“They constantly swam too close to shore and got left in the tide pools once the water receded. But my dad…” Jaune shook his head, smiling fondly. “He just picked it up and threw it back out into the lake. Everytime we saw one, he picked it up and threw it back.”

“Wasn’t that kind of pointless?” Ren asked. “Those things are stupid. They’d just keep coming back. It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Jaune said. “And I asked my dad that. He just tossed another one back and said, ‘it mattered to that one.’ I guess it kind of stuck with me. There could be hundreds of stray pets on this planet, and I’ll never help all of them, but I can help this one.”

Ren hadn’t ever really gotten to know Jaune’s dad. He knew that he was a quiet, kind man who always came to school when Jaune got in trouble. He never yelled at Jaune for getting into fights. Never got angry or lost his temper. He just tried to help him be better.

He had been a good dad.

Finally, a shopkeeper waved them over. He had two sets of arms, one set waving, the other set clasped tightly around the handles on a basket of fruit. He smiled as the trio approached, waving at them causing the two green and yellow lines that ran down his arms to flash in the light.

“I believe you’re looking for that Dulcosi’s owner?” the shopkeeper asked, gently setting the basket of fruit down behind him.

“Yeah, do you know where we could find them?” Jaune asked, excited at finally finding a lead.

“Sure don’t,” the alien replied. “They left here ages ago. The poor thing-” He gestured to Petey. “-has been here ever since. No one wants the responsibility of taking care of her full time, but some of us food vendors will toss her something to eat when we can.”

Jaune knelt down next to the dog and rubbed gently behind her ears, still looking up at the shopkeeper. “She was abandoned? That’s awful.”

He felt sick. Who would abandon their puppy like that? He’d only known Petey for a little while but she was already the sweetest girl he had ever known.

“Sure was,” the shop owner said, shaking his head. He pulled a fruit out of the basket he’d set down and gave it to Petey. “They’re good pets. Loyal. Just need a family.”

Jaune looked up at Ren, putting on his best pleading face. This wasn’t just about his empty stomach anymore. This was for Petey.

Ren heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead. Jaune wasn’t going to leave without this dog.

“There’s a pet supply shop just a couple streets down,” the shopkeeper said, winking knowingly. “Tell him Luxverd sent you, and he should give you a discount.”

Ren’s face was buried in his hands. He seemed to think that if he didn’t see Jaune then he would disappear. When he uncovered his face, however, Jaune was still there, holding Petey in his arms now.

The combination of Jaune’s pleading face, along with the dog happily panting at him with her tongue sticking out and wagging her tail was too much.

“Fine,” Ren groaned. “Where’s this shop?” He pulled out his map and let Luxverd point out where the shop would be. Not too far away. Ren shouldered his pack, forging out into the crowd. “Come on, Jaune.”

Jaune and the dog followed along behind, shit-eating grin plastered across his face, and Petey’s tag wagging furiously.

---

The shop was brightly lit, toys and pictures of various pets plastered on posters in the windows. The shopkeeper was waving goodbye to a happy looking alien who was carrying a kitten-esque creature in their arms.

The shop owner looked to be the same species as Luxverd, except instead of green and yellow lines, he had two dark blue lines running down his cheeks. He turned his smile to Jaune and Ren as they approached.

“How can I help you?” he asked, extending one of his arms to Ren. “My name is Caelrune.”

“Ren,” he shook his hand. “We are… um…”

Jaune ignored the shopkeeper, darting to the toy shelf with Petey.

“I recognize that Dulcosi,” Caelrune said. “I suppose Luxverd sent you?”

Ren nodded, looking behind the shopkeeper to watch Jaune. He had set the dog down, and was showing her different toys. Every time Petey showed any interest in one, he added it to the growing pile in his arms.

“I should-” Ren started. Caelrune held up one of his arms, stopping him.

“Make sure your friend doesn’t buy my entire stock, yes.”

Ren nodded gratefully and walked past Caelrune and into the shop. Jaune was looking at bags of food now, the toys all in one basket. The dog was sniffing the different bags.

“Which one is it, girl?” He asked. “What do you want to eat?”

Petey leaned in to sniff a bright pink bag. Once she determined that she liked it, she butted her head against it, turning to pant at Jaune. He beamed and picked up the bag in his arms, almost toppling over from the weight.

“We’re not buying all of these toys,” Ren said, taking the bag of food from Jaune, who looked relieved. “We can’t afford all of them. We can barely afford to take care of ourselves!”

“We can manage,” Jaune said. “We always do.”

“At least put a few back,” Ren said, half-pleading. “She doesn’t need thirty different toys.”

Jaune frowned. He picked a few toys out of the basket, but didn’t like that decision so he put them back and picked a few different ones. He couldn’t decide which ones to put back. Petey deserved them all. Finally, Ren grabbed a random few and put them back on the shelf.

“This should be good,” he said, holding his arm out to stop Jaune from grabbing the toys again.

“Excellent,” Caelrune smiled at them and began calculating the cost.

---

Ren stared sadly at the small handful of currency they had left, while Jaune bounced happily alongside, playing tug-of-war with Petey. He sighed. He couldn’t stay mad at Jaune. Not when he was so happy with having a dog.

Still… they needed money. Ren knew it wasn’t going to be easy when he had decided to join Jaune on this adventure. Nothing had ever been easy with Jaune.

They were going to have to find somewhere to earn some spare currency or this adventure was going to be cut short.

#rwby #jaune arc #lie ren #mine #my writing #space rwby #new residents #chapter 1

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thiswasinevitableid · 4 years

Note

For a fic prompt! How about Duck and Indrid are childhood best friends who are college roommates. Indrid has been in love with Duck for years, but when Duck starts dating Minerva it throws Indrid into a deep depression. Ideally Duck and Indrid do get together in the end (though hopefully Duck and Minerva’s breakup isn’t nasty) and you can get as angsty as you’d like! Honestly the angstier the better is my motto! Also I’m all for Indrid still having future sight, if you’d like! Thank you SO MUCH!

Here you go!

Quick content note: it contains trans Duck, including a scene where Indrid takes his side when he comes out in PE and, it’s implied, that coming out is not well recieved.

Indrid Cold lays face down on his bed. His phone is shoved under the black cotton of his pillow case, and he’s drawn the windows shut against the warm August air.

This is a misery of his own making, he knows this. He can’t decide if the fact that it’s a misery nearly two decades in the making is impressive or pathetic.

To understand the origins of it, one has to rewind the tape of his life back quite a ways.

——————————————————-

Duck Newton is six years old and hunting for miners lettuce in his backyard, when he feels like he’s being watched.

Looking up, he finds a face framed with shaggy dark hair, glasses perched on a pointy nose, peeking over the fence at him. As soon as the face sees him, it ducks back down.

Weird.

He goes back to foraging, only to find the face watching him again a minute later. This time, when it disappears, he clambers up the oak tree alongside the fence and scoots carefully out onto a limb that sticks out into the neighboring yard. The face, which belongs to a boy about his age, is staring up at him, as if he expected Duck to appear. He’s standing on the edge of the decorative fountain the old neighbors put in the yard.

“Why’re you watchin me?”

“I wanted to know what you were doing.”

“How come?”

“I’m bored. My dads are putting the house together and I don’t want to draw anymore.” He points to a stack of pictures, next to some crayons that are melting in the sun.

Duck thinks; he hasn’t had anyone to play with since school got out. Leo, who lives down the block, is nine, so not as interested in having Duck trailing after him like a little brother as he used to be.

“…You wanna go see a huge crawdad?”

The other boy perks up, “I have no idea what that is. But yes.”

“C’mon, meet me in the front yard. What’s your name?”

“Indrid.”

“That’s a weird name.”

“What’s yours?” Indrid crosses his arms, eyebrow raised

“Duck.”

Indrid stares at him, wide mouth curling up at one side. His stare is a bit unnerving, and Duck feels the need to explain himself.

“It’s a nickname.”

————————————————————

“I think that’s the same large one from last year.” Indrid peers over his sketchpad, staring down at a crawdad scuttling through the clear creek.

“Told you we shoulda put a colored tape on them or somethin so we could keep track.” Duck looks at the crustacean, and then back at the project he’s working on.

They’re nine years old, hazy and sleepy in the summer afternoon. This part of the creek is shaded, keeps them hidden from passersby and parents alike (they’ve learned to tell at least one parent where they’re going, after Greg, one of Indrid’s dad’s, panicked looking for them).

“What are you making?” Indrid wiggles next to him in the grass, gnawing his pencil as Duck shows him.

“S’a reed raft. I’m gonna see how far I can float it down the river.”

“I will draw a flag for it.” Indrid scribbles, and Duck grins at him. He continues, “I’m glad you’re back. I hate when you got to your uncle’s during the summer. I have no one to talk to.”

“You could talk to Dani.”

“She’s busy a lot.”

Duck looks a little guilty, “Did you get the postcards?”

“Uh huh.” Indrid nods, smiling at his friend to show there’s no harm done. He knows it’s not up to Duck where he goes. The postcards are pinned to his wall, along with his own drawings, some horror movie posters, and the postcards from the last two summers.

“Oh, look at what I found while we were at the lake.” Duck reaches into his pocket, pulling out a smooth, wiggly-striped stone, “Uncle Jeff says it’s agate.”

He holds it out and Indrid takes it, runs his fingers along the smooth, cool surface. It feels lovely. And it reminds him of what he likes most about being Duck’s friend; Duck can make anything, even a rock, seem interesting and special.

Indrid is reminded of another reason he is lucky to have Duck the next morning.

All the adults are down in the living room, talking worriedly. There’s been a car crash on the nearby highway, and one of the trucks was carrying something toxic. The school is closed, and everyone has been told to stay home because the air could be unsafe.

Indrid is under all his blankets, his sketchbook thrown to the other side of the room.

“‘Drid?” The door creaks as Duck enters the bedroom.

He wants to beg him to hide under the covers with him. He wants to tell him to go away.

He sniffs, wipes his nose on his arm, and hears Duck turn towards the bed. The covers slowly lift, and Indrid blinks blearily, tearily up at him.

“Have you been cryin?” Duck looks worried.

He nods.

“Did you know someone who got hurt?”

“No. I, I saw it happen. In my head. Over and over last night. I thought I was imagining it. But then it happened. Th-that happens a lot, ever since my birthday. It’s like, like I see things and then sometimes they happen and sometimes they don’t. I draw them but, but I’m afraid if my dad’s find out they’ll, they’ll think I’m wrong, somethings wrong with me.”

As he’s talking, Duck sits down next to him, rests his arm around his shoulders.

“Nothin’s wrong with you ‘Drid. This is weird, but it don’t make you bad. You should tell you dads. They’re nice, they’ll help you.” He squeezes Indrid’s arm, smiling at him as he rests his head on his shoulder, “I’ll help you too.” He slips the agate from his pocket and into Indrid’s hands, moves their fingers over it in tandem until the motion soothes Indrid’s breathing down, then tucks it into Indrid’s pocket.

————————————————————————————–

“You okay ‘Drid?” Duck plops down on a cafeteria bench Kepler Middle School, Indrid poking glumly at his fruit salad.

“We had oral presentations today. I did mine on my moth.” He taps the jar in front of him. A week or so ago it had contained a caterpillar that he and Duck had identified as belonging to a Banded Tiger Moth. Indrid had decided to raise it into adulthood, Duck helping him figure out which weeds to feed it before it went into its cocoon. When it emerges, he and Duck have the perfect spot picked to release it.

“What’s wrong with your moth?”

“Nice glasses, mothman!” A voice yells, two boys high-fiving when Indrid shrinks in on himself.

“Hey, fuck you, mothman rules!” Duck thanks his lucky stars none of the cafeteria monitors heard him. He recognizes those two; they’re in Indrid’s CORE class with him, meaning the nickname has already spread. Indrid, with his tics and his tendency to finish people’s sentences, his glasses and scraggly appearance, has been pegged as a target for months. It makes Duck’s blood boil to see them turn something Indrid spent time looking after into an insult.

That night, he grabs a sharpie and one of his grey t-shirts.

The next day, he turns up with “Mothman Rules” scrawled on his chest. Indrid’s smile is worth the lecture he gets about messing up his clothes.

———————————————————–

Indrid and Duck sit side by side in the principals office. Their gym clothes in Kepler Middle’s colors, grey and maroon, seem even grimmer right now.

They haven’t done anything wrong, not as far as Indrid is concerned.

Duck stood in the boys line-up during P.E, that’s all. When he refused to move to the girls line, the teacher told the rest of the boys to line up all over again, elsewhere. They all moved, except Indrid, who insisted that Duck was in the right line and refused to play along with a bid to deny that.

They have been sent to the principal for “causing trouble.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Duck murmurs.

“I did. You’re my friend, Duck. And Mr. H is an asshole.”

He thinks, but does not say, that it would take far more than a gym teacher and the threat of detention to leave Duck’s side when he’s in trouble.

———————————————————

It’s Indrid’s 16th birthday, and his dads are throwing a very subdued sweet sixteen. He dyed his hair silver, and they’ve ordered an entire table of desserts from a local bakery, and he, Duck, Juno, Dani, and Barclay have stuffed themselves while watching movies and teasing Dani for being ga-ga over her long-distance girlfriend, Aubrey, who she met playing an online tabletop games.

Once the other three leave, Duck grabs Indrid’s jacket and hands it to him.

“C’mon, lets go to the creek. Got somethin to show you.”

Indrid follows him, teasing him as they turn down the creekbed, “We’re not going to have a repeat of the beer incident are we?”

Duck laughs, “No. Learned better than to give that hummingbird palate of yours booze.”

They hit the familiar dirt of their favorite spot, and Duck gets on tiptoe and reaches into the trees above them. Strings of lights, red to match Indrid’s new glasses, and white, snap on. Below them is a blanket, and Indrid sits down with a perplexed smile. Then he checks the futures, and understands.

“Is this entirely sanitary?”

“Enough.” Duck grins, pulling out a lighter and safety pin, “I did it on mine and I still got the ear.”

“Very well.” Indrid crosses his legs, checks the futures it be double sure this won’t end in infection, and braces himself, “left ear please.”

“Right. Okay, one, two-”

“OWowowowow.”

“Done!”

“Ow.” Indrid winces as Duck cleans the newly-pierced ear, loosens his grip on the agate in his fist.

“Can’t believe you still carry that thing around.”

“I find it soothing. Ooh, how nice.” Indrid picks up the black moth-shaped earring Duck hands him.

“Figured it’d be better to start with a smaller one. And now that you’re all done, you can officially burn your list.”

Indrid pulls a worn sheet of binder paper from his pocket. When he, and then Duck, turned fifteen, they wrote out lists of things they wanted to do before they hit sixteen. He crosses out get ear pierced, then mutters, “I’m still missing one.”

Duck looks at him quizzically. He turns the paper around and points to first kiss.

“Wait, I thought you and Carlos-”

“Nope. Never got that far before we broke up.”

Duck sits next to him, gets a mischievous grin on his face, “Think I know how to help.”

“How’s tha-”

It’s barely a kiss, Duck bringing their lips together just long enough for Indrid to feel him sigh happily. Then he pulls back, still grinning.

Indrid is certain that if he looked down at himself, his veins would be pulsing technicolor, his body lit up like the cheap neon in their tiny downtown.

“Ta-dah, list complete.” Duck whispers.

“Thank you.” Indrid whispers back.

He doesn’t think much of it for the rest of the night, figures it’s just a meeting of Duck’s goofier side with his desire to help a friend.

It’s only when he’s laying in bed, playing the kiss over and over again like a favorite song, that he realizes he might be in trouble.

————————————————————-

Indrid knows the likely outcome, but that doesn’t stop him from leaping up excitedly when Duck bangs the front door open.

“‘Drid, I got in! did you, oh, hey Mr. Cold, did you?”

“Yes.” Indrid grins from the bottom of the staircase.

“Oh hell yeah! Juno got in too! Maybe we can all be roommates.”

As much as Indrid would like that outcome, the arbitrary housing system of UWV Huntington has other ideas. Duck ends up partnered with an affable if often absent psych major, Juno gets a single in the same dorm, just two floors down, and Indrid is stuck with a frat-boy business major.

That doesn’t stop them from making the most of their first year of college. Indrid crashes on Duck’s floor some nights, and the two of them manage to swing having a film class together during spring semester. They each dip their toes into the wild sea that is college dating, with mixed results, trading advice and anecdotes in the dark of Duck’s room.

And none of that, not one single bit, does anything to dampen Indrid’s romantic feelings for his friend.

It’s not that he doesn’t try, just as he’s been trying every day since his 16th birthday. He loves Duck as a friend, wants to be in his life forever. He can’t afford to love him any other way. It’s too risky. And so he tries, over and over and over, to quash those feelings. Sometimes they ebb, sometimes Indrid happily dates or hooks up with other people.

But they always come back, like a faithful hound finding it’s way home.

Because Duck will laugh in that ridiculous way of his, be vulnerable with Indrid in those private moments, make Indrid feel understood in a way no one else can. And he falls in love all over again.

(And that’s before he even gets to the moments where Duck will strip his shirt off on hot days, or wander into the room in his boxer shorts, and Indrid feels the urge to plead with him for the privilege of feeling him up).

It’s because of all this that, when Duck asks if Indrid wants to move in together their sophomore year, he almost says no.

But then he and Duck are sharing celebratory take-out in a half-unpacked apartment and he’s happier than he ever thought he could be.

It’s not perfect by any means. Indrid can be messy, Duck can be terse, money can be tight. But Indrid is so at home with Duck, all that fades into the background. They have friends over, compare notes on dates, have junk food strewn study sessions on the couch, keep each other company during all nighters.

Then, in May of their Sophomore year, things change.

“‘Drid? Oh good, you’re still up. Um, I wanted to tell you somethin. Minerva and I are goin out.”

“Oh. That’s a bit unexpected.” Indrid sets his drawing aside.

“You tellin me you don’t use that magic-eight ball brain to spy on my love life?” Duck teases, plopping down onto the bed with him.

“Never. So…why the switch from work-out buddies to this?”

“Dunno, just seemed like we’d been spendin a lot of time together. She actually tutored me back in high school, remember, so it’s kinda fun to be around someone who’s known me that long. Y'know, someone who watched me grow up.”

“I see.” Indrid kicks his jealousy until it goes limp and sinks back under the surface of his feelings, “well, that’s awesome then. I’m glad you’re excited Duck.”

And he is. It’s not a lie, goodness knows he’s well aware he has no claim to Duck’s affection or time. And Minerva does seem to make him happy, encourages Duck’s good habits like going to the gym (something Indrid has tried once and will never do again. Yoga and walking are fine by him).

But soon he cannot go anywhere with Duck, including his own apartment, without Minerva there. Duck spends all of his time with her, and Indrid learns it’s not just him; while Minerva is gladly included in their group get-togethers, Juno hasn’t seen Duck in weeks. And has barely heard from him. She is also a bit loud and Indrid, who has always had trouble with over-stimulation from noise, finds himself out of the apartment more and more often.

Indrid can’t blame Duck for spending time with Minerva rather than him; she’s jockular, active, attractive (even if she does call Duck by his first name). Indrid is odd, reclusive, and well, weird looking.

It all goes to hell at the end of August.

“‘Drid! The study abroad program offered me a scholarship. I get to go to Brazil. This is so fuckin cool!”

“Wonderful!” Indrid claps his hands, “I know how badly you’ve wanted to go. You have to promise me to send me pictures of brightly colored bugs for art inspiration. Oh, and now we can tell Dani she has somewhere to stay while she and Aubrey look for a shared place.”

“Exactly. And guess what, it gets even better.”

“How-” he sees the answer coming, tries to keep his face neutral.

“Minerva’s comin with me!”

“I wasn’t aware wildlife conservation and management was her area of interest.”

“It ain’t, but she’s comin as part of a grad study program. It’s gonna be so fuckin amazin.”

“I’m sure it will be.” The pull between his true feelings and his need to seem supportive renders his answer flat.

“What’s up?” Duck sits down in the kitchen chair opposite him.

“Nothing. Or, well, I suppose I’ve just now realized that I’ll be without a good friend for a semester. I’ll miss you.”

“Aw, I’ll miss you too, you big sap. Don’t worry, I’ll write you a bunch, send pictures too when I can.”

Indrid looks at the futures, then down at the table, “No, you won’t.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t I?” Duck looks hurt.

“In all the timelines, you send me one postcard at maximum. In most of them, you send none. I slip your mind entirely, it seems.” His voice is tight.

“The fuck? How is that pos-”

“Any time not spent in the field, you are too engrossed by her to do anything else.”

Duck’s face hardens, “So that’s what this is really about.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He lies.

“You’ve been bothered by her since the start! You don’t think I notice that forced smile you get when she’s around, or the fact you leave the house when she comes over?”

“I get overstimulated when there is too much noise, you know that.” Indrid snaps back.

“You hardly come out with us anymore, and you make it sound like she’s controlin me or some shit.”

“I, I do not. I just don’t enjoy when she barges in randomly.” He rubs his temples with his hands, trying to keep calm.

“Christ, you really makin me choose between my best friend and the first girlfriend who’s made me feel this way? Why the fuck can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Because it should be me and not her!” Indrid spits out, hands dropping to the table and gaze meeting Duck’s own.

Duck blinks back at him, “Really? Really? You had a million goddamn chances to confess how you feel and you choose now?”

“I, I didn’t, I tried so hard to ignore it, but, fuck, I didn’t mean to say it now but since I did: I’ve been in love with you for years. And, and I just, after everything, we’ve been so close-”

“What, you think that what, because we’ve been friends since we were kids and you been pinin after me for however the fuck long, I should just date you? Like it’s destiny or some shit? What the fuck man?” He stands and Indrid mirrors him.

“Do not put words in my mouth. I never wanted to interfere in your life, I never, you can’t possibly know how I feel!”

“Oh yeah? You think I’m really that fuckin oblivious? I suspected you felt some kind of way about me, and I gave you chances to show me I was right!”

“Name one.” Indrid growls, stepping closer.

“Homecomin, my eighteenth birthday, about a dozen times last year where I asked if you had your eye on anyone and you’d change the goddamn subject,” Duck counts out on his fingers, closing the remaining distance, “hell, coulda used those weird powers of yours to see what would happen if you told me.”

“I was too scared to. And if you were so observant, and apparently not opposed to the idea, why didn’t you make a move on me?”

“What do you think me kissin you on your birthday was?”

“A joke! Goodness, Duck, you know I’m not great with social cues. I didn’t think you’d ever care about me that way.”

“You think I’m that fuckin shallow?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He growls.

“So what was your end-game, huh? Just wait out everyone else, circle me like a fuckin vulture until I’d settle for you? Fuck, Minerva was right, you are creepy.”

Duck may as well have punched him. He sort of wishes he had.

“Fuck. you. Wayne.” He hisses out, stepping around him and towards his room.

“Nah, fuck you, Indrid. Fuck you for makin me think you actually cared about me when all you were doin was bidin your goddamn time!”

“That’s not, no, nevermind. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Duck tosses back, “That’s as good as a confession in my book, you creepy, mothman lookin motherfucker,” and Indrid slams the door.

There’s ten minutes of hurried, angry movement in the rest of the apartment, and then the front door bangs shut.

He cycles through anger (at himself, at Duck, at these obnoxious powers for not helping him prevent the fight), hurt, and numb acceptance that he has blown his oldest, closest friendship to smithereens.

When he finally calms down enough to think clearly he realizes that, if nothing else, he doesn’t want that to be the last conversation they have before Duck leaves.

He faceplants onto his bed, pulls out his phone, and types.

Indrid: I’m sorry for losing my temper, and for not telling you the truth sooner. Even though it would have been helpful if you’d been clearer in the past. Can we talk about this tomorrow, and try again?

The answer is immediate.

Duck: Staying with M until we leave. Don’t text me again unless the apartment is on fire.

He stares at the response, then slides the phone under his pillow, presses his face to the mattress, and lays there numbly until he falls asleep.

——————————————————

“Nope, you are not having a sad hook-up on my watch.” Barclay’s tone freezes Indrid in place, and he slumps back down into the booth at the bar.

Barclay is only a year ahead of him, but at times he reminds Indrid of a mother hen. A very, very large mother hen.

“I cannot believe I allowed you to drag me out on Homecoming weekend.”

“Indrid, you’ve been miserable for almost two months, and I’m honestly really worried about you. Plus, this place has super cheap, real good appetizers.”

“Thank you for not saying ‘apps.’’ Indrid sips his soda.

“That word is an abomination. And you’re avoiding the actual topic.”

“I destroyed my best friend’s trust in me, and am wallowing here while he cavorts in the rainforest with his girlfriend. I’ll survive, but there’s no rule that says I have to enjoy it.”

Barclay sighs, “Look, if I give you permission to be miserable while you do it, will you come to trivia night with me, Joe, and Jake? Dani’s usually out fourth, but she’s helping Aubrey get her magic show up and ready to open.”

Indrid blows a strand of hair from his face (the black patches are getting worse, he needs to dye it again), “I can mope as much as I want?”

“You can cry into your beer for all I care, as long as you let me buy it.”

Trivia night turns out to be much better than anticipated, though Joe, Barclay’s boyfriend, is terrifying to behold in a battle of information.

Movie goes better, game night even better still, and soon Indrid is hanging out with the others more days than not. He even helps Aubrey design and draw up some last minute posters for her show.

It’s the morning after opening night (and the following celebration) that his phone alerts him to a new email. The subject simply says “Bug.”

It’s from Duck.

All it contains is a photo, clearly taken at night on a phone, of a moth with bright pink wings and red eyespots.

He types, Neat! Then, after a moment, adds What species?

He doesn’t expect a response. But the next day, another email awaits him.

Dr. Graslie (Entomologist here) thinks it’s Leucanella apollinairei. Here’s someone more familiar

This picture is of a small crustacean. Indrid smiles; it’s a crawdad.

He replies Careful, maybe it followed you all the way from Kepler. Seen anything else interesting?

This time he waits two days for a response, but it opens with, sorry, internet is real spotty. Big shock, I know.

This is followed by two paragraphs describing trees. Indrid has never been so happy to hear about root systems.

Soon Duck is emailing him whenever he can. At first, it’s only about the wildlife, the field work he’s doing, and the terror of trying to practice hygiene in the middle of a rainforest. Slowly, other details appear; the things he’s homesick for, the ways in which he and Minerva are starting to grate at each other (you’d think being in the middle of nowhere’d get you some peace and quiet. Nope).

Indrid responds with updates from school, pictures of the outings he and the others go on, news about the promo art several places in town have hired him to do after seeing the posters for Aubrey’s act. Says he hopes Minerva and Duck are able to work things out.

Winter break comes sooner than seems possible, and he assumes the next time he sees Duck will be when they’re home visiting their folks.

Which is why, when he’s sitting at home reading after his last final, the door opening alarms him (Dani has already moved out). That is, until he glimpses the future.

“Duck?” He calls softly.

His friend appears in the doorway, luggage left behind him in the entryway.

“Hey, ‘Drid.”

“I, ah, assumed you’d be staying with Minerva until you could officially move out.”

Duck shakes his head, “I ain’t movin anywhere. Unless you want me to.”

“No.” Indrid fidgets with the agate, tucked safely in the pocket of his sweatpants.

“We, uh, we broke up. Minerva and me. It was, uh, mutual, though she was the one to pull the trigger, so to speak. Just found there were some things we didn’t agree on. Weren’t compatible on neither.”

“I’m sorry.”

Duck snorts what’s almost a laugh.

“I mean it.” He stands, voices earnest and gentle, “I know you were happy with her, and the relationship meant a lot to you.”

“Yeah” Duck sounds tired, “It did. But it turns out another one meant more.”

Indrid stops moving. Also, possibly, breathing.

“I…well, I sent you that first email instead of apologizin because I was still kinda hurt, but I realized I missed you. I didn’t want you gone from my life. And the longer I was gone, the more times I turned around wanting to tell you somethin and was sad you weren’t there, got excited at the thought of showin you somethin or sending you pictures, I realized I did plenty to fuck things up. And that’s before we get to the fact I was dreamin about you most nights.”

Duck steps awkwardly forward, until they’re toe to toe, “I missed you, ‘Drid. So fuckin much. And I’m sorry for the things I said durin the fight.”

“As am I. I ought to have thought how my confession would appear to you. I’m sorry I did not.”

“I guess, what I’m tryin to say is I feel like a real dipshit for havin to go halfway across the globe to realize what I really want.”

“And what do you want, Duck?”

Duck cups his cheeks, and then Indrid is tipping forward, into a kiss he’s dreamed of for years. His arms close around Duck’s shoulders, his lips taste chapstick and cold night air. He pulls away to breathe and gets only an instant to do so, Duck chasing his mouth for kiss after kiss, his eagerness sending them tripping onto the bed.

Indrid lands on top of Duck, hears him whimper when his name leaves Indrid’s lips.

“‘Drid, ‘Drid, please-”

“Yes” He kisses his cheek, “whatever it is, the answer is yes.”

Duck giggles into his neck, “You got no idea how bad I wanna make a goof on that. But, fuck, ‘Drid, I can’t, all I want is you.”

“Likewise.” He purrs, hooking Ducks leg around his own, nuzzling up his neck before attacking his lips with kisses.

“That, that a rock in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” Duck tugs on his lower lip.

“Both. See?” He produces the agate, holds it where Duck can get a look at it.

“Holy shit, is that the one I gave you a million years ago?”

“Indeed. It became a sort of grounding object, because it was pleasant to touch and reminded me of you. Later it morphed into a sort of good luck charm.”

Duck closes Indrid’s fist around the rock and kisses it, grins, “There, now it’s twice as lucky.”

Indrid holds him close, basks in the love radiating from him as he murmurs, “It’s not the luckiest thing in the room, though. That honor, I believe, belongs to you and I.”

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #reader request #college au #duck x indrid

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otherworldink · 3 years

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A New Rider

Estith hesitated in front of the broad stable doors, staring up at the looming building. It looked like an upside-down basket several stories tall, woven from vines as thick as a man’s leg. It also seemed more intimidating than usual. After years of training, he’d finally qualified for a mount of his own—not a training mount shared by all the apprentice scouts, but one that was actually his—and today he was going to meet it.

Continue reading below the cut, or continue reading on: Wattpad or Otherworld.Ink

He shifted his feet, still breaking in his thrashergator-leather riding boots. Metal snaps lined their inner sides, spaced precisely for clipping into a saddle. He wasn’t sure he’d need them today, but it felt right to wear them. A scout of Blackswamp should always be prepared, after all.

Prepared, yet still unable to reach for the doors.

Although he’d gotten along well with the training mounts, they were chosen for their easygoing natures. The one the Stablemaster gave him wouldn’t be so docile. What if he couldn’t bond with it? What if he couldn’t get it to listen?

Well, as he’d learned in training, the only true antidote to nerves was action.

Estith reached for the doors only for them to open outward, almost hitting him. The stablehand gave him an odd look on his way out, and Estith realized he’d probably seen him standing there like a bump on a log for who-knows-how-many minutes. Cheeks and ears burning, he hurried through the open doors.

In fact, there were two sets of doors with a small room between to prevent anything from slipping out on accident. Estith diligently observed proper protocol—looking at the walls, the floor, and the ceiling—before opening the second set of doors. It was hatching season, after all, and those little guys had a tendency to get into places they shouldn’t.

Inside the stable, the gaps in the woven walls were large enough to let in air and light but small enough to prevent curious mounts from escaping. Enough natural light shone through to clearly illuminate the pale, silken nests and webs in which the riding spiders rested, as well as the walkways of vines and spider silk that twisted and branched throughout the structure. A network of pulleys raised and lowered food and feces and cleaning supplies between levels.

The giant riding spiders themselves were everywhere—resting calmly in their nests, scuttling idly along the walls, or being groomed and saddled on the ground floor. All of the most common species were represented. Huge, brown Wolf Spiders darted about on walls or the undersides of walkways. White, fine-limbed Ghost Steps busied themselves with elaborate orb webs, while the shiny, black-and-red Red Stars crafted tangled cobwebs to hide in. Occasionally, a fuzzy, grey Jumper would rocket across the room, startling anyone who happened to be in their landing zone.

A few of the spiders looked especially familiar—being either training mounts or the mounts of Estith’s instructors—and he was thinking of saying ‘hi’ to a few when someone called him.

“Hey! Newbie!”

Estith’s spine straightened as he forced his attention away from the spiders and toward the Stablemaster. She was a tall, lanky woman with short-cropped hair and bags like bruises under her eyes. From what he’d seen, they were a permanent feature.

“That’s me! I’m here!”

Estith cringed internally. Of course she knew who he was! He’d been here almost every day for training.

Mercifully, the Stablemaster didn’t seem to care about his fumbling answer and breezed by him without slowing down, obviously expecting him to follow.

“Here to meet your spider, right?”

“That’s right!” Estith fell in step behind her. “What kind is it? A Ghost Step? A Wolf Spider?”

“Hah! A Wolf Spider?

Estith rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Just a possibility.”

Wolf Spiders were the largest and most aggressive of the domesticated riding spiders. While prized for their strength and fearlessness in battle, they could be hard to manage. They were almost never given as first-time mounts, but Estith’s spider-handling abilities had been the best in his class. In spite of his nerves, he still took pride in that.

“A ‘possibility’?” the Stablemaster echoed, then turned to a nearby stablehand. “Stott! What do you get when you put new riders on Wolves?”

“Fat spiders, ma’am,” the man replied without hesitating or looking up from his work, which seemed to involve carrying a large, woven nursery basket on his back and—disconcertingly—looking frantically around for something.

Well, that was hatching season for you.

“Fat spiders!” the Stablemaster repeated emphatically.

Estith wasn’t sure what to say to that. Fortunately, the Stablemaster kept talking.

“You had good handling scores, so I don’t mind putting you on something with a bit of bite, but until I’ve seen you with a spider of your own, I’m not giving you anything that aggressive.”

She led him to the wooden pillar in the center of the stable. Aside from propping up the roof, it served as a central point for calling spiders down from their webs high up on the walls. A single silk thread ran from each web to the base of the pillar. There were scores of them, all seemingly identical. Estith couldn’t imagine how the Stablemaster kept track of them all.

She twanged one of the threads. Estith tried to follow the vibration, but his eyes got lost among the walkways. However, he soon spotted the summoned spider, shiny black and scuttling along the underside of a walkway before descending toward them on a string of silk.

“What I’ve got for you is a nice male Red Star. He’s got a solid temperament—not too shy, but not aggressive either. He’ll take you where you need to go and not make too much fuss about it. Go on and introduce yourself.”

Moment of truth.

Estith held out his hand the way he always had for the training spiders and let the Red Star poke and prod his fingers with the short, arm-like pedipalps on either side of its mouth.

“He seems a bit… small,” Estith ventured. The little guy’s body barely came up to his waist. Even if Estith wasn’t the heaviest rider, he still worried he’d overburden such a small mount.

“He’s still got another molt before he’s big enough to ride,” the Stablemaster explained. “We’ll feed him up over the next couple weeks, and once he pops out of his skin he’ll be ready to go. He’s already broke to saddle, and we’ve been training him to carry weights on a lead-line. By the time you start your patrols next month, he’ll be ready for you.”

The Red Star mouthed Estith’s hand with its chelicerae, those curious sideways jaws toying with his fingers and the cuff of his sleeve, probably looking for treats. Estith laughed. With the fangs retracted, the mouth parts only tickled his wrist.

Still, he was privately glad he’d finished all his visits to the Master Invenomator. Red Star venom was a powerful neurotoxin. One bite could make every muscle in the body seize up, including the ones responsible for breathing. Anyone planning to work around riding spiders had to undergo a series of decidedly unpleasant procedures to develop immunity. Not that Estith was too worried given this spider’s friendly disposition, but as they say, better safe than suffocated.

“Once you’ve named him, just let me know,” the Stablemaster said, voice a bit kinder now. “We’ll put it on a plate next to his-”

She froze mid-sentence.

Estith felt the back of his neck prickle at her change of expression, but before he could ask what was wrong, something else made his neck prickle. He glanced slowly to the side where a mess of thin white legs was clambering up over his shoulder.

They’d found Stott’s missing spiderling.

He glanced warily at his Red Star. Adult spiders generally saw each other as too dangerous to make a tempting meal, especially when they were well-fed, but this little Ghost Step was an easy snack, especially for an active, growing spider of a different species.

Sure enough, the Red Star spotted Estith’s little “passenger” and started climbing up his body to reach for the spiderling. Its hooked feet caught on Estith’s belt and spider-silk shirt, and he braced himself against the extra weight, catching a leg that threatened to knock the spiderling forward into the Red Star’s mouth.

“Whoa there!”

With his free hand, he slipped his thumb and fingers beneath the spider’s jaws to press against the sensitive gaps between the base of its pedipalps and the hard underside of its mouth—a tricky move now that the Red Star’s fangs had come out to feed. His fingers weren’t strong enough to hurt it, but the firm pressure against a vulnerable part of its body forced the spider instinctively back.

The Stablemaster whipped around behind him, far faster than her perpetually sleep-deprived looks would suggest, and neatly unhooked the vulnerable spiderling’s eight feet from his clothes. With a shout to get Stott’s attention, she tossed the spiderling in a high, gentle arc that landed it safely in his waiting hands.

The spiderling disappeared into the nursery basket with its siblings, and Estith gave his disappointed Red Star some scritches near the base of its legs in apology.

The Stablemaster let out a breath.

“Not bad, newbie.”

She passed him a web-wrapped hunk of rat meat from a pouch at her hip, and Estith handed it off to his Red Star, gratified to watch its pedipalps press the treat eagerly to its mouth to inject its digestive fluids. With a snack in hand, it forgot all about the escaped spiderling. Estith petted the leg closest to him—keeping his hands sensibly away from the feeding spider’s mouth parts—and the leg tapped him back companionably.

Not bad at all.

#short story #fantasy #original fiction #adventures in blackswamp #bite-size fantasy #writing #creative writing

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silyabeeodess · 5 years

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FusionFall Writing Prompts: Oct. 2019, Prompt #2: Part 4

Part 3: https://silyabeeodess.tumblr.com/post/188285373604/fusionfall-writing-prompts-oct-2019-prompt-2

The cold pricked Silya’s bare arms as she stepped out of the research participants’ quarters, followed by the fellow victim. Much to her ever-growing horror, they weren’t alone: A group of Fusion Fighters were gathered together outside—among them, her missing roommate. She couldn’t tell whether there was more than one Ectonurite involved or if just one or a handful had split their DNA across the whole of group, but she could still tell each human present was possessed because of the cold, cruel smile shared between them.

As they waited for more of their numbers to gather, some exiting the barracks and a few others coming from the outskirts of Tech Square—most likely the ones involved with the cut power—they remained clustered in the shadows. She could see flashlights in the distance, hopefully from the still-free soldiers looking to restore order. No one could call out to them though. People twitched and spasmed, fighting for control over the ghosts only to soon lose it again.

Held prisoner in her own subconscious, Silya raced through anything she knew about the alien species. Unfortunately, outside of a small collective of stories and basic facts, her knowledge was limited. She wasn’t a Plumber, so that information had been glossed over during training. In order to keep up an act of normalcy, however, it didn’t seem like the Ectonurites were exuding full control over anyone. She could still think clearly and read her surroundings, so that in itself was a good sign. From what she could tell, he would have to shut her mind down completely anyway for total control, so that could rule out the possibility of him reading her thoughts.

It meant she could try to come up with some kind of plan. What were an Ectonurites weaknesses again? Direct light? Well, they’d already taken care of the electricity and they were pretty much invincible anyway so long as they remained in their hosts. If there was any chance at beating the ghosts, they would need to be cast out of their bodies first. Just how though?

The whole of their forces soon gathered. There was only around two or three dozen people around her, but almost every research participant who’d stayed for the experiments had tested the Ghostfreak transformation. That meant any remainders were either out on-duty, guarding Tech-Square’s borders, or were off on some other errand for their puppetmasters. A new worry bubbled up inside her: She imagined the controlled soldiers taking out their companions and letting a hoard of fusion monsters through the blockades.

They split off into two smaller groups: One headed to Mandark Industries and the other—hers—to Dexlabs. All at once, the humans around her started talking; light-hearted chatter Silya knew was fake because a lot of it was the same kind of dialogue she had heard and said herself over the course of the week. Only, just as before, it wasn’t them: The Ectonurites were just feeding them used lines.

It fooled the four watchmen at the front doors though. They only stopped the large group with a curious brow, asking to see one of their ID cards. Looking it over with a tactical flashlight, the guard grunted, “Looks like the power’s out all over. Dex and the other nerds are already on the case though, if that’s what you’re here for.”

A girl’s eye twitched, the Ectonurite controlling her forcing out a sigh of relief, “It is. We were worried if it was some kind of emergency. The lights just shot on their own while we were all hanging out in our rooms. Anything we can do to help?”

“Not unless any of you are technicians.”

“Ah… Well, in any case, can you send someone over there? The emergency lock went off in one of the buildings. No one can get in or out.”

Here, the watchmen shared a glance, and for a second Silya thought they might pick up that something was wrong. Although the front doors of each of the barracks were electric, everyone who stationed at Tech Square regularly knew how to access the manual controls—not to mention most of them weren’t averse to just making their own exits if they had to. She thought she could signal them, fighting to regain control of her arm only for her other hand to swiftly grab it and pull it behind her back in a false, nervous stretch.

They didn’t notice anything. After a minute’s debate, two of the guards jogged away to the barracks, leaving the group standing with the final pair. The girl turned to them once again, “We were also thinking we could take advantage of the darkness. We’ve all got our Spinal-ARCHs and there’s not much else to do, so we thought some extra training might be good.”

The same guard as before shook his head. “Sorry, can’t even let you in to grab your gear. Orders from up-top: Dex doesn’t want anyone wandering through the building without his authorization until the power’s back.”

“I think you’ll find that we answer to a higher authority.”

The young woman saw it coming, but her mouth was bound shut. From around the edge of the facility, two large figures—sure enough, another two possessed research participants—darted from the shadows and struck the guards from behind. Before either could cry out in shock, they were gagged and beaten: One struck in the neck and the other thrown against the wall until he was rendered senseless. Both collapsed, unconscious, and were dragged away in the same minute after one of their attackers tossed another Ectonurite a pair of keys. Said alien quickly began to fiddle with a manual control hatch alongside the doors, the others keeping watch.

Eventually, someone managed to fight for control enough to collapse to the ground with a pained grunt, hands knotting through their hair as they stammered out a question bitterly, “W-what’sss… even about?! Sabotage? You c-can’t! Labs’ locked down.”

They had a point. Getting into the building itself was one thing, but any of the actual labs would be shut down by double or triple encoded locks that only Dexter or his team of scientists would know how to access. The research participants were only allowed so far in, and if they were caught anywhere else—whether or not anyone inside knew the full situation—they would be taken into custody. The same standard applied over at Mandark’s—if they weren’t even more severe. The Ectonurites’ puppeteering was pretty much useless from this point forward.

One of ghosts gave a jeering laugh from a young man’s body, “We’re not as contained as you would wish. We only need you to get inside and use as cover.” As if to illustrate, he partially summoned one of the Ghostfreak tendrils, waved it, then quickly dispersed it. “Your employers may experiment on you all they like, but I doubt they would purposefully harm their prized lab rats.”

“That’s right,” nodded the one at the door, which made a faint click as it unlocked. The Ectonurite pulled it open, motioning the others in with a mocking gesture. “And if you’re lucky, maybe a few of them will trade themselves over for your sakes. It wouldn’t be as fun, but I’m sure Lord Fuse would reward us well if we brought him a few of Earth’s finest minds as souvenirs.”

The very idea of being used as a hostage made Silya want to curse. For a second, she was able to push her will enough to curl her hands into fists at her side, even as she marched past the door with the others. Beyond the faint light shining behind them, they were soon swallowed by darkness; however, the ghosts possessing them didn’t seem to mind—even when they still had to use their human eyes to get by. Unlike during the day, the halls were bleak and empty, the metal walls somehow less pristine and more cold than usual.

It also seemed that the Ectonurites had memorized the way through the building, at least in the areas that the research participants regulated, hinting that they may have been secretly monitoring everything from the humans’ subconscious ever since their DNA had been accessed through the Spinal-ARCHs. They passed the main lobby, the waiting areas, and the gyms, heading deeper through the winding halls to the silent areas few of them had ever explored without escort.

Soon enough, the group began to split off on their own investigations. Two of them stopped in front of one door that Silya had never gone through. She was forced to watch, disgusted, as one of the Ectonurites ripped out a girl’s body, her struggled cry muffed by a clawed hand before one of the other research participants—still possessed—gripped her from behind. Not that she could wrestle away easily, given the way she leaned forward in exhaustion when the ghost finally broke free. Fading it, slipped through the door, its host still bound and waiting for its return.

A light, a light… Silya panicked. If she could just find something, anything to use against the spirit possessing her, she could try to attack him as soon as he snapped out of her body. For a second, her mind angrily went to Dexter and his denial of all magical elements in favor of ‘real’ science. Maybe if he wasn’t so quick to dismiss them, he’d have something useful on hand that didn’t have to be plugged into an outlet! Maybe—!

She froze. Magic… She had a magical being strapped right at her hip, Aoi! He was a Demongo nano: His demon fire could burn anything right down to the soul!

The idea came upon her so suddenly and terror reared its ugly head so much that the Ectonurite controlling her wasn’t prepared when she shot her hand out a second time with a loud, vicious scream. He muffled her fast, her side thrown against the wall hard enough for her to see stars, but she had already ripped Aoi’s nanochip off of her built. It went flying from her grasp, scuttling across the floor, and with a burst of blue light her familiar companion appeared in front of her eyes—confusion in his own gaze when he looked around to see just where they were and why she had jarred him awake. Seeing her dazed on the floor, he tried to approach, but soon halted when Ghostfreak tendrils shot out from her back.

Bracing herself against the ground, shaking as she fought to rear the ghost inside her in, she fumbled for words. They came out as a broken, sibilant whisper before she could manage to get out a soft, “Fire…” Again, she cried out, louder even as it felt like the Ectonurite was seeking his claws into her throat and the tendrils twisted menacingly around her, “M-me…. Use you’re f-fire on me!”

It wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing, but a child’s fear lit in his stare at her order, “Silya—?!”

“Now, Aoi!” she gagged. She was losing it! Her vision was already beginning to cloud over and she could feel the Ectonurite regaining power over her limbs, limply pulling her off the floor. He was taking full control!

But not long after darkness shrouded her completely, everything seemed to erupt in a cerulean light. Flames danced before her mind’s eye, tracing every inch of her body. It hurt a lot—like nothing she’d ever experienced, even compared to the intense burns she’d get from overexposure to fusion matter. However, when she heard a scream, it wasn’t her own. For everything she felt, the Ectonurite was bound to feel it tenfold.

She collapsed again. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t move. All she felt was the cold floor under her and all she heard was a loud ringing in her ears. For a moment, she wondered if she died for real, Aoi’s powers somehow distorting whatever hold Grim’s magic had over her to connect her lifeforce to his Resurrect ‘Ems.

Slowly though, the world began to piece itself back into existence. She was in the same hall. It was still dark. And there was Aoi, hovering over her with a terrified expression on his face and his hands still held out in front of him from his attack. She wanted to smile at him—the blasted demon-child that spent most of his time trying to get on her nerves. She couldn’t though: She was too weak and beyond him she could see blurred figures racing onto the scene. She had to warn him.

“Ghostfreaks, they’ve—” Silya huffled, struggling even with that small effort. Not only was she still in pain, she couldn’t believe how tired she felt. “No time... Free the others, Aoi. Burn those freaks to a crisp!”

It was hard to breath and things started to get dark and hazy again. The little Demongo clone opened his mouth to demand answers, but was interrupted by the sound of feet hurrying toward them. He jerked his head around as two more lights—red and yellow—spiraled off of her belt in near unison to join him at his side.

And then Silya’s mind slipped away.

END OF PART FOUR

Part 5 (END): https://silyabeeodess.tumblr.com/post/188674258524/fusionfall-writing-prompts-oct-2019-prompt-2

#fusionfall #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #aoi #demongo #nano #oc #silya #silyabeeodess #fusionfall retro #video games #oct 2019 prompt part 2 #ghostfreak #ben 10 #ectonurite #part 4

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blue-likethebird · 5 years

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*lays 3 buttons and a feather down* can i have a gooey fluffy tsuchako fic? Im thirsty in the barren waste land of tsuchako.

Oh hell yeah!Read this fic on AO3| Request a fic

You, Me, And This Giant Fish Tank

“Ooh, would you look at that octopus! It looks so goopy!” Mina crowed as she pressed her face up to a tank where a cranky-looking octopus scuttled to a tiny cave.

“An octopus is technically soft-bodied, not goopy,” Momo said, “Though this one does look sort of goopy,”

“Whatever it is, can we please move on? He’s creeping me out,” Uraraka complained.

“You said that about the lobsters, parrot fish, eels and starfish too Ochako,” Jirou muttered dryly

“Yeah, Ochako, lighten up! It’s my birthday and I wanted to come here!” Mina whined. “You got to pick last time! We’ve only got a couple more things left to look at.”

“Might I suggest the reef event? It’s only five minutes long and should start soon,” Momo said, leaning over Jirou’s shoulder to look at the map of the aquarium.

“Sounds fun!” Mina chirped.

“Uh, I’ll be there in a minute,” Uraraka said, the octopus had emerged from his cave to glare at her. “I think I wanna get a few pictures of this guy,”

The others shrugged and left, “Meet us by the Carribean tank once you’re done!” Momo called as she made her way down the ramp. Uraraka whipped out her camera and got as close to the glass as her nerves would permit. Before she could take the photo, the octopus shot a jet of ink into the water. She yelped and scurried away to the upper viewing level of the giant Carribean exhibit.

She was not a fish person, but she had to admit the tank looked incredibly relaxing. Swirling stalks of seaweed floated calmly in the cylindrical tank as colourful fish darted between the plants and corals that dotted the bottom. A turtle swam in front of her towards the lower level where the host of the reef talk was explaining something to the assembled group. The guide turned to greet the turtle and Uraraka’s heart stuttered in her chest.

The girl’s face was distorted by the glass and water, but she was cute. She had long green hair gathered in a bow and a finger raised to her chin as she pointed to various coral and fish. Uraraka hurried down the ramp to where Mina, Momo and Jirou were watching the host show an anemone to the crowd. They gasped appreciatively at the sight of its long tentacles swaying in the current.

Then the show was over and the host was gone. The people gathered around the exhibit began walking towards the larger galleries or back up to the gift shop and coffee shop. Uraraka stayed rooted in place, staring at the spot where the girl with the long green hair had stood a moment before. Jirou tapped her shoulder.

“Earth to ‘raka,” she said, “We’re going to the shark tunnels now. Or are you too busy fantasising about the invitations for your wedding to Tsuyu?”

Uraraka snapped out of her trance. “Her name is Tsuyu? Oh, that’s such a pretty name!”

“She’s lost it,” Jirou whispered to the other two. Mina grabbed Uraraka’s hand and led them down the hall towards the large gallery containing several smaller touch tanks and the gigantic shark exhibit. Uraraka let out a small shriek of alarm at the sight.

“Nope, no sharks for me thank you! I’ll just stay out here with the touch pools,”

“Ooh!” Mina gushed, “There’s a touch tank, I wanna see it!”

Uraraka still didn’t like fish, yet there she was, back at the aquarium again a month later, watching Tsuyu lead a turtle feeding show to the amusement of several small children.

She’d tried to get a friend to come, but Mina, Momo and Jirou had a date planned, Todoroki and Midoriya were looking for apartments, Tooru was in Shanghai for a family reunion, Iida was visiting his brother, and Mei was competing in a robotics competition. It looked like she was alone in her quest to talk to Tsuyu.

“The average leatherback sea turtle can live to be up to thirty years old,” Tsuyu stated, “the oldest turtle in our exhibit is only twenty, however,”

“What’s she eating?” cried a small girl near the front.

“If you look closely, it’s a jellyfish. When sea turtles eat them, the venom the jellyfish makes won’t sting them,” she explained as the children oohed and ahhed over the fact.

After “Turtle Talk” as the brochure called it, was over, Uraraka sat on a bench next to one of the touch pools with a carton of water in her hand. The gallery was mostly empty, with only a few children and their parents in sight. So she decided to take a look into Starfish Cove, the least slimy-looking touch tank.

Tentatively, she reached in to tap a sea star on the arm. To her surprise, it didn’t feel slimy at all, instead, it felt spiky. She tried another starfish, the same result. That actually wasn’t terrible, she thought as she leaned further in to look at the crab touch tank. Once again, it wasn’t slimy. The crab’s shell was smooth and solid instead. She got to her feet and gathered up her stuff to go home for the night.

“Excuse me, miss,” someone called to her. Uraraka whipped her head around to see who had been speaking to her. It was Tsuyu.

“Oh, hello! Is something the matter?”

“Sorry if I’m being too forward, but your shirt’s been soaked all the way through.”

Uraraka looked down at her chest. Sure enough, there was a water stain on her blouse that had made her undershirt completely visible. She groaned.

“Well that’s just great, now what am I supposed to wear home?” she cried.

“Well I have a spare set of clothes in my locker, they might fit you,” Tsuyu offered. “I can go get them and bring them out here for you to try on,”

“You would do that? Thank you, Tsuyu, you’re a lifesaver!”

“No problem, just head to the bathroom and I’ll be right back,”

Tsuyu’s clothes were a little snug, but they’d do just fine for the train ride home. She stepped out of the bathroom with her wet shirt tucked into her purse.

“Thank you so much! Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary-”

“I insist! You wanna meet up for coffee this weekend or something?”

“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt. Thank you for the offer…” Tsuyu trailed off, oh yeah, Tsuyu didn’t know her name.

“Uraraka!” she chirped brightly. “Is it alright if I give you my number?”

Their coffee date had gone swimmingly, so had the lunch date, and dinner date, and steady relationship after that. Uraraka was on cloud nine, just not at the moment.

She’d won a dinner for two at Le Rossignol during a work raffle and so far it was capital b Boring. The food was way fancier than anything they usually ate, the atmosphere was far too snobbish to be enjoyable, and there were at least three forks she didn’t know the purpose of. If she wanted an enjoyable date and to pull off her grand plans for the evening, then Le Rossignol was not the place to be.

Tsuyu pushed a steamed frog leg away from her chicken. Her face had an uneasy smile that didn’t match the furrow of her brow or the dullness of her eyes. Uraraka discreetly ordered a car, called over a waiter and slipped him her voucher.

“Come on Tsuyu! I have a better place in mind,” she said as she held out a hand to help her girlfriend to her feet. Their picked-at plates were left behind them as they hurried off into the night.

She covered Tsuyu’s eyes once they started to approach their destination. Anticipation fizzed in her stomach as they stepped through the doors, Uraraka uncovered Tsuyu’s eyes to reveal…

“The aquarium?” Tsuyu sounded puzzled as she took in the sight.

“It’s where we had our first date and where we met! Plus I know you’d rather hang out with the fish than sit in a stuffy restaurant for an hour,”

“That’s true,” Tsuyu said as she led the way through the bottom dwellers gallery, stopping briefly to fake scold the crab she called Aizawa for snapping at her that morning. ( “We have to wear gloves when we feed him,” Tsuyu had told Uraraka on their first date, “He tries to pinch everyone who gets near his hiding spot,” )

The two made their way through the halls in silence except for when Tsuyu would stop to gaze at the various creatures hanging out in the tanks around them. The aquarium was completely deserted, with only the soft glow of tank lights for company.

The shark gallery was quiet, the only sound was the whir of the automated walkway that wound its way through the shark tank. This was her moment, Uraraka slowly trailed to a stop right by the tunnel’s entrance.

“Ochako? Is something wrong?”

“Do you remember our first real date?” Ochako began, “How I wanted to see the sharks but I got scared and had to hold your hand?”

“Yeah, and how wide your eyes got when you finally opened them and saw that stingray swimming by. You looked so cute Ochako,”

Ochako started rambling on, about their plans, goals, cat, everything.

“Ochako, breathe,” Tsuyu said.

“Will you marry me?” Uraraka blurted.

“Will I, will I what?”

“Will you marry me?” Uraraka clasped her girlfriend’s hands in her own for a moment before reaching into her pocket to fumble for the ring she’d been carrying. She pulled it out and opened the box to reveal a little silver band decorated with a blue-green stone.

“Ochako I- yes!” Tsuyu cried. Ochako grinned like a lovesick fool as she slid the ring onto Tsuyu’s finger. They stepped onto the walkway and Ochako grabbed Tsuyu’s hand.

“Oh no Tsuyu this is scary,” she said with a grin, “Will you hold my hand?”

Tsuyu leaned her head on Ochako’s shoulder, “Yes,” she sighed.

#bluebird writes #tsuchako #writing requests #bluebird.txt #bnha #tsuyu asui #uraraka ochako

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Of Meerkats and Cockroaches (Rated PG13)

Summary: Sebastian has come up with a new Valentine's Day tradition ... one that makes Kurt's skin crawl. (1181 words)

Notes: Inspired by this news story https://www.cbsnews.com/news/el-paso-zoo-name-a-cockroach-after-your-ex-feed-to-meerkat-valentines-day-feb-14/

Read on AO3.

“This feels … so wrong,” Kurt complains, face pinched as he’s presented (through a thick wall of glass) with a box of brown, wriggling, Madagascan “delicacies”.

“Why?” Sebastian chuckles when his squeamish boyfriend takes a subconscious step back and knocks into his chest. “It’s just a bit of harmless Valentine’s fun. If you ask me, we should make it a yearly tradition.”

“It’s gross!” Kurt yelps as the box comes closer. He points quickly to the largest of the roaches to make them go away, then shivers into his coat, doing his best to retreat as far as he can from the scene unfolding before him. “And I don’t really have anything against Blaine. Not anymore. I don’t think he’s done anything to deserve being given a cockroach namesake, which will then be eaten by a hungry meerkat.”

“Meh. I can think of a few things,” Sebastian grumbles. “Also, it’s not just any meerkat. Don’t you think it’s sort of ironic that that meerkat’s name is Kurt? I mean, what are the odds?”

“I think it’s ironic that it’s a meerkat at all.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian agrees, recalling the reference Kurt once made to his ‘smirky meerkat face’. “Even more reason to make this a tradition. If you ask me, this was meant to be!”

“Who thinks up this stuff?” Kurt asks, watching as Blaine, the doomed hissing cockroach, is prepared to meet his maker.

“I don’t know. Lonely, embittered divorcees? What does it matter? You wanted me to put my money to better use, like charities and stuff.” Kurt turns his face away from the roach and glares up at his smugly grinning boyfriend. “Wish granted.”

Kurt sighs, defeated by the knowledge that he indeed said that, and that he never offered any options along with his criticism because he figured, like most normal people, his wealthy boyfriend would uncreatively and unceremoniously cut a check to the first reputable charity he could think of. It wouldn’t take much effort. Rich people have newsletters filled with that sort of information. Kurt’s seen them.

But boy, was he wrong!

He also knows that Sebastian is bizarrely proud of this activity they’re partaking in, so much so that while other participants are watching their roaches being gobbled via Facebook live stream, Sebastian paid extra – almost ten times as much – to get them a front row seat to the feast. So before they do anything even remotely romantic, Kurt is going to have to watch this poor roach get ingested.

“Promise me that after this we get to do something a little more romantic … and less roach-centric.”

“We live in New York City, babe. I can’t really promise that last one.” Sebastian kisses the crown of Kurt’s head. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Now …” A voice from behind the thick glass pipes through an overhead speaker “… we’ll put a colored dot on your roach’s back with this special marker so you know which one’s yours.”

“Great,” Kurt groans.

“Ooo! Can you make it look like a bowtie?” Sebastian asks, giggling moronically at his own suggestion.

Kurt rolls his eyes.

The keeper laughs. “I think I can do that,” she says, carefully painting one line with her red marker, then another, then filling in the spaces until cockroach Blaine indeed looks like he’s wearing a little red bowtie.

“Perfect!” Sebastian squeals with toddler-esque amusement. “Too bad they can’t glue a tiny candy microphone to his leg or something. Then he’d look just like Blaine!”

“Yeah. Too bad.”

“Aw,” a second keeper coos as she passes by, carrying another box of roaches. “He’s a fancy lad!”

“Yup,” the first keeper agrees. “He dressed for dinner.” Both ladies laugh in a way that makes Kurt’s skin prickle.

They are definitely enjoying their jobs a bit too much today.

Kurt wraps his arms around himself as he watches the keeper bring roach Blaine up to meerkat Kurt and hold it out to him.

“Ugh. I can’t watch,” Kurt moans, but ironically, he can’t make himself turn away. Between wondering what type of exotic insects their other plans might include and thinking, “Oh my God! What if Blaine is watching this right now!?” meerkat Kurt lunges for roach Blaine. But instead of snapping its jaws around it, he knocks it out of the keeper’s hand. The roach, either out of instinct or impulse, heads for the hills.

“Ah! He dropped him!” Kurt yells, jumping back as if the roach is going to scale the glass wall of the enclosure and come for him, seeking revenge.

“Blaine’s getting away!” Sebastian cheers, snorting with laughter.

For a moment, a confused Kurt-kat watches roach Blaine bolt for a crevice in the wall of the enclosure, but then he gives chase, racing after the roach scuttling to get away as fast as its creepy, hairy legs can carry it. Kurt and Sebastian go quiet, locked in a tense moment as they mentally take bets over whether or not roach Blaine will escape. When it seems he might make it, that he might reach that crevice and make a break for freedom, meerkat Kurt leaps on it. He traps it under foot, grabs it by its pulsing rear, and shoves it in his mouth head first. Kurt-kat doesn’t chew right away, content to sit there with this poor, squiggling creature trapped between his teeth, antennae searching frantically for a way out, legs twitching in an attempt to get away.

“Oh, God!” Kurt gasps, and Sebastian belches a laugh. “Do you think … he’s just going to torture him? Maybe … maybe bite him in half and leave him there, writhing in agony?”

“I don’t know that cockroaches can writhe in agony.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a relief.”

A sickening crunch, magnified by the overhead speaker, interrupts Kurt’s guilt-ridden mulling. As Kurt-kat chews, human Kurt throws his hands over his mouth.

Sebastian, on the other hand, has laughed so hard, he’s brought himself to tears.

Kurt-kat ends up eating Blaine roach in one go, chewing the bulk of him, then swallowing the rest whole. One leg, fighting to the very last, clings to the fur on Kut-kat’s cheek, vibrating in vain until Kurt-kat brushes it off and eats it.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Kurt whimpers, turning a pale shade of green.

“Great! Lunch should be cheap.”

“Not necessarily. Depends on what we’re having.”

“Lobster.”

Kurt turns greener. “I’ll pass.”

“More for me then,” Sebastian says, rubbing his boyfriend’s trembling shoulders.

“So, did you name any roaches after any of your exes?” Kurt asks, on the verge of puking.

“Yup.”

“Which ones?”

“Do you see that bowl over there?” Sebastian motions with his chin to a far corner where the rest of the meerkats have started to gather around a soup-bowl sized vessel, filled to the brim with a crawling mass, blissfully unaware of their inevitable fate.

“Welp …” Kurt pats his boyfriend on the shoulder as he steps past him in search of fresh air and a lack of exoskeleton crunching “… at least we know they’re going to be well-fed.”

#Kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #frankie writes

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texanredrose · 6 years

Text

Dishonored - Ch 2

Chapter 2: Roots in the Den

The beeping of her alarm roused Winter, despite being in the other room. After finding the report she’d sought, she’d hardly made it back to her quarters before exhaustion took the remainder of her strength.

Two hours before sunrise, she sat up in the chair she’d collapsed into, stretching her arms above her head. The glass she’d filled with burning amber liquid the night before sat next to the report, half empty.

Silently, she reached over and opened it, confirming that she hadn’t suffered some manner of fever dream that strung together fictional events. No, every word she’d read stood out against the faded, crinkled paper, so she closed it and set it aside, eyeing the glass for a moment. Although she wouldn’t usually start the day in such disarray, she also felt like she absolutely needed the bracing bite to fully rouse her.

Ultimately, she pushed it away and went to her bedroom, shutting off her alarm and pulling out a fresh uniform for the day. She would need her wits about her fully if she wished to confront her prisoner.

Winter couldn’t be sure if the answered she sought… would be the ones she wanted to hear.

Before heading to her office, she stopped by the interface in her living room to read the notes sent to her overnight. Among them, she noted the two-two-sixth had rolled out to link up with their squad and a notification that a secured message arrived via the only operable line they kept open during the blackout.

On top of dealing with the contraband issue and her prisoner, she’d need to personally call to Atlas Command and explain herself to one of the Generals.

Sending a message to her staff officers, she informed them that she expected a pot of coffee in her office by the time she arrived.

It would be a long day.

Ruby sat against the wall, humming softly to herself a tune she’d learned sometime when she was young. She couldn’t remember where she’d heard it from but Yang always smiled whenever she started it up and sometimes even joined in, even when things looked dire. Like that time they were both pinned down by Atlesian soldiers- no ammo, steep odds, and no chances of getting any back up. They’d gotten clever that time, and perhaps a bit lucky, but they’d made it out with only a few new scars.

It just… gave her hope, even when she probably shouldn’t have any.

She could tell by the movements of the soldiers outside that it was close to daybreak. Usually, everyone on the base would be awake about an hour before, scuttling to wherever they needed to be in time for the morning call-to-arms, and then in full swing by the time the sun started its climb through the sky.

But there seemed a bit more going on than the previous morning. The guards moved around a little erratically, as if startled by something.

Then the door opened and she supposed that explained everything well enough.

The Colonel walked stiffly, as if she’d been injured or just slept wrong, the tightness in her neck probably from stress. Though, the pinched expression might also be from finding out the nighttime guards weren’t as attentive to their duties as their daytime counterparts. She held a few papers in her hand that looked weathered, old, and recently leafed through.

Ah, she thought, schooling her expression into one of mild curiosity. A clever soldier indeed.

“Summer Rose,” she said, those blue eyes staring down at her, looking for any sign.

Ruby thought it would work to her advantage, so she indulged her. “My mother. I’ve heard a lot of stories about her over the years.”

“Including how she died, I assume.” The Colonel indicated the report. “What’s your version of the tale?”

“Interesting word choice.” She met the woman’s gaze. “You’re already implying that what I’m about to say isn’t the truth.”

“What you’ve been told is likely an embellishment.” She indicated the papers. “Between your version and this, I will find the truth.”

“Do you really think that’s the most important thing I have to offer?” A nonchalant shrug, a bait to hurry up with the interrogation process, but she continued regardless. “Alright, I’ll tell you. Mom and Dad lived in a little cottage on Patch. It’s an island just off the coast of Vale.”

“I know where it is.” Her eyes narrowed. “The population there was small, the economy was geared towards fishing, most people inherited their occupations from their parents- it’s a blip but one I’m familiar with. Atlas Command had the people there relocated a decade ago.”

“You should be a tour guide.” Ruby smirked, noting the brief flicker of annoyance in the woman’s face. “Back then, before the ‘relocation’, it was just the four of us. Mom, Dad, my sister, and me, and the thing about small, tight knight communities is that you can’t really take someone away from it without leaving an impact. Trades are passed down- remove the people who know that trade, and you’ve left the community lacking a basic element. That’s what the relocation order was doing to Patch, trying to tear it apart. First, they took the Faunus, forcing them to move to Menagerie. Mom stood up to the Atlesian soldiers doing it and they killed her for it. So Dad took us and tried to come here, to Mistral. Eventually, the Atlesian military got their way and took a third of the island’s population, then stationed their own soldiers there.”

“Soldiers who didn’t take up the trades vacated by those relocated- or on the run. I suppose that’s where you’re going with this.”

“Well, that, and they continued using resources. Less people fishing but more people eating the fish- it’s not exactly a sustainable model.”

The Colonel hummed. “The infrastructure collapsed on itself, leading to the relocation of Patch’s remaining population. I suppose I could believe that.” Her head tilted. “But it doesn’t explain how your father died yet you survived.”

“My sister did too. We’re kids from an island; we knew how to swim before we could walk.” She couldn’t recall the details herself- just a bit too young- but Yang told her the story when she was old enough. Usually while yelling, because she’d been holding onto the anger for years and needed to let it out, but Ruby could be a bit calmer, even if it hurt. “Dad stayed with the boat, drew the soldiers chasing us away so we could swim to shore.”

“Two children alone in a strange land.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That was almost twenty years ago. How did you survive?”

Now, she had to get creative. “We were taken in by a village. They raised us for a while, until the Atlesian patrols became stricter. After that, we wandered, until we decided we’d had enough. Atlas took everything from us- Mom, Dad, our home. All we have left is each other.” A pause and she chuckled; even if the this part of the story wasn’t strictly what happened, it did hold a bit of truth in it all the same. “Well, I guess, that’s out now. Once she finds out where you’re holding me… there won’t be any stopping her.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that.” Now the Colonel seemed to be gaining confidence, convinced she’d ferreted out a lie. “Your sister’s dead. Else, she would’ve been here by now.”

“She might not be the poster child for patience, but she knows how to bide her time. I know she’s out there.” Another shrug. “It’s a sister thing; you wouldn’t understand it.”

“I have siblings. A sister and a brother.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger, both of them.”

“Are you sure they’re safe?”

The Colonel immediately bristled. “You’re in no position to be making threats. And if any of your ilk come anywhere near them, I will personally skin each and every one of you alive.”

“Oh, but how could you use us against our friends and family then?” Ruby shot back, noting the dark cloud that seemed to settle over the woman. “Since we’re playing the game of fact or fiction, I’m curious- did you really use the reanimated corpses of fallen rebels to fight their former friends in Azulen?”

“I don’t use reanimated corpses.” She forced out through gritted teeth, the hand holding the report clenching hard enough to crinkle the papers.

“Forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

And then something happened- something Ruby could hardly explain, even as it unfolded before her very eyes. White light erupted around the woman’s left hand as she held it out, towards a spot between the two of them. A symbol of some sort- like an intricate snowflake- appeared, a mirrored copy three times the size reflecting on the floor. The glyphs began to spin as light filled the center of the larger one, growing bigger and taking shape, until a life sized white Beowolf appeared, with bright blue markings across its muzzle.

The beast regarded her with cool, blue eyes, before turning its head and dropping down to all fours, nuzzling into the Colonel’s hand.

“I can summon any foe I’ve dispatched,” she said, paying the Beowolf little mind, and it seemed rather content with that. “But I don’t desecrate the dead.”

“Well… that’s a first, for an Atlesian.” Ruby watched the creature, having fought more than her fair share of Beowolves, but finding none of the aggressive posture in this one. Usually, Grimm hunted with a single minded purpose- to find the source of negative emotions and elicit even more, that they might feed. Killing came secondary, and usually the result of a young Grimm trying to get more out of its meal and unintentionally destroying the source. The Alphas and older ones, no, they didn’t often kill, unless it could be used against witnesses… sometimes, she thought the Atlesian military took more after the Grimm than anything else. “Having a pet like that trailing you during battle would probably help.”

“Age, training, and discipline have honed my abilities. They call me the ‘Wolf of Azulen’ because I summoned six score of these and saved the unit stationed there from an embarrassing rout.”

“You must have quite the catalogue of dead enemies to pick from, then.” She shifted her gaze. “But I can promise you this; using me against my sister won’t work as any sort of advantage for you. She’ll be able to tell it isn’t me and it’ll just piss her off worse.” A smirk lifted her lips. “Maybe that ‘embarrassing rout’ will come around anyway. You might want to get used to the idea that your name will go down in history as the one who lost Mistral to one seriously ticked off big sis.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” And then, briefly, she could see something akin to fear in the woman’s eyes.

“You’re arrogant, underestimating-”

“No.” A bit of force in the woman’s voice, a crack in the armor. “I wouldn’t ‘use’ you against your sister.”

Ruby couldn’t help but be surprised at that. “An Atlesian not pressing an advantage? That’s unheard of.”

“You shouldn’t make light of what you don’t understand. I’ve made the mistake already and I won’t do it again.” The Colonel turned sharply, leaving the summoned Beowolf behind. “Enjoy your new company.”

As the door slammed closed, she frowned, watching the creature as steadily as it watched her.

While she’d probably managed to achieve her goal in unsettling the woman, now Ruby wondered if, perhaps, there were certain lines not even the Colonel would cross. The plan would work fine under the assumption that the woman could achieve her goals no matter the cost, but if she held some manner of standards, that would throw a wrench into everything.

Which made the impending arrival of the interrogation squad all the more troubling.

Winter sat at her desk, a cup of coffee off to the side and the report she’d carried around that morning tossed into a nearby chair. Although she didn’t particularly like the task before her, she really had no choice in the matter. Reaching over, she hit one of the buttons.

“Sergeant Forecastle.”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“I’ll utilizing the secured line,” she said, a frown on her lips. “See to it I’m not disturbed.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

With that out of the way, she pulled up the secured line and punched in the proper code.

Now, if her call could go unanswered, that would be splendid, but she didn’t seem to have that sort of luck.

But she did have just enough as a familiar face filled the screen. “Colonel Schnee. It’s been too long.”

“General Ironwood,” she replied, trying to force a smile. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“You shouldn’t equate contacting Atlas Command with being reprimanded, Winter.” He favored her with a smile of his own. As her mentor, he’d always held a bit of a soft spot for her, and she could honestly call the man a better role model than her father ever could be. However, he was her superior first and foremost. “Though, we are curious about the current blackout. You’ve yet to file a justification.”

“I wanted to be sure I have something before troubling Command with it, Sir.” Winter shifted slightly in her seat. “Considering the current state of Remnant, throwing about accusations or making unchecked claims seems… reckless, at best.”

“I remember there was a time when you were exactly that sort of reckless.” The General clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. “I trust you’ve made headway in verifying whatever it is that prompted the blackout? Or are you waiting for the interrogation team to arrive?”

She’d almost forgotten about that. “I’d like them to verify my results, Sir. Their methods might prove… more illuminating.”

“I trust your judgment.” He looked away and sighed. “However, I’m afraid I’ll need something- vague as it may be- to provide the other Generals. As you’ve said, these are turbulent times, and losing contact with one of our most solid strongholds is more than a little concerning. They won’t accept mere assurances.”

Winter nodded, buying herself a moment to make her decision. “I believe I’ve uncovered the methods by which the resistance here in Mistral is growing. Their motivations and the particular events they’re utilizing to gather more support to their cause. I also believe it’s possible to dismantle their rhetoric, but I’ll need more time for that.”

General Ironwood raised a brow, slightly taken aback by her words. “While I’m genuinely intrigued by how you came by that information I’m not sure if it’s a worthwhile investment of your time.”

“Why not?” Her brows furrowed. “If we can stop the resistance from recruiting new members, it simply becomes a matter of routing the remainder.”

“I don’t discredit the logic, Winter; I simply mean that I don’t think it’ll have the effect you’re hoping for.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “As long as Atlas has ruled, there have been groups trying to undermine the security we provide Remnant. The problem is that you can’t combat illogical ideations with logic. Rebels and the like will crop up, no matter how you trample and remove their excuses to do so.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think that’s an accurate assessment.” Her gaze briefly deviated to the report. “I believe with some adjustments to policy, we could very easily dissuade a large number of people from supporting or joining the forces acting against us.”

“Every policy we have is justified; there’s simply no pleasing everyone.”

“Sir, have you read through the census reports from Mistral over the past five years?” She had, several times, both to try and nail down where the missing children of Taiyang Xiao Long might’ve turned up, and then looking into it further when she began to notice a trend. How she hadn’t seen it before boggled her mind. “The local population of Mistrali is beginning to give way to Atlesians and those of mixed heritage. The vast majority of locals are either joining the resistance or suspected of doing so and being executed.”

“Then it sounds like the problem will take care of itself in another generation or so.”

Winter’s mouth opened but no sound came out as she blinked, turning that sentence over in her head a few times. “Sir… what you’re suggesting is practically genocide.”

“I don’t think that’s an accurate way of looking at it.” He shook his head. “We are just as much part of Remnant as they are; as long as we remain to stand strong, Atlas- and, by consequence, all of Remnant- will continue to march forward, and we’ll drag the territories kicking and screaming with us, no matter how they protest.” A sigh left his lips as he reached up, massaging his temple, just shy of the grey streaks running through otherwise midnight black hair. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Winter. Being the commanding officer for a territory is a difficult step in your career, but right now, you need to focus on executing the missions Atlas Command puts before you. Deal with the resistance when they present a problem and put them down, but don’t try to understand them. You’re simply wasting your time.”

For a moment, she just stared at the screen. “Of course, Sir. There… is the matter of a possible traitor on my base.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s a serious claim to make. No Atlesian would dare defy Atlas Command.”

‘And expect to live’ she mentally tacked on, though outwardly she only offered a nod. “I’m not entirely sure where the source of the leak is coming from, but I’ve reason to believe someone is… attempting to undermine our position here, and using our own soldiers to do it. I’m sure the interrogation squad will be able to hunt down the source of this… troublesome flow.”

“Yes, good, see that you put your efforts to solving that immediately. We don’t tolerate spies in our ranks, Colonel.” He sat back. “Finding the leak is a much higher priority than concerning yourself with the cause of the resistance. The interrogation squad will be arriving this afternoon; they’ll be able to assist you in this matter.”

“Yes, Sir. I will lift the blackout and make a full report to Atlas Command as soon as there’s proof of my concerns.”

“Good. Take care, Winter.”

“You as well, Sir.” She ended the call and sat back in her chair, sighing heavily. In the back of her mind, she could feel the connection with her summoned Beowolf- anxious, bored, never a fan of tight spaces. Rose didn’t seem to be provoking it.

However, she needed to provoke her prisoner a bit more.

The only thought Ruby really had during the hours between when the guards reluctantly brought her breakfast and when the Colonel returned was that she hoped beyond hope that Ilia didn’t try returning any time soon. Although the beast didn’t breath or move like a living creature would, it reacted to movement and sound, looking at the guards when they came, following their movements even through the wall, snapping its attention to Ruby whenever she shifted. It could be unnerving, at the least, but she couldn’t tell if it had the capacity to recognize friend from foe.

But then it started… pacing would be the only way to describe it. Restless, moving around the cell in a pattern that seemed to speed up with every pass, and she couldn’t rightly tell what caused it.

Until the Colonel burst into the room, somehow even more stressed than when she’d left. “What’s your plan?”

“Well, I was going to read a book and order a pizza for lunch,” she replied sarcastically, lifting up the chains still binding her wrists. Better to feign ignorance than give away that she had a plan at all. “But I’m tied up at the moment, so-”

“Spare me your smart remarks.” Whatever had gotten under the woman’s skin, it had dug deep, and the summon began gnashing its teeth as a reflection of her frustration. “If your resistance, by some miracle, manages to displace the Atlesian military presence here in Mistral, what then?”

Ah, so she hadn’t been found out yet. A little bit of relief suffused her being but now she stood at a crossroads. In the woman’s eyes, she could see how hard she searched for something, but couldn’t be certain what, or which response might tip the scales in her favor. Every day she sat in the cell she accomplished nothing for her allies and, without her there with the others, she worried what concern over her might encourage Yang to do. She needed to continue hitting the woman’s buttons, even if it meant playing the bloodthirsty rebel.

“What makes you think we’ll ‘displace’ you?” She lifted her chin defiantly. “We’re not interested in your relocation methods.”

“Then you seek blood.” In a flash of steel, the Colonel drew the sword at her side as the Beowolf growled. “There is no reasoning with you.”

“See?” She offered a smirk. “Your own methods seem harsh when they’re turned around on you, aren’t they?”

“The Atlesian military attempted to relocate-”

“Poorly attempted, and when that failed, they turned to executions; don’t split hairs with me about skipping the optional first step to your people’s two step plan.” Ruby rolled her eyes. “This is what I’m talking about. Everything you people do, you’ve already built in a justification by first being unreasonable and refusing to see it. Destroying entire communities because they didn’t suit Atlas’ needs.” Their eyes met, and she could sense that she was getting somewhere, pushing the woman, because the grip on her sword faltered just a bit. However, something told her that she wasn’t getting any closer to her goal, which presented a problem. “There were four kingdoms, now there’s five, but Atlas only sees itself as the rightful holder of that distinction. The rest? Second class citizens, or worse.”

“There’s no other way,” the Colonel said, the tip of her sword lowering until it almost touched the ground as her summon fell silent once more. “That’s how things have been and how they’ll stay. How do you possibly hope to change that?”

She’d have to switch tactics. At this rate, the woman seemed to be daring her to provide a reason to be taken seriously. So, she’d oblige.

“By fighting. Fighting with everything we’ve got, until we’ve pushed Atlas off Mistral’s shores and reclaimed the kingdom for the people born to it.” A sigh left her lips. “Then, the hard part starts.”

“If you’re trying to insult me-”

“For once, no, I’m not.” Ruby looked up at the ceiling. “Right now, we’re united. Everyone who is sick and tired of what Atlas has done to Mistral- we share a common enemy, but when we win, then that goes out the window. As it is, those of us who’ve earn the resistance’s trust will be seen as the leaders, and we might be able to hold onto that power long enough to set up some form of government. Mistral used to run on a system of city-states; we could bring that back.” Perhaps she’d let a bit too much of the truth out but, for some reason, she felt like it might actually be working in her favor. The Colonel listened intently, something she seemed to do whenever searching beneath what Ruby said, so perhaps she could be tricked into believing she’d uncovered something else. “But, if something happens to us- if the heads of the resistance somehow get taken out before we can rout Atlas- then the ones who step up to fill those spots might not hold the same ideals we do.”

When she lowered her gaze, she found blue eyes watching her, but they looked away as she paced the length of the room. “What I’m hearing is that killing you could very well destabilize the resistance now.”

“It might.” She held up a finger. “But there’s also my sister to consider. She might be mad enough to destroy every last Atlesian fortification on the continent but she’s not going to be able to use that anger to keep things stable after the fighting stops and I won’t be there to convince her when enough’s enough.” A short chuckle. “You’re banking on her getting her revenge and stopping but she’s the sort of person to run across the ocean and take the fight to Atlas Command herself, if it means avenging me.”

She only stretched the truth a little. Yang’s temper might be legendary but she could also be calm and level headed when the situation called for it. Yet, she also would be the sort of person to launch a one woman assault on Atlas Command. It was kinda where Ruby got the idea in the first place.

“That would be a suicide mission.” The Colonel seemed absolutely sure of that.

“At that point, she’s lost everything else. What more could she lose? What’s a life when everything that made it worth living’s been stripped away from you?�� She nodded at the woman. “You say you’re a big sister. If one of your siblings was killed, what would you do? Hunt down the people responsible, even if it meant sacrificing your life in the process? Or sit here and send a card for the funeral?”

Then, she had the woman’s attention once more, her pacing halting as she threw a heated glare at Ruby. “I would never be that callous. They would have justice.”

“Good! Then, now, you’re getting it. You understand what lengths she’ll go through and how little she’ll care for the outcome.” Her voice took on a teasing lilt. “It’s only a matter of time before she comes here, looking for me.”

“What of the others?”

“What others?”

“Don’t play coy. The Fox, the Cat, the Dragon- there are other leaders. How many of you are there?”

Now, she had a chance. “The Dragon is my sister. The others aren’t in Mistral.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean they aren’t in Mistral?”

“Vacuon rebels engaged Atlesian troops in a full scale battle the day I was captured; a full platoon lost on your side. In Menagerie, the White Fang resurfaced after an extended dormancy period. And, if you haven’t heard from Vale yet, they’ve had a few mishaps at several of their trainyards, disrupting supply lines and putting several of their outposts at risk.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately, I think we’re the only ones who missed our mark. I’m sure Dragon will catch up, once she’s done destroying every building on this base.” She paused, hoping she’d counted the days right. “And, unless I miss my guess, this morning is going to be very eventful for the troops in Vale. Those near Forever Fall- they were doing a training exercise out there this week, right?” A smirk. “Guess there’s no better training than the real thing.”

“Are you implying that every rebel group working against the Atlas military is connected?” The barefaced confusion splayed across her expression- no one had tried connecting the dots? Really? She didn’t know if that spoke to how well they’d covered their tracks or Atlas’ arrogance. “How?”

“Sorry, Colonel.” She closed her eyes and leaned back. “I’m done talking to you.”

That should be more than enough reason for her to be turned over to the interrogation squad. Especially if she’d gotten the timing right.

“You little-” The Beowolf growled and lunged, but she remained calm and didn’t even open her eyes as it landed just in front of her. It didn’t touch her, though, and while she could feel it standing over her, the presence disappeared a moment later as the woman made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “Your mind might change once the interrogation squad arrives.”

“If you’re anything to go by, I have nothing to fear,” she replied, satisfied she’d prodded enough. With the return of the threat, she felt certain she’d tipped the scales back into her favor. Now all she had to do was force the woman’s hand. “Bring them in. At the end of the day, you won’t have anything to show for it.”

“We’ll see,” she replied, turning to exit again.

Left alone with the summon, Ruby wondered just how long she’d be left to sweat it out before the Colonel’s frustration rose too high. The pressure had to be pouring on from everything else happening around Remnant; Atlas Command kept too close of tabs on everyone under their thumb to allow for a period of silence to last. Eventually, someone had to break, and it couldn’t be her.

The door opened again, a full squad of Atlesian soldiers with riot shields and armor entering the room, regarding her like a threat while paying the summoned Beowolf no mind.

“On your feet,” one said, his voice gruff and obviously displeased. “Move.”

Well, so much for sweating it out, she thought wryly while complying with the order and mentally preparing herself for the trials ahead.

But twenty minutes later, she found herself in another detention cell just as devoid of anything remarkable as the first, and her cellmate of sorts had followed her during the move.

“What is that woman planning?” She watched the summon but received no answer, though it looked just as anxious as before, pacing the length of her cell mindlessly.

She had half a mind to join it.

Winter marched through the halls, sparing no one a glance as she made for her office. After instructing the guards on duty to move Rose to a new cell and not disclose the new location to anyone not guarding that particular section, she’d started for her desk. Not only did she need to make preparations to stall the interrogation team, she had to find a suitable distraction, and that wouldn’t be easy.

“Ma’am.” Sergeant Major Cirrus’ voice caught her attention, her brisk pace slowed so the man could catch up, accepting the scroll he handed her. “We finished questioning those found with contraband. They identified a few soldiers as the sources they bought the goods from.”

“All Atlesians, which we expected…” she slowed to a stop, reading over the information and drawing the connections- why the names seemed quasi familiar “... but isn’t that odd.”

“Erm… Ma’am?”

She pointed to the right hand side, where the soldiers’ units were displayed. “I find it strange, Sergeant Major, that all of these soldiers are recently returned from night patrols. Is that where they acquired the goods? And did they sell to multiple people to hide who their intended target was?”

“I… suppose that is peculiar.” He remained silent for a moment before lowering his voice. “Ma’am, permission to speak freely.”

“Granted.”

“Are you accusing one of our own of turning against us?”

The same, grave seriousness she heard in General Ironwood’s voice when she brought up the same idea. So, she opted to push a boundary, just to see the reaction. “I notice some of these soldiers aren’t born of Atlas. They have Atlesian blood but they’ve never been to the homeland, Sergeant Major.”

“Ah, that explains it.” He nodded, apparently accepting that conjecture without a second thought. “I can launch a full investigation into them immediately.”

“Investigate all of them,” she replied, handing the scroll back and not giving away the rolling in her stomach. “Let's not tip our hand.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” As he left, she reached back through her memories and opted to check his personnel file.

Because, if she recalled correctly, Sergeant Major Cirrus was born in the Mantle Mountain range, just beyond Atlas’ borders. Just as much a territory as Mistral, even if inducted into the fold earlier.

Winter shoved the thoughts from her mind, heading into her office after shouting to Sergeant Forecastle that she'd be on the secured line. Amid all the thoughts pinging around her head, something lurked and preyed on her mind more than the rest, setting her nerves on edge. Only one thing could assuage it.

When the line connected, she was greeted with her sister’s perplexed expression. “Winter? Or is it Colonel this time?”

Her eye twitched. “There’s no reason to be formal. This is a personal call.”

“It’s not my birthday.” Her eyes darted elsewhere. “And it’s not yours-”

“Weiss, please.” A sigh slipped past her lips as she ran a hand over her face. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, I suppose. My assignment in Menagerie has been… somewhat eventful.” A quirk to her lips. “Knowing General Cotta, you already know what I mean.”

“I do.” Sitting forward, she folded her hands and tried to keep the restless energy at bay. “I just wanted to check on you. See… if everything’s going alright.”

Brows pinching together, her younger sister tilted her head slightly. “Winter, is something wrong? I know the report appears to be troubling but we’ve been vigilant. There’s no White Fang activity; it could’ve very easily been an elaborate prank.”

“You’re sure?” The certainty in Rose’s tone, the barest of hints in those silver eyes… Weiss might be an intelligence officer, but things sometimes slipped through the cracks. “You’ve sent out your scouting parties? Double checked the perimeters? Have you determined how those flags got hung in the first place?”

“Winter, slow down.” They, perhaps, weren’t as close as other siblings, not as tightly knit, but she recognized the thread of unease in Weiss’ voice, could hear it plain as day. “Of course we’re taking the threat seriously. The last thing we want is for another rebel group to disrupt our work.”

She sighed, looking away for a brief moment. “Our work… you refer to the mines.”

“The dust deposits are the reason we’re here.” Weiss recited the official line of Atlas Command- Vale and Vacuo to instill order, Mistral to provide protection, and Menagerie for the vital resources. A reason to continue their work across Remnant. Something to believe in, something good and necessary. “And they are still operating to full capacity.”

Winter pressed her lips into a thin line. “I suppose that’s good.”

“It’s exactly what Atlas Command asks of us.”

“Do you believe it’s right?”

Weiss blinked, apparently taken off guard by the question. “Is what right?”

“Our missions.” She sat forward, interlacing her fingers. “I’m here to protect the people of Mistral, yet my night patrols engage with more and more people every day- more and more ‘suspected’ resistance fighters who don’t survive the encounter. And I’m forced to ask myself: who am I protecting?” A pause. “Do you ever have thoughts like that?”

Her sister remained silent for a moment, and in her eyes a battle waged, before she hid everything behind a mask. “Of course not. It’s not our fault the people we’re attempting to serve and protect revolt against us. If they simply obeyed, you wouldn’t be pushed to such measures.”

“Indeed.” It should’ve assured her, should’ve calmed the storm of her mind just a little, but instead she just heard the same resolute belief she’d already experienced with the General and Sergeant Major. In her heart… she felt a keen sense of disappointment. “It’s that reminder that keeps me true to the course. But diligence alone won’t protect you, Weiss. You’re aware of that?”

“Of course. I plan on leaving no openings that could be exploited.” Weiss smiled, though it looked a touch forced. “I appreciate your concern, Winter, but I assure you. I will not fall victim to some foolish rebel.”

“Good.” She nodded. “If you are in need of reinforcements, remember that I always keep two rapid deployment units on standby along the south coast.”

“I’ll be sure to brief my command on the resources available to us.” She offered a small smile. “Goodbye.” Winter reached forward to disconnect the call but stopped short. “And… I love you. Even when you’re troubled by heavy thoughts.”

A soft smile curled her lips. “I love you, too. You make me very proud, Weiss. Take care.”

Ending the call, she sat back in her chair and sighed heavily, lifting her gaze to the ceiling.

“I’ve already made my decision, haven’t I?” Nothing answered her, of course, save for the sinking in her chest. Yet, she found herself reaching out to dial another number… and frowning when the line connected. “Whitley… where the hell are you?”

He feigned innocence. “What makes you ask?”

“The fact that it’s snowing and the only place you could possibly be at this time of years is up in the mountains, which I distinctly remember you not being stationed near at all.”

“Am I not allowed to take leave?” He pouted- outright pouted- while snowflakes clung to his hair.

“You were just on leave!” She began to massage her temple, frowning at the screen. “I remember having a long talk with General Ironwood and Colonel Gold over how much leave you’ve taken, in fact.”

“Okay, so, maybe this isn’t so much ‘leave’ as… I’m not going back.”

Winter breathed in deep and let it out slowly. “You… what?”

“The military isn’t for me,” he replied, ducking indoors somewhere- given the construction, it looked more like a house or shop than any military building. “You and Weiss are free to walk in Mother’s shadow but I’m rather tired of it all. We still run the mines up here in the mountains, so I thought I’d help Father with overseeing them.”

“So… you just… left.” Reports began flashing through her mind. How many people were hunted down for simply walking down the street too late at night? And her brother just… abandoned his post?

“They’ll hardly miss me.” Whitley shrugged, sitting down somewhere as a window with snow clinging to the pane framed him. “And I’m much happier freezing up in these mountains than I ever was out in those awful forests. Do you have any idea how many forests there are in Vale? The answer is too many.”

She drew a steadying breath. “You’re my brother, so I’m obligated to say I’m pleased that you’re enjoying yourself, but as an officer-”

“Who is not in my command and can’t do anything anyway?” He smiled at her then, smug. “Report me if you wish but it’ll do little good. I’m sure Mother’s already been informed, and if she hasn’t come to collect me herself, what outcome are you expecting?”

Her hands curled into fists. Her brother had a point. “I understand if you’re disinclined to continue your service but why not at least finish out your commitment first?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he replied, expression slowly falling. “I suppose it’s a feeling you can’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“None of you understand it- Mother, Weiss, all of you are good at the whole military thing.” He practically spat the last word, dragging a hand down his face. “I never wanted to join, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter, and now? It doesn’t matter how proficient I am. I could be the best soldier or the worst and my place wouldn’t change one bit.” Then, he gestured behind him. “But here? When I excel, I excel, and I’m rewarded appropriately.”

She had half a mind to accuse him of something so base at greed but the words caught in her throat. Laziness wouldn’t be tolerated at her level, of course, but the chances of Whitley ever reaching her rank ran slim, purely because she’d been born first. Just as she’d never reach General until Mother died or retired. It was one of many laws put into place to mitigate certain risks- no chance of professional jealousy if one’s rank was determined by fate- but she’d met her fair share of incompetent officers. And only Atlesians born in Atlas were considered qualified to reach beyond a certain rank anyway.

A method of control, to keep people in their place… to walk in the shadow of those who came before.

“You’re good at it, then?” She kept her voice even despite the tumultuous thoughts rolling through her mind. “Managing the mines?”

“So far, I’ve increased productivity by a fair margin. Father’s impressed.” He sighed. “I’m not sure if that’s very encouraging though. So far, all I’ve done is walk through the mines. Apparently, having a real Atlesian in the area is required for these lazy workers to actually do their jobs.”

Winter frowned. “Really? You haven’t threatened them in any way?”

“There’s no reason to; they know what awaits them if they fail to meet my expectations.”

That didn’t ease her concerns in the slightest. In fact, it just made some of Rose’s comments echo in the back of her mind. “Are you expectations at least reasonable?”

“Of course; I learned from you and Mother, after all.” That set her stomach rolling. She’d always maintained high standards, just as Mother had, but when they weren’t met… she’d always justified the punishments in her mind. However, what she would ask of soldiers and what she would ask of civilians differed and she didn’t believe for a second her brother understood that difference. “We’re on schedule to have these mines closed by the end of the year and the workforces moved to new prospects.”

Her brows pinched together. Admittedly, she’d never paid Father much mind when he talked about the mining business; dust provided an important asset to the military, yes, but they’d won many battles without it.“You’re going to relocate the workforce? Move entire cities?”

“Of course. We don’t need them here; we need them where the dust is.”

“And they’ve agreed to that?”

“Winter.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You act as if they have a choice.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I suppose that is rather foolish of me.”

He sat forward, looking genuinely concerned for the first time throughout the conversation. “You’re probably just stressed. It’s not like you’ve taken leave recently. You should look into it; get some time to clear your head.”

“I’ll consider it.” A sigh slipped past her lips; although not exactly the way she’d wanted to find out, she had the answer to the question she’d asked Weiss. “Try not to get into trouble, Whitley.”

A scoff. “Good luck to you, too, Winter.”

As the call ended, she passed a hand over her face and slumped in her chair. Checking in on her siblings… she didn’t do it as often as she should, true, but she’d always justified it with the knowledge that they understood the demands of her position. If they needed anything, they could easily call her- she’d never denied a message from them, no matter the form- and she would move mountains if necessary to help them out.

But they were all products of Atlas, of the military, and under the thumb of Atlas Command. For anyone of lesser status, abandoning one’s post would be grounds for a severe punishment. Yet, she understood rather well that Whitley would face no repercussions. Born of Atlas, for him to face any sort of consequence would first require something a bit more serious than dereliction of duty, especially if Mother waved a hand and had him ‘reassigned’ to some fictional position to cover his absence.

Confronted with this reality alongside the eagerness of Sergeant Major Cirrus to ferret out the non-Atlas born weak link and General Ironwood’s grave interest in a possible traitor, she found it nigh impossible to justify the clear classism. She couldn’t even explain the flippant way Whitley spoke of the mine workers, how they were expected to do as told, and she didn’t doubt they’d be killed for any failure to comply. They were likely working themselves to the bone not out of a previously held lack of effort on their part but simply motivated by the knowledge that Whitley could order any one of them killed for little to no reason and it would never be questioned.

Reaching over to the console, she typed out a message to Mother, informing her of the situation. Not that it would change anything- if it wasn’t swept under the rug already, it would be after this- but because it was what she would be expected to do, as both the eldest sibling and a higher ranking officer. Mother charged her with keeping tabs on Weiss and Whitley decades ago; remaining silent when she full well knew the woman would find out eventually would simply draw more suspicion to her.

And she didn’t need any more, even as she sent the message and dialed another number.

“Colonel Schnee.” A man answered, his expression twisted and face flushed. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time to track down your brother if he’s not answering his scroll.”

“I’ve already spoken with him, Colonel Gold,” she replied, frowning as the sounds of several voices droned on in the background, some panicked. “He’s abandoned his post; he’s up in the mountains overseeing our family mines.”

A small amount of relief washed over the man. “With respect, good. I don’t need his antics on top of everything else right now.”

“Anything I can assist with, Sir?”

“No, we’re already mobilizing a full brigade to go investigate.” That… was a lot of soldiers. “One of our units was training in Forever Fall when we lost contact with them. Their last communication indicated some manner of attack.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s probably some fool Valen’s idea of a prank. I’m sure it’s nothing but I don’t tolerate such blatant disregard for training protocol.”

She raised a brow, slightly confused. “Training protocol?”

“We sent an augmentation force with the unit to act as an opposing force- a bit of force on force training is good for morale, you know.” He waved a hand. “But knowing these blasted vermin, they cut the comm lines like an actual enemy would, and there’ll be hell to pay when I find out who had that bright idea.”

In that moment, Winter thought about warning him that it might not be a simple training mishap. That those soldiers might be marching into an ambush. “I’m… sure the culprit will be revealed when a fully armed brigade arrives looking for them.”

“Fully armed?” Colonel Gold scoffed and shook his head. “I’m not wasting time outfitting an entire brigade. They’re rolling out with the bare minimum; I need them there quickly to put an end to this fiasco.” A light chuckle. “Though I would rather like to see the looks on their faces when the brigade arrives.”

“Have you considered it might not be a training accident?”

All mirth fled him at that moment. “Listen here, Schnee. I understand Mistral and Vacuo has its share of rebel scum, but you’re seeing shadows where there are none. We pacified Vale years ago; there’s simply no way the local populace could stage anything close to an attack. Even then, they’re just Valens. We’ll simply burn whatever village they came from to the ground, if it comes to that, which it won’t.”

“My apologies, Sir,” she said. “Perhaps you’re right.”

He nodded. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an augmentation force to reprimand.”

When the screen faded, Winter had to face a harsh truth.

She’d just willingly withheld vital information that could lead to the deaths of several Atlesian soldiers… and as conflicted as she felt about that, she rightly shouldn’t- it should’ve been the most clear cut decision, and she’d made the wrong one.

Yet… she found herself thinking about a little island village destroyed by Atlesian troops. The cost of that ‘pacification’. And the futility of it.

Standing, she walked around her desk, intending to visit Rose, but the moment she opened her office door, she was confronted with an unfamiliar sight.

“Ah, Colonel Schnee. Just who I wanted to see.” A shock of orange hair poked out from beneath a black bowler, green eyes that seemed a touch too friendly, and a white coat in the Atlesian style but lacking any rank identification, instead bearing a mark representing Atlas Command- someone she’d never met but could recognize instantly and her blood ran cold. “You are the one who requested an interrogation squad, right?”

#TRR writes #Winter Rose #TRR commissions

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evolutionsvoid · 6 years

Photo

Before becoming a pirate and scouring the surface waters for prey, Stomas lived a pretty straightforward life. He scuttled across the ocean bottom in search of food and resources, working with a community of other deep sea creatures to survive in such a hostile world. His duties of scavenging and collecting caused him to notice the strange things that fell from the world above. Bizarre containers, ravaged ships and bloodied corpses would descend to their world, and many did not think much of it. It was just extra resources for them scavenge and use. Some saw these items from above to be garbage and they cursed the surface world above for polluting their land with such filth. Stomas, however, thought quite differently. As he investigated these strange objects, he saw the value and profit they held. The sunken ships provided shelter or could be converted into new reefs. The containers and busted crates were filled with strange knick-knacks and trinkets, which many different sea creatures loved to collect or wear. Scavenged tools and weapons could be adapted and used to make things easy for those down below. The corpses and other edibles made for tasty dishes and easy meals. As he looked into these strange gifts, he began to see a great opportunity. The so-called "trash" from the surface waters was actually treasure, which gave him an idea. If these things were so helpful and valuable, why wait for them to wind up down here? With a plan in mind, Stomas traveled to the surface waters to see if his idea could work. There he watched the great ships sail through the seas, transporting loads of mysterious goods with them. While such riches were enticing, something else caught his eye. As he observed, he saw other ships attack these fattened boats, stealing the goods for themselves and sending the victims down below. Such a spectacle riveted him, and at last everything snapped in place. He returned down below and talked to some others about his brilliant plan. He wooed them with tales of riches and excitement, an adventure that guaranteed profit and challenge. Soon, he gathered a crew of interested sea creatures and began to ready the ship. Finding a somewhat intact wreckage, they worked for days patching it up and making it look worthy of the pirate title. When all was complete, they strapped it to the back of a giant manta ray and climbed aboard. With Captain Stomas at the helm, the Sea Goblin rose from its watery grave and returned to the world of light and wind. Now it stalks the ocean surface, searching for merchant ships to plunder and sink. At the head of it all is Captain Stomas, leading his bizarre crew into the exciting lives of pirates.

Attitude - Though he is indeed a pirate captain, he does share their ruthless, violent behavior. Instead, Stomas runs the ship as if he was the boss of a company. He likes to keep things running smooth and efficiently, so he is always keeping a close eye on things. During attacks and raids, he is more serious and focused, as he wants to make sure his crew comes out unscathed and victorious. After a successful plundering, though, he will loosen up, happy to celebrate with his crew. Even when running the ship, he is friendly to his crew members and enjoys sharing a joke or two, but he won't hesitate to snap orders or give reprimands if needed. Since the purpose of the Sea Goblin is to collect goods to sell back down below, Stomas makes sure to keep profit in mind. He is good at bartering or haggling, and he always measures the risk versus the rewards before attacking certain ships. As long as it isn't too risky or dangerous for his crew, he is open to take any route that will lead to profit. This can include attacking port towns, taking out pirate ships that are already robbing another ship, accepting payment from terrified merchants who don't want any trouble, or even escorting others across the ocean in return for a hefty sum. As long as there are goods to be had, he is happy to give anything a shot. Relations - As a pirate captain, he does not have many good relations with those who travel the surface waters. Merchants and traders see him and his crew as abysmal monstrosities that should be avoided at all costs. Certain captains of war ships vow to hunt down Stomas and the Sea Goblin in hopes of ending their reign of terror. Thankfully, the Sea Goblin can submerge itself, making these threats negligible. While a scourge up above, he is a much more welcome face down below. The many ocean bottom communities he sells and trades to adore him and are always excited when his crew comes down with boatloads of goodies. Though he does enjoy profit, he is quite charitable to his fellow sea creatures and will sell stuff at rather low prices so that they can get everything they need. In some cases he may even give it away for free if the town or community is in a rough patch. In times when the Sea Goblin isn't spotted for months, it may be due to him and his crew lending a hand down below. Though he does not interact with the landmasses that much, he has had run-ins with a rather bizarre group of individuals. The order known as the Knights of the Wrong Table have run into his pirating ways from time to time, and they have proved themselves to be quite the urchin in the side. Sometimes when Stomas may lead an attack on a port town, those blasted knights show up and foil his efforts. In some cases he has even encountered them at sea, when the order is "hired" to help protect a trade vessel. During these battles, Stomas curses the order and tries to knock them aside to claim his prize. Outside of these encounters, though, he sees them in a different light. Though they can be troublesome, Stomas respects them as worthy opponents and sees them as a terrestrial equivalent of his own crew. He does not show any real ill will towards them, as he respects their work and determination. This does not mean, however, that he will pull his punches when they cross swords though! Though he does keep trying to recruit their knight named Cobalus to his crew, as he is a fellow ocean denizen as well. Stomas honestly can't understand why such a sea creature would work on the land and confine himself to a tub on wheels. Even when Stomas tells him the joy of the open ocean and all the fun a pirate life provides, the sea creature refuses to part with his fellow knights. It's quite strange. Another land-walker that Stomas has dealt with is a crazy spider named Arnie Brachnum. Stomas ran into him when his crew made landfall once, and the strange circus owner hunted him down to propose a partnership. Brachnum demanded that he hire Stomas to collect and deliver circus attractions for him (with a fine pay of course). Though there was profit to be had there, Stomas did not want his pirate crew to be turned into a bunch of errand boys, so he refused. This angered the spider to a rather frightening degree, and Stomas at least agreed to run one or two errands for him. Normally such an offer would calm things down, but Stomas and Brachnum still have quite the strained relationship. Stomas actively tries to avoid running into Brachnum on the shores now, as the captain had previously tried to deliver a load of Savanna Devils to the ringleader and accidentally forgot that they couldn't breath underwater. Needless to say, Brachnum was not too happy with this, and Stomas has been dodging him since. Subordinates - Technically the crew of the Sea Goblin are Stomas' subordinates, but he does not like calling them such. Though he is indeed the captain, he prefers to see them as fellow friends and coworkers. While he may call the shots and make orders, he is open to their suggestions and always willing to lend an ear. To him, his crew is what truly matters, and he will not risk their safety if a job gets too dangerous. During battle, he will yell out orders and direct them in a raid, but when victory is claimed he is happy to celebrate besides them. His crew may grow or shrink, but his main members are: Graller, Lophiel, Styles, Hexel, Chrystine, Hal and Glesni. There is also Malfred, who is the manta ray who carries the Sea Goblin on his back. Though he is technically a part of the ship, Stomas sees him as a valuable crew member and is always sure to check on his health and mood. On top of that is his loyal pet octopus Molly. Molly can always be found with Stomas, usually perched on his hat or antenna. Stomas absolutely loves his little friend, as he enjoys having her around and feeding her sardines. Though she may be small, Molly is quite the clever cephalopod. She is good at mimicking voices, fiddling with complex mechanisms and sneaking past defenses. Her small body and color changing ability allows her to sneak around unnoticed, which she uses to sabotage enemies and startle foes. When Stomas is in the middle of a sword fight, it is not uncommon for Molly to squirt a stream of ink into the opponents eyes so that her master can get a free shot. While Stomas does care about the safety of his crew, any threats or harm that is directed towards Molly will enrage him and he will not stop until the offender is chum. Abilities - As a dweller of the deep sea, Stomas possesses many abilities that make him a powerful opponent. His thick, colorful armor is quite difficult to penetrate, allowing him to deflect sword slashes and bludgeoning blows. His many legs allow him to skitter about surprisingly fast, and they are perfect for keeping him steady and balanced when the sea gets rocky. One of the most noticeable weapons he has is his massive cannon claw. When underwater, such a claw was used to pressurize water and fire off a power jet to blow away attackers. Up on the surface, it can be loaded with various types of ammunition so that it can be fired off like a cannon. He commonly uses cannon balls to punch holes in enemy ships or send foes flying into pieces. When not being used for long range battle, Stomas can easily crush foes with its powerful muscles and skewer them with its sharp points. Another impressive ability that he has, that is not as obvious as his cannon claw, is his eyes. These rectangular organs are extremely complex and powerful, allowing him to see things that are invisible to everyone else. They are well adapted to picking up minute details, which he uses when sizing up ships or fighting opponents. No one besides himself knows what he can all see, and he refuses to talk about it so that he doesn't give away all his tricks. Tools - Though his natural body provides plenty of abilities and weapons, Stomas does use a sword during battle. His claws do not possess the reach a blade has, so he prefers to use that when the fight gets up close. Though he is not a sword master, his eyes make up for all of it. Their ability to see an extreme level of detail allows him to notice subtle movements of his foes and predict how they will strike next. Though a little sloppy in his form, he has the uncanny ability to block practically every swing that comes at him. The other tool he has is the Sea Goblin itself. This bizarre ship may seem waterlogged and busted, but it is a monster when it comes to naval battles. Since it is reliant on Malfred to stay above water, no amount of damage to its hull will sink it. The masts are superfluous and its maneuverability is unmatched. The ship itself is coated in barnacle cannons that use water pressure to fire off rounds, easily puncturing wood and metal. The Sea Goblin can also dive underwater, allowing it to flee losing battles or outflank opponents with ease. Even if the Sea Goblin takes a large amount of damage, the crew can just take the busted remains of their opponent's ship and use it for repairs. Weaknesses - Though he is quite intimidating, Stomas does have his weaknesses. As a creature of the sea, he cannot be out of the water for too long. While he may be able to walk around for a few hours without issue, he will always need to submerge himself in salt water eventually. Opponents who flee inland will be safe from him, as a chunk of his crew cannot pursue, and he dare not go too far from the water. Though armored and wielding powerful claws, there are ways to take advantage of him in battle. His massive cannon arm is good at long range, but poor when facing foes up close. It may be strong, but it is quite slow. Those who keep themselves positioned close to this giant claw will be able to easily dodge its slow punches, and make his sword swings awkward and clumsy. His antenna are also a vulnerable point, as they are packed with sensors and nerves. Hitting them will stagger him, as the strike will overload his senses and throw him off his game. As a creature of the water he is also vulnerable to cold spells and ice magic. Lastly is his devotion to his crew. If any of his crew mates are captured and threatened, he will do anything to ensure their safety. Even worse, if one were to take Molly hostage, they would have absolute control over the distraught captain.

#monster #creature #pirate #mantis shrimp #shrimp #pirate captain #art #drawing #octopus

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kuraiamore · 6 years

Text

Kakashi-centric fic, wild boy, run home

pairing: Gen

fandom: Naruto

rating: T - violence

summary: Kakashi is entrusted with the care of a wild wolf pup; it takes him down paths he never expected.

notes: Originally written for kakashifest, prompts Shirtless and Sakumo; fic completely ran away from me, so here it is, two months later. 19k words. Focuses on Kakashi dealing with his conflicting feelings about his father, and his emotional healing. Set in the post-Naruto/pre-Shippuden time skip.

AO3 or read below. Please enjoy!

He stumbles across the den completely by accident on the return trip from a solo mission, drawn by the smell of day old blood and rotting meat, and finds himself locking gazes with the gleaming yellow eyes of a mother wolf. At her feet, the shredded carcass of a hare lays in scattered pieces around the thin, limp body of a young wolf pup, slumped on its side over the uneven ground. Only the heavy rise and fall of its little stomach beneath fuzzy white fur and the soft whines falling from its mouth as it slowly licks at the exposed flesh of what Kakashi thinks is a hind leg alert him to the life still struggling to survive.

From his distance, a good seven paces away, Kakashi can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with the little thing, other than its clear weakness and inability to feed, even when its mother, decidedly deeming the sudden appearance of a human as a non-threat or perhaps distracted by the distressed sounds of her young, licks at its mouth and noses the piece of meat closer to it. There’s a scurry of movement on the ground; Kakashi tracks the running bodies of four – no, five – more wolf pups as they scamper back to their mother. Two of them clamber over her back, then topple out of sight into the den overshadowed by a fallen tree. Two press themselves close against the grey cloak of their mother, and the last, clearly the leader of the litter, loiters just a step in front, bouncing on its paws as it sniffs the air in his direction.

The mother gives a soft bark, and the curious one scuttles back, grouping itself with its litter mates, though it still watches Kakashi with open interest, tilting its head back and forth.

Not likely more than ten weeks old then, judging by their size and behaviour, and the fuzziness of their coats in mixed patches of grey, white, black, and brown.

Another whine echoes weakly in the air; Kakashi’s attention is pulled back to the pup lying on the ground, the only one of the litter white from head to tail. Interesting, if only because pure white wolves were rare in the summer forests of Konoha, their monochrome colour more readily found in the snow-capped heights of Kumo’s northern-most mountains.

Moving slowly, Kakashi lowers himself into a squat, palms open and spread out in front of him, letting his chakra roll out in gentle, reassuring waves. The mother wolf goes still, her dark pupil and yellow irises locked onto the stranger in her midst once more, but the young ones by her side sniff and paw at the air, their noses and tails twitching.

Closer to the ground, the putrid stench of rotting meat is stronger, and Kakashi is glad for what little reprieve is given to him by his mask. (It is nothing compared to the wasted battlefields of old, the nausea of scorched earth and decomposing bodies, but still. It’s not exactly the nicest smell in the world.) Still telegraphing his movements clear and steady, he slips a hand into a pocket of his flak jacket and pulls out his last food pill, unwrapping it from a shuriken-patterned cloth.

He breaks the pill in half, looks at the young pup again, then breaks a half into a quarter piece. His brow furrows beneath his hitai-ate as he thinks a little more, then breaks the quarter into an eighth piece. Cupping the broken pieces of the food pill in a palm, he catches the gaze of the mother wolf and pulls down his mask with his free hand. Picking up the largest piece between thumb and forefinger, he holds it up in the space between them, watching the mother wolf follow the movement with her eyes, then eats the half in an exaggeratedly big bite, chewing hard.

He can feel the effects of the pill immediately after he swallows; what minor exhaustion felt from two days’ moderately paced travel evaporates into vigour and energy, muscle brimming with new strength.

He picks up the smallest piece and packs the rest of it away back into his pocket, then begins to slowly edge his way towards the pack. On his way, he rolls the little piece against a scrap of the hare remains, smearing flaking specks of dried blood over it. When he is just over a foot away from the mother and her pups, he stops, looking down at the white one with a critical eye.

There, he sees it, a sharp incisor growing unevenly from the pup’s upper jaw, protruding into its lower jaw and cutting sharp into the lower line of its muzzle. The edge of the tooth is lined faintly with blood; beneath it, Kakashi spies a painful-looking flesh wound, skin sliced ragged by the misaligned tooth.

The pup continues to lick pitifully at the meat near it, its snout and whiskers quivering as it tries not to move its mouth too much. A spot of blood wells up as the tooth scrapes at the raw skin despite its efforts.

“You poor thing,” Kakashi murmurs softly to the still air; the mother wolf’s ears swivel in his direction.

He crumbles the fraction of the food pill into even tinier pieces, holding them in the palm of his glove, then slowly leans forward, his chakra still rolling out in controlled, even waves, and stretches his arm out until his hand hovers right over the piece of old meat. The pup either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, driven on by hunger and pain, licking the crumbed pieces right off Kakashi’s hand.

The change is almost instantaneous; the pup’s ears perk up, the laboriousness of its breathing eases, and its tail starts wagging happily, thumping against the ground. The licking becomes more vigorous, the pup climbing unsteadily to its feet to bump its nose against Kakashi’s hand.

Kakashi laughs and pulls his hand back; the wolf pup follows, tongue lolling from its open mouth. An idea comes to him, and he thumps the bottom of a fist into an open palm in happy realisation.

“Oh, I’ve got something for you!”

He pulls off his backpack and rummages through it, quickly locating and pulling out his medical kit. A smear of pain-relieving ointment and a little bandage later, the pup is bounding joyfully around his feet, nipping at his fingers as it tests the coverage of the bandage against its tooth, still keeping as much pressure off its mouth as possible. Still, it yips excitedly, pawing at his calves, tail flicking high in the air.

Smiling, Kakashi pats it on the head, scratching behind its ears and runs a quick hand through its white coat. Job done, he packs away his kit, slips his backpack back over his shoulders, stands up and is just about to leap into the trees, chakra pooling into his feet, when a loud bark echoes in the clearing and makes him freeze.

A tug at his shirt—he looks down to see the mother wolf with her teeth latched firmly in the bottom hem of his shirt, her bright golden eyes looking imploringly at him. Another tug, and he lowers himself down slightly; apparently it is not low enough, because she tugs again.

“Ah, okay, okay, I got it—careful, you’re going to rip my shirt off!”

He ends up sitting cross-legged on his butt, watching with curiosity as the mother wolf picks up the little white pup by the scruff of its neck and deposits it into his lap. There, she nuzzles it, licking at its face and grooming its fur before stepping back into a bow, touching her forehead to Kakashi’s knee. Rising back up, she gives Kakashi a determined look, then turns and begins herding her three other pups back into the den.

Kakashi is dumbstruck, his hands unsure as the pup in his lap gives a little whine, its paws scrabbling as it stumbles over his calves and feet in chase of its litter mates. The mother wolf, seeing it in pursuit, trots back and noses the white pup back into his lap, pushing hard at its small body. The scene plays out several times, until Kakashi finally curls an arm around the pup’s body, barring its way.

“Are you sure?” he asks the mother wolf, voice low.

She gives him a final look, as if to say, obviously, idiot human, then turns her back and walks away, her other pups lingering behind her.

The little white one gives another cry, but Kakashi is already standing, picking up the pup in his arms, and then they are hopping through the forest, the trees rushing by in a green and brown blur. When they’re roughly half a mile out from the den, the main road visible through the foliage, Kakashi drops down to the ground and settles the pup on the grass.

Its white fur contrasts starkly against the colour of its surroundings, even as it curls up as small as possible and droops its head sadly over its front paws. Blue eyes glisten with tears, corners pulled down as the pup refuses to look at Kakashi, tucking its head against its body. At that angle, the protruding tooth is directly visible, resting gently against the bandage.

Kakashi shuffles closer, extending his hand out and resting it in front of the pup.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Ears twitch, but otherwise no movement. “Your mother hasn’t abandoned you, she’s just given you to me to take care of for a little while. I’ll take you to the vet and we’ll get that little fang of yours fixed, and then I’ll take you home, okay?”

A gentle flare of chakra, curling off his fingertips.

“I promise.”

They sit there for several minutes longer, until the pup slowly, finally, leans forward to nuzzle its head into the palm of Kakashi’s head. The next thing he knows, he’s got an armful of wild wolf pup clambering over his chest, licking at his face.

He laughs. “Alright, alright, I’ve got you.” He gets the pup to settle, scratching behind its ears. “How about a name then?” he asks, despite the little warning bell going off at the back of his head, “something cool for a brave little soldier like you.”

The pup gives a happy yap at his words, as if it understood him and yes, I would like a name, please!

Kakashi laughs again, looking down with a smile at the white ball of fluff and its peeking tooth. The warning bell in his head rings louder, and his pulse quickens just so slightly beneath his skin.

“Little Fang,” he christens, and resolutely does not think of kind, dark eyes, and the most gentle smile from a world long gone to ash.

***

It’s slower travel with Little Fang at his heels, at once curious and fearful of the bright world away from the sheltered burrow of the den. They stop every hundred metres or so for Little Fang to explore a new bush or tree root, and to place a scent mark; this is how Kakashi confirms that Little Fang is male. They’re not far from the gates of Konoha—perhaps a few hours’ walk at their current pace, so Kakashi thinks nothing of taking a detour to the small stream running southwest of the village to let Little Fang play in the gentle-flowing water while he writes up a quick report for his escort mission and indulges in a chapter of Icha Icha.

He’s only just tucked the orange paperback and mission report away into his pouch when Little Fang comes bounding over, droplets of water flying everywhere and soaking into his pants and flak jacket. The pup looks absolutely ecstatic, launching himself at Kakashi’s feet and rolling around in the grass, stray bits of dirt, dust, and clipped grass blades clinging to his wet fur.

“Ahh, that’s not good,” Kakashi says despite his smile, picking the green strands off the white coat. “C’mon, let’s get you clean and dry.”

Slipping off his flak jacket and folding it off to the side, Kakashi picks up Little Fang and washes the debris off his fur in the river. Looking around and finding nothing better, he shrugs to himself and pulls off his shirt, using it to dry off the wolf pup as much as possible as he bounces on his paws. Little Fang’s coat is only half dry when the pup’s eyes gleam with playful mischievousness; he yanks the shirt right out of Kakashi’s hands and speeds off, but manages to run only three metres before he trips over the loose fabric. Suddenly faced with a new opponent, Little Fang snaps at the shirt, rolling around as he battles with the fluttering cotton, tangling himself in its ensnaring arms.

Shaking his head at Little Fang’s play growls and flailing hops, Kakashi heads back to his backpack to pull out his spare shirt only to find… nothing. He digs through the pack, then tips everything out onto the grass, counting stock of his med kit, spare kunai, shuriken, and exploding tags, scrolls, ink, brushes, water container, food ration bars, and a spare pair of underwear. Sweat creeping down his neck, he looks over his shoulder to see that Little Fang has torn straight through a sleeve of his shirt, and is now nibbling a hole in the main panel.

“Maa…”

Little Fang perks up at the sound of his voice; spying the new toys at scattered around Kakashi’s feet, he trots over curiously, mangled remains of ninja shirt still clamped in his mouth.

“No, wait, wait, these aren’t for you!”

Quickly, Kakashi scoops up all his equipment and shoves it back into his pack, just in time before Little Fang reaches him and plonks himself down disappointedly next to him, chewing on cotton as he looks mournfully at the closed backpack. Kakashi sighs, and scratches at the pup’s scruff.

“No, Little Fang, you’ll hurt yourself if you play with those,” he admonishes lightly, “and it’ll hurt a lot worse than your tooth, and you don’t like that at all. Now, can I have my shirt back please?”

A muffled yap accompanied by a wagging tail and shining blue eyes lets Kakashi know that, no, this is my toy now!

“Oh, okay. Well then, if you’ll just excuse me…”

Carefully tugging at the neck of his old shirt, he pulls out a kunai and cuts away the mask from the main body; it fits over his face like usual, and even manages to cover most of the length of his neck, torn ends curling just above his collar bone. Little Fang continues to happily chew on the requisitioned shirt while Kakashi fixes up his hitai-ate.

“You better not eat that,” he says lightly. “I know wolves have a sturdier stomach than dogs, but it’s still not good for you.”

Little Fang yips in agreement.

***

They move on soon after, Kakashi coaxing his shirt out of Little Fang’s mouth with a tiny crumb of the food pill, picking up the scraps of cloth and stowing them in his pack to dispose later. The inner line of his flak jacket feels uncomfortably scratchy against his bare chest, his arms unnaturally exposed after long years wearing the standard jounin uniform. Little Fang continues to poke his nose into everything that catches his interest. By the time Konoha’s sturdy gates peak up over the horizon to greet the sky, the sun has started to set, thin wisps of pink and orange curling into blue.

The closer they move to the gates, the closer Little Fang presses himself to Kakashi’s heels, nose and tail twitching anxiously until he finally stops walking altogether, sitting down on the ground and whimpering, head twisted to gaze at the road behind them.

Kakashi stops walking too, squatting down next to the little guy.

“Hey, it’s okay. This is my home, nothing’s gonna hurt you here.” He lets his chakra hum about him faintly again. Little Fang whines, burrowing his face into Kakahi’s legs. “Hm, don’t believe me, huh? It’s okay, if I were a wolf pup, I wouldn’t want to go into an all-human village either.” He thinks hard. “Oh, how about this…”

He unzips his flak jacket down a little over halfway, then picks up Little Fang and slips him against his chest. He wraps an arm around his lower stomach to help support Little Fang’s weight inside the jacket, waiting patiently as the pup adjusts to the new position, head and front paws poking out.

“Good?” he asks the puff of white fur beneath his chin.

Arf! comes the affirmative response.

Thus settled, Kakashi walks the two of them across the last stretch of road leading to the southern gate, through its towering doors, and up to the registrat counter to the side of the main road.

“Hatake Kakashi, registration no. double-O-nine-seven-two-O, returning from mission designated P-B-double-six-seven-one,” he greets the chūnin stationed at the counter.

“Welcome back, Hatake-san,” the chūnin says formally, already flicking through the mission handle book. His eyes scan down the row of letters and numbers, finding Kakashi’s registered mission and turning the book around for the jounin to sign. “I trust it was a good mission…”

Unfazed by the wide eyes staring at his chest, Kakashi reaches over to grab the fountain pen, dipping it into the waiting inkpot and signs off his name in a quick scrawl.

“Yes, it was,” he says cheerily, putting the pen down and giving a parting wave. “See you!”

“Ah, Hatake-san! Wait, is that—?!”

A poof!, and Kakashi is gone.

***

“So you picked up a stray pup and now you expect me to babysit him while you go grocery shopping.”

The line of Pakkun’s flat, unimpressed stare at the back of his boss’ naked upper half is broken only to swat at the curious paw pokes from the pup in question.

“Now, now, Pakkun, Little Fang isn’t a stray.” Kakashi’s breezy voice is slightly muffled as he rifles through his closet for a new shirt. “We’re going to get his tooth fixed and then we’ll send him right back to his family.”

A pause, the room silent but for the clack of the wolf pup’s paws and nails against the floorboards of Kakashi’s bedroom.

“You named him Little Fang?”

The muscles under Kakashi’s bare shoulders tense at the too-understanding softness under the gruff of Pakkun’s voice; then they relax, Kakashi straightening up to pull the newly acquired shirt over his head, mask up. When he turns around, his exposed eye is curved in a too-tight smile.

“Play nice, Pakkun.”

A poof!, and Kakashi is gone.

The old ninken sighs, this time letting the wolf pup poke his ear.

“Sure thing, boss.”

***

Kakashi comes home barely thirty minutes later to find shredded dark blue fabric all over the floor of his living room-cum-dining area, leading a path into his bedroom. Pushing down the whine that wants to rise out of his throat, he moves into the kitchen to plonk the large brown paper bag filled with that evening’s groceries onto the counter, then quickly follows the trail of scrap fabric. Every step closer makes clearer the sound of low growls, and the scratchy screech of tearing cloth.

He rounds the doorframe, and is greeted with the sight of Pakkun and Little Fang playing tug-of-war with what is clearly the remnants of another of his shirts, right in the middle of a sea of shirt debris. Behind them, his closet door stands ajar, a tumble of thrown clothes at the bottom, the shelf for his shirts entirely empty.

“Uwargh, boss!”

Little Fang yips loudly as he goes stumbling from the sudden release of Pakkun’s side of the tug. Kakashi can’t help but laugh.

“Looks like you two had fun, huh?” Pakkun’s tail wags out of reflex from seeing his boss’ genuine smile. “Guess I’ll have to add more shirts to the shopping list. Make sure neither of you chew on this one before then.” He plucks at the collar of the shirt he’s wearing, the last one he now owns.

“Eh, sorry, boss,” Pakkun says, though his tail is still wagging.

“Maa, don’t worry about it. Can you keep Little Fang company while I clean up and cook dinner?”

“No problem, boss.”

“Thanks, Pakkun.”

Kakashi hums mindlessly under his breath as he picks up the remains of his shirts, tosses them in the bin, and cooks a simple stir fry for himself and chops up half a raw chicken for Little Fang. Pakkun gets a can of his favourite Deluxe All-Natural Dog Beef Treat, and so dinner passes with minimal fuss. Kakashi washes up, then changes Little Fang’s bandage and re-applies the pain-relieving ointment, the little pup holding himself still in Kakashi’s lap when he realises just what his human is doing. The pup is left once more in Pakkun’s care as Kakashi showers, folding his shirt away into the highest shelf, just in case. He towels off, slips on a pair of underwear, and walks back into his bedroom to find both canines curled up on the pillow of his bed.

Pakkun’s head perks up at the sound of Kakashi’s footsteps. “You want me to stay the night, boss?”

“No, it’s okay,” Kakashi says, flicking off the lights. The glow of the lamp in the street below his window casts soft shadows around the room as he pads to his bed.

“Mm, alright.” Pakkun yawns loudly. “Good night, boss.”

“Good night, Pakkun.”

Little Fang jumps a little at the sudden smoke and sound of Pakkun disappearing back to the land of summons, head shaking back and forth in search of his lost friend. Kakashi calms him with a pat, climbing into bed and gently moving the pup off the pillow. Little Fang takes it as clear invitation to curl up next to him, burying his face into Kakashi’s armpit and resting a paw on his chest.

Kakashi giggles a little, ticklish, then settles as he smooths out Little Fang’s fur with a hand. Even in the low light, his coat gleams bright like silver, his body warm where it rests against Kakashi’s side. The tired little pup falls asleep almost instantly.

It’s only when Kakashi’s eyelids feel too heavy to open again, his breath coming out long and even, that he has the passing, hazy memory of his father standing under the fading sunlight streaming through their kitchen window, silver tail of hair glowing gold, humming as he prepared their dinner.

***

Kakashi wakes up, stretches out both body and chakra, and takes a few seconds to register the sound of low growls coming from the foot of his bed. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, rolling out of the covers, and pads across the floorboards to peer down at Little Fang grappling with the buckle of his backpack, nose twitching.

The corners of his mouth curl up.

“Maa, how long you been up, little guy?” Kakashi crouches down and pulls away the backpack before Little Fang manages to rip a hole through it. The wolf pup digs his teeth into the pack, but lets go when his body is lifted off the floor; he drops down with a whine. “Yes, yes, just give me a minute and I’ll make us both breakfast.”

He throws his backpack onto the highest shelf of his closet for safe keeping, pulling down his only remaining shirt and slipping it on along with a pair of pants. There’s a short moment where he thinks to puppy-proof his apartment before he remembers that he’ll be sending Little Fang home after getting his tooth fixed, so any work on his part would ultimately be useless. There’s a stab of something—disappointment maybe—low in his stomach, but he shakes it off as he heads out to the kitchen, Little Fang following at his heels.

Stick to the plan, Kakashi.

(As if he wasn’t just making up the plan in his head as he went along. Genius, really.)

***

“I’m very sorry, Hatake-san, but I’m afraid there aren’t any openings with our veterinary surgeons until next week. If it’s your dog though, perhaps the Inuzuka clan can help?”

Kakashi doesn’t correct the young woman sitting behind the front counter at the vet clinic; the wild animals roaming the forests of the Land of Fire weren’t technically allowed within the village, after all, for the health and safety of both the civilians and the carefully nurtured creatures living within Konoha’s gates.

He pats the white furball sitting against his chest inside his flak jacket, smiling down idly at the clinic secretary.

“No need for the Inuzuka Clan, but thank you for the suggestion,” he says in his usual carefree drawl. “What days do you have available next week?”

An appointment gets locked in, and then they are back out in the sunshine of the open street. With nowhere in particular to be, Naruto gone off with Jiraiya and Sakura in training with the Godaime, Kakashi’s feet automatically take him to the Memorial Stone.

At the sight of the grass field beyond the polished stone, Little Fang yips happily and scrambles out of Kakashi’s jacket, taking off across the expanse of green. A hunt starts, the pup prowling and pouncing at lizards and field mice brave enough to be out in the open air.

At the sight of the young pup stalking through the field, there’s a sudden thought that keeping a wolf in his single room apartment in the middle of the village is probably a Not Very Good Idea, even if the wolf is only a pup who hasn’t even lived for longer than a season. And with the unexpected delay from the vet clinic (which shouldn’t have been all that unexpected in hindsight, really he should have called ahead, but it’s been such a long time since he’s dealt with civilian services of any kind, it simply slipped his mind), the chance for some unpredictable thing to happen that would leave him unable to watch over his new charge is untenably high (ah, but such was the life of a jounin).

Of course, he could always call on Pakkun—perhaps even the whole pack; young pups need friends, right?—to watch over Little Fang if anything pulled him away for whatever reason.

(Which actually reminds him that he still needs to hand in his mission report to Mission Room at some point, probably before an overly stressed desk ninja goes hunting him down and risks getting him in trouble with Konoha’s Wildlife, Animals and Beasts Division.)

(Though he could probably smooth talk his way out of any real damage if needed; at the absolute worst, he would simply have to send the little pup back.)

(After fixing his tooth.)

(Which had always been the plan anyway.)

(Meaning that it doesn’t really matter about getting his mission report in any time soon then.)

(And actually, “I’m helping a wolf pup get his tooth fixed because his mother entrusted him into my care” would make a great excuse for his report being in late for the nth time.)

(And it would be true too.)

(He thinks Obito would be proud.)

A stray cloud drifts over the Memorial Stone and casts a soft shadow over its surface; the edges of the etched lines of Obito’s name waver just so slightly.

A tap at his ankle pulls him out of his thoughts and he looks down to see Little Fang resting at his feet. The cloud passes, the uncovered stream of sunlight glinting off the pup’s outgrown tooth, its sharp end puncturing the detached end of a lizard tail.

Kakashi realises that once again, he has no idea how long he’s been standing there, how long Little Fang’s been running around while he lost himself in his thoughts. He crouches down and scratches the pup behind the ears.

“Guess it got away, huh?” he says.

Little Fang leans into his touch for a bit before shaking his hand off to play with the tail, letting it drop onto the ground and batting at it with his paws. Kakashi finds himself smiling beneath his mask, then turns his gaze up towards the sky.

“I’m doing alright, aren’t I?”

A gush of wind blows through his hair, ruffling the strands. He pushes himself back up, stretching lightly.

“Come on, Little Fang, I’ll take you to see my other friend. I think she’d love to have something as cute as you visiting her.”

Little Fang cocks his head inquisitively, but quickly scurries to catch up with Kakashi’s long footsteps as he begins to walk off, prize abandoned. They take a meandering route through the village training ground fields and patches of forest, avoiding the sound of clashing steel and thumping feet and fists.

Konoha’s Cemetery is empty, as it usually is at the height of day, the symbol of the Will of Fire blazing beneath the sun. Kakashi treads the worm path along familiar tombstones, each engraved name coming out in a whisper under his breath, held in tight by his mask. Coming to a stop, he leans down and gently wipes away the dust gathered around Rin’s name since his last visit.

“Hey, Rin, how you doing?” His voice is soft, no tremors today. “So you know how you were always going on about how I should play nicer and make more friends? Well, I’ve brought a little friend to meet you. Picked him up outside the village and I’m taking care of him until I can get his tooth fixed. It was hurting him and he couldn’t eat properly. We’ve got an appointment with the vet booked for next week. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep him out of trouble before then, he has this thing for chewing on my shirts.” He chuckles quietly, imagining how Rin would have laughed, eyes bright and shining, at his words. “Little Fang, come here, this is Rin, she’s—Little Fang?”

The spot beside him is empty; he stands quickly, scanning the wide expanse of the cemetery and catches sight of Little Fang over ten rows ahead of him, farther out to his right, nose to the ground as he navigates through the grid pattern of the tombstones.

“Little Fang!”

The young pup glances back at Kakashi at the call but doesn’t pause, continuing to follow along whatever scent had caught his nose. Kakashi hurries over, moving smoothly between the stone squares. As he slides his way through the spaces between the gravestones, the grass rustling under his feet, the path before him warps, the memory of a cold, numbing night bringing a slow chill trickling through his veins. Every step becomes heavy with the thud of his heartbeat, and there’s a hysterical little voice at the back of his head thinking, surely not, surely Little Fang is just chasing after the scent of some stray animal, at any moment the pup will come running back with a lizard caught in his mouth, or go running off in the completely opposite direction, surely—

Hatake Sakumo’s tombstone is clean, not a single speck of what should have been over two decades of dirt and grit blemishing the grey stone. The simple strokes making up his name are cut with the same mechanical finesse as every other tombstone carved from the Third War. Under the bright glow of the sun, their edges seem unnaturally sharp.

Little Fang sniffs curiously around the tombstone, one paw placed on its surface, just below the curved tail of the ku.

Kakashi’s body sags a little as he stands there, his back hunching over as if to protect himself from the sharp lines of name before him. The hysterical little voice at the back of his head wonders if maybe he’s invoked the wrath of some otherworldly force by taking in a wild animal and naming it after his dead father.

A second later, he shakes his head and banishes the thought (Obito would laugh at him, honestly), uncurling his fists (and when had that happened? His palms and fingers tingle as he straightens them).

He opens his mouth to call to the pup, but only an embarrassing squeak comes out. On reflex, he looks to his left and right, relieved when he sees no one, then clears his throat.

“Little Fang, come here.” There’s a little more force to his voice than usual, but it comes out smoothly this time, so he considers it a win.

The pup ignores him, continuing his exploration of the tombstone, still looking and sniffing at something Kakashi can’t sense.

He repeats himself several times, every repetition just a little more pleading than the last, before the pup finally looks over at him, ears drawn down as if annoyed by the nagging.

“Don’t give me that look.” Kakashi’s eyebrows furrow as he frowns beneath his mask. “You’re the one who ran off in the middle of a cemetery. Well then, what’re you even looking for? What brought you over here, boy?”

He finds himself gazing directly down at the pup, Little Fang staring back at him unblinking. In the sheen of the pup’s ice blue eyes, Kakashi can see the fuzzy, shadowed outline of his reflection—the messy spikes of his hair, the soft line of his jaw, the sturdy curve of his chin.

A flutter of wind ripples through his hair, breaking the silence and stillness of the cemetery with a low whistle. It stirs a memory—messy spikes of silver-white fluttering in the wind, a soft jawline and sturdy chin holding a warm, gentle smile, and kind, kind dark eyes, always waiting for him.

Kakashi blinks, and the ghost disappears.

He breaks the gaze, taking a deep breath and exhaling hard through his nose, throat gone dry like sandpaper.

“Come on, Little Fang.” His voice is steady. No tremors. “We’re going home.”

Ripping his eyes away, he turns and walks off, the slap of his sandals against the ground echoing in the air. Little Fang hesitates, one ear down, one paw still touching cold stone, before scrambling to catch up to his human.

Behind their backs, Sakumo Hatake’s tombstone gleams in the sunlight.

***

If he dreamt that night, he doesn’t remember it.

His eyes ache with the heaviness of fitful sleep, the muscles of his neck and shoulders tight the way they usually only get on rough missions sleeping in the wilderness, where he curls up small and defensive.

Little Fang seems to catch onto his mood and snuggles with him for the first hour of their morning, but hunger and restlessness soon make themselves known, pulling them out of bed to start another day.

The kitchen is already beginning to empty again, the little fridge and cupboards of his bachelor apartment too small to hold enough food to feed two for more than a few days. He’s done more consistent cooking in the last two days than he ever has since—

(The Hatake Clan House had a kitchen that was roomy and airy and always full of Konoha sunlight streaming in from the large window. There was always the rich scent of damp earth and fresh river water, brought in from the fish they had caught together at the nearby river, and the herbs and vegetables pulled from the garden his father had cultivated behind their house.

He had spent so much time in those places, underneath the curling awning of the trees lining the river banks and the unimpressed gaze of their garden scarecrow with its henohenomoheji face whenever his father was home from missions, being taught about Nature and her gifts, her life-nurturing soil and life-giving water, and all the plants and animals and vibrant, pulsing life thrumming through her veins.

Underneath the underneath, Kakashi. There is always a life you can protect.)

Somehow, as he rummages around the fridge for the slightly wrinkled discounted tomatoes he swore he bought, Little Fang playing patiently with a wooden bowl to the side, the kitchen looks just a little greyer than usual.

***

The day passes, and then another day passes, and even though it’s only been three days since he brought Little Fang into the village, he’s already beginning to feel haggard from running after the wild pup, who switches from curious to terrified and back again faster than Kakashi can turn a page of Icha Icha.

Avoiding other shinobi while caring for a wolf pup has proven an interesting, if exhausting, exercise as well, what with all the stealthy manoeuvring and constant lookout he needs to keep—in fact, he thinks it’d make for a good training exercise for his cute little genin team, give them some more practice before their next attempt at tailing him for a glimpse of his face.

(His heart thuds painfully a moment later, when he remembers his failure as a sensei, as their sensei—if only he had tried harder, if only he had gotten there earlier, if only—

If only.)

The kitchen is empty of real food again, his room and bed beginning to decidedly stink of wolf pup for its poor ventilation. Pets weren’t allowed in the apartment complex for a reason after all, even if Little Fang technically isn’t a pet.

He blames the empty kitchen, standing there with the barren insides of a fridge barely half his height gaping open, for the way he’s been dreaming lately of a garden and a river, and the open, grassy fields around them, holding an old, empty house that once smelt of earth and water and life.

A nudge at his ankle; Little Fang whines softly, his fuzzy white coat slightly grey with dust from rolling around on the floor, latest bandage beginning to peel at the edge.

Automatically, Kakashi crouches down to pet him.

“Hey there, boy.” A scratch behind the ears; Little Fang yips in greeting and pleasure, then turns his head pointedly at the door, tail wagging. “Ahh, you want to head out already?” A pause; a split-second decision. “I think I know a place.”

***

The river is just the way he remembers it, soft and quiet, sighing with a faint melancholy whisper whenever the wind blows through the leaves dappling sunlight on its shimmering surface. The grass is surprisingly undisturbed, the rocks barely eroded to his naked eye, as if the river and its banks and trees had tucked themselves away into secrecy, waiting for his return.

Little Fang goes off exploring immediately, running over the rocky bed and straight into the gentle currents of water—and drops. A panicked bark cuts through the air as his legs and tail flail, head bobbing frantically in terror as his small body tries to fight against the flow of the water.

Kakashi’s heart leaps to his throat, his brain flashing memories at him: the sudden plunge of the river bank beyond the larger rocks poking out from the river’s surface; his father’s large, protective hand catching him before the fall; his father’s low, rich voice reminding him to “be careful, Kakashi, remember to always check your surroundings, check your footing, check your balance.”

He doesn’t realise that he’s running to the river until he hits it, water splashing all around him as he jumps over the bank rocks and ends up waist deep, hands out and pulling Little Fang securely to his chest.

“Hey, it’s okay, I got you, Little Fang, I got you.”

The wolf pup whines pitifully, pawing at Kakashi’s flak jacket and sending more water splattering up his torso. Kakashi scoops up the little pup in his arms and walks them both back to the bank shore, depositing Little Fang down gently at the edge of the water. Immediately the pup gives a full body shake, water droplets flying in every direction. Back on sturdy ground, the little pup looks mistrustfully at the water, pushing his body low to the ground as if ready to pounce on prey, ears flat against his head.

Kakashi breathes out a sigh, letting the rhythm of the river flow wash over of his ears and calm the rapid pulse of his heartbeat. His entire lower body, from the hem of his flak jacket down to the soles of his sandals, is soaked, more splotches of water forming wet patches over his jacket. The river continues to move around him, a gentle push against his legs, cool on his skin.

“You seem to have a gift for finding yourself in messy situations for such a little guy, don't you, Little Fang?” Kakashi says with a chuckle, watching the wolf pup stalking at the water, poking at it with a paw and jumping back.

Slipping off his slopping jacket, Kakashi hefts himself onto the rocky bank and walks up the gradual incline back to the grassy expanse of the riverside. Trusting the pup not to throw himself back into the river depths again anytime soon, Kakashi takes his time pulling off his jacket and hanging it over a low hanging tree branch to dry. His sandals are slipped off and placed neatly at the base of the tree. A second thought, a furtive look at his surrounding, and a quick flare of sensory chakra, and his shirt joins his jacket hanging off the tree branch. Finally, his hip pouch and kunai holster are unclipped and added to the pile.

He turns back around with a flourish.

“Little Fang!”

The pup jumps. A bright smile spreads out across Kakashi’s bare face, his eyes doing their natural happy curve.

“Time for your first swimming lesson!”

***

Little Fang’s swimming lesson goes, well, swimmingly, if Kakashi does say so himself, the pup’s innate love for splashing around drowning out his initial panicked experience with only a little bit of coaxing. It takes little more than ten minutes for him to grow confident in the water again, trusting Kakashi’s guiding hand to catch him. Another twenty minutes, and the pup has mastered his balance in the water, nose poking high into the air. Within half an hour, the pup paddles happily from the bank to Kakashi’s waiting arms and back again, doing several laps before growing tired and picking out a flat rock to rest on.

Kakashi gives Little Fang a scratch behind the ears for his good work, then dives off to do some swimming himself. He's been neglecting his daily workout for the past half week—he can feel it in the way his muscles are straining just that little bit more, his breathing just a little more laboured as he propels himself through the deeper centre of the river. He messes around with underwater acrobatics, just for fun, somersaulting and twisting with the current, and even manages to catch a passing fish with his bare hands.

It becomes a training game for him, and he carries and positions rocks in a circle right at the edge of the river, making a little water basin to store his catches. Little Fang hops over and pokes inquisitively at the fish as he drops them in, their silver-grey bodies flashing in the sunlight. He recognises them easily, the glimmering gradient scales and yellow sheen of the ayu fish.

He can’t remember the last time he ate them.

(Except there’s already a fuzzy image forming at the back of his mind; his father, deftly descaling a fish with a spare kunai, skewering its body in a wave, carefully perching it over an open fire.

His tongue remembers the sweet, light taste of its meat, the scent of melon from its raw flesh—not his preference, but his father loved it. Had loved it.)

There are six little ayu fish swimming in the tight circle of the makeshift basin by the time Kakashi feels himself appropriately worn out, moving onto the bank to do some quick cool down stretches before crouching beside Little Fang. The pup still has his eyes trained on the darting fish, exposed fang glinting. The bandage beneath it has wrinkled from the water, but still adhering surprisingly well—whoever is spearheading the equipment upgrades from Konoha’s Medical Division has Kakashi’s thanks, especially as the pup suddenly lurches forward, snapping up a fish in his jaws and running off to the grassy upper bank.

The crunch of bone is barely audible over the stream of running water, though the happy sounds of a wolf eating his kill come easily to Kakashi’s ears. He suddenly remembers that they had skipped breakfast that morning for lack of food in his kitchen, and feels bad. As if on cue, his own stomach rumbles and he looks down, contemplative, at the captured fish.

It’s a good hour and thirty minutes’ walk back to his apartment, long enough that ayu will spoil in the warm air. He could run, could always take the rooftops, but even that would be enough to lose the freshness of the fish. And there’s no option of taking the fish back alive, not without anything to carry them in.

Of course, he knows, there is a house close by, just under ten minutes away.

Little Fang makes loud smacking sounds as he finishes his fish, head, bones, guts, tail and all, licking at and cleaning the blood off his muzzle. Already he is eyeing their basin of fish again, white tail wagging.

Kakashi catches a fish by its tail and tosses it to the wolf, Little Fang pouncing on it immediately. Then he goes and grabs his spare kunai from its holster, lets its weight settle in the palm of his hand.

(His hands are suddenly small again, awkward and unsure—holding a kunai to spike, bleed, gut, and descale a fish is completely different to holding a kunai to throw at an unmoving target, or to kill an enemy, and there are no hands now to guide him, no proud smiles to let him know if he’s done a good job.)

Behind him, the river sighs softly.

***

It’s not until he gets to the door of the Hatake Clan House, re-dressed in his dried shirt and jacket, equipment set back in place, four dead fish in hand, and a young wolf pup at his feet, that Kakashi thinks he may have made some very thoughtless assumptions.

After all, it’s been something like twenty years now—how old was he again?—sure, the utility poles and power lines behind the old house are still intact, but who’s to say anything is still working?

(The Hatake Clan name is still registered in Konoha’s village military records though, so they wouldn’t have cut the power. At least, not while Kakashi is still alive. Free electricity, water, and gas to all active shinobi clans is really quite the convenience.)

Or what if some opportunistic stranger had walked passed and, seeing this seemingly abandoned house, decided to casually stop by and rob every nook and cranny, leaving nothing inside?

(The walls are still whole and strong, not a scratch on the windows. And the Hatake Clan House is so far away from the main village hub, all the way out in the outer fields of the village territory, that Kakashi can barely sense the presence of other chakra. Plus, the front door is still locked.)

Maybe he doesn’t even need to be here—he could go back to the river, build a fire, and cook the fish whole. Or even give them all to Little Fang now, and eat later when they’re back at his apartment. His stomach rumbles again; he ignores it, he’s gone longer without food.

(The front door is still locked—he’ll need both hands, needs to find a place to put down the fish.)

He could call Pakkun to watch the pup again while he goes grocery shopping; they had fun together last time, didn’t they? Maybe even call the whole gang this time.

(Ah, the porch will do. Little Fang hops up there as well, curling up with a yawn. Kakashi pulls out his lock-picking kit from his hip pouch and fiddles with it as he walks back to the front door.)

In any case, his apartment kitchen is a much better idea, he has all his dry herbs and spices there—could cook up a storm if he felt like it.

(The lock is old, twenty years old. Hardly a challenge. He should install a new one.)

Really, there’s no need to be here at all.

The front door unlocks with a click.

His heartbeat is abhorrently loud in his chest; he breathes hard, slow, forces it to calm down as he packs his kit away.

His hand trembles as he hooks his fingers in the crevice of the door handle.

He stops moving, standing there, hand locked in place.

A sudden gust of wind, a cool, strong pressure at his hand; he’s not braced for it, and his hand is pulled back by the force, the door sliding open with a rumble.

The wind stills.

There’s a patter at his legs, and he looks down just in time to Little Fang squeeze in between his ankle and the door frame, nudge the front door wider with his muzzle, and run into the darkness.

“Wait, Little Fang, come back!”

Kakashi rushes in after the wolf, pushing the door open completely, the dull, hollow creak of wood sliding against wood rattling in the air. Dust kicks up all around him, silvery-white flecks floating in the sunlight. The wind follows him in through the open door, sending the dust adrift as it whistles lowly across the aged wooden beams and brittle paper of the walls, brushing past his hair and above his cheekbones.

The touch is soft, cool; a gentle caress that makes his step waver, breath trapped in his throat.

It was as if the house had breathed a sigh of relief the moment he stepped across its threshold, the worn frames standing proud to welcome him home.

Home.

His breath comes out all at once in a shaky laugh, hot against his mask. It’s smothering; he yanks his mask down, inhales sharp.

Dry earth.

Old wood.

The metallic zing of rusting iron.

The musk of timeworn paper.

Something grassy, something sweet, something warm.

He breathes out again, a long, smooth exhale tapering into a sigh.

He takes a step forward.

The floorboards creak with his weight, familiar and grounding. He slides his fingers along the panels of the wall to his right; beneath the grainy sensation of accumulated dust, the wood is smooth and strong against his skin.

Their house had always been small, he knew, compared to the sprawling lands and compounds of the Hyuuga and the Uchiha, and even the Nara, but it was always larger in his mind, the memories of a small child. He’s so tall now, crossing the genkan and the short corridor in only four steps, walking right pass the main sitting space where his father had received guests, fusama open to reveal its eight tatami mats, low table, and ornamental scrolls hanging over the raised platform of the tokonoma.

Everything is exactly as he remembers, perhaps a little more worn, a little more grey, but otherwise undisturbed by time, stretched out under the hazy muted glow of afternoon sunlight filtering in through the shoji doors. He moves on, and time moves with him, padding through the house with soft, lingering steps. A peek into the kitchen, with its rustic cupboards and simple cooking appliances, the table where he had passed uncountable evenings with both silence and laughter as his companions. There’s the scruff mark from the one time Obito had tried to one-up him in cooking Rin’s favourite vegetable dish, and the stain in the mat from when Rin had accidentally knocked over a cup of green tea and none of them had noticed until the colour had sunk in and refused to leave.

He could easily reach the higher cupboards above the sink now, could open and rummage through them exactly the way his father did, one hand rifling by memory and feel alone, the other gripped around the handle of a sauté pan, wrist flicking it neatly over the open stove flame, both eyes and ears turned to Kakashi’s story of his latest adventure leading the other village kids on a scavenger hunt through the forest for the rumoured monster living in the heights of Konoha’s trees.

He would be wearing his usual smile, hair in a low, messy tail. Whenever he turned towards the window, attention pulled by the twitter of birdsong or the flutter of wings, the shadows of his dimples would deepen, eyes shining softly.

Kakashi had forgotten just how bright the house could be; he blames it for the way his eyes sting and water, his cheeks too warm.

A breeze curls softly over his face, drying the tears before they fall. He wipes a hand over his eyes, making a note to check for draughts before remembering he’d left the front door open. Well, the house could probably use some airing out anyway, if only to clear out the dust.

He retreats from the kitchen, walks past the hallway and doors leading to the bathroom, the toilet, the laundry room, and two supply closets, turns the corner, and freezes.

Light and shadow slide across the wooden boards of the floor in an elongated checked pattern from the shoji screens to his left, gliding up the eight fusama on the opposite side of the hallway. Even at the angle from the end of the corridor, Kakashi can see the faded images of a wolf and its pup stretched across the four middle panels. The images are clearly drawn in a child’s hand; the animals are cartoonish and stocky, with jagged spikes for fur. The wolf has two overly exaggerated fangs, curving right past its lower jaw.

Little Fang is sitting on the floor right in the middle of the corridor, head shaking rhythmically as he looks back and forth between the two images. At the sound of Kakashi’s footsteps, he finally stops, turning his head to regard his human with startlingly mournful eyes.

“Hey, little guy,” Kakashi says, voice low as he pads across the corridor and crouches down to scratch lightly at the pup’s scruff. He decidedly doesn’t look at the drawings; it’s unnecessary. He can still remember how he had been caught dragging his desk out into the hallway, because he’d underestimated how big the wolf was going to be, oblivious to proportion as children are wont, until he suddenly couldn’t reach high enough to draw its head. “You must miss your family, huh?”

Little Fang whines softly, leaning into the touch.

The heat just underneath Kakashi’s eyes flares again, too warm in the sunlight streaming over their hunched figures. A strange weight has settled over his shoulders, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. The temptation to close his eyes and lay down is strong—just to rest a little, let the ache in his limbs fade away, clear the fog and buzzing in his head.

Plus it’s not so bad on the wooden floor, with the warmth of the sun on his back, his arms curled around Little Fang.

Just a minute.

***

He wakes up bathed in amber gold, the lines of shadow reaching over him looking as thick and heavy as his limbs feel, curled up tight against his body. He stretches out slowly, unfurling his knees from his chest and pushing his arms high above his head. Feeling loose fabric bunched around his neck, he pulls his mask back up out of habit, then sits up and fixes his hitai-ate back over his left eye, feeling only mildly dazed.

It’s a long, slow minute before his brain clicks into gear and he remembers where he is, long enough for his stomach to give a loud grumble and for him to reflexively blush at the sound.

Right, fish. Definitely spoiled by now, if some wandering carrion-eater hadn’t already gotten to it—which hopefully would explain where Little Fang is.

Sure enough, Kakashi finds the wolf pup on the front porch, playing with two dismembered tails and a ripped head, surrounded by a light though still unpleasant fishy stench. Well, at least that’s one of their dinners taken care of.

His stomach gives another loud grumble then, summoned by the thought of dinner; Little Fang perks up, ears swivelling curiously, but quickly turns back to the tail clamped between his paws when nothing interesting appears. Kakashi chuckles, sitting down on the porch, and considers his dinner options.

Take-out, definitely; he doesn’t have the energy to catch or cook his next meal. An hour and a half to walk for food though—not horrible by any means, even with hunger gnawing at his stomach, he’s been through worse, obviously—and it’s so nice here, with the sky blooming brilliant pink and orange, the tranquillity of the fields and forests outside the village centre, with only birdsong and the pad of paws to disrupt the quiet.

He’d forgotten this too, how nice it was to watch the gradient change of the sky, washed out memories repainted in colour.

It would be nice, maybe, to stay a little longer, let the colour seep into his skin.

He rummages through his pockets and pulls out his wallet, counts the notes inside. Should be plenty, could even pick up something for breakfast if he heads out now. Would be back just before dark, if he goes directly and doesn’t dally. Could call Pakkun to watch over Little Fang again, plenty of space for them to play out here in the open, no shirts around for them to rip.

His train of thought screeches to a halt, and he grins.

Pakkun. Of course.

A quick hand sign, a charge of chakra, a puff of smoke, and Pakkun appears in front of him, seated comfortably between Bull’s ears.

“Hey boss, two of us this time? You know, last time was really just a one-off thing, dog instincts, you know? I swear I…”

The pug trails off as his eyes swivel rapidly in their sockets, head following, taking in their whereabouts, the house, the grass, the clear, open sky above them.

“Boss, this is…”

Even Bull straightens up, making Pakkun slip a little off his head, the wonder in his voice giving way to a little grunt as he rights himself. A high-pitched yelp draws their attention and before any of them can blink, a little white ball of fuzz tumbles over the porch, across the grass, and lands right at Bull’s front paws.

Little Fang jumps excitedly in front of the massive bulldog, completely unfazed by the fall and not a twitch of apprehension in his movements, barking up at the pug.

“Hiya pup,” Pakkun says, peering down over Bull’s nose, who drops one of his big paws on Little Fang’s head in his own greeting, looking down at pup curiously with his big, sombre eyes.

Kakashi smiles at the scene, then waves a hand to pull his ninken’s attention back to him.

“Yo, Pakkun, Bull, sorry to drag you out here, I was hoping to ask another favour.” His voice sounds indulgent even to his own ears, thick and warm and lazy with something that might be the country air, might be the light and colour soaking into his skin. Pakkun’s eyes dart behind him to the house again, but the pug stays quiet. Kakashi’s smile softens beneath his mask, and he picks up his wallet, holding it in the air. “You think you’d be able to find your way to Kenzan from here?”

“What do you take me for, a dead fish?” Pakkun shakes his head, eyeing Little Fang’s leftover playthings with distaste. “I’ve been around here longer than you’ve been alive, kid. ‘Course I can find the way to Kenzan from here.”

Kakashi blinks, a jolt of surprise rushing through him; he hasn’t been called ‘kid’ by his ninken since…

Since he installed a lock, turned the key, and left.

“Ahh, of course,” he repeats, swallowing down the knot beginning to twist in his throat. “Well then, I’ll have the gyūdon. And a side salad, any’s fine, pick whatever’s available.”

He pauses, thinking. Little Fang scrambles out from under Bull’s paw, jaws snapping playfully over short black fur.

“And dumplings,” Kakashi decides finally; easy enough to eat cold, and he shouldn’t die from eating them if he has to leave them out overnight, potential indigestion aside.

“Sure thing, boss,” Pakkun says, “and the pup?”

Little Fang yips happily, as if recognising Pakkun’s reference to him.

“Maa, he’s already had plenty to eat today, he’ll be alright ‘til tomorrow,” Kakashi says, beckoning Bull over with his wallet. The bulldog walks over dutifully, only needing to nudge the wolf pup out of the way twice. “We can head out to the river to catch more fish if he’s really hungry in the morning.”

“You went to the river?”

“Mm, we did.”

Kakashi slips his wallet into the pocket sown into the inner lining of Bull’s jacket, taking the opportunity to give the bulldog a good scratch behind the ears.

“Yo, Kakashi.” Kakashi’s hand stills in the thick folds of Bull’s coat, waiting. “You’re alright, yeah?”

Kakashi pauses, thinking it over.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, “I think I will be.”

***

Pakkun and Bull return just as the first glimmer of night fades in, its soft, cool tone bringing with it a soft, cool breeze. Kakashi rescues the plastic bag containing his food from any accidental spills via ball of white fluff, grabbing it from Bull’s jaws just before Little Fang barrels right into the large ninken and tries to provoke a play-wrestle.

He leaves them to it, trusting Bull to hold back when needed, pulls down his mask, and digs into his beef bowl and salad (spinach with sesame dressing, trust Pakkun to go with the classic), lounging back on the porch. Pakkun hops off Bull’s head and joins him barely a minute later, both of them content to watch the other two play.

“So what’s the plan then?” Pakkun asks when Kakashi finishes his dinner.

The pug is carefully not looking up at Kakashi’s bare face.

“Mm, not sure really.”

The sun droops over the horizon, sinking fast, the day’s last smear of yellow on a canvas of vivid pink and blue.

Pakkun grunts, wholly unimpressed. “You planning on spending the night here?”

“Mm, no clue."

“Kakashi…” There’s a deep sigh lingering on the end of his name, then a hard beat of silence. “Look, kid.” On instinct, Kakashi looks, and comes face to face with Pakkun staring straight at him, something glimmering in his dark eyes. “You know that if there’s anything you want to do—unless it’s something incredibly, fatally stupid—we’re here for you. You brought the pack together, so we’ll go all the way together—wherever that is—if that’s what you want. It’s really not that big a deal, you know.”

Kakashi can’t keep the amazement out of his voice.

“Pakkun…” A wide grin splits across his face; he holds his arms out, fingers wriggle invitingly.

“Ha, didn’t I just say that it’s not a big deal?”

Nevertheless, he clambers over, depositing himself in Kakashi’s lap and letting himself be scooped up by the man’s cuddle.

“‘Sides,” he says into Kakashi’s chest, “it’s what family do.”

The arms around Pakkun press tighter.

***

The futon is old and lumpy; the pillow old and flat; the blanket old and limp. There are perfectly lined creases where they were folded, drawn from twenty years of sitting undisturbed in a closet. They are time-worn soft, and when Kakashi nestles into them, Bull at his back, Pakkun at his head, Little Fang at his chest, he catches the faintest whiff of citrus still clinging to them.

The night is warm enough to leave open the fusama panels, and the shoji doors beyond them. Starlight glints off the steel of his hitai-ate, folded neatly on his old desk. There’s a wardrobe in the back corner, a bookshelf beside it, lined with the spines of books whose titles he has no idea about. He hasn’t quite made up his mind yet, on whether he wants to go digging through something he had once abandoned.

It’s one thing to step back in time, quite another to deliberately seek out old memories packed away under locks and scars.

Little Fang kicks out a leg, snuggling closer into his chest. Bull grunts once in his sleep, a whoosh of air at his neck. Kakashi catches himself smiling, shaking thoughts from his head and pulling the blanket up a little higher, leaning back more firmly into Bull. Pakkun mumbles something in his hair, swatting at him drowsily with the command to “sleep already, kid”.

Family, huh.

Outside, the summer crickets chirp their night-song.

***

The next day, after a breakfast of cold dumplings, Kakashi checks the utilities in the house. Surprisingly, everything is in working order, rumbling and clanking precariously in their old age, but working. He finds his old fishing rod propped up in a corner of the laundry room, and is hit all over again by the surreal realisation of how much he’s grown, the rod only just reaching the highest point of his hips when twenty years old it had reached the height of his shoulders.

There are bottles of expired cleaning product sitting in the cupboard under the sink that his younger self had apparently forgotten to throw out when he’d left, one still almost completely full, along with other various cleaning supplies. Out the window, he can see the scarecrow he and his father had sewn together, still watching over their now weed-patch of a garden.

Poor Sukea-san has weathered the years remarkably well, though he appears to be missing his left arm and a heno of his henohenomoheji face. Kakashi can’t decide whether Sukea-san would rather be taken down, or keep hanging on.

A loud bark startles him out of his thoughts; Little Fang is up and wandering about the house, a sleepy-looking Pakkun on his tail. Kakashi greets them both with a pat, then Pakkun is relegated to puppy-sitter once again while Kakashi coaxes a morning-lazy Bull out of bed for another food run, this time to hopefully buy enough groceries to last a week.

They make a pit stop by his apartment to pick up his Icha Icha favourites, some clothes, a towel and hygiene products, and his medical kit. He even makes the split-second decision to be responsible and swipes his mission report from his desk to hand in to Mission Room on the way, a whole week earlier than his standard two-week post-mission report delay.

They’re back just before midday, laden with heavy bags.

Little Fang comes running to greet them and immediately begins nosing at the bags, looking up at Kakashi with hopeful eyes. Unable to resist, Kakashi rifles for a strip of meat, throwing it out for the pup to eat before heading inside to pack the perishables away into the thankfully now-cold fridge. He finds Pakkun dozing on the kitchen floor, the ninken stirring with a small grunt at the rustle-pad of Kakashi and Bull entering the room.

Then he does the laundry. Four times.

It ends up taking both Pakkun and Bull, and a poor, stray hare, to distract Little Fang from pulling and batting at the white sheets and mattress fluttering lightly in the breeze, the three of them racing into the forest in chase. He takes the chance to wash his shirt too, lounging bare-chested on the grass while he waits for it to dry. By the time the three come back, Little Fang happily dragging his kill along, his shirt is clean and warm from the sun.

Kakashi arches an eyebrow at the dead hare, which is met only with a doggy shrug from both his ninken.

Well then.

Kakashi slips his shirt back on, mask hanging at his neck, then proceeds to take the washing in, scrub out twenty years of dust from the kitchen, find the old ceramic plates and earthenware cups and metal pots and pans and variety of assorted cutlery collected over the years stacked in various cupboards, wash them with his newly acquired detergent, and fix himself a late lunch of fried fish on a bed of sautéed greens.

It’s the most accomplished he’s felt since Sasuke defected and Naruto left and Sakura found a better sensei, even counting all the successful seventy-odd missions he’s picked up over the last two years.

The fish tastes good, almost as good as ramen eaten at an hour too late to be considered dinner.

On the second day, Pakkun makes him call the entire pack, and somehow they all end up at the river. Little Fang is ecstatic at the sudden introduction of six new friends, and his ninken take to the pup just as quickly, indulging the small wolf in play wrestles and keeping an eye out for him as he practices his new swimming skills.

When Kakashi takes off his shirt and sandals to dive into the river, there is an audible collective gasp from his summons. Then Kakashi hits the water, sends a wave splashing over Akino, making his sunglasses slip off, and suddenly it is mass mayhem as everyone jumps in to rescue the sunglasses before they’re swept away downstream.

Lunch hour comes faster than a flying shuriken, Kakashi is quite sure he deserves a post-meal reading session, Little Fang and Shiba discover a wild strawberry patch growing at the edge of the forest behind the house, Bisuke and Guruko compete over who can pull up the most weeds, dinner comes in the form of pre-marinaded yakitori skewers grilled over open flame, Little Fang learns not to touch the bright orange-red thing, no matter how warm and pretty it is, and Kakashi decides that all intense, high-drama action scenes where the protagonist finally, passionately admits his love in the midst of a life-or-death situation is best read by the crackle-pop of fire.

His room is far too small for all of them to sleep together, and too stuffy besides, so his ninken settle themselves in a haphazard line out in the hallway, its shoji panels now practically permanently open to let in the outside breeze. At first Little Fang bundles himself up into the curve of Bull’s paw, but after five minutes of no human, loudly sneaks around dozy ninken, across the tatami mats of Kakashi’s room, and into the protective warmth of his human’s side.

Kakashi very maturely ignores the doggy cooing from outside his door.

On the third day, after his ninken settle on a puppy-sitting roster, Kakashi pulls up his mask, rolls up his proverbial arms, and hunkers down for a full house cleaning. While Ūhei and Urushi keep Little Fang entertained outside, Kakashi and the rest of his ninken wipe down the floorboards and walls, dust the shoji screens, polish the tatami mats and set them outside to air. Akino and Bisuke switch out to watch over the pup, who has now taken a keen interest in Sukea-san, while the others finish up oiling the old wooden beams and furniture, scrubbing the bathtub, sinks, and outhouse urinal, checking the drains and clearing out the gutter, and brushing off the cobwebs tucked into the nooks under the eaves of the roof.

The whole house is gleaming by the time they’re done, and Kakashi likes that the feeling of achievement from yesterday is still hovering warm and bright in his chest.

On the fourth day, Kakashi decides to sort through the things still cluttering the storage units in the house. There’s not much: some blank scrolls and dried inkwells and old brushes, cleaning oil and rags and a set of third generation standard kunai and shuriken, and cheap paper fans stowed away in the three drawers of the cabinet in the sitting room; spare hair ties and simple metal clips and loose rubber bands in little bowls, half empty tea boxes, little bags of seeds labelled with names now too faded to read, and notebooks half-filled with scribbled grocery lists and daily reminders and scattered lines of poetry verses dotted about kitchen. In the supply closet beside the linen cupboard, he finds wooden practice swords, a box full of grey bandages and expired ointments and pills, and a veritable tower of yellowing books and scrolls and woodblock prints.

To his surprise, his old Academy books are hidden away in a box at the very bottom, and he loses an hour flipping through them, somewhere between remembering and reliving his beginning years as a shinobi.

It’s amusing to note how his handwriting has changed (it has nothing to do at all with the commentary his younger self had left down the margins of the books, apparently so far ahead of the class that he had nothing more to do than trail increasingly scathing thoughts the likes of ‘Boring’, ‘Did this a week ago’, and a rewritten version of the Hand Seal nursery song listing the zodiacs in decreasing order of apparent yumminess to stay awake and present).

Kakashi doesn’t remember ever being so morbid, but he supposes that it’s hardly at all surprising.

He flips the page, eyes automatically scanning the edges, and his heart squeezes in his chest.

‘Dad’s way is better’

A loud, boisterous voice floods his mind like sunlight streaming through paper screens.

‘That’s my ninja way!’

His heart squeezes again, but it’s gentle this time, somehow almost bittersweet, and he is five, and seven, and fourteen, his path paved in gravestones, the world broken into fragments beneath his knees, but he will crawl if he has to, nails scraping dirt, because underneath the underneath, there is always a life he can protect.

Then it settles, and he is thirty, a man and shinobi who has made his way over gravestones and broken worlds, and for all that he has been broken and remade over and over into something stronger and softer than steel, underneath his underneath, he hasn’t really changed all that much, has he?

He shuts his old book quietly, packs it away into the old box in the old closet of his old house, and goes outside to join the game of tag.

On the fifth day, he and Little Fang are late for their vet appointment.

***

“Interesting. I’ve never seen a case of an overgrown canine like this. Can you turn him around so I may examine the other side of his mouth, please, Hatake-san?”

Dr. Nakamura steps back, giving Kakashi plenty of space to gently coax Little Fang around, having learnt of the pup’s nervous tendencies. The little wolf had refused to sit still on the examining table, pawing at Kakashi’s flak jacket until the veterinarian finally relented, and allowed the examination to proceed with Little Fang seated in Kakashi’s lap. It leaves the doctor brushing up awkwardly against the shinobi as he shows her the wound under the noted overgrown canine, now fully scabbed over thanks to the protective barrier of the bandages. The clear breach of the invisible line of personal boundaries is mildly uncomfortable, but Kakashi reminds himself that they are both professionals at work here, even if he’s not technically doing anything that involves getting paid.

Thought in mind, Kakashi carefully leads Little Fang to spin a half-circle over his thighs, then settles him down with a firm press to his rump. Little Fang gives him a look that tells him how very not happy the pup is to be examined like this, but is momentarily mollified with a scratch behind the ears.

As Nakamura leans back in, Kakashi shifts his hand and hovers it just over the tip of Little Fang’s muzzle. He can’t let himself be fooled into thinking there’s a tamed anime in his lap, no matter how close and cosy the pup gets to him, and more to the point, he can’t let a civilian get injured treating an unregistered creature.

Kakashi would need more than two hands to count how many rules and sub-rules he’s breaking right now; somehow, he feels entirely at ease with that.

“Hm, and how old is he?”

Nakamura reaches out with a single finger to feel across Little Fang’s upper jaw; Kakashi tenses his hand, ready to catch any sharp teeth should they go flying. To his relief, Little Fang puts up hardly any fuss beyond a nervous twitch in his tail. The shinobi relaxes his fingers a little, then turns to answer the question.

“Uh, ten weeks?” Kakashi tries not to make the questioning lilt in his voice too obvious, but thankfully Nakamura doesn’t seem to notice, looking down thoughtfully at Little Fang.

“In that case, his deciduous teeth should be replaced soon. Since he hasn’t seem to have any pain or malformations in his upper jaw, I think we can assume that his adult teeth are normal sized. I might send you to get a scan though, just in case. How well does he ‘stay’?”

“Um…”

Nakamura turns to her desk without waiting for his answer, pulls out a sheet and pen, and begins scribbling on it.

“Here, give this to Chiharu-san at the front desk and she’ll sort that out. They’ll send the scans directly to me, and we can proceed from there. If everything looks as I suspect, we’re probably looking to file down the tooth so it’s not sharp enough to cut into his mouth anymore, and maybe get Little Fang some braces for a few weeks to realign it with the rest of his teeth. Does he have any trouble eating?”

Kakashi shakes his head, taking the slip of paper. “Not since I kept the area under his tooth covered.”

Nakamura nods approvingly. “Good. In that case, braces probably won’t be needed for the time being, so long as we can keep the tooth from piercing his muzzle like that. Beyond its length and the way it’s grown slightly crooked outwards to compensate for space, there doesn’t seem to be any other abnormalities, at least not that I can see with this kind of surface level examination. Once his adult teeth come in, you’ll be able to see how his teeth sit and if there are any problems, we can work it out from there.”

“How long before all his adult teeth come in?”

Nakamura cocks her head to the side, lips pursed in thought.

“On average, most dogs will be six to seven months old by the time all their permanent teeth have grown in. But”—she glances down at the pup in his arms again, eyebrow quirking, the glimmer of a smirk in the line of her mouth—“Little Fang isn’t an ordinary dog, is he?”

Kakashi doesn’t have time to either refute or affirm her implication before she continues on.

“Keep the wound clean and covered just like you’ve been doing, and I’ll take care of the rest. Oh, and Hatake-san? If any big dogs go sniffing around, please feel free to direct them to me. I’ll take care of them too.”

For the first time since he’s stepped into her office, Dr. Nakamura smiles.

***

Chiharu-san makes a quick call, gives him a brief outline of potential payment plans to be finalised at a later date, arranges another appointment for the end of the week, and sends them off for the scan at the clinic’s joint veterinary radiology centre just around the corner that very day.

Just like last week, Kakashi and Little Fang step out of the clinic to greet unfiltered sunlight. As if remembering the trail from that day, the wolf pup turns in the direction of the Memorial Stone and starts walking.

“Ah, Little Fang, no, not that way. We have to go get your scan done now.”

The pup gives Kakashi a wounded look when he moves in the other direction, and Kakashi learns that even wolves can have stubborn doggy tantrums. Eventually, after several backs and forths in front of the clinic that leave other pet owners smiling and nodding in sympathy at him, Kakashi scoops the pup back into his flak jacket and sets them the right way down the road.

Kakashi is most pleased to notice that Little Fang has gained a fair bit of weight since the last time he carried him to the vet.

Little Fang is far, far less pleased to step into another unfamiliar room, and entirely unwilling again to sit still on the bench with the attached x-ray generator overhead. The imaging technologist, clearly having had spent one too many years on the job, lounges by the computers and watches passively while Kakashi wrestles against four stubbornly moving limbs.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” the technologist reassures him, half an hour later when the whirr and ping of a successful imaging scan sounds. “Just the other week, I had a lady here with her cat. Poor thing had a fractured toe, but man, if it wasn’t the twitchiest cat I’d ever come across. Even with its paw in a cast, crazy thing managed to jump right onto x-ray tube and wouldn’t come down. Lady was almost in tears. Poor thing.”

“Ahh, is that so.”

“Yep. It was pretty funny actually, though I think my boss would have been pretty unhappy to find out that the x-ray was in danger of breaking again.” He gives Kakashi a look, eyebrows raised conspiringly. “Always tough being the working man, eh?”

“Haha, right about that.” Kakashi gives a polite half-chuckle, then quickly makes their getaway, nodding his thanks and farewell as he catches Little Fang’s attempt to jump off the bench.

Back out on the open street, Kakashi lets the pup take the lead, and unfailingly, they end up winding their way through the training grounds to the Memorial Stone, then onwards to the cemetery, taking the exact same route as last time. If it weren’t for the niggling feeling that he’s missing something—perhaps willingly, doesn’t want to consider the implications—he thinks he would feel something akin to pride at how easily Little Fang found his way.

As it is, he stands firm by Rin’s grave, tells her all about their day at the vet, and pretends not to notice Little Fang curled up over his Father’s tombstone, staring off into the distance.

***

They drop by several stores to restock food and supplies, Kakashi summoning a couple of Shadow Clones to help carry all the bags home.

(Heh, home. Never thought he’d used that word again, not this way. It’s kind of refreshing.)

Little Fang has a mild freak-out at the appearance of three new Kakashi’s, sniffing at them warily before sticking close to the original the whole way back. A message waits for them when they get there, scratched awkwardly into the dirt in front of the porch to let him know that his ninken have gone off on an overnight training exercise, and that they’d be back by morning. There’s a small childish voice at the back of his head that feels left out; the last time he went on an overnight training exercise with his ninken must have been back in his ANBU days, camping out in the Forest of Death to practice their hunting formations.

That had been pretty fun actually; when the pack comes back, he’ll invite them on another one.

Mental note made, he dispels his clones, puts their new food away, and settles in for an early night, until he discovers that reading in the bath is an unparalleled bliss that he clearly needs to do more often. The water is completely cold by the time Kakashi climbs out and towels off, but he feels soft and warm and sated as he pads to his room, summer air warming his skin, tucks his book away, slips on a pair of underpants, and snuggles into his futon, curling up around Little Fang.

It’s been a long week and within minutes, he is asleep.

(He is asleep, and doesn’t feel when the wind slips through the parted doors and brushes his hair, tucking a few errant strands behind his ear.)

(He is asleep and doesn’t see when Little Fang stirs awake, slips from under the blanket to the open fields outside, nose twitching, eyes shining.)

(He is asleep, and doesn’t hear when Little Fang opens his mouth and gives his first howl, the low-high sound echoing high into the starlit sky.)

(He is asleep, and doesn’t hear the wind howl back.)

***

His pack come back at dawn, and the week passes by in the calm of sunlight and birdsong. It blurs in Kakashi’s memory into a long, drowsy montage of household chores, river trips, morning training sessions, sunsets on the veranda, and finding twenty-two shady spots to curl up in with his book while his ninken teach Little Fang how to climb trees.

Their next trip to the vet is quick and easy; a confirmation of Dr. Nakamura’s suspicions, a rundown of the filing process as relevant to Little Fang’s case—“we’ll shave off no more than 0.2mm,” Nakamura assures him, “just enough to curb the sharp point so it can’t cut him anymore”—and the anaesthesia aftercare requirements on Kakashi’s part, several documents on patient agreements and consent and insurance and permission for vaccination waiting for his signature, the finalisation of his payment plan, and Little Fang’s operation is scheduled to take place before the week is out.

The operation is entirely uneventful, to use the doctor’s word, Little Fang is cleared to go within the hour.

“Keep an eye out for when his adult teeth start growing in,” Nakamura reminds Kakashi, when he is finally called in to pick up the little patient. “If there are any complications, bring him back in and we’ll get it fixed up right away.”

Kakashi bows his thanks to both Dr. Nakamura and Chiharu-san, and takes the groggy pup home to a nest of ninken sitting in waiting with blankets and a bowl of water.

The house is the quiet that night, words spoken in no louder than a murmur, the hours drifting along with the slow, even rolls of their breath.

That night, even the wind is still.

***

Little Fang wakes up bright and early the next morning, and Kakashi only knows because Little Fang’s leg catches on his jaw as the pup scrambles out from his arms to greet the early sun. He makes a bewildered, sleepy noise, squints blearily at the pup’s exuberant shadow, then drops his head back onto his pillow, snuggles deeper into his blankets, and promptly goes back to sleep.

An hour later, when he is awake and his brain is in working order, he checks on Little Fang, holding the little wolf in his lap while he runs thumb across the tip of the protruding tooth, pressing hard and more than happy when the blunted tip doesn’t break skin. Little Fang displays no hint of pain from the pressure against his tooth, and after watching him eat without any issues, Kakashi peels off the bandage for the final time.

The wound from the pup’s tooth has healed nicely into a jagged, silver scar that’s almost invisible against his white fur. The canine presses, firm but harmless, against it when Little Fang tentatively closes his mouth; the pup seems to register the lack of pain immediately, scrunching up his face and tilting his head quizzically from side to side.

“Looks like you got that tooth all fixed up,” Pakkun says, coming up to sit beside him. They watch together as Little Fang runs and jumps, biting at the air. “You did good, kid.”

“Maa, I just did as I was asked.” Kakashi hums, chuckling a little under his breath when Little Fang manages a full 360-degree twist in the air. “In any case, job’s not over yet; we still gotta wait for his adult teeth to come in.”

Pakkun hums back, and Little Fang lands on the ground, drops to his side, and rolls happily in the grass.

***

They settle into something as close to domestic bliss as Kakashi understands the term, with warm days and even warmer nights. There are more river trips and backyard sunsets and bathtub reading sessions and dinners by campfire; long, lazy mornings and slow, peaceful evenings rolled out between low laughter and spontaneous dogpiles. Kakashi relearns the many peculiar habits of his old house like embracing an old friend; how the floorboard four steps down the centre hallway creaks, how the second shoji door in the sitting room rattles just a little more loudly than its brothers, how the third knob on the gas stove always splutters before it sparks but is best for warming the indulgent cup of saké.

His ninken start taking Little Fang out on hunting excursions, and their play fights and wrestles get rougher as the pack teach the pup all the tricks of survival. With more time to himself, Kakashi decides to try his hand at poetry, flicking through old notebooks and using his father’s scattered lines and verses as a guide. If his own verses sometimes come out a little more, ahem, provocative than might be otherwise standard subject for such an honoured philosophical pastime, well.

He knows at least one Toad Master who might appreciate his efforts.

At some point he remembers to send Pakkun off with a note to Tsunade about his current living arrangements; Pakkun returns with a message about proper paperwork, and something about overdue paid vacation that makes Kakashi suspect he doesn’t have to worry about the proper paperwork at all.

He sends it in anyway, because he can’t be getting too predictable now, can he, and subsequently remembers too that he still needs to get new shirts ordered in. The hustle and bustle of the village is far more enjoyable when he’s not living right in the middle of it, and it makes his run ins with the other village jounin infinitely more agreeable. Asuma, Gai, and Kurenai pick up on his shift in demeanour right away, and the invitations to teahouse lunches, sparring sessions, and friendly rival competitions increase exponentially.

He accepts about half of them, dropping by the village once or twice a week, which works out perfectly for his grocery shopping needs, especially since Little Fang has started catching his own food.

Somehow, a month passes before he even realises it, and the only reason he notices is because Little Fang’s first baby tooth falls out.

It’s somewhat disconcerting—Little Fang is almost as big as Bull now, the fuzz of his youth given way to a luscious white coat. His growls are deeper, his kills steadily becoming bigger. Pakkun mentioned just the other day that the not-quite-pup-any-longer had graduated from hares to wild boars.

He still prefers to sleep with Kakashi though, curled up close near his head since he no longer fits in the futon with his human.

They’re nearing the height of summer now; Kakashi tells himself that he won’t need the extra warmth.

***

“So,” Pakkun says to him, two weeks later when another of Little Fang’s baby teeth fall out and the first hint of his adult teeth start showing, “how’re you planning on getting him back out of the village?”

***

In the end, they walk straight out the front gates.

Little Fang’s wayward tooth drops off and his adult canines come in without any particular fanfare on a sunny day just like any other, and then there’s nothing for it but to go.

Most of the village shinobi haven’t had the honour of meeting the Copy Ninja’s ninken, and to the young chūnin manning the registrar counter, there is no reason to believe that the large dog-like creature with piercing, intelligent eyes and an almost imperceptible scar down the side of its muzzle isn’t one of the jounin’s infamous hunting pack.

Kakashi signs them out as going on a single-day, out-of-village training trip, once more pretending not to notice the chuunin seeking glances at his companion, or the way she coos softly when Little Fang noses at the paper on the counter.

Not that Little Fang could really be considered ‘little’ anymore; the length of the wolf’s body now stands as tall as Kakashi’s knee, his head reaching the jounin’s mid-thigh. He will be a magnificent creature when he reaches full maturity, with the strength and smarts to rival any man or beast.

The southern road is deserted in the early morning, the traders and merchants from the Land of Waves who used the wide gravel path most often still likely cradled in the warmth of their blankets. Only the twittering of unseen birds accompanies them as they begin their walk, setting a slow stroll down the familiar way.

With nothing but the hazy memory of time and vague direction to recall where he had found the wolf den, Kakashi can only retrace their steps, hope Little Fang’s family hasn’t moved on, and let nature and instinct take care of the rest.

Just like when he had been a pup plodding along at Kakashi’s ankles, Little Fang is as curious as ever, stopping to inspect and mark trees and bushes every few hundred metres. Now he can even climb half of them, running up tree trunks and jumping across branches with all the lithe skill of a Konoha shinobi. It’s not long before Kakashi joins him in the treetops, the two of them ambling through the canopy of the Fire forests and sending those twittering birds flying into the open sky.

It’s a little harder to navigate up in the leaves, especially since Kakashi indulges in Little Fang’s scattered detours up and down the wild trees, but the air is lighter and sweeter closer to the sun, and, well.

It’s probably the last walk they’ll ever take together.

Catching sight of the directional signs carved over bark for travelling shinobi, Kakashi guides them towards that gentle stream running southwest of the village, dropping down beside its cool waters.

Perhaps Little Fang will remember this spot, and come back to visit if he’s in the area and wants to relax and refresh himself, the way shinobi returning from missions in the southern Lands often do.

They take a short break by the stream, then continue on their way, heading back onto the main road. It’s been at least an hour since they left the village, judging by the brightness and position of the sun, and they’re definitely moving faster than when he had brought Little Fang in.

(Or perhaps it only seems that they’re moving faster because Little Fang’s steps are so much larger now, matching his stride for stride.

Funny how much time can change, how much one can grow.)

He knows they’re close when Little Fang suddenly stops and turns, staring into the thick of the forest, nose twitching. Kakashi waits patiently while the wolf walks, slowly, hesitantly, off the road, rustling the bushes lining its side, and disappears into the shadows of the forest depths.

Well then.

Guess that’s it.

Kakashi sighs, sending a silent prayer to the Twelve Great Sages of the Age of Gods that Little Fang will find his way home, or at least live his life free and uncomplicated in the wild, and turns, ready to take the long road home.

He’s barely taken three steps when he hears the rustle of leaves again, registers the swift rush of running paws, and feels a sharp tug at the hem of his shirt and flak jacket.

A familiar whining growl; Kakashi twists his body to look down over his shoulder, sees Little Fang with his mouth clamped firmly around his shirt. Little Fang stares up unblinking at him, blue eyes imploring.

“Ah. I guess we still need to say goodbye, huh?”

Little Fang lets go off his clothes as he turns back around, dropping to his knees to sit eye-to-eye with the wolf. He raises both hands and gives Little Fang a firm, final scratch at the neck and behind the ears, petting down his back in broad, steadying strokes.

“I really enjoyed our time together, Little Fang.”

Little Fang whines softly, rising onto his hind legs to pull Kakashi into a hug. He presses forward until their foreheads touch, his fur tickling the corners of Kakashi’s eyes, licking at his cheeks.

“I’m going to miss you,” Kakashi whispers, squeezing back. “Really. Thank you. For everything.”

Then he stands, gently guiding Little Fang’s front paws back to the ground, and nudges the wolf softly in the direction of the forest.

“Go. You still have someone waiting for you. I’m sure of it.”

Little Fang looks at him once more, eyes shining so brightly Kakashi can see the shadow of his reflection in them, then turns, finally, resolutely, and leaps into forest, running until even the briefest glimmer of sunlight on his white coat is lost within the shadows.

Kakashi waits, one minute, and then another, before taking the thousandth first step home down the still, silent road.

He stumbles.

Pain thuds across his body in dull blows as he crashes into seven tree branches on his way down to the ground, only just managing to get his forearms under him and twist his body to roll with the impact of the fall. He crashes into something hard and jagged—a boulder, a sprawl of tree roots, he doesn’t have time to tell, because a barrage of kunai is whistling through the air towards him. He speeds through the Substitution Jutsu, slaps an explosive tag onto the clone, and slips behind whatever he had crashed into—good, a boulder, better protection from the blast—in the split second of body replacement.

There’s the fake squelch of metal embedding itself into flesh, the low thump of three—no, four—pairs of feet hitting dirt, a half-beat of tension, then the poof of his clone dispelling immediately deafened by the bang of the planted explosive.

Kakashi catches a half-shouted curse as he uses the blur of the smoke to launch himself into the protective shadows of the forest canopy, casts a quick genjutsu to mask the heavy sounds of his pants, and takes a minute to gather his bearings.

Four pairs of feet hitting the ground, but his Sharingan had caught seven assailants on his tail, rogue mercenaries judging by lack of village symbol, presumably sent to keep the free trading agreement between Konoha and the newly negotiated Land of Rivers from being established.

He’d taken out two as they crossed the border into Fire with a well-timed Decapitation Jutsu immediately followed by a scorching Katon, leaving two blackened heads crumbling to ash on the ground.

Five left then; four below, one…

He summons two Shadow Clones, sends one down to keep the enemy below occupied, the other away into the trees.

The mission has far exceeded its expected parameters; there shouldn’t have been any opposition with the River-Konohagakure trade, no reason to send more than one high-level jounin to oversee and deliver the final signing back to the Hokage.

Something’s shifting in the wind, the first stirrings of a beast awakening.

Kakashi slips a thumb into the scroll pocket closest to his heart, steadies himself with the weight of his mission pressing against the pad. The right side of his hip and the outside of his left knee is throbbing, but nothing feels broken or dislocated. Five against one are hardly favourable odds though, especially against a group of what look to be A-and-B-ranked ninja; he’ll have to make this quick, before chakra exhaustion hits him and he’s left completely vulnerable.

A tingle at the base of his head jars him from his thoughts.

He braces himself for the influx of senses: leaping through the forest, searching for a flicker of foreign chakra, rustling leaves to the side, he turns to look and—a strike straight to the back of his head, a hand pulling at his hair, the flash of steel slicing at the delicate cords in his neck.

Precise. Merciless. Efficient.

Not even a glimpse of a body, meaning they’re at least as skilled as Kakashi himself. Trained and trading in assassination, probably the leader of the group.

His target then.

And to draw them out…

He dispels his genjutsu, summons three more Shadow Clones, and sends them out to cover each of the enemy nin below them. The smoke is finally dispersing, leaving their figures open targets on the forest floor. Kakashi raises a hand in signal, and a shower of kunai come raining down. Three of the enemy block and avoid the knives with ease, but one is pierced in the side, right above the hipbone.

A high-pitched yelp of surprise, then the injured enemy—male, young, clearly the weak link—looks down at the blood darkening his blue shirt. He drops to the ground, clutching at the wound, screaming.

“Takahiro-kun!”

Female, young, abandons her position and opens up her defences in her haste to rush to the young boy’s side.

Mistake.

A clone intercepts her, moving low and ducking under the flail of her arms before springing up to run the sharp point of a kunai from belly to breast, the force of her momentum pushing the blade deep into her body. She chokes, slumps into the clone’s arms.

“You bastard!”

The boy leaps up, tearing the kunai out with a squelch, and charges.

Mistake.

The clone delivers a sharp back kick, foot landing right under the boy’s ribs. He falls back hard, eyes rolling to the back of his head, then collapses, open wound bleeding thick and heavy.

Kakashi dispels the clone, the image of the girl’s wide, fearful eyes rushing through his vision long before her body hits the ground.

Two down, and yet the fifth hidden enemy had yet to show their face. Truly mercenaries.

Kakashi signals his second clone down, gestures to keep its flank open and wide to attack, keeping his Sharingan focused on the shadows and the treetops.

“Tch. I knew those runts would slow us down. What the hell was the boss thinking? ‘S’what you get when you let goddamn strays into the business.” One of the remaining enemy nin, a large, burly man with dark, cropped hair, steps forward to the clone, pulling a scroll out of his pants pocket. Kakashi can’t see his face or expression from his hiding spot, but his drawling, belligerent tones make him tense. “Hope you’re ready for a real fight now!”

His remaining partner, a woman with long black hair, says nothing, but shifts into a fighting stance.

“Oh dear, at it again, is he?” A voice like poisoned silk in his ear, a sudden presence at his back. “I must say, you are a tricky one, Copy Ninja Kakashi.”

Kakashi spins hard on his heels, letting a handful of shuriken fly with the rotation. They spiral through the air, thunking into the trees and branches around him. The Sharingan whirls frantically in its socket, catches the flex of an ankle as the fifth assailant propels themselves off a branch and into the air, landing smoothly between the last two of their group.

Male, young, with sadistic, narrow eyes. Dangerous.

“What the hell, Akihito-san?” Burly turns around, glaring hard.

Akihito ignores him, instead waving in Kakashi’s direction.

“Hey, Copy Ninja Kakashi! Let’s bring the fight down here, shall we? Much easier than the two of us running through the trees looking for one another, don’t you think?”

“Akihito-san, what—?”

Kakashi jumps down, ignoring Burly’s spluttered outrage in favour of dispelling his final clone and drawing back as much chakra as he can.

Akihito’s right; Kakashi’s already spent half his chakra sending out multiple Shadow Clones after the initial fight and chase; to waste anymore on games of chase would be foolish, and judging by Akihito’s predatory grin, there’s no chance of retreat.

Better to settle everything at once, now he’s drawn out all his pursuers.

Three left. He can do it.

“Sure thing,” he says, pulling out his last set of kunai, “I was just getting bored too.”

The fight is brutal.

Akihito turns out to be a genjutsu specialist, of all the Sage damned things, keeping his Sharingan busy dispelling illusions and leaving him with only seconds to defend from the other two’s attacks. Burly’s scroll summons a ten feet spear that keeps him from getting close to any of them, jumping and rolling to avoid breaking bone. There are cracks in the earth from where the spear had struck, tree trunks splintered and boulders crushed. The lady keeps him running, never-ending volleys of kicks and punches trying to back and corner him into the long reach of Burly’s spear.

If it were any one of them alone, he could take them, and take them easily, even two would have been fine, but with the three of them together, he is slowly but surely being overpowered.

The Sharingan cuts through seventeen illusions of kunai and shuriken flying his way, just in time to redirect a punch away from his face to the space beside his ear. He grabs the offending wrist, snaps onto the connected arm with his other hand, and spins, throwing the lady over his shoulder. She’s barely left his grip when the pressure in the air at his side changes; he pours chakra into his hands, drops to his knees, and calls up a Mud Wall. It rises just in time to be demolished, holding back the spear just long enough for Kakashi to jump out of the way, flipping through the air.

He lands, and his left knee shakes, threatening to give out. Movement in his peripheral vision—no time, he jumps again, dodges another punch. A flicker of chakra to his right, and he runs straight towards it, blows a giant Katon right into Akihito’s smirking face.

Akihito leaps right over it, throws two kunai directly into his face. Kakashi cuts off his fireball, twists out of the way of the incoming blades—and is struck hard on the shoulder by a roundhouse kick.

He staggers back, trying to catch his breath, centre his rapidly depleting chakra, regain his footing, but exhaustion makes him slow, too slow to avoid the punch right to his stomach. The world spins as he slams into a tree, pain spiking up his back.

Another blow to his stomach, jarring his bruised shoulder against the tree, pain stealing his breath; he turns his head to the side and hacks. A hand in his shirt collar, forcing him up and pinning him against the tree. Through the blurriness of his vision, a fist, ready to pound into his face.

He catches the punch a centimetre from his nose, digs deep into his chakra reserves, and sends one hundred milliamperes of electricity flooding through the enemy shinobi’s body. She doesn’t make a sound as her body goes through the shock, and both of them crash to the ground, her body dead weight on top of him.

“Damn. That’s amazing. No one’s ever lasted longer than five minutes fighting us all at once. The stories really don’t do you justice, Copy Ninja Kakashi.” Kakashi forces his eyes open, tilting his head back to see Akihito leaning over them, twirling a kunai with a forefinger. “I’ll make sure your head fetches a price worthy of your name. It’s the least I can do, given what you’ve done for Minako here, don’t you think?”

He has neither the air nor energy to answer, fingers digging futilely against the body pressing him down. It hurts to breathe, his lungs seeming to spasm in his ribs. His entire torso throbs, the pain and discomfort intense enough to cut into the clash and clang of his thoughts, racing to pull together an escape plan.

Hardly in his predicament, Akihito straddles his body, seating himself casually on his teammate’s back, taking a moment to pet her hair. The added weight makes Kakashi wheeze, ribs protesting. He brings his hands up on instinct to push Akihito off, but he is exhausted and weak, and Akihito brushes his hands away as if they were merely mildly annoying flies.

The kunai inches towards his neck.

A low, terrible, haunting sound, sharply rising in pitch, wavering high in the air.

The kunai freezes, Akihito looking at Kakashi in shock. It’s the only sign Kakashi has that he didn’t hallucinate the sound in some chakra-exhausted delirium, but it’s as far as he gets before the sound rings out again, louder, closer, vibrating in their ears with a sudden gush of wind.

Akihito tenses, bringing the kunai back to his chest and hunching his shoulders protectively, eyes snapping to the forest. Burly steps closer to them, spear held out.

Silence.

Akihito huffs a laugh, shoulders relaxing, brings the kunai back down towards Kakashi’s neck.

“Now then,” he murmurs, “where were we?”

Kakashi curses himself for not doing something while he had the chance. He forces himself to calm; there’s still time. Five seconds, less even, but still time. Anything to get out, get home, another punch, another burst of lightning, another—

Low, spine-tingling sound, echoing all around them, like the wretched moans of a ghost rising from its grave. Straining his ears, Kakashi can hear the creak of branches, the rustle of leaves, and doesn’t know whether he’s about to die or be saved, or worse.

The wind whips around them, cold and furious, the sound still riding on its tail. Akihito squints his eyes against the force of its currents, his hair flicking into his face.

Mistake.

A flash like white lightning shooting past Kakashi’s eyes, and Akihito is gone. For a second, Kakashi’s dazed mind thinks his enemy had literally been zapped away, but then the screaming starts, and the forest vibrates with growls, glowing with yellow eyes.

Wolves, prowling and stalking and leaping from the shadows.

Kakashi knows now what that low, rising sound had been: howling, a warning for trespassers, a call to hunt.

He turns his head to the side, and blood splashes onto his cheek, seeping into his mask and filling his nostrils with its overpowering metallic scent. Akihito’s glassy, fear-soaked eyes stare blindly at him, kunai fallen from his hand.

Burly rushes forward with a shout, swinging his spear wildly at the fangs mangling his leader’s throat.

The wolf snaps at the shaft of the spear, catching the lacquered wood between its powerful jaws. The wood cracks, and a jerk of the wolf’s mighty head tears the spear out of Burly’s grip, clattering to the ground. In a flash, wolves flood out of the shadows, pouncing on the shinobi, biting and tearing.

There’s at least seven of them Kakashi’s tired eyes can track, snarling, attacking in a blur of darting white, grey and black. It’s impossible for even a man of Burly’s size and strength to withstand and defend against so many bared teeth and claws. His blows are getting clumsy, blood is running down every limb.

Kakashi has to run, while he still has the chance, before he too becomes prey.

He tries to push the body above him away, get up, get away, but his body feels fused into the earth, like his bones have taken root deep into the ground.

He can’t get up.

Trapped beneath a dead woman, beside a dead man, death screams ringing in his ears, and he can’t get up.

His heart is thudding wildly, lungs burning like he doesn’t have enough air, head ringing because not now, not like this, not—

The pressure on his chest lifts, and the full breath he inhales is such an unexpected relief, his rising panic cuts itself right off. Dimly, he’s aware that all the screaming and shouting has stopped, replaced the sounds of wet smacks and crunches. He forces himself to breathe slow and deep, trying to pull his thoughts back together even as his vision goes spotty and the familiar loom of unconsciousness beckons him to darkness.

He blinks rapidly, and suddenly there is a white face in his; sharp blue eyes, a long narrow snout, twitching black nose, and a stretched, jagged scar running down the side of a muzzle. The wolf presses closer, gently hooking a tooth over his mask and pulling it down, and licks away the dried blood staining his cheeks. It nuzzles his neck, then sits back, tilting its head up slightly towards the sky.

A soft breeze ruffles its fur, the white hairs on its head and neck pushed back as if someone were petting it. Kakashi’s vision swims, and when the wind blows across them again, it seems to shimmer as if reflecting sunlight, as if something were there.

The wolf throws its head back fully and howls, a long, sombre note that soon becomes a chorus, the other wolves too lifting their heads to the sky. The shimmer on the wind glows brighter, almost pulsing in time to the wavering howls and swirling into a half-translucent haze. The light ripples, swirls, gathers, and Kakashi’s breath catches in his throat.

A long silver tail.

Kind, dark eyes.

A gentle smile.

His father sets a hand on the white wolf’s head, and Kakashi’s haggard mind finally remembers a pup who found his way to a tombstone, and a door left shut for over twenty years. Sakumo extends his other hand towards him; Kakashi so desperately wants to reach out, would spill out of his own body if only he could grasp that outstretched hand.

The wolves’ chorus floats in the air, then drifts into silence. The light grows dimmer, fading away, until Sakumo is no more visible than the wind.

Kakashi thinks he might have shouted, but there is no way of knowing; the last thing he feels before falling into the peace of blackness is a cool, soft breeze sliding through his hair.

***

He wakes up, and there is nothing around him but trees, and the faintest lingering stench of iron.

The forest is still.

***

He is: home; reporting in; healing; fine, Gai, really; resting. Home.

***

He installs a new lock.

This time, he doesn’t throw away the key.

Choji runs without looking back.

Kakashi thinks Asuma would be proud; he can’t wait to tell him, let him know just how much his student has grown, though he’s sure—he’s sure—Asuma already knows, is here, is watching, is going to do everything in his power to keep that boy—that proud shinobi of Konohagakure—running

The rattle-clank of the Other Pain dismantling and crashing to the ground settles his body’s instinct to keep fighting, to protect.

He thinks he truly understands the White Fang’s choice now, for what is a Village without those that bring it sunlight and warmth and laughter?

What of his numbing limbs, his blood turning cold, if he can save those that are his sunlight, and warmth, and laughter?

As he stares up at the sky, the wind blows gently across his hair. He sinks into its touch, his heart at ease, and lets it carry away his final breath.

Father, I’m home.

Notes:

For the most part, I tried to use my research on wolves and dog orthodontics to write a mostly realistic development for Little Fang, but definitely took a lot of artistic liberties for convenience and plot, so please forgive any glaring mistakes or misinformation if you happen to be a wolf/animal orthodontics expert

To spike a fish; iki jime. The generally accepted ethical way of killing a fish by striking its brain with one blow

As far as I can tell from ep. 483, Kakashi’s childhood house doesn’t have a lock on the front door, and is the traditional sliding style door where locks don’t really work anyway. But again, plot, so please imagine the door in a similar way to this

Fusama: sliding panels that act as doors and interior walls; different to shogi which are usually exterior walls

Tokonoma: elevated area against a wall in a room intended to receive guests, usually to put/hang art stuff

Kakashi rolling up his proverbial arms comes from the Japanese version of the English, “to roll up sleeves”: ‘Ude mafari sude’: lit. ‘to roll up arms’, or so Google tells me

Re: Twelve Great Sages of the Age of Gods; I really like the idea of working Shintoism as a spirituality/belief system into the Naruto world, and this is one of the things I made up, combining the Shinto mythic story of the Seven Generations of the Age of Gods with Naruto Sages. Basically, 12 kami (gods, deities) emerged after either the creation of the universe, or heaven and earth, and the last of the generations, the pair Izanagi and Izanami, would form the Japanese islands. I pretty much transformed the 12 kami into Naruto-style Sages with some vague idea about them emerging from the chakra of the world and so the shinobi consider them as like, living within nature and prayer to them for earthly-related stuff like, “please don’t let the river flood while I’m making my getaway from the mission,”

So from google again, if you get hit/electrocuted between 100-200 milliamperes of electricity, you will die. I’m still pretty sure I don’t understand how electricity works, but hey, at least I know this much now!

Thank you so much for reading all the way until the end. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!<3

#hatake kakashi #naruto #naruto fic #my fic #my writing #i'm so glad it's done #but also a little sad #this is the longest fic i've written so far #and now i am rather emotionally exhausted #thank you for reading if you do<3 #it really means a lot

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fearofaherobrine · 7 years

Text

Roleplay Server Log #276

"Pinwheel Accident, NOTCH Debugging, Cp vs MB”

[Pinwheel] Rolls around on Crim's floor after Deer dropped her off there-

[Crim] Pinwheels, You visit! Want to plays? - prances around all excited

[Pinwheel] - Cri?

[Crim] - goes over to a painting on the wall, sticks his snout into the painting - Comes, we go has fun.

[Pinwheel] Tilts head curiously and fo9llows-

[Crim] - enters a dark narrow tunnel, waiting till she follows - I was looking for soft black rock, I dig tunnel. Follow!

[Pinwheel] Trots along behind Crim-

[Crim] - tunnel twists and turns, slowly making its way deeper and deeper. They start passing other tunnels, all leading off into the dark. Finally, they exit out into a small cave, with a few torches. There is a chest, a few colorful rugs scattered around. - Yeah, all still here. Welcome to me hidy hole.

[Crim] - points to a few dark tunnels leading off - Is good place to play hide & seeks. Want plays?

[Pinwheel] Nods-

[Crim] - covers eyes - Go hides, I wait.

[Pinwheel] Runs off down a tunnel taking many turns and ends up in a high spot where she curls up small so as not to be seen as easily-

[Crim] - taps each nail on floor, when gets to the last one, he uncovers his eyes - Here I comes!

[Pinwheel] Squints to try and see a bit in the dark-

[Crim] - starts off, sniffing and scuttling around. Slowly works his way toward her.

[Pinwheel] Creeps a bit closer to the ledge to hear a bit better-

[Crim] - tries to stay quiet but still makes a little of noise -

[Pinwheel] Stands up a little, thinking that maybe she can pounce on Crim-

[Crim] - creeps around sniffing, he can smell she's close -

[Pinwheel] Is about to pounce when she wobbles and looses balance, she's just hit another growth spurt and it throws her so off balance that she falls to the ground and a crunch can be heard-

[Crim] - hears sounds and runs toward - Pinwheels?

[Pinwheel] - Ouchie... My wing...

[Crim] - finds her and scurries over to help - Ouch? Wait, you grows...ok, where hurts?

[Pinwheel] - Wing and leg

[Crim] - looks over leg and wing, worried -

[Pinwheel] Tries standing but can't- Cri...

[Crim] - whines, worried but not sure what to do. Finally sits beside her - Ok, see if climbs on. I carry back, we gets help.

[Pinwheel] Struggles a little, but does get on Crim's back with a little huff-

[Crim] - waits till she is settled and slowly stands, all six feet down. Very slowly he starts back, trying to not jostle her.

[Pinwheel] Is trying to be tough and not let on how much pain she is in-

[Crim] - tries to go a little faster - Is all good, we gets helps. You be ok, soon.

[Pinwheel] Her tail is dragging along on the ground behind them, getting bits of rock between her feathers-

[Crim] - starts purring to calm her -

[Pinwheel] Nuzzles into Crim's neck a little-

[Crim] - finally gets to cave. Goes over to carpet and sits - You ok? Can stay or I carry up?

[Pinwheel] - No leave!

[Crim] - nods gently and stands - Ok, sorry if hurts, must climb back up. Hang on. - heads back into the tunnel leading up to room.

[Pinwheel] Whimpers every once in awhile but does manage to hold on, occasionally she flicks her tail out of irritation-

[Crim] - Finally emerges back in his room, panting slightly. He sits down for a second. - Give break, then we go in bit. You ok still?

[Pinwheel] - Don't know

[Crim] - stands - Ok, we goes. Hang on.

[Pinwheel] - Get there soon?

[Crim] Yes, need find others. - starts upstairs, slowly, looking for signs of other people - Hellos! Are others here?

[Doc] Is feeding berries to Galvantula in a dark corner of the vine room. - Crim?

[Crim] - hears name and heads toward - Doc's? Is you?

[Doc] Yeah I'm here. - Comes out a bit. - Something wrong Crim?

[Crim] - comes over and sits, panting - Yes, needs help. Pinwheel hurts.

[Pinwheel] Whines a little-

[Doc] Goes for hir pockets to get the dry blue pills - What happened?

[Crim] Was playing, she fall.

[Pinwheel] - Wing leg ouchie

[Doc] Starts at her speaking and notices she's bigger. - Oh! You grew! Here just lay her down on the carpet. - Holds out the pill - Do I need to give it to you? Or will you take it? You know it makes the hurt go away.

[Pinwheel] Hisses-

[Doc] Sighs - Come on, you know I just want to help...

[Pinwheel] Tries to pull away-

[Doc] Scoots around behind her to grab her head from the back-

[Pinwheel] Growls and flicks her tail about-

[Crim] - growls - Take pill Pinwheel, stop ouch. Promise.

[Pinwheel] - Nooooooo

[Crim] Yes, please?

[Pinwheel] Whines and flicks tail at Doc-

[Doc] Grabs her jaw and pushes at the sides so her mouth pops open and flicks the pill inside- Just swallow please?

[Pinwheel] Huffs but does-

[Doc] Good girl. - Lets go of her and checks her wings first-

[Crim] - nods and purs -

[Pinwheel] Is still sore and tries to yank it away from Doc-

[Doc] Don't! You'll sprain it again. I'm just checking on you. - Takes a look at her leg, which is already healing.

[Crim] - cranks the purring up and starts producing warmth -

[Pinwheel] Flops neck over Crim- Cri they touching me!

[Crim] Yes, but is friend. Dey help stop ouch. Need to make sure wing good or no flap fly.

[Pinwheel] - Don't like

[Doc] Exactly right Crim. You want to fly don't you?

[Pinwheel] - Can flies fine

[Crim] Wing hurt, need check.

[Doc] As far as me touching you, you like it when I scratch, don't you? - Makes a finger curling motion.

[Pinwheel] - ... Yes...

[Doc] Finishes checking her over and gives her ruff some attention- See? All better now.

[Pinwheel] Trills a little-

[Doc] And Splender is going to squee all over the place now that your vocabulary has increased too.

[Pinwheel] - He talks lots

[Crim] - purs more - Happy Tall will be happier.

[Doc] Yeah, he is talky. He's a bit hyper.

[Pinwheel] - Cri we go play more?

[Crim] - nods - But outside. Safer, Crim's tunnels not safe.

[Doc] You guys be careful, okay?

[Pinwheel] - Can see outside

[Crim] - stands and does full body shake - Yes, we will.

[Pinwheel] Carefully stands up, testing her weight on the freshly healed leg-

[Crim] - watches her to make sure is ok to play -

[Pinwheel] Jumps around a little-

[Crim] - sighs but happy - Thankies Doc. We go plays now, gentler.

[Pinwheel] Trots towards the door-

-It's a lovely afternoon apart from the ear-shattering din coming from Alexsezia's house-

[Stevie] Is banging his head against the wall. Alexis had left to hunt and he didn't feel like mining- Screw it, I'm going to father's

-More noise but the two sounds are beginning to harmonize somehow-

[Stevie] Leaves the noises to whatever they're doing and goes and knocks on Notch's door, figuring the harmony won't last long-

[Buff] Answers the door, a bit too loud- HI!

[Stevie] Jumps- What are you doing here!?

[Buff] Talking to the - snickers- Supreme NOTCH.

[Notch] Stop calling me that. It makes me feel like a fancy taco! -He's on the phone-

[Stevie] Looks around Buff- Everything okay Father?

[Buff] Sits back down on the floor to take up the least amount of space.

[Notch] Balances the phone - Did you check the static float multipliers? No, I trust you Dofta, I'm just trying to help. -Motions for Stevie to come in- Yes? No... It's complicated

[Stevie] Comes in and sits at the table and looks at Buff- What's he going on about?

[Buff] Problems with the NOTCH generation cycle. This new bunch is a bit erratic-

[Stevie] - Is everything okay? Or is my brother going to be sent out to murder?

[Notch] Yeah, like half of them didn't spawn right.

[Notch] Still talking to Dofta, it's basically coding tech support-

[Stevie] - Not right how?

[Buff] Shrugs-

[Notch] Some of them just.... didn't have anything. They erased themselves somehow? Like they were just empty skins-

[Stevie] - Weird...

[Notch] It has to be something small, that's how coding is. One tiny bug can screw the whole thing up-

[Stevie] - Doc might be able to help? Or... What about Flux? Where is she?

[Notch] No he's actually exactly what we need- Points at Buff and then speaks into the phone again- Do you have the recorder ready? I'll pass him the phone again.

[Buff] Ready when you are sir.

[Stevie] - ... Okay?

[Notch] Passes Buff the phone-

[Buff] Just starts rattling off what sounds like HTML instructions into it-

[Notch] So what's on your mind Stevie?

[Stevie] - Finding someplace a bit quieter than my neighbors place. I don't know what Alexsezia's doing, but it's loud

[Notch] You know she plays the noteblocks right?

[Stevie] - Yeah I think there was maybe a second person over there playing some weird honking thing too

[Notch] Chuckles- Honking? Did Herabrine find a conch shell to blow?

[Stevie] - No idea- He rolls his shoulder a bit, it's a bit sore

[Notch] Are you feeling alright?

[Stevie] - Yeah, just still pretty sore. Alexis and Lie made my brother and I promise to do our training in the wither arena so they wouldn't worry as much... Pretty sure he pulled this shoulder out of the socket like four times disarming me...

[Buff] She wants to talk to you again Sir. -Passes Markus the phone-

[Notch] Takes it- Well at least he's teaching you something and not trying to kill you, right?

[Buff] Wait? You're sore? I can fix that!

[Stevie] - Yeah... Um, what?

[Buff] Stands up and grabs Stevie, lifting him easily off his feet.

[Notch] Be careful!

[Buff] I know what I'm doing, it's okay!

[Stevie] Is immediately alarmed-

[Buff] Basically balls Stevie and squishes him in a bunch of key places, nearly distorting his palayer skin. He gives Stevie a rough but very effective massage with his huge hands before putting him down again-

[Notch] Nearly drops the phone in shock

[Stevie] Scrambles to get behind Notch- Nope nope nope

[Buff] Did I miss a spot?

[Stevie] - Please don't ever do that again

[Buff] Looks crestfallen - Did I hurt you?

[Stevie] - Well no, but I just didn't like how it felt

[Buff] Oh... sorry.

[Notch] Don't be too hard on him. No Dofta, my son is here. Yes, my son. No, the other one.

[Stevie] Just decides to stay on that side of Notch- Who exactly are you talking to Father?

[Notch] One of my- well, my former staff. Dofta is a NOTCH programmer. Buff is some of her newest work.

[Stevie] - Oh, so does CN fall under that too?

[Notch] Yes. She wrote this version of the program. It used to be Svit's job.

[Stevie] - Who?

[Notch] Another old coworker - at the phone- Yes, I know he can be obnoxious-

[Stevie] - A'm I... Disturbing something?

[Notch] No. It's fine. She's got this in hand. It's just useful to brainstorm when you're having problems- passes Buff the phone again and there's another exchange of code.

[Stevie] - So how have you and Flux been doing lately?

[Notch] Makes a suprisingly shy face- She's wonderful...

[Stevie] Nudges Notch a little- I asked how both of you were doing, not just her

[Notch] Blushes- Okay, she's wonderful and I feel like a.. a.... a million diamonds when she's around.

[Stevie] - I'm glad

[Buff] She says it's still at 45%?

[Notch] UGH. - Takes the phone- Is it the aggression module? You can't have it at zero Dofta. They won't defend themselves and some of them will just wander off and eat grass.

[Stevie] - Would it help to have data from a Steve? We all seem pretty mild mannered...

[Notch] It's... it's hard to explain. It's like teaching a neural network to build things. If some of the sliders are set too low or too high, the result will be... erratic at best.

[Buff] Sadly- And then you get monsters...

[Stevie] - Like brother and I's false father...

[Buff] Nods -

[Notch] And Dn, and TLOT's NOTCH.... You know he actually had a name in the files...? Jeb just didnt want to say it.

[Stevie] - He did?

[Notch] His name was Revenge. For what, I suppose we'll never know. No offense Buff, but I'm glad he was deleted.

[Buff] I understand. Just like I can't be mad that Dn was deleted. I wouldn't exist otherwise. Or... I might have a shitty assignment instead of this fun one.

[Stevie] - If we hadn't figured out as much as we have brother and I wouldn't have been able to get to the point we are at... Not that we're quite at a good place yet

[Notch] Give it time. Cp only looks like bedrock, he's more like obsidian; you're making slow progress.

[Stevie] - Yeah... At least he's stopped dropping anvils on me

[Buff] Ouch...

[Notch] Gives Stevie a hug- At least you got me kiddo.

[Stevie] - Thanks to brother and that screwed up potion

[Notch] Nah, I think we still would have bonded eventually. If only cause of Flux. How your original dad wasn't head over heels in love with her I'll never understand.

[Stevie] - Well he was barely ever there...

[Notch] Well then he missed out. On a lot of things. You were a cute kid.

[Buff] Chuckles- Photogenic too.

[Notch] BUFF.

[Stevie] - You showed him the pictures!

[Notch] Some of them are kind of hanging up in my room...

[Stevie] Gets a bit embarrassed- They better not be the naked ones...

[Notch] NO. That would be weird!

[Buff] Show him my favorite if he hasn't seen it!

[Notch] NOT HELPING!

[Stevie] - Which one is it...

[Dofta] From the phone - Can I see it too?

[Notch] GODAMMIT.

[Stevie] Is very unsure-

[Buff] Reaches around the doorframe and plucks the picture from the wall before holding it up.

[Notch] Do not tell Cp I have this! He'll burn it!

-The shot is Stevie in his little cat suit climbing up the side of Lie's house. It was obviously taken on the sly because Cp is watching Stevie with an ovious look of concern for his safety and just a hint of fear.

[Stevie] - Oh thank goodness it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be

[Buff] You were so cute-

[Dofta] I want to see too! You're killing me here Markus.

[Notch] FINE. - He holds up the phone and snaps a picture of the image before texting it to her

[Dofta] AAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW

[Stevie] - I know Lie's favorite is of the two of us sleeping together...

[Buff] The one where you're all sitting together is cute too....

[Notch] Doc took that one....

[Stevie] - Yeah that was uncomfortable

[Notch] sighs- Cp isn't the only one with a ways to go Stevie...

[Stevie] - I know, I know

[Dofta] Little whoop. - Okay, I think I've got this... Now I'm going to tweak the ones with violent charges myself. I know I'm not supposed to but...

[Notch] I don't want to see them suffer either. I knew you were the right person for this job Dofta.

[Stevie] - Father, if you talk to brother you might be able to get him to hide Dofta's trail so it can't be tracked back to her

[Notch] I wonder how hard I'll have to plead to make that happen...?

[Buff] I can ask him!

[Stevie] - He'd probably just stab you... We could go the hard to resist route of getting Lie to ask him to do it

[CP] Spots Stevie from outside and grabs a bow, carefully aiming so that he'll just graze his brother-

[Notch] Fumbles his phone and moves across the window to retrieve it from the sill.

[CP] Spots the small opening and fires, it breaks the window, passes Notch, and grazes Stevie's shoulder-

[Stevie] - Nether!

[Buff] Jumps and knocks Notch's crafting table over.

[Notch] What the...? Stevie!

[Stevie] - I'm fine, just a scratch, pretty sure my brother is at fault

[Notch] Storms outside, spots Cp and yells at him full volume. - DON'T FUCKING DO THAT!

[CP] - It's called a sneak attack! It's part of training!

[Mb] YAAA! - Leaps off a low part of the roof and goes down like an anvil, his foot smashes into Cp's shoulder from above-

[Notch] Godsdammit..

[CP] - FUCKER!- Let's the blow turn his body so he can strike with his sword

[Mb] Goes for a punch in the face with his left, his eyes are wild and he looks thrilled in general-

[Flux] Comes into the courtyard- I heard glass breaking...

[CP] Bites the hand-

[Mb] Is bitten but hammerfists the top of Cp's head. [He's still flying.]

[Notch] Makes a tired gesture towards them.

[Flux] - Perhaps now might be a good chance to test if you can create shields around others that are a distance from you?

[CP] Goes for the stab-

[Buff] Comes outside. - should I seperate them?

[Mb] Is grazed and kicks at Cp's back-

[Notch] I don't know....

[CP] Teleports to get in a better vantage position-

[Flux] - Are you still in that call? Perhaps you should focus on that

[Notch] Shit! - Goes to retrieve his phone-

[Dofta] Are you under attack? Markus be careful!

[Stevie] Is dabbing at his wound with a wool square-

[Mb] Makes his clones and bum rushes with two while the third vanishes-

[Notch] Just dealing with some griefing. It's no big deal.

[CP] Sets himself alight with a very hot flame-

[Mbclones] Veers off and tries using swords instead.

[Buff] I could just stop them..?

[Lie] Groans from inside the house and types into chat- I am not in the mood for this...

[Mb] Wild whoops of joy even though he's bleeding as he cuts at Cp-

[Flux] Enters Notch's house- Stevie, do you need a potion?

[Stevie] - Nah, I should be fine. It's just a little bit of blood

[Buff] Is watching for an opening to step between the combatants-

[CP] Summons both his weapons to take out both clones at once-

[Mb] Goes for the sneak attack with his real self and makes a slice across Cp's butt, trying to make his pants fall down-

[CP] - Fucker!- His belt is cut

[Mb] Is gleefully swinging his three swords everywhere, he's not even trying to win, just cut Cp a bunch of times and make him more pissed off.

[CP] Explodes a bit-

[Lie] Groans and heads for the front door to put a stop to this-

[Mbclone1] Takes a hit from the fire and despawns

[Mbclone2] Gets burned a little but keeps fighting

[Mb] Very noisy and extremely overstimulated

[Lie] Opens the front door, ready to grab people with vines-

[Buff] Notices her and waves- Hi Lie!

[Mb] Looks down and grins at Cp- Oh shit! Run! It's your wife!

[Lie] Is surveying the damage with growing anger-

[CP] - AFTER I MURDER YOU!

[Mb] That's the spirit! - gets cut and spits a little blood. He's dribbling it all over the courtyard.

[Buff] They certainly seem determined...

[Lie] - WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?

[Mb] I LIKE TO FIGHT!

[Buff] Shrugs - Some brines are just like that Lie.

[Lie] Is growling a little and several very sharp vines erupt from the ground to grab her husband, MB, and the remaining clone- ENOUGH!

[Mbclone] Pops as the vines hit it-

[Mb] Struggles for a few seconds and realizes he can't get loose- YOU SUCK. HE PROMISED ME.

[Buff] Promised?

[Mb] YEAH! I WAS TOLD I COULD FIGHT HIM!

[Lie] - And you can, just not where you'll destroy my property!- There are a few holes in the ground in front of the house and the shock wave from CP exploding with fire has broken glass in the green house. Endrea's old play pen is bent and twisted a little and the fence around the honesty blossoms is broken as well

[Mb] Sulks- He started it. He shot at his brother with a damn arrow.

[Buff] That's true actually...

[Lie] - YOU DID WHAT!?

[CP] - He's the one asking for training!

[Mb] Smirks - Some training.

[Lie] - You know what? You can find someplace else to be for a few days- She turns around and slams the door shut behind her

[Mb] Looks up and scowls at the sun - Bitch. Now I gotta go pick up Celine. Wasting all my fucking fighting time.

[CP] Seems to deflate a lot-

[Buff] Is examining the base of the vines and settles for just grabbing them and breaking them off at the base-

-The bundle of vines topples slowly over and dumps Cp and Mb in the pond-

[CP] Just sits there-

[Stevie] - It got quiet out there...

[Notch] That worries me. I'll call you back Dofta. Go get some dinner. I'm betting it's late.

[Buff] Untangles them from the vines and sets them in the grass-

[Mb] Jumps up and sputters for a few minutes before stomping off-

[CP] Stays sitting on the ground-

[Buff] At Cp- Are you okay?

[CP] - Fuck off

[Notch] Walks over to the edge of the pond - what happened?

[Buff] Thumbs at Cp- He got yelled at for fighting

[CP] - She's not letting me into the house

[Notch] She'll get over it. She should be used to this by now. She's probably madder that you shot at Stevie then for anything else.

[CP] Hunches over, not so sure about it-

[Buff] It's okay big guy. You can come stay in the castle. I'm sure Doc won't mind.

[CP] - Fuck no

[Notch] Hey, at least she didn't turn you into a cat this time.

[CP] Grumbles-

[Stevie] Is standing in Notch's doorway, watching-

[Notch] You should probably apologize to Stevie. I'm pretty sure you knew that was the wrong thing to be doing even before you did it.

[CP] - Will not and was not

[Notch] Stalks off and comes back with an honesty blossom. With a quick flick he flips the pollen in Cp's face. - The quicker you apologize, the quicker Lie will forgive you, I'm sure.

[CP] Refuses to say anything and sets the flower on fire-

[Notch] Quickly lets go of the burning flower and it floats down before slipping into the water. - Cp....

[CP] - Go away

[Buff] Waves at Notch arily - sir... I'll tend to him. I think Stevie needs a clean square for his injuries, and there's the NOTCH coding at stake... Dofta likely still needs help.

[Notch] Looks torn-

[CP] - You won't fucking touch me

[Notch] Deflates visibly as his phone starts buzzing-

[Buff] Just go.

[Stevie] - Buff, just leave him be... He's... Not used to having company when he's in this sort of mood. Besides, you're needed to help with the NOTCH coding too...

[Buff] Cn can help too. Is he around?

This message has been removed.

[Stevie] Looks at Notch-

[Notch] Answers the phone and immediately starts talking animatedly before looking to the side- I saw him this morning...

[Stevie] - I'll see if he's in his room- He heads for Lie's place which immediately sets CP to growling

[Lie] Looks up as Stevie enters- Oh Stevie, sorry about the yelling...

[Stevie] - It's okay, is CN here?

[Lie] - Yeah, he's in his room

[Stevie] - We just need to borrow him real quick- Heads down the bridge and knocks on CN's door

[CN] Answers- Hm?

[Stevie] - Hey, there's some people who want to talk to you

[CN] - Why me?

[Stevie] - Because your a successful NOTCH and they're trying to fix some new ones and need some help

[CN] - What am I doing then?

[Stevie] - You're going to talk to a lady, she'll be able to explain more. Come on

[CN] Hesitates but does follow Stevie out and over to Notch's house-

[Flux] Is inside making some food-

[Notch] Is on the phone and sees Cn come in- Oh good, here. Cn Dofta wants to talk to you. She's going to give you a line prompt and it will make you rattle off the relevant codes. You don't have to think about it, just listen, okay?

[CN] Holds the phone upside down-

[Notch] Turns the phone around for him-

[CN] Into the phone- Hello?

[Dofta] Cn? Hello. Markus says you're going to help? As a recent sucessful NOTCH I'm just gathering type codes to do comparisions. Are you ready?

[CN] Quickly pulls the phone away from his ear- There's a voice!

[Notch] It's a phone. She's actually irl, really far away. It lets me talk to her. It's like the chat, but on an item.

[CN] Puts the phone up to his ear again- Hi... I'm programmed to protect my brine... Do you know her?

[Dofta] Lie? Yes, we've met. She seems like a really nice lady.

[CN] - I protect her from the big meanie

[Dofta] The smile is evident in her voice. - I know, and you're doing a good job. Just like you're supposed too.

[CN] Starts smiling- Uh huh! And I have a lot of feathers to! Lie got me a really long one that has a lot of colors recently! And firebird has been teaching me to read and write!

[Dofta] She's melting from the cute- That's so neat! Wait... Who's Firebird?

[CN] - An older NOTCH who turns into this really pretty looking bird!

[Dofta] Is obviously a bit confused and there's a bit of typing noise- Do you have any of his numbers?

[CN] - Ummm, 8093... Something something... 412

[Dofta] -typing noise- You said he's a bird? -typing- Does his Herobrine have a kind of floral theme?

[CN] - Uh huh! Um, that's... That's Flowey

[Dofta] Oh! I thought both of them had deleted eachother. Nice to know they're both safe.... wow... he is old... Let me know if he ever gets spacey or dizzy, he might need a debugging cycle. Okay?

[CN] - He's been teaching me to read and write! He also threw me off a tree

[Dofta] Why did he throw you off a tree?

[CN] - I got turned into a bird...

[Dofta] Oh dear! Are you... okay now?

[CN] - Yeah, TLOT turned me back

[Dofta] Well that was nice.

[CN] - Um, what did you need? I think dinner is gonna be soon...

[Dofta] A couple of things- gives him the prompt and holds the recorder up to the phone

[CN] Starts rattling off numbers-

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yatorihell · 7 years

Text

In the Darkness Chapter 8 - Yuletide

Words: 5,620

Summary: Chapter 8 of the Harry Potter AU! Christmas at Hogwarts is more exciting that Hiyori first thought with the help of some magic and friends.

Previous chapter | First chapter

Thank you to @themusicalbookworm for beta-ing me!

Dedicated to the marshmallow @dr-gothtastic, happy birthday!!!! <3<3<3

Read on AO3

Christmas break drew a breath of relief from the school – its students and teachers alike – as the majority happily packed their bags to head home for the festive season. Despite the dwindling number of students as Christmas Eve arrived, the castle was still being adorned and decorated with yuletide spirit. Multiple Christmas trees had been tucked into every corner of the castle with their enchanted ornaments and sparkling lights, as well as sprigs and bunches of mistletoe hidden not so discreetly in the common rooms to allow couples an excuse to suck each other’s faces off.

Hiyori was thankful that couples such as these had headed home, leaving her practically alone in the Gryffindor common room. She had managed to convince her parents to let her stay over Christmas; after all, they would be working through the holidays anyway, and it would give Hiyori a chance to get to grips with spells now she was free from her schedule and the classrooms were empty. Also, the idea of an enchanted Christmas in a magic castle was more appealing to Hiyori than what she was used to growing up, but she would never admit that.

Her days were filled with many attempts, and fails, of spells that they had been learning for that term, be it charms, transfiguration or Defence Against the Dark Arts. She was sure she was improving a little until a familiar voice from the classrooms doorway caught her attention.

“You still hold your wand wrong.”

Hiyori looked sideways to the source of the voice, finding Yato leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded and legs crossed.

She was more surprised at his presence than his comment, which was starting to become second nature whenever they crossed paths. “Why aren’t you home? It’s Christmas!”

“I could say the same thing to you,” he replied cordially, idly walking into the room and sitting on a desk close to the door. “Why are you still here?”

Hiyori huffed at the interruption, telling her that her practice time was over so long as Yato was there. She lay her wand down on her desk before pulling out a chair and turning it to face Yato and sitting down.

“My parents are doctors, so they’ll be working for most of the holidays. My brother is travelling, and my grandmother has gone away,” Hiyori explained, Yato’s curiosity fixed on her. “It’s easier to stay here than to have to arrange for someone to get me and bring me back from the train station.”

Hiyori scuffed her foot on the floor and looked at the ceiling.

“I need to practice more, and I can’t do magic at home,” Hiyori went on before adding a final remark under her breath, more as a reminder to herself than an explanation to Yato, “and I need to practice flying.”

Of course, Yato heard this and his face split into a grin. “I’ll say.”

Hiyori shot him a glare, but had to bite back a smile as she recalled how she had managed to floor him the first time they met. Suddenly she recalled the quidditch match back in November and her attention snapped to Yato with keen interest.

“You’re a Seeker, aren’t you?” she asked, trying to downplay the excitement in her voice.

“Yeah, got put on the team this year,” Yato replied casually. He stood up and walked over to the class’ door, shoving his hands into his pockets before looking over his shoulder. Hiyori gave him a puzzled look at sudden urge to leave, but was answered before she could question him.

“It’s time for tea, you coming?”

Hiyori glanced out of the door, seeing that the sun had completely sunk into the horizon and left the sky pitch black. Hiyori ‘oh-ed’ and quickly grabbed her bag, stuffing her textbook and wand in as she hurried after Yato who had begun strolling down the hallway.

“So,” she panted, trying to keep up with his long strides as they began descending the staircase, “your broom, it’s a Nimbus Two Thousand, right?”

“What about it?” Yato replied, casting her a look which was somewhat warning her not to ask about it.

“Well, they’re good brooms, aren’t they? Fast. That’s how you got to the Snitch before Bishamon.” Along with a huge dose of stupidity, Hiyori might’ve added if she was trying to berate his surfer-style method of seeking.

“Or I could just be a better Seeker than the Lion Princess,” Yato said smugly. Hiyori was quiet for a moment, not wanting to agree but unable to disagree. He did win the game, and beat Bishamon by a hair’s breadth.

“Why do you dislike Bishamon so much?” she asked tentatively, watching his reaction change from a smirk into more of a grimace.

“I guess you can call it bad blood,” he said tautly, his voice taking on a tone Hiyori had heard somewhere before but couldn’t place. “Anything else you’d like to ask?”

Hiyori gave him a small shake of the head, worried that she had touched on a sensitive subject. That tone, Hiyori searched her mind before realising where she had heard it before. It’s the same one he used with the bully. Menacing. Silenced ensued the rest of their walk to the Great Hall, but was broken as Hiyori noticed Yukine was about to vanish around the corner into the dining room. She called out to him.

Stopping short, he poked his head back around the door and looked around in a daze. Yukine’s tousled hair and the dark circles under his eyes told Hiyori that he had either been awake all night and day or had just rolled out of bed, both of which were plausible considering Yukine’s lethargic response. Hiyori trotted up to him, happy to have a way out of the uncomfortable silence between herself and Yato.

“Yukine!” Hiyori exclaimed, a little too animatedly. She was desperate for a normal conversation after the awkwardness with Yato. “Why are you still here?”

Yukine shrugged and raked a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it, which only made him look like a blonde badger had found a new sett on his head – something entirely possible given the number of knots and flecks of grime that had found its way into his hair.

Hiyori stopped short at this observation, instead tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes at his appearance the way a mother would look at a child who had decided to dig up worms in their Sunday Best. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, just tired,” he replied a little too quickly, dragging a hand across his eyes in an attempt to rub the sleep from them. “Let’s eat.”

Yukine vanished into the room, leaving Hiyori and Yato to trail in his wake. The Grand Hall held the largest Christmas tree, centred behind the empty teacher’s table and just about blocking out the snowstorm which battered against the high arched window. Smaller yet impressive trees lined the edges of the room, matching the golden crescent moons and stars ornaments that had seemed to be the theme for the year. Goblets of fire had been brought in for extra warmth now that winter had truly settled in, the heat of the flames warming them briefly as they made their way to an empty space on one of the tables.

The remaining students had intermingled, disregarding the setup of the house tables in favour for playing wizard chess or sprawling their textbooks and parchment between the platters of food. Sitting close to one of the hearths precariously close to the tree, Hiyori and Yukine tucked their legs under the table other whilst Yato sat opposite, his legs stretching out on his bench.

With no need for heaps of food to feed the entire school as it usually did, the platters were full of meats and sandwiches, rolls of bread and pastries, as well as sweet treats that were seldom seen on the table except for special occasions. Christmassy items had also made an appearance: turkey, mince pies, and as self-igniting Christmas puddings which combusted into flames once they were cut.

Arrangements of Christmas crackers had been shoved into makeshift bouquets of gold and silver, shaking mysteriously with their magical treats inside. Yato grabbed one and held it up, waiting for either of the pair across from him to pull the other end. Yukine held it but didn’t bother pulling, which was a mistake as the force Yato used could’ve taken his am off if he were holding on tightly.

With a loud snap the cracker burst open and a shower of white sweets scattered over the table. Hiyori caught one in her hand as it rolled off the table and held it at eye level for closer inspection, wondering what sort of things wizard crackers held compared to the mundane ones she’d grown up with.

A white chocolate mouse, Hiyori observed, slightly disappointed that it wasn’t something more mythical. That was until it twitched. With a few more jerks, the sweet had wriggled its legs apart and raised its head, scampering around as it tried to avoid melting from the warmth of Hiyori’s hand.

Hiyori let out a shriek and threw the sweet back onto the table. It rejoined its other enchanted friends who were darting between the plates and avoiding Hiyori who hadn’t stopped shrieking yet. Yato grinned at the sight, enjoying the show far too much to intervene or ‘save’ her from the mice. Yukine held his head in his hands and let out a prolonged groan, covering his ears to muffle the noise which was drilling into his head. Only when the small swarm had scuttled away did Hiyori cease her yelling, with reddened cheeks and a heaving chest.

“Not a fan of mice?” Yato asked a bit too innocently, not bothering to hide the grin still plastered across his face.

Hiyori glared at him but didn’t retort; it would only feed his ego. Instead she reached for a plate and began helping herself to the sandwiches in between them, somewhat cautiously in fear that there were still mice lurking.

Silence settled over the group as Yato picked up a mince pie and scoffed it down before picking up another. After a few minutes Yukine raised his head, dragging his fingers through his hair. He blearily squinted at the platters for a moment before picking at a slice of turkey. Hiyori watched him out of the corner of her eye, thinking of something to say to break the silence and chirp Yukine up.

“So…” she said listlessly, picking up a mince pie from the pile of what Yato had already demolished. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Sleeping.” Yukine mumbled, stretching to pick up a cheese sandwich. He picked at the bread, tearing off bite size chunks before dropping them into his plate. Hiyori bit her lip, her hopes of a conversation fading.

“Well, it would be nice if…well…we spent the day together.” Embarrassed by her straightforwardness and the silence that followed, Hiyori distracted herself with more food. She couldn’t tell if the burning in her cheeks was from her redness or the eyes she knew that were focused on her. Yato finally broke the silence.

“Splendid. We’ll meet you outside your common room at 7AM,” he declared, ripping into a piece of ham that he hadn’t bothered to cut up.

Hiyori looked at him disappointedly, wishing it had been Yukine to reply. Was Yato too blind to see that something was bothering him? Yato caught Hiyori’s eye, noticing her slight frown. She discreetly tilted her head to Yukine who had swung his legs around the table, about to leave.

Yato glanced at him. He did look worse than usual.

“I’ll pick you up outside your dorm, Puff. Don’t want to disappoint the lady, do we?”

Yukine grunted what could’ve been a response, though it was impossible to tell if it was negative or positive. Hiyori watched him leave, thoughts swimming in her head about what could be the matter. Yato crossed his arms and leaned across the table, conspicuously closer to Hiyori.

“You know,” he said in a dramatic whisper, “I think something’s wrong with Yukine.”

Christmas Day brought a fresh downfall off snow: 2-foot-high and untouched when Hiyori looked out of her frosted window. She grinned, pulling her Gryffindor jumper over her pyjama top before racing downstairs. She stole a glance at the Christmas tree in the common room, aptly decorated with golden lions and adorned with red and gold tinsel and baubles. The small stack of parcels her parents had sent her were tucked under the lower branches of the tree, away from a few smatterings of packages addressed to other residents. No one else seemed to be up yet, so no one would mind if she let different housemen in. It was Christmas, after all.

The portrait door swung open noiselessly, allowing Hiyori to lean out of the room and keep the door ajar. The Fat Lady, the guard of Gryffindor’s common room, clutched a glass of red wine in her hand and giggled, batting away an invading knight who had entered her portrait with festive spirit. Hiyori smiled and greeted them. She received a raucous reply from the couple, clearly tipsy already, who were then shouted at by the surrounding portraits who were trying to snooze a bit longer. The Fat Lady clucked her tongue and whispered something into the knight’s helmet, to which he nodded and they both stumbled out of the frame. Hiyori’s eyes followed them and her attention was drawn to the staircase where she could hear new voices. The top of a head of dark hair was the first thing Hiyori could see, telling her that her guests had arrived.

Yato was apparently frogmarching Yukine up the staircase, their footsteps echoing slightly in the quiet of the castle. Yato looked up, seeing that Hiyori was waiting for them already.

“Mornin’!” he called brightly, making Yukine wince and put a hand to his head. “Merry Christmas!”

Yato seemed to have made an effort to get dressed whereas Yukine was still in blue pyjamas and yawning fiercely. Hiyori noticed that he had nothing on his feet, as if he had been dragged out of bed just seconds ago.

“Merry Christmas, Yato, Yukine,” Hiyori replied with matching, but more gentler, enthusiasm. Yukine glanced up at Hiyori but immediately averted his eyes, Hiyori’s sleepy smile and comfort clothes making him turn a slight shade of red.

“Merry Christmas,” Yukine mumbled. He tried to flatten his hair, which had somehow become even wilder in his sleep, and open his eyes wide enough to feign attention.

“The Fat Lady isn’t around is she?” Yato asked, peaking over Hiyori’s shoulder at the empty frame cautiously. Hiyori gave him a curious look and shook her head slightly.

“No, why do you ask?”

Yato grinned.

“We had a disagreement a while ago.” he replied with a careless grin. “I wanted to come in to give Bishamon… let’s say a present, and she wouldn’t let me in.”

Yato shrugged nonchalantly, clearly cutting off the rest of his story, which was probably a good thing as Hiyori didn’t want to know what his ‘present’ was. Instead, he invited himself into the common room, forcing Hiyori to stand aside in the narrow gap of the doorway as Yukine followed suit.

Hiyori closed the portrait hole and followed them into the main room. Yukine had flopped down in the closest armchair and let his head fall back against the cushion, eyes closed as if he were ready to go back to sleep. Yato stood in the centre of the room with his hands shoved in his pockets, slowly turning on his heel to take in the features of the room he’d tried so desperately to get into before.

“Well, I’m here now. I guess I can give Bishamon her present.” Yato grinned wickedly, looking back at Hiyori who had an unimpressed expression on her face.

“You know the stairs are charmed so that any boys who try to the girl’s rooms will fall down a slide.” Hiyori said with a pinprick of satisfaction as Yato’s face fell.

“Don’t suppose you’d like to deliver it for me?”

“No chance.”

Yato huffed and jumped on the sofa, tucking his arms behind his head and stretching his legs out so Hiyori would have nowhere to sit. Instead, Hiyori crossed the room to the tree and ducked under it to retrieve the stash of presents. She held the parcels in her arms, careful not to drop them as she sat on the red and gold rug in front of the fireplace. Rummaging until she found the right ones, she pulled out two parcels she had specially asked her parents to get for her. Her owl was less than impressed when she had hauled package after package into the Great Hall every morning for a week to deliver Christmas presents.

Hiyori gently threw one of the packages to Yato before leaning over to place another on Yukine’s lap. He cracked open an eye, tilting his head to look at what she had put on his lap. Simultaneously, they both turned to look at her, a mix of surprise and pleasure evident on their faces.

“What?” Hiyori blushed. “It’s Christmas.”

They both grinned and began ripping the packaging off their presents, Hiyori watching expectantly. With no idea of what the pair liked, she had only thought of practical things that they could use.

Yato was the first to open his parcel, eagerness apparent as fragments of brown paper lay strewn across the floor. Inside he found a packet of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, a quill, and a black beanie. Yato’s face fell for a second before he caught his reaction, quickly arranging his face into a grateful smile.

“Thanks.” He said, grateful at least that he had something to open this year. Hiyori smiled coyly before looking back at Yukine who was examining his presents; two chocolate frogs, an ornate ink pot, and a pair of black gloves.

“I wasn’t sure on what you would like,” Hiyori admitted following Yukine’s silence, “so I thought a few little things would be nice.”

“Thank you,” Yukine murmured quietly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hiyori said quickly, waving her hands, “I didn’t expect anything. Besides, my parents sent me some things.”

Hiyori turned her attention to the parcels in front of her and began opening them. It seemed that her parents had tried to find what they would call ‘appropriate gifts’ for an eleven-year-old girl in Diagon Alley – two textbooks about astrology and wizard history, a brown quill, a chocolate frog, and some new clothes.

Hiyori picked up the chocolate frog, perplexed at why anyone would make a frog instead of something more mythical like a dragon or unicorn. She opened the folded case - rich purple and decorated with gold in a hexagon shape – to find a small brown frog sat inside. And once again like the night before, the sweet moved.

Only, it decided to jump on Hiyori’s head.

With a tremendous scream that was sure to wake the whole castle, Hiyori frantically tried to bat the frog off her head to no avail. Yukine, barely audible over the yells, shouted for Yato to ‘Do something for the love of god’ before burying his head under a cushion to block out the noise.

Yato – trying and failing to stop himself from busting a gut with laughter – knew that if he didn’t shut her up then someone would come down and probably demand they leave. He dived forward on his knees so he was in front of Hiyori, quickly scooping the frog up into his hands and throwing it aside before clamping a hand over Hiyori’s mouth.

Hiyori’s muffled screams ceased the moment Yato drolly said: “You really don’t like magical sweets, don’t you?”

Hiyori looked up, her mouth and nose covered by Yato’s hand leaving only her wide brown eyes visible under her messed up fringe. Yato’s own eyes were sparkling with amusement. She pushed his hand away, taking a shaky breath.

“When they decide to attack me then no, I don’t like them.”

A devious thought crossed Yato’s mind. “Well, try these instead.”

He turned and reached for the beans she had given him, opening the packet and shaking a few into his palm. Yukine had emerged from under the pillow, watching the scene unfolded. Yato discreetly winked at him, urging him to keep quiet whilst Hiyori looked around for any sign of the chocolate frog.

Hiyori jumped back as he offered his hand to her, not trusting the brightly coloured sweets – even if they did resemble beans.

“Every Flavour Beans,” Yato said, shaking them slightly as if to entice Hiyori, “neither alive nor animals.”

Hiyori picked up a speckled grey bean, holding it up as if to check for any signs of life. She glanced at Yato who picked one up himself – a pink bean – and raised it as if making a toast. Somewhat distrustingly, Hiyori popped the bean into her mouth. The initial flavour was fine, until she began to chew. A sharp burst of flavour hit her, making her cough and splutter. It wasn’t a good flavour, it was tongue-numbing and burning, as if it were…

“Black pepper,” Yato called out, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as Hiyori raced to the bathroom to wash her mouth out. “I did say they were every flavour.”

After an ear lashing from Hiyori, the trio decided to reconvene in the Great Hall at noon when Christmas dinner would be served. All traces of the chocolate frog had vanished. Perhaps it had melted somewhere, Hiyori thought as she suspiciously checked her shoes for the magical treat.

She packed her new clothes and books away neatly in the chest at the foot of her bed, but kept the card from the chocolate frog on her bedside cabinet to admire. Yukine had picked it up during the frog escapade before returning it as they were ushered out of the common room. She looked at the card to see a woman smiling back at her, the name ‘Helga Hufflepuff’ inscribed above her in gold lettering.

“It’s a magic card,” he’d explained, stepping out of the door, “famous witches and wizards. Don’t be surprised if she vanishes.”

Hiyori had no idea what he meant until she glanced at it again as she left the room, seeing the hexagonal frame now devoid of the woman. Hiyori squinted at it, sure that her eyes were deceiving her, yet she was gone. It seemed that even the photographs could wander as they pleased just as the portraits did.

Dressed down in jeans and her Gryffindor sweater, Hiyori made her way to the Great Hall where Yato and Yukine were waiting outside. With another exchange of festive greetings they entered the hall, finding that the final touches had been added to the displays overnight.

The usually forest of candles that hung overhead had tripled in size, a haze of flickering gold beneath a silver sky. Even more holly and mistletoe had been strung around the room, all but masking the house flags with leafy foliage and red and white berries. Although the goblets still burned fierce and bright, it had no effect of the wintery decoration. Snow crystals fluttered down from the ceiling and laced together to drape over the tables, refusing to melt as if enchanted to resist the warmth.

The Christmas trees had been accordingly decorated in tribute of each house; scarlet, gold, sapphire and emerald tinsel adorned them in a pattern. The trees seemed to follow the same pattern, the house colours being the main décor and speckled with each houses sigils: golden lions, silver snakes, onyx badgers and bronze eagles.

The other students who had stayed for Christmas had filed into the Great Hall, scattered on the four tables intermingling with each other. Yato led to the way to what is usually the Hufflepuff table, but had been overtaken by small groups of students that had no tell-tale signs of which houses they were in. Hiyori was once again sandwiched between the two boys who jostled her as they reached for plates.

From the platters which were generously piled with even more food than they had the previous night, they filled their plates: golden turkey, roasted potatoes, pigs in blankets, heaps of veg and the special festive treats they seldom saw. Hiyori nearly threw a mince pie at Yato as he teasingly waved a Christmas cracker in her direction, making Hiyori fervently lean away from him and warn him about what spell she would use on him to make his life a misery.

“Sure you can actually cast the spell?” Yato said, amused as Hiyori tried to keep her face from splitting into a good-natured smile.

“Watch it, Yato.”

The meal lasted much longer than they expected. They chatted, mainly about classes and the wizarding world until Yato asked about Hiyori’s life at home. Maybe it was for Yukine’s sake as he hardly knew anything about her, or perhaps because Yato’s curiosity had got the better of him. This simplest thing astounded them all: school from the age of 5 rather than 11, the use of cars, mobile phones, Wi-Fi, even toasters.

Yukine’s attention was completely captured, asking questions which had obvious answers for someone who was muggle, but completely foreign to a wizard who had never set foot in the muggle world. Yato on the other hand seemed to know about a few of the common things, nodding as he focused on his food and downplayed his interest in case Hiyori teased him.

Once their plates lay in ruins and they were too full to continue, they sat quietly thinking of what to do with the rest of the day. The sky outside was dark despite being late afternoon; too early to sleep and too cold to go outside. The common rooms would now be full of people playing festive games and making the most of their free time, so the trio were stuck in limbo until Yato spoke up.

“There’s a study area up on the fourth floor,” he said lazily, “I hide out there when I skip class.”

Yato pushed himself away from the table, standing up and stretching his arms over his head and giving a wide yawn. He looked down at Hiyori and Yukine expectantly. “You coming?”

With exchanged looks and shrugs they both rose from the table and ambled out of the room, following Yato as he weaved through the castle passages neither of the first years had walked before. Pushing open a door – hardly noticeable due to its plainness– Yato led the way into the room, ducking his head slightly under the low archway.

Inside was a room that looked barely used, dust had piled up on the bookshelf except from a few books which had been disturbed. The large fireplace was unlit, a large portrait of a snoozing wizard hung above it, oblivious to the entrance of the students. A collection of books and parchments lay strewn over the lone couch in the room as well as over the low table in front of it. Empty cups showing there had been someone in there, though it must have been weeks ago as mould had begun to grow over whatever remnants had fermented at the bottom of each mug. Hiyori wouldn’t be surprised if it were Yato who left such a mess.

Yato leaned behind the sofa, producing a clutch of blankets and pillows which were stashed behind it in the corner. He threw them on the sofa, telling Hiyori and Yukine to make themselves at home whilst he went over to the fireplace. Within moments he had started a small fire and begun to feed it with parchment and wood. Hiyori pulled a blanket around herself, opting to sit on the floor rather than the sofa where several mysterious stains dyed the plush red velvet. Yukine sat on the edge of the sofa, his back against the arm rest as he pulled his knees up to his chest and pulled a blanket over his head like a shroud. Both of them watched Yato work on the fire before he began to speak.

“I stay here a lot,” Yato said, his voice slightly muffled as his head was turned away, “so I might as well keep some stuff here.”

Hiyori wore a soft frown. It sounded unusual that he would stay here rather than his dorm, but she knew better than to question it. Yato continued to talk, filling the silence as he talked about what seemed to be his makeshift home.

“It has secret passages too,” He straightened up, pointing to both the bookcase and a tapestry hanging on the far side of the room before joining Yukine on the sofa who had closed his eyes, not bothering to fight his drowsiness. “Helpful for getting around the castle in a hurry.”

Hiyori gazed at the bookcase, giving a slow nod as she processed the information. Everything Yato was saying had a hint of a sinister backstory: supplies, secret passages, getting away in a hurry. Did he have his own problems? Did something happen after he saved her from the bully? A swirl of questions lay on her tongue waiting to be asked, but she swallowed them thickly. It was easier to start with a simpler question, one that maybe wasn’t as touchy.

“So,” she began, tucking the blanket closely around her shoulders, “when is the next quidditch match?”

“End of February – Slytherin vs Ravenclaw.” Yato replied, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

Hiyori thought about it for a moment. Slytherin won their match against Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw won their match in November against Hufflepuff. “So… whoever wins his match will take the lead?”

Yato grunted a yes. Hiyori nudged the conversation towards brooms, wanting to know more about the rare and luxuriously expensive broom Yato had acquired.

“Does Kazuma have a Nimbus 2000 too? Do all the Seekers get one?” Hiyori asked carefully, acting like it was a causal question instead of one she had been dying to ask since the day before. If Seekers get brooms like those, she would definitely want to try out for it when she was allowed to play. Though she would need a lot of flying practice…

“No.” Yato said gruffly, his tone changing. Hiyori quietly bit her lip. She would never know if she didn’t persevere despite his prickly attitude.

“So, it was a present?”

“Something like that.”

“You didn’t steal it, did you?” Hiyori said jokingly, trying to tighten the mood.

Yato was quiet for a moment – a long moment – before he said in a monotone voice: “I wouldn’t call it stealing.”

Hiyori’s eyes widened, her mouth opening a bit. He must be joking! Silence followed as Hiyori stared at him until Yato lifted his head again, meeting her eyes levelly. Seriousness was etched into his expression, into his piercing eyes which seemed to dare her to say something about it.

Suddenly, he broke out into a smile, the ominous aura vanishing completely as he made a double finger guns sign at her.

“Gotcha.”

A faint relief washed over Hiyori, but his cold glare was fresh in her memory as if it had looked right into her heart. She laughed a bit, the tension cracking like thin ice on a sunny day.

Yato nudged Yukine with his toe, striking up a new conversation with a small protest from Yukine which was subdued as Yato started asking if they had learnt fire magic yet. Hiyori sat comfortably, her arms hugging her knees as she listened to the conversation slowly turn in to an extensive masterclass in flame magic. The two of them sat in front of the fire as Yato conjured fireballs to spit into the growing flames and boasted about other advanced magic he had perfected already. Talk turned to second year classes and spells.

Hiyori’s mind drifted, remembering the spells that Yato had used against the troll. He didn’t mention them, so were they even higher grade spells? So many questions were ready to drip off her tongue but the lull of their voices made it very hard to stay awake and work out a way to bring up the topic. She hadn’t noticed she had rested her shoulder against the sofa, her head drooping to lie against the pillow.

‘It smells nice…’ was her final thought before she slipped into sleep, blissfully ignorant of Yukine who had nudged Yato and jutted his chin at her as she began to slide backwards, sure to hit the floor. Yato smiled slightly, standing up and grabbing a spare cushion from the sofa to put it on the floor behind her. Trying not to disturb her, he put an arm behind her and pushed her back gently with his other hand, easing her down so she lay comfortably on the pillow.

Without a second thought, he returned to the fireplace to continue his lesson. The Hufflepuff and the Slytherin sat together, talking in low voices as to not wake the sleeping Gryffindor until night fell.

Both uncertain if they should wake her, they opted to wait until she woke up herself. She had to wake up at some point after all, but neither of them expected it wouldn’t be until the following morning when they had both fallen asleep on the sofa, heads resting against each other as the wintry dawn broke through the small window.

#happy birth marshmallow #this chapter is soft just like you #i'll do angst sometime ;*#noragami #noragami aragoto #yato #hiyori #yukine #fic #hp au #harry potter au #in the darkness #my writing

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Text

bloodsport [fighting in a love war]

requested by @stardustrebelprincess, who wanted angsty first time smut for Garcy in future canon. to which I say, yes. also, yes.

rated explicit.

available on AO3.

Lucy has heard the rain drumming on the roof all evening. It hasn’t stopped since they got back – barely – from November 1884. The Berlin Conference, where the voracious European powers decided how to split up and colonize Africa, the kind of historical event that is already evil enough that Rittenhouse can hardly do much worse. Not, of course, that they have not tried. The delegates of fourteen countries, including the United States, attended the conference, and the American contingent included both Rittenhouse operatives, on one hand, and Flynn, Lucy, and Wyatt on the other. (Rufus, faced with the fact that he, a black man, cannot walk into a room of rich white racist imperialists, had to pose as Wyatt’s valet.) It also included historical Rittenhouse member, Sir Henry Morton Stanley, the explorer of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” fame. Or should they say, late historical Rittenhouse member, who never actually got to be a Sir. He was supposed to be knighted in 1899, and die a comfortable death in London in 1904, but during the escape, Flynn, well. Flynn may have shot him in the head.

Lucy rubs her fingers over her eyes. She doesn’t think Stanley had anything major left to do that would significantly alter history, and he was a notorious and flagrant jackass, so it is not as if his early demise is undeserved. Still, though, this isn’t the first of the important people Flynn has taken out. He is the reason they were able to disrupt Rittenhouse’s plans – barely – for changing the outcome of the conference (again, hard to be more evil, but they were trying). He had all the intelligence on how to get them in and who was in the organization. It seems a little ungrateful of Lucy to go telling him off for one extra death now.

(Especially when he wasn’t the only one. Especially when she grabbed a carriage pistol from one of the hansoms outside Otto von Bismarck’s mansion on Wilhelmstrasse, as bullets were flying in all directions, and took down the Rittenhouse operative on the balcony with a shot she will never make again in her life. Is Flynn’s transgression somehow worse, just because history remembered his victim’s name? Especially when Stanley was, as noted, a dick?)

Lucy clenches her fists, still feeling the kick of the antique pistol, the acrid smell of gunsmoke. Can feel Wyatt dragging her away with one hand, firing with the other, as Flynn did the same, as they barely made it back to the jerry-rigged Lifeboat and 2017. They aren’t entirely sure they did stop Rittenhouse, Flynn and Wyatt had a shouting match as soon as they landed, and Rufus is justifiably salty over the whole thing. Lucy is still sitting in her damp, bedraggled dress from 1884, listening to the rain and her racing thoughts, feeling heartsick and tired and angry, and she doesn’t even know at what, aside from everything. She has given too much of her life to this, and she isn’t getting anything back. Not that that is why she signed up for it, or why she has continued. But it still feels like darting around, frantically dousing embers, while the brush fire rages on, uncontained. Only growing stronger, and stronger.

After a moment, Lucy gets up, a lock of hair slipping loose from its elegant chignon and into her eyes. She could go find Wyatt and Rufus, suggest a drink, some kind of de-stress before whatever other ridiculous assignment hits them in the face. And she still might. But not right now. Instead, she heads down the hall and out into the warehouse where they’ve built a makeshift base of operations. She’ll find him in here. He usually is.

Garcia Flynn is still in his 1884 clothes as well, shirtsleeves rolled up and cravat loosened, sitting at the workbench and tinkering with some delicate bit of telemetry from the Lifeboat’s systems. He has been trying to stabilize its rather tenuous modifications for four people, since he’s familiar with the Mothership, which can hold half a dozen, and even if he wasn’t, he would be nowhere near Time Team Happy Hour anyway. He hates them just a bit less than he hates Rittenhouse and the idea of spending the rest of his life in jail, which is why he’s agreed to help them, but he’s made absolutely no attempt to be their friend. The mission today was their new dynamic in a nutshell. They need Flynn, they need his knowledge, they need his skills, they need him on their side, but they can barely control his collateral damage and his loose-cannon nature. Good luck trying to tell him that, though.

Lucy halts by the Lifeboat, not even sure what she’s going to say or why she’s bothered to come here, as conversations with Flynn are generally about as pleasant as an acid bath. He doesn’t look up, dark head still bent over his work, as he carefully rewires something and tests the reboot. Then he says, “Come out, Lucy. I know you’re there.”

“I – ” She bites her lip, feeling like a guilty schoolchild. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Flynn snorts at what is, if not quite a lie, a fairly flimsy dodge – if she didn’t want to disturb him, why come out here at all? “Let me guess,” he says, plugging in another component and then pulling it out again at once with a curse. “You’ve come to yell at me about Stanley.”

“I. . . no.” Even if she was, it’s not like it would do any good. Stanley is dead, as is Cornwallis, and as history hasn’t gone off the tracks, it makes her wonder just how exactly to the letter they need to save it. That, however, is a dangerous line of thought. “No, I just wanted to. . . thank you. We wouldn’t have gotten anywhere close to pulling that off without you, so. . . thanks.”

A faint smile curls the hard lines of his mouth. It isn’t anywhere close to friendly. “You think I need your approval? Your pat on the back, for something I’ve done all this time? Now that I’m doing it with you three around, I get a gold star?”

Lucy is taken aback. She wasn’t trying to patronize him, she was genuinely trying to reach him (for something like the two dozenth time, to no avail – she shouldn’t be surprised that she yet again ran into a brick wall). “Flynn, I – ”

“Or no, you thought I might want to talk about it?” He turns the circuit board and takes out a pair of needle-nose plyers, testing the connections. “Feel guilty, maybe? Why would I? I’m not guilty. I’m angry. I killed another Rittenhouse member. I did the same godforsaken thing I’ve done this whole time, and for what? I’m not any close to having my girls back. I’m not any closer to being able to stop this. All I’ve done is trade in the Mothership, which at least had some space, which was mine, for this broken piece of shit with you three sanctimonious assholes in my face. Do you want comfort, Lucy? Need someone to hold your hand? Want to talk through how things were hard today? Go find your little soldier boy, or Rufus. I’m not interested.”

Lucy flinches. This might be her own fault as much as anything, expecting Flynn to provide any measure of solace at all, but while her frayed nerves and weary heart can’t handle another fight with him just now, she also has enough pride that she isn’t going to turn tail and scuttle, isn’t going to let him see that he hurt her. She’s told him several times by now that she didn’t know about Agent Christopher and the SWAT team following him to their meeting, that she didn’t mean it, she didn’t. She thinks he knows by now that this is the truth. He just doesn’t care.

“Fine,” she says, more or less evenly. “You’re not interested.”

At that, he finally looks up at her, eyes glittering beneath the shadow of his brows. Like the sparkle of a treasure hoard, enticing her to come look for it, but go very wary of waking the dragon. Sets aside the circuit board and spreads his hands on his knees, the sharp pleats of his pinstriped trousers. “But you’re still standing here.”

Lucy swallows involuntarily. She wishes he would blink, when he stares at her like that. The way she can almost feel the air tightening and twisting around them, visceral as a blow to the chest. “There – will be food. If you’re hungry. Later.”

“How magnanimous.” His accent thickens on the word, gives it a slight, mocking lilt. “Den mother of the Cub Scouts, is that you?”

“I’m nobody’s den mother,” Lucy snaps. “I was just letting you know.”

“Feeding the team?” Flynn abruptly gets to his feet, which is quite an imposing thing for him to do. “Because that’s what you have to do? Don’t pretend that you still care about me, Lucy! If you managed to arrest the rest of Rittenhouse, if Emma had never gotten her hands on the Mothership – you’d have just let me rot in jail, wouldn’t you? You didn’t bother getting me out until it was useful for you! Forgive me if I’m not feeling so eager to press flesh with my overseers and my – ”

“Your overseers?” Lucy chokes. She is a foot shorter and probably seventy pounds lighter than him, but she still takes a step forward, bristling. “We’ve tried all this time to be partners. To give you a real shot. We want to work together, we want to – ”

“Yes,” Flynn sneers. “Wyatt really wants to be my best friend.”

“Both of you act like children around each other!” Lucy’s frustration is close to breaking point. “And I would have tried, I would have tried to get you out, but if I hadn’t, would I have been obligated? You spent months trying to kill Wyatt and Rufus and tear apart our team, all of history, everything in your way. If you wanted me to join you and thought we were meant to be together – to do great things together,” she corrects herself at once, cheeks burning – “you had an awfully strange way of showing it. You knew that what you were doing was wrong and you didn’t like it, but you still didn’t stop. What would it have taken to make you stop? Anything?”

“I would have stopped when I got them back!” Flynn whirls around and hurls a toolbox at the wall, a terrifying explosion that makes Lucy cringe, even though it isn’t directed at her. “That was all I wanted, all I ever asked for! Now I can’t, I won’t! I was so close, so close, and you – and they – took it from me! I trusted you! I trusted you with my child! Do you think this is a fair exchange? Do you?”

He braces his hands against the wall, looking as if he’s about to put a hole through it, breathing like a tempest, until he turns and sees her shrinking against the strut of the Lifeboat. Something about her fear seems to get to him, and he drops his gaze, shamefaced and silent. He looks up at the ceiling, clearly distressed over upsetting her and losing control so badly, but still too stubborn to openly apologize. At last he says, “Please go, Lucy.”

She is certainly more than tempted to. Wants to get out of here before the dragon spreads its wings and soars, having already thrashed about in a fiery fit. She wants to mention that she still doesn’t have Amy back. Wants to remind him that her own mother is part of this, that her whole life is a lie, that he isn’t the only one who’s suffered and sacrificed and bled for this. Any of it.

Instead, she says, “I killed the man on the balcony.”

“You what?”

“The man on the balcony, the one firing down at us.” Lucy throws her shoulders back and meets Flynn’s gaze evenly. “I grabbed a pistol and shot him.”

Something in his eyes flickers. “I thought that was Wyatt.”

“It wasn’t.” Lucy feels oddly, steely calm.

“I didn’t think you were – ” A killer hangs in the air between them, audibly unspoken. Instead, his mouth twists bitterly. “Like me.”

“Maybe you don’t know nearly as much about me as you think. Even though you read the journal, even though you think you do.” Lucy takes a step. “Did you know I killed Jesse James? I did. The men were arguing about whether or not they should. I did.”

It’s Flynn’s turn to flinch. He rucks a hand over his face, through his hair, turning on his heel and gripping the back of his chair. At last he says quietly, “You shouldn’t have, Lucy.”

“What? Because you’re the only one allowed to kill? You and Wyatt?”

“No, because you – ” It’s clear at once that Flynn has gotten himself into far more delicate footing than he at all intended. “Because you shouldn’t have to. Isn’t that what you got me out of jail for? To do your dirty work? To kill so you wouldn’t have to have it on your hands, even though you know there is sometimes no other choice? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Once more, Lucy chokes. “And what,” she asks, “do you know, exactly, about what I want?”

Flynn gives her one of those looks that says he might have more than an idea, but if she doesn’t have the gumption to prove it, well, she can just go on pretending she doesn’t.

Lucy’s blood turns suddenly too hot, her head too light, her stomach rioting with butterflies. She is too aware of the way his still-damp shirt is sticking to him, sleeves rolled up and neck open, the air he is consuming, the heat and danger of his presence. In the course of their fight, they’ve somehow steadily closed the space between them, and he is standing just across from her, staring down his long nose at her, near enough to touch if she reaches out. She is not sure, however, that she wants to, for any number of reasons. First because she’s still angry at him, and second because if she sets a spark to the air between them, everything is going to explode. In one way, or another. Neither of which she can control. Neither of which is at all a wise idea.

(Oh yes, her head whispers. Lucy Good Girl Preston, always does the wise thing. Closest she ever came to transgression was when she decided to quit school in her sophomore year of college and join that band with Jake. After which she crashed her car and nearly died, someone pulled her out of the water, and she didn’t think about it again, not when the universe had so clearly punished her for even considering it.)

Flynn continues to stare at her with those smoking eyes, unblinking and unmoving. His tongue darts out to touch his lips, seemingly unconsciously. Lucy’s hand raises, almost of its own volition. Not quite sure if she is trying to hit him, or get him to back off, or to just generally give him what he deserves for being such a pain in the ass, she plants it, palm first, fingers outstretched, on his chest, and pushes.

Flynn doesn’t even rock back on his heels. She might have tried to dislodge a boulder, and she can feel the heat of him burning through the thin cloth. He raises a dark eyebrow at her. Now he’s sardonically amused, which is even more obnoxious than his anger. “Oh,” he says. “Try again. You’ll really get somewhere this time.”

Lucy looks up at him, then does so. With both hands, and hard enough that he, still occupied in jabbing her, actually is forced to take a few steps backward. The look of surprise on his face is enjoyable enough, and she doesn’t feel like stopping. She curls a fist and punches him, this time in the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt him, as if she could, but hard enough to get her point across. He’s not the only one who can hold grudges.

Flynn utters a surprised whoof, even as the look on his face is close to the one he wore in Harry Houdini’s tent, when his eyes could be replaced by actual heart-shaped cutouts of red construction paper without much measurable difference observed. He clearly likes this just fine, more than fine, if Lucy wants to play rough, if she’s feeling feisty, if she has finally been roused to bridle, to give as good as she’s been getting. “Oh?” he drawls, accent again turned stronger, slow and insolent. “You want to hit me, Lucy?”

She doesn’t know. She thinks she might. Just because he’s a perfect embodiment of her frustration and her anger and everything she feels as strongly as he does, about how this isn’t working, isn’t working, is taking too long, going in circles over and over to the same pointless result, about why do they have to play by the rules when it means they get fucked. She takes a swing at him with the other hand, connecting solidly with his solar plexus, and he doesn’t even try to avoid the blow. “You’re punching wrong,” he informs her, breathless but not rattled. “Don’t use the knuckles of your fingers, you’ll break them. Too weak. Use the first two knuckles of your fist, direct your force into them. Fold your thumb over your fingers, not in in them. Focus. Use your hips, not your shoulder. Throw your weight into it. Like – oof – like that.”

Lucy aims another blow at him, this one of which he knocks aside with a contemptuous flick. “Pressure points,” he goes on, taking hold of her arm. “I jab my thumb into your elbow, like that, your arm bends. Easier for you when you’re fighting someone bigger than you, it takes strength to try to wrestle them by the shoulder. Just jab, like that. Then you twist the arm, duck under, you can pin it. Don’t go for the balls unless you think you can hit them, most men are on the lookout for that. Don’t claw the eyes, poke them. Stiff finger. Heel of your hand is the strongest if you can’t get up enough space to punch.”

Lucy takes his advice, hooking her thumb into the crook of his elbow, jerking it bent, and twisting his arm behind his back, as she feels him vibrate with laughter. “Good,” he says, somewhat muffled. “I’d also suggest grabbing someone by the head and smashing your knee into their face, but you’re not that coordinated. I don’t think you could pull it off. Especially in skirts.”

“Oh?” Lucy breathes. He’s on his knees in front of her (and still almost as tall as she is) and she’s standing behind him, so it doesn’t take much for her to lean forward and whisper in his ear. “Do you want to say that again?”

He twists his head, faster than she’s prepared for, so their noses are almost brushing. His gaze can only be described as happily. “You can’t pull it off, Lucy.”

With that, fast as a snake, he extricates himself and stands up, making it clear that she still has a long way to go if she actually wants to match him. “Headlock, I’m not sure,” he goes on, with the air of a connoisseur at a wine tasting. “Perhaps if you jumped on their back from behind, legs around their waist, take them down, but it’s still risky. You have to know how to take a fall, make your target absorb it, not you. And also definitely not something for skirts.”

“Oh?” Lucy says again. Flicks her gaze up to him, this time with the stated challenge that he’s probably the one too scared to take it up. “Then we could get rid of those, couldn’t we?”

With that, before he has time to say anything, she pulls off her dress, not bothering to unbutton it as she’s not going to wear the damn thing again anyway (probably, at least – they can’t afford to just run through costumes with every mission, they’re on a limited supply without Mason Industries’ fashion warehouse). But she will worry about mending it later. Instead, when she’s in her blouse and leggings, which she has taken to wearing underneath, she steps out of the crumpled skirt and stares him down. “How about now?”

His eyes flick goadingly to her. “You still can’t take me by surprise.”

This is one of the more erroneous statements Garcia Flynn has uttered in a life recently full of them, but Lucy decides not to disabuse him just yet. Instead, she crosses the floor toward him at a casual pace, as if strolling on the sidewalk. Then she grabs him by the cravat, jerks his head down, and – it’s not a kiss, it misses by several inches, their mouths only catching in passing. But it does the job. He freezes dead to the spot, Lucy gets her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and manages to work up just enough torque to throw them. They hit the deck, or rather Flynn does, taking the fall for her just as instructed (see, she’s a fast learner). They end up face to face, Flynn flat on his back and completely stunned and Lucy straddling him, still locked to him like a barnacle, hair now fully loose and hanging in her face, heart hammering so visibly that she’s sure he can see it, unable to catch her breath. She gulps, tries to get hold of herself, tells herself to let go, now. Now.

Instead, she shifts up on him, too pleased with herself for proving him so spectacularly wrong, even as she can feel him wedged between her legs in a way that makes it uncomfortably clear to both of them that he has absolutely no problem with their current orientation. The opposite of a problem, really, unless you count the fact that he’s been so steadfastly professing to hate her guts. His throat moves as he swallows, eyelashes fluttering, as his hand rises of its own volition to cup the back of her neck. He opens his mouth to say something.

No good whatsoever can come of letting Garcia Flynn say something, ever. Especially not now. Lucy’s free hand fists in the cloth of his shirt, twisting. Their noses are still brushing, his knees hiked up and hers to either side of his hips, as she lands fully atop him. In for a penny, in for a pound. She turns her head, and kisses him. This time, properly.

Flynn makes a sound through his nose as if he has just touched a live electrical wire. His hand hesitates for a split second, then crushes her head down, mouth bearing into hers with almost bruising force, as they roll over and over, entangled. Lucy gets a better grip on him, grabbing him by the ears, as he pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, bites, drags his open mouth against hers, something between a kiss and a devouring. She can barely stand the heat and force of it, the pent-up strength and frustration and sheer, snarling need, and yet, she’s no shrinking violet. She clutches at him, shoving back, as they roll once more and she gets back on top. They keep kissing until they are utterly out of breath, mouths wet and raw and swollen, hair mussed from grabbing, fingers clenched, as she sprawls on his chest and can sense both of their hearts going like trip-hammers. That felt even better than hitting him.

Flynn shifts underneath her, arching his hips into her, and both of them moan. Lucy’s fist clenched in his shirt opens, but just far enough to start pulling at the buttons of his shirt, which is half-undone anyway. He returns the favor with her blouse, practically tearing the thin silk-rayon as he shucks it off her shoulders, fingers curling under the lacy cup of her bra, but not quite going further. Their eyes meet for half a beat, as she can tell that if she stops him, he won’t touch her. It’s clear enough he’s wanted this for a while, and has just as firmly ignored it, but he’s never going to force it. It’s up to her. Push his hand away, shrug her blouse back on, and they can still pull apart and go to sleep, albeit extremely frustrated.

Lucy Good Girl Preston.

Instead, Lucy reaches up, covers his hand with hers, and guides it down.

Flynn’s breath stutters in his throat, as does hers, as his callused fingers skim over the smooth skin of her breast. He catches briefly at her nipple with thumb and forefinger, circles under, then reaches around to her back and undoes the bra clasp with a deft flick, as Lucy shrugs it off her arms and has a moment to pray devoutly that neither Wyatt nor Rufus are going to run in and see what all the ruckus was about. This is just as patently a mistake as it was five minutes ago. But as both of Flynn’s hands come up to her chest, grasping hold, cupping and caressing, Lucy is barely able to care.

He touches her for a moment or two, and then his grasp shifts, pulling her back down for another hungry kiss as she reaches between them to pull the cravat loose and do away with the rest of his shirt. The warehouse floor is cold and not particularly comfortable, and they roll to their knees and then to their feet, but only get as far as the workbench, as Flynn sweeps aside everything he was working on earlier (managing to avoid breaking it, but barely). He lifts Lucy onto it, and stands between her legs, still having to bend slightly to kiss her. They do so with complete, voracious thoroughness, until he gets a hand free, curls around her rib, strokes down her side and takes hold of her hip. She whimpers into his mouth, lifting her leg to link around his back, urging him closer. His fingers swoop across her stomach – and then, when she breathes half a desperate, “Please” – lower.

Lucy grips hold of his shoulders as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of her leggings, gasping as he roughs the pad of his thumb over her clit, knuckling into the wetness of her folds. She scoots forward on the table and trying to thrust against his hand, as he holds her by the hip with the other and ghosts a rather self-satisfied-sounding chuckle against her lips. He’s clearly taking pleasure in torturing her, flicking and teasing, never as deeply as she needs. Her belly is twisted in knots, feverish and fluttering, starving for release, and the only way she can foresee getting it involves him, one way or another. Especially when they are already, rather obviously, in flagrante delicto.

Lucy whines, grinding on his hand, as he slips a finger into her, then a second one. This kind of heavy petting is fine and good, but she hasn’t actually gotten properly laid in too long a time to remember, and she is out of patience. She jerks on him, reaching between them with the intention of unbuckling his belt, but he lets go of her hip and catches her wrists with his free hand, maneuvering her out from between them. He finishes what he is doing inside her, with a few slick, slow strokes that make her see stars while simultaneously leaving her more frustrated and short of breath than ever, and only then withdraws his hand. Undoes his belt himself, and his eyes once more flick to hers. If she’s willing, that look says, she can have everything she wants. But if she doesn’t, she’d better tell him now, while there is any faint, forlorn hope of either of them restraining themselves.

Lucy wants. Wants a lot, and has no idea how to reconcile any of it, and is, quite frankly, sick of thinking. She does that far too much, too long, and to far too little result, and his mouth is on hers again, and she grinds up against him and gulps and needs more, needs more. Reaches down and gets hold of him, hot and stiff against her fingers, feeling the brief glitch in his entire body as she finally has him literally in the palm of her hand, where some might argue he has been metaphorically all along. She lifts herself up, arms around his neck, as he tugs her leggings down around her knees, then her ankles. She kicks them off. And after a final split-second hesitation, her panties too.

Flynn’s eyes take in every inch of her, transfixed, worshiping. Then he slides his hands under her thighs and lifts her off the table, as Lucy locks her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders. He walks them across the warehouse to the wall, and pins her against it with a thump solid enough to knock her breath out, though she might not have it anyway with how hard he is presently kissing her. Then as Lucy slides against him, wordlessly opening her body to him, he meets her eyes for a split second more, hitches her up, and just barely, just a bit, enters her.

Lucy gulps back a moan, reaching down to guide him, slipping him into her. He is hard and heavy, pushing her apart with unyielding solidness, God it has been a long time, she barely remembers how this feels. After their frenzied kissing and wrestling, he’s being almost restrained, cautious, but restrained is not what she wants. There is still too much poison in her veins and in her mind and in her heart, and she wants the demons exorcised, wants to burn. She grabs hold of him. “Come on, Garcia,” she manages. “That the best you can do?”

He gives her a look that warns her she will very much regret playing with fire, gets a better grip on her thighs, and drives into her all the way, with a thrust she feels to the back of her stomach. He pushes her knees farther apart as he moves between them, lifting her up to meet him, rasping on her until she can barely handle the intensity of the sensation. Fucks her well and thoroughly, setting his teeth in her shoulder, biting at the hollow of her throat, never slowing the fierceness of his strokes. Possesses her, uses her, but at the same time, she’s aware that he is barely a breath from shattering himself. That he’s giving himself to her like this because, quite simply, she already owns him, and that is far more terrifying than either of them would ever remotely admit.

It does not take much longer until both of them are gasping, dragging and jerking and clawing toward the burning brightness of climax, until Lucy’s whole body wrenches and her hips arch and her hands tear at him, until he is the only solid thing in the storm and she moans into Flynn’s mouth. His back buckles and he almost loses his grip on her, as they slide together down the wall to the floor and Lucy once more ends atop him, clutching him as they go over within a few moments of each other, shaking to the core. They lie there unmoving, him still inside her, pulsing and softening, until he slowly slips out. They do not move.

It’s about thirty more seconds, thirty blissful seconds, until Flynn’s brain belatedly reconnects with the rest of his misbehaving anatomy. He tenses all over, then heaves Lucy off, springs to his feet like a startled cat, and fumbles himself back together, jerking his trousers up and diving for his discarded shirt. He doesn’t look at her as he dresses as fast as possible, swiping a hand through his hair and doing absolutely nothing to look casual. “You should go.”

Lucy, torn from the comfortable glow of orgasm to an abrupt reintroduction to the cold warehouse floor, rolls over and gets to her feet, fishing for her clothes, cheeks burning. Even she is well aware that that was not what she came here to do (though, a jeering voice whispers in her head, was it?) and she reconstitutes herself to decency at likewise top speed. The silence has quickly turned hideous, until she blurts, “We’ll just – ”

“It was a mistake.” Flynn’s shoulders remain hunched, as he doesn’t look back at her. “You were emotional.”

Lucy wants to ask if she was emotional, what that made him – it takes two to tango, as the saying goes, and that back there was a thoroughly mutual effort. Her thighs are slick, her heart pounding low in her stomach, the heat of him lingering between her legs, her lips raw with kissing him, her breath short, her knees trembling. The pleasure of release already feels like a distant memory. “Flynn – ”

“Go,” he repeats. “We’ll just forget this happened.”

Lucy digs her fingernails into her palms, unsure if she wants to conclude the evening, which has seen her do a great deal of both, with one more slap or one more kiss. She came here trying to sort out at least some of the tangled skeins of love and hate and unspeakable, inextricable destiny that somehow binds their souls together, and somehow she’s managed to weave it into even more of an impassable Gordian knot. So that when he says that, some reflexive, damaged self-protection instinct – we’ll just forget this happened – they both already know they’re going to do anything but.

That doesn’t mean they’ll try.

That doesn’t mean this can go anywhere good.

Lucy does up the top button on her blouse, the marks of his mouth still vivid on her skin. Turns on her heel, waits for him to say something else, knows he won’t, and leaves.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #garcia flynn human disaster #stardustrebelprincess

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