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ceruleanmusings · 4 years ago

Text

Fireworks

Summary - The pitching became frequent as of late, a strange topsy-turvy sort of flutter accompanied with an irregular heartbeat. He'd confided in Ray at one point, supposing he was suffering from some sort of medical emergency. Ray merely laughed, a sparkle gleaming in his golden eyes, telling him he'd be fine. Happy New Year! Pairing - Kai Hiwatari x Crystal Manning (OC) Fandom - Beyblade Contains - watching fireworks, a skittish dog, actually feeling feelings for the first time Note - Happy New Year, everyone! What better way to celebrate the year from hell that was 2020 finally ending than to write Kai agonizing over having feelings for someone for the first time? I also didn't anticipate the challenge I would be facing trying to write Kai grappling with having feelings for someone when he's not much of a talker but I had fun with it! Enjoy!

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A pounding boom from the blooming flower overhead nearly drowned out a yelp.

Kai’s eyes opened with a snap and his relaxed posture against the side of Mr. Dickenson’s home stiffened, eyes darting around the stretching expanse of lawn. When seconds passed and any sort of danger failed to make its’ presence known, his shoulders lowered from his ears and his tense muscles eased. One of these days he’d be able to live his life without needing to be ready at a moment’s notice to drag his teammates away from whatever calamity they dove into headfirst. It took a full minute for his clenched jaw to ease and trust that, indeed, no danger had presented itself. Habits die hard, even at the onset of a new year.

Crossing his arms, he resumed his previous leaning position only to snap to attention at another yelp following a burst of green up in the black sky. So he hadn’t been hearing things; in fact he’d heard the sound once before when he’d accidentally stepped on Hana. She always had to be at his heels, following him around his home, kneading at his feet, staying close. And yet now she was nowhere to be found.

Eyebrows crinkling, Kai scanned the backyard again, taking care to sweep over his friends huddled together beneath large wool blankets Mr. Dickenson provided them, faces tilted upwards for the light show. Mr. Dickenson had retired to his room a few hours ago; Kai supposed with the man being his age, he’d seen enough new years to last him. His friends, however, nearly vibrated with excitement the closer time edged towards midnight.

A hum rumbled in his chest, finally spotting Hana curled up in Crystal’s blanket-covered lap. Her body formed a tight C, her tail tucked tight next to her hind leg. Head laying near her paws, her dark lips quivered, and her big, wet eyes blinked with every color-filled pop overhead. Crystal’s hand gently scratched at Hana’s copper coated back, her other hand covering one ear. It was with another resounding gold-tinted boom did he notice the wince on her face and the tremble rippling her body.

“I know, Hana, it’s a little loud isn’t it?” she said, glancing down at the shiba inu. Her smile, once so wide and exuberant, waned to a wobbly, lopsided feeble effort.

Something pitched hard in Kai’s stomach at the sight of it, something he would much rather not put a name or a label to even if he couldn’t ignore it outright. The pitching became frequent as of late, a strange topsy-turvy sort of flutter accompanied with an irregular heartbeat. He’d confided in Ray at one point, supposing he was suffering from some sort of medical emergency. Ray merely laughed, a sparkle gleaming in his golden eyes, telling him he’d be fine.

Another firework exploded overhead; another yelp punched the air. Whether it came from Hana or Crystal Kai wasn’t sure. He gritted his teeth, his fingers twitched against his crossed arms. Was he supposed to do something about it? Hana he could help and no one would bat an eye, but how could he help her? Fix that problem? His team was chock full of them, problems that is, and he tended to be the one to fix them lest he wanted to be driven insane by their inane grievances. And, okay, maybe after all these years being a team, their well-being, whether physical or personal, became important to him. The happier they were, the less effort he had to put into keeping them that way.

But Crystal, well…they were…hmm.

Kai could admit their relationship had shifted over the past couple of months. He didn’t mind her presence, in fact he found himself more at peace with her knowing he didn’t have to worry she’d say or do something stupid he’d then end up needing to drag her out of. They weren’t together though he didn’t mind their time spent together lately: early morning walks with Hana through the farmer’s market for her to get ingredients for dinner (apparently going the crack of dawn is the best time to get fish), quiet study sessions at a nearby Starbucks, lying on the soft grasses of the riverbanks as the team got a few blading matches in nearby, reading after dinner, she tried to teach him mahjong and he tried to teach her chess (both to disastrous results), somehow she’d even convinced him to take up yoga which he didn’t hate, and if he had a particularly hard time sleeping, well, there were worse people to be up eating ice cream out of the carton with.

They were…they were something.

And it was that something which had him tense on two folds, to move and to remain in place. No one else noticed Crystal’s discomfort, her attempt at standing strong to see the fireworks despite the pain it brought her. Of course she could always go inside but she wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t rob herself of an experience with her friends on such a spectacular scale. Who would want to watch the fireworks inside on a nice night?

Still, she didn’t need him to protect her. He knew this. Her independence streak may as well be painted across her face, she could hold her own and not just in the beydish or the gym. Still, if they were…something, shouldn’t he be doing something?

Kai’s eyes flickered over to Tyson, squinting at the grin on his face, the relaxed rounding of his shoulders, the ease to his arm slung around Hilary’s jacket-covered shoulders. Tyson’s jacket, Kai noted with a lip curling sneer. Hilary pulled one lapel tight across her chest, keeping warmth in, and, with her free hand, laced her fingers with Tyson’s, a pleased flush reddening her cheeks. They sat close, Hilary leaning into Tyson’s side, eyes skyward, Tyson’s eyes on her. Next to him Kenny droned on and on, something about the chemical makeup of the fireworks to create different shapes and colors. Not that it mattered, Tyson’s gaze wouldn’t be shifted even if a buffet had been laid in front of him.

Fucking Granger, making it all look so damn easy. How that immature buffoon managed to land himself a girlfriend, let alone Hilary, he’ll never know. (Okay, it was inevitable Tyson and Hilary would either kill each other or get together. He always thought Hilary would have some sense about aligning with him, but if she got Tyson to be less…Tyson, then Kai would count his blessings.) Still, how was Tyson able to crack the secret code about being…something with someone? He couldn’t figure out even the most basic Sudoku puzzles without gorging a hole in the paper due to his heavy erasing, but, somehow, he made a relationship with Hilary work? It rankled.

“Whoa! Check out that one!” Max uttered, pointing upwards in the sky at a blue explosion.

“Dude, it looked so much like a beyblade right?” Ray commented, his grip tightening around a steaming mug.

Hana let out a high-pitched squeak and Crystal sighed, uncovering her ear to cover both of Hana’s. “We should probably get inside.”

Huffing out a growl of a breath—frustration or resolution, Kai didn’t place—he pushed off the wall and, in a few strides, reached his friends. His hand cupped her shoulder when she began to rise, and she turned a surprised and curious gaze up at him. He pressed down on her shoulder; she caught the hint, settling back on the ground, cuddling Hana close to her chest. Kai settled on the cool grass behind her, sliding his hands up the lines of her neck, pressing on her pointed ears.

In a matter of seconds it occurred to him how much of a bad idea it was: being this close, getting a strong whiff of jasmine from her inky blue-black hair, taking in heat radiating from her body when she leaned against his chest, seeing Hana so content wrapped in her protective hold.

His stomach swooped hard and heat crawled up his neck, reddening tendrils stretching and reaching like ivy on a wall. He gulped, shifting rising lump in his throat and wondered if she felt the thrumming of his heart at her back. He really should have gotten that second opinion.

He chanced a glance to the right only to take in that familiar sparkle in Ray’s eyes and a stretching, curling smile Kai suddenly wanted to wipe from his friend’s face. Nothing good came of it, not especially the air of amusement wrapped around it. Kai lifted his chin, waiting. With raised brows, Ray brought his mug to his mouth, took a sip, and broke eye contact.

Closing his eyes in a slow blink, Kai took in a (jasmine scented) breath and turned his eyes up to the flaring sky, taking care not to focus on the fact he swore Crystal outright purred at his thumbs brushing against the backs of her ears before uttering a soft, “Thanks Kai”.

They were something, it was the best label he could offer in the circumstances.

As for the swooping, it came with a striking clarity like the glittering shower above:

Fireworks.

#beyblade #beyblade ficlet #beyblade oc #kai hiwatari #beyblade!crystal manning #my writings #first fic of the new year!#have kai being a lovestruck doofus

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imagine-darksiders · 5 years ago

Note

Would make a short of Strife rescuing a tiny human? Please ?

Short?

Hi guys, so I was writing this reply when it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been neglecting you and I owe you, at the very least, a 6000+ word, Strife centric Christmas present. So although it’s isn’t a Christmassy piece per se, it all I have at the moment.

Thank you so much for being patient with me. XXXX

—

The photograph stands on a tiny, pink dresser, its edges cut back just enough so that it fits inside a silver frame, out of which peer three humans, their grinning faces never changing as they keep a quiet vigil of the bedroom and its otherworldly visitor, who – in turn – finds his sharp gaze frequently returning to the little, paper snapshot.

A pair of eyes, golden and glowing in the lightless bedroom, screw themselves shut tightly for a moment as their owner heaves a sigh and tries not think about what had happened to the trio of humans. He especially refuses to dwell on the youngest; the little boy in overalls and wellington boots who rides happily on his father’s shoulders in the photo, but who also so, so closely resembles the tiny, emaciated corpse twisted up in a wardrobe nearby.

These are the moments during supply runs that Strife hates the most – where he stumbles across the sad, broken remains of humans, all whilst he rummages through their homes and helps himself to what was once theirs with his only consolation being the humans back at the maker tree, who would survive just a little longer thanks to his pilfering.

If he thought too hard about it, he would be troubled, and the horseman could not afford that. Best to put it from his mind and move on, as he always has. As experience has taught him.

Peeling his eyes open again, Strife turns his back on the photograph and continues stuffing a dishevelled, cuddly pony into one of the leather pouches that hangs from his side.

’Just the essentials,’ he reminds himself before every supply run. ’Food, water and ammunition being top priority.’

But then, Ulthane had brought that kid to the tree and she’d cried all night, asking where her caretakers were and complaining how she couldn’t possibly sleep without a ‘Mister Bear’ and…

The horseman strokes a finger over the toy’s stringy mane before he withdraws his hand and fastens the pack up again, safely sealing it inside.

’In this instance’, he reasons, ’a soft toy is an essential.’

Besides, he’s already gathered plenty of food for today at least, and if he doesn’t get back soon, Ulthane and the other humans will start to worry where he is.

“Where Jones is,” he corrects himself aloud with a bitter frown.

He’s beyond the point of believing they’d care about Strife the horseman in the same manner they care about his human disguise.

Casting one last, solemn glance at the corner wardrobe, Strife once more finds himself fighting to put the humans’ fate from his mind.

It was so much easier when he thought – as many other species still do – that humanity was little more than a savage society with no ambition beyond killing and consuming to survive. Then, he actually met the little species and found everything he thought he knew about them to be a lie. His eyes had been opened, and he’d been left sadder, but wiser.

Humans had been treated like dirt for so many centuries.

And he hadn’t really cared.

Deciding that he’s spent more than enough time among ghosts, Strife steps back over the bedroom’s threshold.

Moving towards a set of rickety stairs, he reaches out to place a hand on the banister when he suddenly freezes in his tracks, his keen senses honing in on a sound coming from somewhere further down the landing.

A scuffle, then a snort followed by the scrabble of claws on a hard surface.

For several moments, the horseman remains at a standstill as he listens with rapt attention to the pants and growls he’d pin to a Goreclaw, if he had to take a wild guess.

The damn thing sounds as though it’s stuck. That, or it’s looking for something. Either way, it will be sufficiently distracted and chances are likely it doesn’t even know a horseman is in the vicinity.

Mercy’s grip sticks invitingly up from within its holster and Strife runs a thumb over the smooth surface, thinking.

He could just leave. It is only one demon after all.

But then…

The horseman’s mind drifts back to the little body in the wardrobe and his jaw immediately sets.

No way in Hell is he about to let that thing get at it. Dead or not, a kid doesn’t deserve to be reduced to marrow by a hell-dog. Strife could spare him that, at the very least.

Shaking his head and wondering when he’d become so sentimental, he draws his pistol and steps back onto the landing. Following the sounds of guttural snarls, he stalks through the crumbling apartment until he comes upon a broken doorway, torn off its hinges at some point by a hand greater than a human’s. Strife halts just shy of the entrance and presses his back up against the wall before inching his head around the corner, golden eyes narrowed dangerously as he scans the room beyond.

Far be it from him to err on the side of caution but he is curious to know what the demon is up to. His earlier assumption had been spot on. It’s a Goreclaw alright, currently in the midst of trying to shove its long talons underneath a chest-of-drawers, teeth snapping and drool flying from its snout.

“What the Hell are you doing?” he wonders quietly, observing while it retracts its foreleg and presses its nose up to the slim gap beneath the furniture.

He’s only ever seen the dogs get this excited when they’re on the trail of prey.

For a split second, the horseman’s blood runs cold at the thought of a human being trapped under there, though he soon shakes that notion off. No matter how tiny, there isn’t a human alive that could stuff themselves underneath there. Not with barely two inches of space between floor and wood.

Through the window, he’s distantly aware that the sun is no longer shining through a gap in the curtains, having sunk well below a building on the opposite side of the street, heralding the swift approach of night.

Aware that he’s burning daylight, and desperate to put a bullet in something, Strife obnoxiously clears his throat, rounds the corner and aims a cocksure grin at the startled demon when it whirls about to face him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says cheerfully, “Just wanted to stop by and tell you, there’s something on your face.”

A roar of outrage shatters the relative peace as the demon crouches, ready to pounce. It barely manages to plant its hind legs however, before a bullet tears out of Mercy’s chamber and buries itself directly in the Goreclaw’s skull.

“Ope, never mind, I got it,” Strife gloats, a smirk lifting his lips. The demon crumples to the ground, gurgling and twitching for a moment until it eventually lays still, dead on the floral print carpet. “Huh…I was hoping that’d be a little more satisfying.”

With his grim duty taken care of, the horseman turns on his heel to leave. However something nags at the back of his mind and he stops mid-stride, a frown pulling at his brows.

Just what had that demon been so desperate to get at?

Beneath his helm, Strife chews pensively on his lip, turning back to face the unassuming chest of drawers. After a moment’s deliberation, he gives in to curiosity, a newfound trait he wholly blames on the humans he’s been sharing a tree with for the past several weeks. Every one of them has a penchant for sticking their noses into strange situations, and it seems their behaviour has rubbed off on the horseman somewhat.

An obnoxious huff escapes Strife as he grabs each side of the dresser and picks it up effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a feather and moves it aside to peer down at the dustless rectangle that had been left in its wake. It isn’t long before his sharp gaze lands on something out of the ordinary, a patch of colour in the otherwise murky grey.

“What the?…” Dumping the chest of drawers down to his right, the horseman squats to get a better look at what appears at first glance to be just another child’s toy.

“All that fuss for a doll?” he wonders aloud, reaching slowly down with a finger to prod at it.

Just then, before he can utter anything further, he almost jumps out of his skin as the ‘doll’ springs to life.

Rather, it suddenly leaps to its feet and darts sideways, gunning straight along the wall’s skirting with two, little legs pumping along like a steam engine.

“Hey! Woah there!” Caught off guard, Strife doesn’t think before he shoots out a hand towards the fleeing creature.

It can’t quite skid to a halt in time to keep from colliding with the horseman’s gauntleted palm that abruptly slams to the ground in front of it, and with a soft ‘plink,’ the human-shaped thing collides with his hand and falls back onto its rump so jarringly, Strife can’t suppress a wince. “Oooh, sorry about that,” he says, wasting no time in pinching his thumb and forefinger against the collar of a thin, brown shirt and plucking it up off the floor. “Now, what do we have here?”

Dangling his prize in front of his silver helm, he squints, head tipping to one side so he can get a good look at what he’s caught.

He very nearly drops it again when he realises what he’s peering at.

It’s a human. A boy, to be precise, and a fairly young one at that, clothed in nothing more than a ratty shirt and a pair of equally dishevelled shorts that hang low on his waist, too baggy to fit on his near skeletal form. They’ve even been tied in place by a strip of green twine.

Hanging limply from the horseman’s grasp, the little human tries to work his shirt loose, twisting this way and that but impeded by violent trembles that wrack his body. Realising that thrashing is doing him no good, he opts to reach up with miniature fists and attempt to tear the shirt free, tiny grunts leaving even tinier lips.

“You’re a human!” Strife blurts out, eyes flashing interestedly.

At the sound of his booming voice, the boy flinches and cries out, abandoning his prospects of escape in favour of clamping both arms over his head and curling in on himself, a meagre method of protection against his titanic captor.

Standing back up to his full height, the horseman continues to study his handful whilst planting his free hand on a cocked hip. “Well damn me, I didn’t think human kids could get this small,” he murmurs. Suddenly, his ears perk up at the sound of a diminutive squeak that emanates from the boy currently hanging from his fingers. ”What was that, kid?”

Shivering, his arms still shielding his head, the tiny boy swallows and raises his voice loud enough to be heard. “I-I ain’t a human!” he claims shrilly. Then, after a small pause, he adds, “And I ain’t no kid neither!”

“Not a human, huh? Well, you sure look like one.” Strife chuffs and raises a claw-tipped finger, prodding the boy in his stomach and eliciting a squawk of indignation. “Sure sound like one too…Kind of on the skinny side though, aren’t you?”

His words cause the boy to turn rigid and his arms peel back slightly to give Strife a view of ebony hair and wide, brown eyes. “What…what’s that s'posed to mean!?” he whimpers, “You’re not gonna…you’re not gonna eat me, are you!?”

“Mmm, haven’t decided yet,” the horseman playfully responds, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got much meat on you…Then again, I am pretty hungry.”

Behind his mask, he grins, though the expression promptly blinks out of existence when he notices a wetness has gathered on the boy’s cheeks.

“Uh oh.” That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been sure human kids loved jokes! Hell, Ulthane had playfully threatened to eat some of the younglings back at the tree and they’d all thought it was a great game, even laughed their heads off when he made a slow swipe at them with one of his meaty paws.

“Oh, hey, no – I – Ah, damnit.” Like a flipped switch, Strife’s tone loses its teasing lilt and slips to something gentler. “Hey, ease off the waterworks, okay, pint-size? I was kidding.” Borderline desperate, the horseman lowers his catch into a sturdy palm and lets go of his shirt, even smoothing down the back of it with the pad of a careful finger for good measure although as he does, he becomes aware of just how prominently the boy’s spine protrudes. Human anatomy varies, sure, but that doesn’t feel right.

Jerking away from the encroaching finger, the ‘not’ human swipes furiously at his eyes, smearing tears across reddened cheeks. In spite of the horseman’s reassurance, he doesn’t appear convinced, eyeing the palm beneath him with about as much trust as he’d give a hungry snake, half expecting it to spring to life and squeeze the soul out of him. Truthfully, he hasn’t seen much of the world, even before monsters fell out of the sky, but he knows enough to tell that this metal-clad behemoth is most assuredly not human.

Human eyes don’t glow like liquid gold.

In the meantime, Strife gives himself a mental kick for making the child cry.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “You… got a name, kid?”

“What do you care?” the boy sniffs, all pretence of bravery made redundant by his trembling, “You’re just gonna drop me or – or squash me or something.”

Drawing his head back, the horseman frowns. “C'mon, you’re like – what? - three inches tall? Be kind of a dick move for me to hurt someone smaller than my thumb.”

Cautious surprise flickers across the youngster’s face and he swipes the back of a wrist under his nose, chin lifting to shoot a suspicious squint at his captor. “But…but ain’t you one of them demons?”

Strife bristles despite his best efforts. “Do I look like a demon to you?”

Ducking his head, the boy gulps but still balls his hands into fists and squeezes out, “Well, I dunno… You big'uns all look alike from down here.” He risks a mistrustful glare at Strife’s luminous eyes. “Like monsters.”

Apparently the Horseman has been spending too much time around humans because that sent an unpleasant pang bolting through his chest.

“Yeah, well…Speaking from experience, not everyone who’s bigger than you is a monster, kid,” he murmurs gently.

The boy blinks, caught off guard by the sober tone of voice he hadn’t expected to hear from this gargantuan, metal man. All his life, he’d had drummed into his head the mantra that if a big one caught him, they’d more than likely kill him. And those that didn’t would shove him in a jar or underneath a microscope - that last one had happened to his great, great grandfather. Or so he has been lead to believe.

And yet so far, there’s no jar, no microscope, and although he knows it’s far too early to be letting his guard down, the longer he goes without becoming a sticky mess under the heel of a boot, the more his nerves relax the strangle-hold they have on his heart.

Outside, the city grows steadily darker and with the absence of sunlight, a chill seeps its way through the broken window.

Drawing up his knees and hugging them to his chest, the boy falls victim to an involuntary shudder.

“Cold?”

The suddenness of the giant’s voice reverberating overhead causes him to jump and snatch his gaze up from where it had wandered down to his shoeless feet. On impulse, he blurts out a stubborn, “No,” and clenches his jaw shut again to stop it from quaking.

Strife raises an eyebrow and though his skepticism is hidden under a helm, it manages to saturate his voice. “Uh huh. I can see you shivering, kid.” Slowly, his fingers creep a few centimetres closer to the boy.

“I told you, I’m not a kid,” his handful mutters, “I’m nearly eleven.”

A snort of laughter bursts out of Strife before he can catch it, earning himself an icy glare. “Now, I’m no expert,” he chuckles, bouncing his hand slightly, much to his passenger’s horror, “But I’d’ve said eleven was well in the range of what a ‘kid’ oughtta be.”

“Kids can’t take care of themselves,” the boy explains, agitated, “I can.”

Strife draws his head back in mock surprise. “Oh hoh! Can you now? S'that why I found you seconds away from becoming a demon’s snack?”

Huffing, the boy averts his gaze from the dazzling yellow eyes overhead and mumbles, “I’d have been fine.”

“Whatever you say, half-pint.” The corners of Strife’s lips tilt up as he inspects the boy’s grumpy pout. “You know, you’re pretty feisty for such a little guy. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to go picking fights with demons a hundred times your size?”

Despite his far larger stature, the horseman can pinpoint the exact moment he’d said the wrong thing. The word 'parents’ has barely slipped off his tongue before the boy’s eyes suddenly clamp shut and his back goes rigid against Strife’s fingers. Understanding dawns at once and the horseman’s eyes lose some of that preternatural glow as he exhales softly through his nose. “Oh….Your folks’re not in the picture anymore, huh?”

Face now pressed into his knees, the boy shakes his head.

“Was it a demon?”

This time, Strife receives a slow nod, confirming his suspicions.

Blowing out a puff of hot air, he scratches at his neck and offers, “Damn. I’m…. sorry, kid.”

What else could he possibly say?

“…Hamish.”

Strife blinks, lifting the youngling closer to his eyes and peering down at him. “What’d you say?” he murmurs, giving the boy a gentle nudge with his thumb in the hopes of coaxing the words out again.

Luckily, he’s rewarded when his passenger finally looks up at him with a pair of drooping, brown eyes, their edges tinged red. “My name,” he tries, louder this time, “It’s not kid. It’s Hamish.”

The metal mask does little to conceal its wearer’s pleased grin.

“Hamish, huh?” He decides not to make a fuss about the tears rolling down the kid’s cheeks. “S'good to meet you. Name’s Strife.”

Confusion sweeps across Hamish’s features and he carefully extracts himself from his knees, scrubbing away the fresh teardrops. “Strife?” He hesitates for a moment to scrunch up his nose even further, and the horseman can’t help but notice that when he does, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Yarin after the humans tried explaining the concept of a computer to him. Strife’s grin widens of its own accord at the fond memory whilst its wearer waits patiently for Hamish to finish scrutinising him.

Eventually, the boy appears to come to some sort of conclusion as he huffs and rubs tiredly at one of his eyes, though Strife suspects it has more to do with not wanting to meet the horseman’s gaze when he says matter-of-factly, “That’s a weird name.”

Glad that his little acquaintance has at least stopped crying, Strife feigns offence. “It’s a Nephilim name,” he explains, “and - for the record - how do you know I don’t think Hamish is a weird name?”

The boy gulps, apparently mistaking the giant’s playful banter for real displeasure, after all, he had just insulted an unstoppable behemoth’s name. Eager to move the conversation along, he stammers out, “U-Uh, what’s a…a nephilim?”

The horseman, making note of Hamish’s renewed trembling, softens his tone. “A Nephilim is…It’s, uh…” Something stops him mid-sentence. Is he really about to tell this kid about the Nephilim? A brutal race of bloodthirsty, world-conquering titans? Of which Strife himself was a member? The horseman clamps his mouth shut. What if explaining who the Nephilim were prompts Hamish to start asking questions? Creator forbid the boy discover that the man holding him in his palm was one of four responsible for the total eradication of their own species.

With a hard blink, Strife focuses back on Hamish and notices the boy’s eyes are nervously darting all over his mask. The suffocating spell of silence had lasted longer than the horseman intended. Thinking quickly, he stumbles over an answer that he hopes will satisfy the boy. “It’s…Well, s'just what I am.”

Perhaps it’s only because Hamish has spent his entire life keeping his existence a secret, but the giant’s vague response doesn’t bother him half as much as it ought to. He gets it. The man probably doesn’t want anyone knowing about his existence. Hamish finds the feeling is mutual.

So, instead of calling Strife out on his blatant avoidance, the boy simply offers him a nod and says, “I knew you weren’t human.”

“Ha, only when I need to be,” the horseman chimes secretively, and before Hamish can ponder what he means by that, he’s unexpectedly bounced up into the air, letting out a startled yelp before he lands in the centre of the giant palm again.

“Anyway,” Strife begins, shooting a cursory glance out the window and wincing upon finding it utterly obscured by the ink of night, “There’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other once I get you to safety.”

Hamish’s fingers twitch against the tough gauntlet, a trickling cold slipping into his stomach. “Wait, what?”

“Well, today’s your lucky day, kid!” Strife puffs out his chest and jabs it with a thumb, proudly declaring, “I am gonna take you someplace safe.” Pausing for a moment to let that sink in, he watches the boy’s eyes grow wide, feeling a sense of accomplishment at seeing what he imagines can only be excitement, so he carries on, “It’s warm, away from demons, there’s lots of humans and enough food to last you a lifetime.” He stresses his point by poking Hamish’s belly with a careful fingertip. “By the looks of things, you could use a good meal. So, what do you say? How’s that sound?”

The boy remains silent for several seconds as he processes what he’s being told.

Then, to the horseman’s shock, rather than elation or relief, he’s met with a face full of horror and before he can ask what’s wrong, the boy leaps unsteadily to his feet and bellows, “NO!” at the top of his lungs.

Taken aback, Strife snaps his other hand up to close Hamish in a loose fist when it looks as though he’s about to jump off the horseman’s palm. “Hey! Easy there! What’s the matter?”

Hamish begins pounding ardently on the fingers holding him hostage, kicking his legs to no avail. This hulking stranger wants to take him away from his family home – the place he’s lived and loved and known his whole life - and dump him with a bunch of humans? Not a chance. “Let me go!” he cries, terrified at the prospect of being uprooted, “I’m not going with you!”

Baffled, the horseman tips his head to one side and frowns at the ferocity behind each blow on his metal gauntlet. “Stop that, you’re gonna hurt yourself!” He reaches up and catches one of the boy’s arms, holding it gingerly between two fingers. “Why don’t you want to come with me?”

“Because! This is – It’s my home!” Hamish all but sobs, pushing furiously at Strife’s metal thumb.

“Kid, this is gonna be your tomb if you stay here much longer,” the horseman tries to reason, “I mean, look at you, if a demon doesn’t get you, something else will. You’re skin and bone.”

“I’d rather take my chances out here than be surrounded by humans!” Hamish gives a final heave before collapsing over the enormous thumb, with one arm still held above his head, caught in a firm but gentle grip.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Strife almost laughs aloud at the thought of the humans at the tree hurting anyone. Three of them had actually cried after they discovered a dead bird outside the entrance. But even still, he has to put the boy’s mind at ease. At last relinquishing his hold on the skeletal arm, he sighs, “Listen, kid. Nobody’ll hurt you, okay? They’re good people. Besides – no offence – but I think they’ve got more important things to focus on than antagonising you.”

Unfortunately, Hamish either isn’t listening, or he just doesn’t care.

Glancing up at the giant, fresh tears streaming in a never-ending torrent down his face, he puts on the bravest voice he can muster and yells, “I’m staying here!”

“No, you’re coming with me.”

“No, I’m not! You can’t make me!”

Golden eyes flash brightly at the challenge. “Oh, you don’t think so?” Strife smirks, and without warning, begins to lower Hamish towards one of the pouches on his belt.

As soon as he spots where he’s headed, the boy’s struggling becomes increasingly wild. “No, no, no!”

“Sorry, kid,” the horseman murmurs, steeling his heart against the frightened wailing, “M'not leaving you here.” Using his free hand, Strife fumbles with the pouch’s leather strap and is just about to get it open when Hamish suddenly cries out, “Wait, wait! Just – I’ll go with you, okay? Just stop!”

The horseman pauses, considering the boy for a moment before lifting him back up to his helm. “What’s up? You claustrophobic or something?”

Little fingers dig imploringly into the gaps of Strife’s gauntlet as Hamish shakes his head. “No, I – I just…If you have to take me, then….at least let me get my things first.”

“Your things?” he echoes, squinting down at the kid and noting, with some semblance of relief, that he’s no longer putting up a fight. “Where are they?”

Shrinking underneath the giant’s dazzling stare, Hamish swallows noisily but manages to raise a shaking finger and points it over his shoulder. “In the walls.”

Puzzled, Strife glances to where he’s indicating. “You….lived in the walls?” He sees Hamish nod from the corner of his eye.

“There’s an, um…like a little crack in the skirting board, over there.”

Once again, the horseman follows a tiny finger as it points down to the bottom of the wall, where there is indeed a hole, just large enough to grant entry to a mouse, or perhaps someone else who stands just a few inches off the ground.

For several seconds, Strife deliberates the situation, his gaze flicking between the dark window, the hole and Hamish until eventually, he blows out a huff and shakes his head, turning back towards the doorway and lowering the boy to his hip once again. “Sorry, kid, but whatever it is, it can’t be that -”

“There’s something in there that belonged to mum and dad!”

Strife’s steps falter and he squeezes his eyes shut with a sigh.

Sensing his captor’s hesitation, Hamish prods, “Please? I don’t want to leave without it! It’s all I have left of my family…”

Family. The word plucks insistently at Strife’s heartstrings and he briefly laments the younger, colder version of himself that wouldn’t have flinched if he’d heard it. For some time, the horseman wrestles with himself, teeth grinding together until at last, he lets out a groan and stomps over to the hole in the wall. “Alright, fine.” Pausing to lift the boy up to his mask again, he levels a stern glare at him and adds, “But you gotta be in and out of there in one minute, okay?”

Hamish’s face brightens and he squirms restlessly as Strife lowers himself onto one knee and places his hand on the ground.. “O-okay, mister!”

Barely even waiting for the appendage to stop moving, Hamish all but dives off as soon as the fingers uncurl themselves, landing on the ground and haring for the wall, but before he can get too far, he finds himself jerked to a halt when the waistband of his trousers is pinched between two, enormous fingertips. Craning his head back, he stares anxiously at the horseman, flinching when a gruff voice booms, “I mean it, kid. In and out.”

“I-I got it!” Hamish replies hurriedly, desperate to put some distance between himself and the metal giant.

After giving him one last, calculating look, Strife finally relents, letting the boy go and leaning back to watch him scurry into the wall as fast as his little legs can carry him. Snorting softly, the horseman eases back onto his haunches, content for the time being to wait for his discovery to reemerge. “And here I thought I’d seen everything,” he muses.

——-

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Strife, a similar thought is occurring to Hamish as he races through the intricate maze of tunnels his ancestors had dug out of the house’s stone foundations. Spiderwebs threaten to catch the boy’s flimsy shirt and hold him back, but a lifetime of memorising every twisting, dust-choked tunnel meant that Hamish could navigate his way through each obstacle without even having to slow down. In almost no time, he’s scaled up the wall’s interior and burst through the tiny, wooden door that leads to his family home.

Slightly winded, Hamish takes a moment to collect himself, peering about at the candlelit kitchen and trying to decide where best to hide because he has no intention of going back to the clutches of that giant. To do so would be in complete violation of everything his family had ever taught him, and if he could do nothing else, at least Hamish could carry their lessons with him. Perhaps his mother would even be proud of him for tricking the giant into letting him go free, had she still been alive. Pressing his lips together, Hamish slumps heavily against the doorframe and exhales roughly through his nose, determined not to cry again.

All of a sudden, his whole world shudders as a thunderous boom hits the wall beside him, threatening to knock him off his feet. Crying out, Hamish drops instinctively to his knees whilst two more booms follow the first, one after the other, rocking the entire foundations of his home and raining dust down into his already grubby hair. Fear of being crushed by falling debris compels him to move, so he crawls across the still shivering room, every now and again having to doge pots and pans that are flung from their hooks on the ceiling until he gets close enough to the kitchen table to throw himself underneath it.

Then, as soon as they’d begun, the booms stop and everything grows silent, save for the clinking of a cup that rolls across the ground before coming to a stop just beside Hamish’s hiding spot.

“Hey, kid! You get the stuff yet?” Strife’s muffled voice calls from outside.

To his irritation, the horseman sounds entirely oblivious to the abject terror he’d just put him through – is still putting him through. Unaware that he’s balled his hands into fists, Hamish aims a harsh scowl at the wall, behind which the voice had come from and, in as brave a tone as he can summon, yells, “GO AWAY!”

There’s a pregnant pause, a heavy stillness that hangs in the air like a lead weight over his head and Hamish is just beginning to wonder if Strife had actually obliged him, when the horseman’s voice cuts through the brick again, considerably softer this time. “You know I can’t do that, little man.”

The boy scoffs aloud. “Yes, you can,” he retorts, “You just have to turn around and leave.”

“Hamish.” The pointed use of his name isn’t lost on the boy. “I am trying to look after you. Now would you come back out here so I can actually do that?”

The voice sounds closer now, as though Strife is speaking directly next to the wall outside his hiding spot and Hamish realises too late what a stupid move it had been to shout and give away his position. So, with lips pursed and arms crossed, he offers the horseman a stubborn silence. A full minute passes before he hears a low sigh from the other side of the wall.

He expects Strife to continue banging on the wall until the sound becomes so annoying, it drives him out. He expects the horseman to at least pretend to leave, then snatch him up again the second he steps from the mouse hole. What Hamish doesn’t expect, however, is for the wall of his kitchen to suddenly explode inwards.

A cacophony of sound beats on his eardrums and in a desperate bid to avoid being deafened, Hamish throws his arms over his head and presses himself into the floor, his scream swallowed by chunks of plaster and brick showering down all around him. When the dust settles, he still doesn’t move, not even when silence is all he can hear aside from the blood pounding through his eardrum.

Then, movement. Not from Hamish, but from the gaping hole that has appeared in the brick and cement, exposing his kitchen – his home – to the world outside. Choking on the fear that weighs down on him as surely as the ceiling above, Hamish raises his head and peeks out between trembling arms to see a colossal fist slowly dislodge itself from the tight confines of his kitchen wall, fragments of which tumble down around it, plinking off metallic plating and leaving a coat of dust in their wake. With a final tug, the fist breaks free, retreating enough so that what little light is left can spill through the gap and illuminate the hovel. As Hamish watches, too rigid with anxiety to move his limbs, a familiar pair of luminous, yellow eyes loom out of the dust and peer inside, swiftly finding him cowered underneath the kitchen table. Their gazes lock and they stare at one another, the boy’s eyes widening as a direct contrast to Strife’s, which narrow at the sight of him.

“You know, I don’t appreciate being lied to,” the horseman grumbles before adding curtly, “I thought we had a deal?”

Pinned helplessly beneath that glare, Hamish attempts to shuffle backwards further under the table, though his limbs have locked up and refuse to cooperate with his intentions. However, his mouth hasn’t suffered the same petrification. “I-I don’t make deals with giants!” The words tumble out before he can catch them. “I’m not going, so just!- Just leave me alone!” As he speaks, he continues to shimmy away until he emerges from beneath the table, all the while his every move is followed intently by an unwavering, yellow gaze.

An entrance to one of the many tunnels his family had built into the walls is just to Hamish’s left – shrouded in darkness and invitingly safe. If he could just reach it, he’d be able to disappear into the brickwork.

Taking a fairly solid guess on the boy’s next course of action, Strife growls out a warning steeped in thinly veiled concern. “Come on, kid. Don’t make me do this.”

With the deliberate slowness of one who doesn’t wish to provoke a predator, Hamish gets to his feet and in utter silence, they stare each other down, one defiant and the other dejected.

Then, the horseman eyes squeeze shut just for the briefest of instances, as if in pain.

It’s all the opening Hamish needs.

Like a rabbit with a fox at his heels, he bolts sideways in a mad dash for the tunnel entrance, his mind fixated on one thing only: Escape.

Although he’d always been the youngest family member, he could boast an impressive swiftness, outpacing even his mother and father as they raced through the apartment in playful capers.

His father had once said that Hamish’s speed would keep him safe.

His father was wrong.

The enclosed doorframe comes within reach and another round of adrenaline fizzes across his brain at the the tantalising prospect of freedom, so close it puts a hopeful smile on his face. He would not be made to leave his home. Fingers grasp the wooden edge of the door and Hamish readies to propel himself those last, precious few feet through the gap. He’s so focused on where he’s going, he doesn’t notice the rush air that whizzes past him, nor that it’s soon followed by a large, ominous shape sliding past his body in the darkness and curling into his path. However, he does notice when he slams against a solid wall of metal and leather - a wall that begins to gently scoop him backwards, away from the door, away from the safety of the apartment’s labyrinthian tunnels and straight towards a home-wrecking giant.

“No!” he shrieks like a banshee as strong fingers fasten around his midsection, ensuring him that this time, there will be no escape. The horseman will not be duped again. All too soon, Hamish finds himself dangling back in front of that avian mask and shying away from the palpable disappointment radiating from beneath it.

“Okay,” the low, unimpressed voice chimes, “I can tell there’re gonna be some trust issues between us.” Before continuing, Strife holds an admonishing finger up right in front of the boy’s face. “But you need to understand that you can’t just run off like that, kid! What if you’d gotten hurt?”

Reflecting on what he’d said, the horseman has to suppress a shudder. ’Shit, I’m starting to sound like Death.’

“What do you care if I get hurt!?” the boy challenges, “You’re the one who’s kidnapping me!”

Bridling at the accusation, Strife sets his jaw and snaps, “You got duskwings in your belfry, kid? I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need you protecting me! I was doing just fine on my own!” Hamish bellows, balling his hands into fists and throwing them wildly in the direction of Strife’s mask, more as a show of defiance than anything else. He’s borderline hysterical now, barely sucking down enough air to keep himself conscious during the throes of panic.

Meanwhile, the horseman watches his display, taking in the boy’s skinny frame, the shorts that barely cling to his narrow hips, the dark bags hanging under his eyes and the grime covering his skin and clothes. “No,” he says with an air of finality, “You weren’t.”

There’s no further opportunity for Hamish to retort because he’s promptly swept in a downwards arch towards the horseman’s pouches once again. No amount of pleading, thrashing or crying garners a reaction out of the stone-faced giant who has turned a deaf ear to his tiny captive. Only when he lifts the flap of his frontmost pocket and lowers Hamish inside does he speak, simply to say, “This is for your own good.”

The boy’s backside touches something soft and fuzzy and he balks, inadvertently grasping at the fingers that unfurl from around him, as though they would pull him out of the very prison they’d slipped him into. The last thing he sees before his world is plunged into darkness is a now familiar pair of amber eyes gleaming down at him and pulling a whimper off his lips.

—

Strife expels a hot breath as he fastens the clasp on his pouch and finally allows himself an indulgent second to relax. Then, giving the bottom of the pouch a few, gentle pats, he turns once more towards the pitch black hallway, smirking when a minuscule foot kicks against his palm.

#darksiders #darksiders 3 #Strife #giant/tiny #g/t #angst #demon #borrower au #micro/macro #fluff #uiahi

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rocksandrobots · 5 years ago

Text

Of Rocks and Robots Ch. 1 - The Arrival

“Soon, Dad.”

The hoarse, raspy voice broke the eerie silence that permeated the dark chamber, and Varian startled to hear himself speak. It was the first time he had spoken out loud in days and his own voice sounded weird and unnatural to him, caked with emotion.

The young boy glanced around the ruins of where he stood, shivering from more than just the morning chill as his eyes swept past broken timbers, rubble, and cobwebs. He could see through a hole in one wall out to the abandoned farmland and deserted huts that made up the village he had once called home, and no matter where he turned black pointy rocks of all sizes punctured the ground. A grim reminder of what had lead to such desolation.

Finally his gaze settled back to the object that he had first spoken to. A towering stalagmite made from amber stood before him. Enclosed within the golden resin was the figure of a man; standing tall, right arm reaching upwards, clasping what looked to be a note, and his face frozen; eyes closed in, what Varian thought was, pain. He stretched out his own hand to touch that face, but as so many times before, it only came to rest on the cold, unyielding, translucent stone.

Varian blinked back tears as he gazed up at his father, memories flooding his mind. Painful memories; the day of the accident, fighting his way through a snowstorm, the castle door slamming in his face, the endless weeks of isolation and failed experiments, the rage he felt while battling both his inner demons and the uncaring kingdom that abandoned him, the cold emptiness while lying on the dungeon floor, and most recently, the prison break that brought him back to where he began.

For upon acquiring his freedom, and being appointed the new Royal Adviser by the leader of the Saporians, the architects of his escape, Varian hit upon the idea of raiding the castle’s innermost vault. The precious treasure that it once held was no longer there, having been stolen by Varian himself, but the room still stored vast amounts of books and scrolls containing knowledge of sages past. Most importantly the notes of the famed alchemist Demanitus.

Varian had studied Demanitus work before, reverse engineering the ancient scientist’s deadly and near indestructible automatons for his own nefarious purposes. Those proved to be less than sufficient in the end and he hoped his newest discovery would be more successful.

His reminiscing was broken by a second sound, a small chittering noise coming from his work desk in the corner of the room. Distracted, he looked towards the creature that made it. Sitting back on his hind-legs on top of the desk was a rotund raccoon who looked expectantly at him. Varian gave his pet a warm but weary smile.

“Hello, Ruddiger.” he said softly, his voice still sounding rough to his ears due to its lack of use. He walked over the tamed raccoon and gave it an affectionate scratch behind the ears who nuzzled his hand in response. He then turned his attention to the assemblage of wires, gears, and levers that he had cobbled together over the last three days.

The machine stood on a tripod of metal legs next to the desk and vaguely looked like a drill. Only the “drill” part was a smooth metal cone with a glass orb attached to the tip and two antenna stuck out from either end at the back. Its intended use was to originally create portals to other worlds, according to the blueprints he had found amongst the old alchemist’s writings. Varian hoped that with his added adjustments he could configure the portal into a short range teleportation device. The amber that held his father was unbreakable. No amount of force could shatter the structure, but a portal could theoretically bypass the resin and allow his father out.

Varian took a steadying breath and tried to push out any expectations he held in his mind. He’d known the sting of disappointment far too many times to get his hopes up now. All he could do was try and see what would happen.

He gathered up his notebook, stuffed Demanitus’s papers and blueprints in between its pages, and having tied the cord around to hold it altogether, placed the journal inside his inner coat pocket. So should anything go wrong, like say a fire from an explosion, then the notes would already be on his person and kept safe so long that he was. He also scooped up his loyal companion and placed the raccoon upon his shoulders for similar reasons.

“Ready, Ruddiger?” he asked his pet, “‘Cause here we go.” He walked behind the machine, twisted some dials, and with the pull of a lever turned the device on.

------------------------

“Nothing can stop me now! Bwahahaha!”

Maniacal laughter emitted from the small man standing on top of the building. He was short in stature with light pink hair and was wearing a tacky purple suit. In his hand he held a simple remote and beside him stood a large metal ring held up by a framework of support beams attached to a steel platform.

A young Hiro Hamada stared at the machine transfixed; unpleasant memories flashing through his mind; the heat of the fire, his brother’s funeral, the lonely days spent in the room they once shared, the blinding hate he felt when facing the masked attacker that murdered his brother, and the cold emptiness of the void enveloping him as he entered a machine not dissimilar from the one standing before him now.

He was snapped out of his reprieve by a voice coming through the intercom in his helmet.

“How did Mr. Sparkles get ahold of Keri’s portal tech? I thought it was all destroyed.” Hiro’s friend Wasabi asked.

“It must be an old prototype; one that was abandoned in favor of the actual portals we faced later on.” Hiro replied back through the intercom to the rest of his friends.

After his brother‘s, Tadashi’s, death, Hiro and his friends had formed a superhero team to stop his murderer, using technology that they developed along with a robot Tadashi had built himself called Baymax. Even after having defeated the villain called Yokai, and his dangerous portals, they continued on thwarting other evil schemes pursued by other bad guys. One such villain, the aforementioned Mr. Sparkles, had apparently stolen the older tech and had set up shop with it in the middle of downtown San Fansokyo. Though to what ends was anybody’s guess.

“And if it was abandoned,” Hiro continued on, "then it’s probably even less stable than those were, so we have to make sure he doesn’t turn it on. Otherwise there’s no telling what it may do.”

He signaled for the team to move in and surround the villain but it was too late. With a gleam in his eye Mr. Sparkles pressed the button on the remote and the portal roared to life.

------------------------

Varian was having difficulty holding onto the machine. The portal that had appeared before him hung in the air sucking everything into it. Like a flaming circle, it shifted and writhed with green energy licking the sides and a crackling static could barely be heard over the wind whipping past his ears.

“Hold on, Ruddiger!” He yelled to the raccoon perched upon his shoulders. But no sooner did the words leave his mouth did the wind pickup speed and Varian found himself lifted from the ground and hurling towards the portal itself.

------------------------

Something was clearly wrong. The portal that Mr. Sparkles had switched on was bathed in a glowing green energy, that eerily looked like lightning, and a staticky sound could be heard coming from it.

“Look out it’s going to blow!” Yelled Fred, and “blow” it did. An explosion erupted from the machine knocking everyone back and sending rubble and debris down to the street below.

Everyone lay prone on the ground surrounded by twisted metal, concrete, and smoke. A large chunk of the roof of the building over head was blown away and nothing remained of the portal except for scrap.

Hiro recovered from the blast, hoisted himself up on his elbows, and scanned the destruction around him. He couldn’t see any sign of Mr. Sparkles but he did see his various friends also slowly sitting up.

“Everyone OK? Sound off.” Hiro asked.

“I’m Ok.” that was Gogo.

“I’m alright too” said Honey Lemon.

“Same here” replied Wasabi.

“I am also undamaged” came Baymax’s voice from behind him.

“That’s good… wait where’s Fred?”

As if in response to this query Hiro heard a scream come from across the way and Fred came running towards them.

“It’s an alien!” He yelled. He rushed over to grab Wasabi and began to excitingly describe the creature that he had seen. “Bugged eyed, dripping fangs, red claws, and it was missing a nose I think.”

“Fred, there is no such things as aliens.” Wasabi told him exasperatedly.

“Not unless it came through an inter-dimensional portal.” Fred retorted, "Gasp! There it is!”

Through the smoke they could make out the shape of something. It looked humanoid, bipedal, and with comically large eyes if the silhouette was to be believed.

They heard a voice call out from the smoke. "Ruddiger? Ruddiger?!"

Fred broke away from the rest of the group and slowly walked to meet the thing.

“We. Mean. You. No. Harm. We. Come. In. Peace.” He paused and held his hands up and out to signify he didn’t want to fight. “Do. You. Speak. English?”

“I speak a lot of languages” Was the annoyed reply.

The wind blew the smoke away getting a clear view of the “creature”. It was no alien but in fact a person. The bug eyes being a pair goggles, the red claws merely gloves, and the dripping fangs nothing more than a quirky design on a bandanna that obscured their face.

The person stepped forward and removed the bandanna and goggles revealing a boy underneath. He couldn’t have been much older than Hiro himself. He had thick black hair, with a blue streak in his bangs and large piercing blue eyes to match. He was dressed oddly. In addition to the goggles and bandanna, he wore a pair of baggy pants, a waistcoat, and a frock coat over that. His gloves had dials on the wrists and his boots had buttons rather than shoelaces. Around his waist was strapped various belts and from them hung multi-colored orbs that didn’t look dissimilar to Honey Lemon’s chimballs. He was covered in dust and dirt from the explosion and a black sooty smear streaked across the bottom half of his face.

The boy squinted his eyes in distrust and moved to unclip one of the balls hanging from his belt. He held it out in front of him and readjusted his stance to a defensive one.

“Where am I and who are you?” He asked. There was an edge to his voice and his eyes darted back and forth between the group and the cityscape behind them. It was clear he was lost and scared and putting up a brave front to try and hide it.

Hiro stepped forward to try and deescalate the situation, but no sooner did he move then sirens were heard in the distance. Cop cars came barreling down the road towards them, lights flashing. They quickly pulled to a stop in front of the heroes. The boy, startled by this new development, turned to face the noise. He threw the ball in his hand to the ground and from it poured a purple fog of smoke.

Using the fog as a cover Hiro signaled to his team to disperse. He hopped onto Baymax’s back and the robot turned on his jet pack. Still floating in the air, the robot then picked up Wasabi while Honey Lemon and Gogo skated away. Hiro nodded to Fred to grab the boy. He saluted his acknowledgement to Hiro and scooped the stranger up in his arms, bounding away before the smoke could clear.

------------------------

Chief Officer Cruz peered out through the purple fog to the debris filled street but no sign of anyone, hero nor villain alike, could be seen. He ordered his men to shine a light onto the scene of the crime and to search the area for the offending miscreants who caused the destruction. All that was found was a single raccoon. It picked up a piece of the debris in its mouth and then scampered away into a back alley. Cruz sighed in frustration and told his officers to pack it up for the night after sectioning off the road.

------------------------

“Oh, now that’s….that’s high up.” Varian gulped as he looked down from the dizzying height at the top of the building where the “monster” had deposited him. He had never considered himself afraid of heights before but the building was as tall as a small mountain and the days events, including the stomach lurching ride to the top, was getting to him.

“Oh don’t I know it. Just don’t look down. It makes things easier.” A not unkind voice told him. He turned to see who was addressing him and was faced with six armored figures standing before him. They were various heights and builds and each wore a set of armor that was uniquely modeled and highlighted with its own different color. One such suit was even crafted to look like a three eyed monster and Varian recognized it as the creature that he had first met; the one that had carted him away to way up here when the strange vehicles with flashing lights had arrived. They vaguely reminded Varian of the knights from storybooks he use to read as a kid. All decked out in shining metal and off to battle dragons and rescue damsels in distress. But life wasn’t like a storybook and Varian didn’t trust easily.

“Who are you?” He asked suspiciously.

The one dressed as a monster stood tall, flexed his arms, and proudly proclaimed “We’re Big Hero Six!”

He then paused for dramatic effect, clearly waiting for Varian to respond with either praise or recognition. But Varian could only stare blankly at him, confused as ever. Most of the other knights shook their heads in exasperation, and after a moment or two of awkward silence, the smallest knight stepped forward, patted the “monster” on the back encouragingly, and then removed his helmet. It was a small boy not much younger than Varian himself. He had a shock of messy black hair and large almond brown eyes. He smiled kindly at Varian and then introduced himself.

“I’m Hiro and these are my friends” He turned to gesture at each knight as he rattled off their names. “This is Baymax”

“Hello” The tallest and largest of the knights said in a lilted voice. He brought his hand up and proceeded to stiffly move it in a small circular motion. Varian repeated the wave, assuming it was a customary form of greeting.

“Gogo”

Gogo, as she was called, responded by chewing on some pink candy, that looked to be like taffy, blew it into a bubble form, popped the bubble with her mouth before saying, “Hi”, and then proceeded to chew on the confectionery once more. She was the second shortest of the knights and stood on large yellow disks while having two more of those same disks attached to her wrists.

“You’ve met Fred”

Fred was the aforementioned monster suited knight. He flipped back the helmet of his armor revealing a blonde haired young man probably only a year or two older than Varian himself. “Hey!” he enthusiastically said before returning the helmet back to its proper position.

“This is Honey Lemon”

Honey Lemon was a tall woman dressed in pink armor and she carried a pink purse that had attached to its strap small multi-colored balls that reminded Varian of the alchemy balls he wore currently around his own waist. She was all smiles and had long red hair that peaked out from underneath her pink helmet and visor.

“Please to meet you” she said in a light and airy voice.

“And Wasabi”

“How ya doing?” asked last of the knights and Varian recognized his voice as the one that had given him the advice about not looking down. He was decked out in green armor and had broad shoulders. While not as large as the knight called Baymax, who was like a small giant, Wasabi was clearly a tall buff guy who looked to be able to hold his own in a brawl.

Varian just stood for a few moments looking at the band of warriors, processing everything. They in turn stared expectantly at him and that is when he remembered his manners.

“I’m Varian.” He said and with introductions seemingly out of the way continued on with his line of questioning. “So where am I?”

“You’re in San Fransokyo” The smallest knight said, Hiro, wasn’t it?

“Where’s that?”

The younger boy seemed to be surprised by that question. “In .. America?” he hesitantly offered up.

“The Americas!?” Varian exploded back. “No! noooo, no, no, no, no. I overshot! How am I supposed to get back to my dad now?” He began to pace back and forth agitated. Unbeknownst to him, as he ranted, the knights shared a couple of confused looks among themselves.

“Overshot?” asked the green knight.

“Yes, I was working on a short range teleportation device when it must have malfunctioned and deposited me here on the other side of the ocean.” Varian explained irritated.

“Well, maybe we can help?” Hiro continued, “Where are you from?”

“Corona”

More confused stares.

“And where’s that?”

“Europe” Varian said less assuredly.

“I have researched my databases for, Corona, and have not found any matches” the tallest knight said. His voice was clipped and unnatural sounding to Varian’s ears and he was growing ever increasingly more uneasy with the weird situation he found himself in.

The boy, Hiro, cradled his chin in thought for a moment and then responded.

“I think you may be a little farther from home then just across the ocean.” He said slowly, carefully, trying not to upset the alchemist. “I think you may have crossed a dimensional barrier.”

Varian turned away from them upon hearing this and looked out across the cityscape displayed before him as the enormity of what the other boy said begin to weigh upon Varian’s mind. As far as the eye could see there were tall spires and metal towers, all taller than the tallest castle rooftop and flashing with a multitude of lights. Large decorative balloons that looked like giant lanterns hung in place over the rooftops and off in the distance there looked to be large bridge, also lit up against the starless night sky. Strange sounds filtered up from the streets below and into Varian’s ears reminding him just how far from home he was.

“What am I going to do?” He heart-brokenly whispered. Varian had known despair before, but looking out upon that sea of metal and glass he had never felt more lost and defeated.

“Well,” the young knight continued, "we were stopping a thief from getting away with a prototype portal device. He turned it on and it must have connected with your teleportation device, bringing you here. Unfortunately it overloaded, there’s nothing left. But if you’re capable of rebuilding your first device, then we might can get you the supplies to do so, and I could talk to the owner of the original portal to see if he has any plans or blueprints left that you could work off of.”

Varian thought this plan over and against his better judgment began to have a sliver of hope again. He still had Demantius’s plans and his own personal notes tucked away inside his breast pocket and this world seemed to be highly advanced. Surely there was something, some technological wonder, that might help. At the very least it couldn’t hurt to try.

“Alright” Varian agreed.

“Great! Now the best way to get you some supplies would be from our school, SFIT, but Professor Granville won’t be back from spring break until Monday. So we gotta find a place for you to stay until then.”

“What about our headquarters?”

“Naw, Roddy is redoing the plumbing remember? It won’t be ready for a week. Which means no cool superhero hangout for a whole week!”

“Well don’t look at us. Honey Lemon and I are cramped up in our studio apartment as is.”

“Well I can’t take him home. What would Aunt Cass say if she caught me sneaking a stranger into the house at two in the morning? Wasabi, didn’t your roommate graduate this semester?”

“Yeah, and he took his bed with him when he moved out of the dorm. What about you Mr. I-live-in-a-literal-mansion?”

“I told you, my parents require a three-year background check for overnight guests. He’s from another world. He has no records.”

Varian listened in on this exchange, lost as to what everyone talking about. Headquarters, schools, mansions, roommates; he had no frame of reference for anything all he knew was that they were struggling to find him a place to stay.

“It’s ok. I can sleep outside,” Varian interjected helpfully, not wanting to be a burden and not wanting to cause any arguments.

“What? No!” They all said at once, horrified, their debate coming to an abrupt end. Varian was taken aback by the ferocity with which they had turned his idea down and began to wonder what he could have possibly said that so offended them.

“Dude, we’re not letting you sleep outside!” the green knight, Wasabi said, aghast that he would ever suggest such a thing. Varian just stared blankly at him, confused as to why that seemed so awful. Wasabi sighed in exasperation and then took a deep breath as if coming to a decision and then continued. “Look you are more than welcome to stay the night at my place, as long as you don’t mind sleeping on the sofa that is.”

Varian didn’t mind at all. In fact a sofa sounded quite comfortable compared to the cold hard ground or the wooden cot of the jail cell that he had been used to for the past year or so. Though he left this last part unsaid.

“Great, so now that’s settled …,” the boy Hiro started to walk up to the tall knight called Baymax. He hopped up on the others back and the two wings on the side of his amour ignited with flame and propelled both of them upwards. “We can meet up for breakfast at the Lucky Cat tomorrow and in the meantime I’ll gather up everything I can on the portals.”

“Whoa!” Varian stared up at the flying armored figures in breathless awe as they soared away. His attention was diverted when the pink knight, Honey Lemon, walked forward. She pressed some buttons on the side of her purse and out popped a purple ball into the palm of her hand. It looked just like the one Varian had held earlier, only he assumed it did something different. She stopped beside him next to the edge of the rooftop, turned to give him a big smile, and then threw the ball down to the ground below. From the ball sprung a crystallized substance that created what looked like a blue slide from the top of rooftop to the ground below.

“Acetic acid?” Varian questioned, happy to show off his knowledge. Honey Lemon nodded enthusiastically as a way of an answer and then jumped on to the slide and surfed down to the ground, whooping loudly with joy as she went. The yellow knight, Gogo, followed after her and the monster suited knight, Fred, began to bound away, leaping across the buildings in large jumps.

Varian moved to the slide himself and hopped on the same as the other two girls had done. He turned around when he noticed that the green knight, Wasabi, was still standing around. He looked questioningly at him, wondering what fantastical way he may depart.

“I’ll take the elevator, thanks.” Wasabi replied.

Varian didn’t know what an elevator was, but he didn’t want to pursue the question and be made to look the fool, so he just shrugged his shoulders and then taking a steadying breath slid down the slide himself, also whooping in nervous exhilaration as he went.

------------------------

From another rooftop across the way, Mr. Sparkles, sat watching the heroes depart. He had his hands around his eyes in mock binoculars in order to focus his attention on the newcomer that had joined them. As the boy slid down the makeshift slide and out of sight, the villain removed his hands from his face and pulled out a cellphone from his pocket. He quickly dialed a number and waited for the person on the other end to pick up.

“Hey boss, bad news about the portal you had me swipe, but before you get mad, there’s been some, shall we say, new developments that I think you might be interested in.” He chuckled in his throat after saying this. The stranger that had just arrived was going to change the game and it was bound to be an entertaining show if nothing else.

#varian #tangled #big hero 6 #hiro hamada #of rocks and robots #tangled the series #bh6 the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure

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thanidiel · 7 years ago

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SWC 23/31

Write about your character’s first home: their childhood home or their apartment or house of their own

Still, every time Thanidiel’s feet met the soft underbrush and soil of her land, an awe filled her breast in the way the gushing flow of rivers fill clay vessels. Something deeply, intimately, proud and satisfied. Something of her own. Not shared ‘tween her and the next soldier, not shoved into her hands by another quartermaster, not issued by superior.

No, this was something more permanent. This was something wrought rightfully by her own hand, that she had clawed for. A reward for decades of hard work - a century? A triumph, even. She held no memory of her parents ever living in anything beyond State-issued housing and hastily-established tents. They had never had their own land. Even a single coin of gold was a precious, precious commodity. She keenly remembered carving a boy’s face for such when she was young - so young, she had yet to bleed.

She had traded paper equivalent to more gold she had ever held in her hand for purchase of her own land, and, oh, how that had stung! She and Cayvia had counted and recounted their military recompenses for hours afterwards and carefully projected their expenditures. The morning after that, they had laughed over their anxious caution: what they had bought, they learned to be cheap due to its far distance from the cities of Quel’thalas, where the glamours of eternal spring struggled to reach. Better yet, such an expense failed to significantly dent the accounts.

It was with such guiltlessness, such fulfillment, that Thanidiel placed hand on the bark of her trees as she entered her field and her eyes came upon the first of the fruit that she had harvested from her labour.

A short enough distance where they had declared the house would be - the retired soldier had constructed horse’s stall connected to a dwelling for future hounds. Last winter, she had camped on the outskirts of the Capitol like most of the Standing Army and from the merchant caravans that sailed in from the Anchorage; she had saw catch hounds in cages with large-set jaws and short, strengthy, hinds. Stromish stock, the thick-haired Human had told her. She had vowed since to return when the Humans did and had set aside coin to buy in pair.

In the meantime - she would, and did, prepare for such an investment. For their dwelling, she had raised a simple, though spacious enough, holding of wood chopped by her own hand and processed by the nearby millworkers.

Then, as astute and clever as Thanidiel as always, she knew that such short-coated beasts would loathe the rain and chill of Southernmost Quel’Thalas compared to the amiable climate of the Highlands.

So, taking from the craftsmen and scribes she had seen at work in the Capitol, she took the sinews and cartilage and bones of a lynx picked clean of its meat, boiled it down (and then some) and used the sticky glue to adhere furs in an insulate throughout its interior. To the top of the structure, she treated wax derived from shrub leaves so that the rain would roll off than to seep. To its ground, she coated dried grasses set out prior to the wind and sun.

Similarly, the horse’s stall would gain similar treatment for she knew their rouncey, through its wiry frame and high height, was born of the warmer bloodlines of the north. Its sturdy, stockier, brethren would not bat an ear towards the chilling winds that bit these lands, but this one would grow ireful if accommodation were not properly set.

For this beast, Thanidiel had established cavity inside the walls just as an elf’s home would be treated and carefully sealed every crack and opening with wetted river clay and sand. Like before, dried plant matter bedded the cold earth underneath. The trough fixed by the salt lick, she filled well and proper some hours previous. In the storage associated with the animals’ dwellings, an assortment of seed and grass already laid. On those preparations, she was swift; Cayvia would arrive as the evening hailed with creature in tow.

With that reminder in her thoughts, the woman pushed on from her marvelment towards her own space. If but for some moments to move on. And there! And there, was a handsome home. Of course, that, she had not built with merely her own hands. That, she had made for the nearby village for.

Amazement sat thick in the base of the former soldier’s throat when she had wrote out checks for gold as though it were pocket change: for more wood to be processed and delivered to her land, for furnishings and paints, for those that would work to come and ply assistance in the construction. She had seen the way those hands greedily grasped those papers and folded them into tiny, tiny, squares. Every sliver of white, tucked into bindings, trousers, boots, and vests. She knew they would be finding time to make trip towards the closest city eventually. They would unfold and unfold and present the dirt-smeared note to sneering bankers who would carefully examine the check, neatly deduct from her account, and slap the coin into shooed away hands. She knew this from having been in their stead countless times before.

And still, amazement choked her now - to have commanded men, women, and children here and there about her property over weeks and months ‘til their project was as refined as it could be. Finished, with such alacrity. Her emotions seeped downward after that, and pleasure began to bloom below her breast, smug and lazy. Last she had spoke with her partner, in the season before, a ‘realistic’ prediction was placed. As surely as the affection pressed against the corner of Cayvia’s lips and hands, Thanidiel had declared that the land would be in an unfinished state by the other’s arrival.

A scoff pulled from her throat towards her own deception; the sound surprising to herself. The silent contentment that suffused any who had surrendered themselves to the humble ways of the Kingdom southern had draped over her wordless form for almost three days now. Now, it was momentarily broken in the retired fighter’s arrogant consideration of the other’s approaching delight.

Her hand reached out to grip the pale, golden-white, support that held roof over the small porch fixture of her new home, pulling herself forward. Her door, carved and painted beautifully by the villagewomen like the styles of the northern lands, opened easily to complete furnishings of lynx rugs from her past hunts and, there! There rested the tables and chairs, the shelves and the counter, that Windbough and Lightspear had made in exchange for swords’ training for their sons in the next summer. And over there was the clay oven she had created herself and settled beside the stone-laid fire’s place that the gold-paid workers rose. And there was the slipper tub from the Capitol. And here was the bedset from the distant city of the Dawnspire: with a frame of sturdy oak and canvas from Eastweald, a mattress stuffed of good wool from Gilneas, pillows filled with reed and duck’s feathers, and linens from Stormwind. And…! Ah, that was the last of the preparations that needed to be done. Those crates in the corner of the abode, filled with copper pot, wooden bowls, iron utensils, little pots of black ink, parchments, cherished books, bow and fletching tools - all kinds of objects conceivable to one’s needs and then some.

Those, she would settle along tables and shelves in short order. She would make it evident that this space was entirely claimed. All of this, every inch of this home from the inside of its cabin to every structure, from every bough to every tree, from every step, from every blade of grass, every breath taken on her land. All of it was her’s without any possibility of dispute.

And soon, her Cayvia would arrive and it would all be complete.

#writing #thanidiel #swc

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sian22redux · 7 years ago

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He followed me home

Title: He Followed Me Home

Pairing: Chris Evans/Reader

Rating: T for tooth rotting fluff!

Setup: Ok..so in a rash moment of weakness I bet @theycallmebecca that my beloved Cleveland Indians could best her Boston Red Sox in the latest series. Whoever won got a drabble. It was close and an awesome game but unfortunately an L for Cleveland. So here is her choice: Chris and Reader adopt a puppy and have to decide on its name: from the Patriots. Bosox or Disney. Aannd because I can never write short it’s more of a fic. Enjoy!

Summary:

The whole world gets involved when you and your new boyfriend, Chris Evans, adopt a friend for Dodger but then can’t settle on a name.

Thanks so much to @mypatronusismrpricklepants and @arizonapoppy for their awesome help.

Chapter 1: Surprise, March 2018

“He followed me home…”

As defenses for impromptu madness go, it’s a little bit predictable. You’re standing, sheepish and flustered, with an armload of wriggling, wagging tricolor fluff while your boyfriend Chris leans against the front hall closet door.

His arms are folded across his chest. His deep ocean eyes are bleary and amused at once. It is technically his Laurel Canyon home, although your socks and books and curling iron moved in two months ago. Long enough to feel a bit like they belong, but not long enough to be certain if you’ve erred.

“Oh really.” The sound of Boston twangs as one skeptical eyebrow raises.

It was just the first thing that popped into your head. Chris pauses to take in the mammoth paws, the blunt short snout and drawls, “So SuperPuppy jogs a cool tens k’s?”

“Maybe,” you squeak. It’s not easy to shuffle one’s feet while juggling a possible hot potato in canine form.

Chris laughs and shakes his head as much at the sound as the ridiculousness of it all.

On the scale of crazy spur-of-the-moment things you’ve done this falls somewhere between late night skinny dipping in his mother’s pool (scary but fun) and filling La Jolla High’s atrium with foam (fun until you all were caught).

You sincerely hope this is closer to the first.

“Y/N, you are so full of shit.”

Behind you the door is still ajar—open to the bright spring day that lies lazily golden and blue under California sun. It’s ten o’clock and only seventy degrees. Dry with just enough heat to remind you summer will be soon, just enough breeze to lift the sweet scent of Sierra Salvia blooming beside the walk.

Perfect weather for a mid-morning jog (or a mid-morning nap if one is desperately jet-lagged two days after crossing eight time zones from damp and windy London).

Chris yawns and rubs at his eyes. His hair is mussed; his t-shirt’s askew and you can tell from the creases on his cheek that he’s been crashed on the man-eating white leather couch. Probably with Dodger on his chest.

While you’ve been out burning off the prickling excitement of reunion after two weeks apart, the pair of them, inseparable since the moment Chris walked through the door, have been busy catching zzz’s.

You smile wanly at the dark smudges under those dark and ridiculously heavy lashes.

He so needs it. The press for Red Sea Diving has been brutal tacked onto Avengers 4.

“Dodger missed you while you were away,” you offer by way of explanation.

This is true, but not perhaps entirely the whole point. The pair of you had talked about the problem just the night before. How Dodger pined terribly for Chris while he was in South Africa. How you two had whispered the word ‘airport’ but still Dodger had gone crazy when he saw the latest suitcase coming out. That it might be a good idea to get him another friend; a constant pal when he has to shuttle between L.A. and Massachusetts; crashing for months at time with Chris’s sister’s kids.

At least the heavens had aligned for the latest trip. You’d dog sat and watched the house, spoiled him with lots of love, but still Dodger moped, ignored his ratty favorite blanket and had to be coaxed to eat. Change was hard for animals.

But even so, this follow through might be just a teensy bit premature.

How do you explain? You’d finished breakfast, thought it a good idea to give the two best buds space to chill and took yourself off for a longer run. Turned right instead of left along Mulholland and wound up outside Ace of Hearts with its ‘Dog of the day” sign plastered on the window. So cute, and so in need.

You’d given in, asked to see their featured rescue and wound up outside puppy’s cage, getting a hopeful shy wag and your fingers licked through the metal bars.

How could you resist? Puppy looked small and alone and so very sweet.

Isn’t this supposed to be one of the things Chris loves about you?? That you are ridiculously spontaneous while he struggles not to overthink every little thing?

“I didn’t plan it,” you admit. “It just kind of happened.” Chris’s eyebrows rise even higher.

“Y/N.”

You lick your lips nervously and try again. “I…” you start but don’t get a chance to explain because fifteen pounds of black and white and brown fluffball wriggles harder in your arms. You’re standing in runners and shades, long brown hair pulled up under a sweaty baseball cap. At your feet are two shopping bags from Village Pet and in the waistband of your jogging shorts are the rumpled adoption papers

Dodger, that pure soul of joyousness, is not helping things. He’s excitedly jumping up on his hind legs, pawing and yipping, trying to get closer to the pup. The little guy whimpers mournfully. You lift your shoulders, struggling to hold him a little higher, crooning softly to reassure. The smells and sounds are new. There’s a strange dog who is trying to say hi and a big, broad, bearded man who is leaning over to inspect him.

It’s overwhelming and a bit startling to go straight from a 2x4 metal cage to an open expanse of cool and white.

And Dodger’s idea of friendly can sometimes be a little much

“Come on pal, leave off.” Chris grabs at the red collar in tawny fur, pulls the mutt back, clamps his knees around the wriggling and whining, overly enthusiastic host. The ghost of a beginning grin on his handsome face fades quickly to a frown of concern.

Puppy is still scared. He’s shivering silently in fear, trying to hide himself underneath your chin.

You can almost hear Chris Evan’s enormous heart melting on the spot.

“Hey, it’s ok… don’t be afraid,” he says, softly, hunching his huge shoulders down to make himself a little less imposing. “Don’t mind this big, crazy lug.” A free hand that knows something about anxiety reaches out to stroke the black wavy fur, caressing it slowly, in time to slow easy breaths, resting gently against the little warm body until the shivers ease.

Chris, thrilled at his feat, smiles wide and looks up underneath your brim. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy. He’s a Bernerdoodle...” you say as if this explains everything.

“A what?” Chris is chuckling, quieter than usual so as not to startle the poof of dark wavy fur. He snickers, clutching lightly at his pec, imitating Ned Flanders nasal accent perfectly. "Homer, I can see your doodle…"

“Chris!”

You roll your eyes elaborately, thinking not for the first time that omg this man is such a kid. Yes doodle is slang for penis. It is also a recognized crossbreed.

You shake your head and very very carefully shove him with your hip. “Shuddup. A Bernerdoodle is a Bernese Mountain Dog and Poodle cross. You shouldn’t tease the little guy. He’s had a really rocky start. Was just busted out of a puppy mill. He’s the last of his litter. No one wanted him because his markings aren’t symmetrical.

They aren’t. Puppy has two white paws, one fore, one aft; a white blaze on his chest and a white stripe down his nose. His eyebrows are tan, as is half his muzzle. Quirky and utterly adorable. You give him a gentle hug and a small pink tongue licks at the bottom of your chin.

Chris leans close and wrinkles up his nose as he too, gets a lick. “Awww. Sorry dude.”

You shift the warm furry load at your hip. A moth flutters past and Chris looks up, startled, realizing belatedly you are still standing in front of the open door.

“Whatever he is, he’s a cutie that’s for sure. Bring him in.”

He lets Dodger go and swings the white oak door shut, picks up the shopping bags while you walk over to the couch, balancing the awkward bundle of big paws and floppy ears and tail. So much for cardio, it is suddenly resistance day.

You lower yourself gingerly to the deep expanse of butter-soft, not-claw-proof leather as Chris slides across, dropping the bags to one side. The space is light and bright and so relaxing: white walls and furniture, low rough wood tables and dark grey carpet. A haven from the bustle and noise of life.

“You, too. Sit,” Chris says, pointing a finger until Dodger finally masters his inner zen to settle down beside your knee. The older dog is upright, tongue lolling and one ear cocked. A picture of controlled enthusiasm. His amber eyes keep flicking from puppy back to Chris.

Puppy nestles into your lap and makes himself at home, sniffing at the air and taking in members of a new pack. You are clearly alpha female, chief cuddler and source of safety. Chris is the alpha male: one pat and the little guy rolls over to show his belly for a rub.

Chris obliges; bends down to tickle warm pink spotted skin and gets licked excitedly on his chin for his efforts. “Ow.” he announces, laughing and holding a hand across his nose

The white milk teeth are sharp. And curious. “Watch it little fella.

You smile because obviously Puppy’s starting to feel a little braver now but the sight of him mouthing earnestly on Chris’s offered fingers makes you wonder: how does one keep a puppy from chewing up the furniture? You hadn’t thought beyond getting him safely home. The expensive designer to-the-trade originals do already have a few puncture holes--Dodger is rambunctious but he wasn’t a baby when he came home. It’s been years since you had a pet. Your old dog, a white heinz 57 collie-samoyed mix with the honest-to-goodness name of Buck passed away your second year of college. He lived to be seventeen. You can’t even remember what it was like to break in a puppy but there must be somebody around to give you tips.

“We need to set some water out for him and the new wee pads.” you note. He has been so good. Didn’t piddle once on the Uber ride home, or even when he was scared.

Chris nods, unerringly reaching to scratch behind soft and silky ears. Puppy cocks his head and whines. “Check. In a sec. Does he have a name?”

“No,” you admit. “The breeder had shitty records. At Ace they called him by his number. They think he’s about ten weeks old, just enough to be separated from his dam. I bought some food and stuff.” you add, waving in the general direction of the bags. There’s a blue collar to match Dodger’s and a new leash, a comb, smaller steel bowls. Hopefully they show you weren’t completely off your head, totally mesmerized by dark liquid eyes and a cute as a button nose.

You blush, remembering the excitement of signing for him, holding him for the first time: all pink toe beans and soft silky fur and new puppy smell. Pure heaven. And the right thing to do, give a home to a poor little abandoned soul in need of loving.

(No ticking clocks, here. Nope. None at all.)

Puppy whines and sits straight up. Coughs once. Then twice. It’s a huffing, wheezy sort of hack that shakes the little dark body shake from pink nose to white tail tip.

Chris looks over at you alarmed. “Is he ok?”

This time it’s you that melts a little. Chris worries. Always. Empathy, wrapped in caring, wrapped in genuine unselfishness.

“He will be,” you explain, biting nervously at your lip. “Just needs a little time. He’s a rescue from a puppy mill. The whole litter had pneumonia and he almost didn’t make it.”

“Oh fuck.” Chris’s growl is quiet but you know he feels about animal abuse the way you do. Enraged.

You pull the adoption papers out and pass them over. Chris scans them, turning them over and checking the certificate from the shelter and its vet. All is in order. Case # A201206 has been dewormed. Had all shots. Weeks of Baytril for infection and supplements. Has been off his feed because of illness. Is paper trained.

“He’s done his shots and antibiotics, but needs a special diet ‘til he’s all better.”

Chris is nodding, taking it all in, trading the pages back to you for a now braver little guy. You reach down to pull a water bowl and a new blanket and Kong toy out of the first paper bag.

Puppy sits on the soft grey flannel of Chris’s sweat pants and leans against his chest, raising up one enormous paw to ask for attention. Chris catches it in his own equally enormous hand and lets his blue gaze slide to the rubber chew toy that is easily twice as big as your fist.

“How big is he gonna get?”

You flush. This is the tricky part. “Ummm, the lady said they don’t think he’ll get much bigger than seventy pounds.”

“Seventy pounds?!”

Incredulous, Chris looks down at Dodger obediently flopped on the floor and back up to the pup. Dodger is lean and wiry, all muscle and energy; straight flat fur. Puppy is a small mountain of dark wavy coat, paws not quite like dinner plates. Hefty and solid. He’s sitting placidly, taking up a good half of Chris’s lap at less than three months old.

“Dodger’s only thirty pounds,” he frowns.

“I know,” you nod, “but his father was the Bernese. They’re more than a hundred.”

Chris chokes. “Jesuz, Y/N, that’s a pony not a dog!”

You hold your breath. This is a gamble. Chris is obviously a bit thrown by how big the pup will grow. You can see the doubt begin to whirl like a cyclone in his head. “I don’t know…”

You slide closer, up underneath the long, ridiculously muscled arm laid along the couch’s back, reach out to stroke lovingly at his cheek. A big dog is a big commitment, but from everything you know it fits with his big, golden heart. “Chris, I feel like this meant to be. You’ve said yourself that if you were an animal you’d be a St. Bernard. He’s like your kindred spirit. Bernese are also big and loyal and loving. They adore kids. But they get a little anxious in new and different settings.”

“So you’re just like me, hunh?” he says, a little skeptically, lifting the little guy with a firm grip around the middle. “Seventy pounds. I’d be doing curls with you…”

Puppy, oblivious to the moment, tries to gnaw on his largest knuckle.

Doubt starts to curl low below your heart.

Usually if Chris is into something new, your bouncy, exuberant Labrador of a boyfriend will be all over it. Keen on it right away. This time there’s an unsettled crease of worry between his brows and Chris is frowning. Perhaps you hadn’t thought this through? This a puppy and a larger dog. Perhaps you hadn’t considered how much more work one seems. There’s a press tour to do for Avengers 3 and 4. US press for Red Sea Diving. Possibly another Broadway run. There’s a lot on Chris’s plate in the coming year but you’d just felt so bad for Dodger missing his big guy while he was half a world away.

And, if you had to be honest with yourself, you admit a needy pup would keep you little more occupied too. Your job, back-of-house production, keeps you mostly in L.A, tied down and unable to go on tour. It’s out of the Press’s eye which has its good and bad at once. As far as much of the world knows you don’t exist. You’re a name on the end credits. Known as a studio employee, someone no one bats an eyelid to see Chris with. A colleague. No biggie.

For the first months of your relationship it was actually kind of great. Chris, beyond tired with the relentless attention messing with romances, treated it like a game. You can go out and no prying idiots think you’re his date. No one’s calling you a bitch on Twitter. No one’s staking out your house. Above the table top you are talking about scheduling and below his toes are running up your calf. Hidden. Secret. Just for you two. It’s a thrill and nervous making all at once.

You’re happy to have found the one awesome, caring, gorgeous guy in Hollywood who doesn’t brush his hair more often than you do. Doesn’t tell you to keep out of his better side. Who isn’t jealous and gets your irregular, have-to-stay-at-the-last-minute schedule. Who shares your manic love of baseball and the Pats.

But you’re a little unsure of where this is going. Sure he asked you to move in, but both of his best friends have been missing Chris so much. The frequent long distance trips make it hard. Each time you are together it is as if you are on vacation: a treat, easy and relaxed but it’s also always reset mode. Constantly catching up. Two steps forward and one back. Texting every day is great but it’s hard to properly communicate. Case in point: today, when you made a snap decision without discussing first, without thinking that he’s about to go on tour for weeks.

“Sorry….” you admit in a tiny, plaintive voice. “We do have a week to take him back,” You start to pull away, thinking you’ve overstepped the line.

“Hey…hey, no it’s ok.” Chris grabs your hand to pull you closer. Plants a kiss on the top of your sun-faded Bosox cap. He sighs. “This was a really good idea. I might be crazy but I’ll make an appointment tomorrow for him to see Dr. Beltran.”

“Really?” You sit straight up. Dr. Beltran is Dodger’s veterinarian. He experienced and no-nonsense. A pro. You’ve met him once, taking Dodger in for heart-worm meds

“He can stay? You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course I’m not mad, Y/N.” Chris’s spare hand reaches down to play, as it always does at home, with your long ponytail. Relaxed. Easy. Intimate. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“How can anyone resist this face?” he says, tickling Puppy under the chin. It’s true. The little guy’s face is the sweetest thing—a black nose with a pale dot in the middle, bright dark eyes and the most adorable pink tongue sticking out. You’re lost, the both of you.

Chris offers Puppy a thumb to chew and grins. “I was just surprised. Needed to think it through is all. Next time you decide to add to our world, can you give a guy a little warning?”

“You seemed so tired and I didn’t want to wake you,” you start to explain, but then suddenly his words sink in.

Our world.

“What do you….?”

You stop and take in the pure unfettered delight on Chris’s face. He knows he has surprised you. ‘Our world’ means this is for keeps. Serious. He wants you to be an official couple. It’s overwhelming, and unexpected. Perhaps the constant roadblocks are wearing on him too.

Your heart does a heavy flip, somersaulting with giddy happiness.

Chris smiles, drops a gentle kiss to your lips, holds it until the pup begins to squirm.

“Babe, this last tour, oh fuck, I missed you so so much. London’s great but I couldn’t wait to get back and be with you. Knowing you and Dodge and this little guy are happy and at home, here,—that will mean the world.”

You pull away but not too far, lay your head down upon his shoulder, so choked up you don’t know what to say. Going public seems like a giant step. Your bosses, the Russo brothers, know about it, as do both families and close friends—but they’re sworn to secrecy. Chris is gunshy of the media this time—how Jenny was treated really hurt and he wanted things to grow away from the harsh glare of publicity.

You take a deeper, unsteady breath. This is truly what you want but can you make it work?

Chris, as always in tune to you, gives you a soft quick hug and elects to change the conversation. He stretches, holding one big warm hand under puppy and the other up toward the ceiling. “Man you were right about the tired though. Shit. I am getting old. The flights are getting harder.”

“If you’re old, what does that make me?” you ask. You are almost, not quite, two years ahead.

“Ancient.”

He ducks a tastefully neutral, well-used, toss cushion that flies past his head. Dodger’s head pops up. If pillows are flying and his human is stretching then a game of tag might be just ahead. He gets to his feet, yips excitedly but instead of playtime he gets wobbly curiosity. Chris sets the puppy on the floor. The little guy promptly lunges for a shoe, trips over his own feet and tumbles snout-first into deep grey pile.

You all laugh. Puppy looks up at the sound and you could swear he grins. This new development is surprising but not scary. He sneezes, rights himself again, sits down with a blink and barks.

“Woof!” It is a surprisingly deep sounding voice.

“Ho boy, has he got a set of lungs.” Chris is laughing. Puppy seems very pleased with himself. A few minutes cautious exploration brings him over to the wide back windows. Outside the morning is clouding over. It will keep the heat from climbing and for a miracle it might just rain. Puppy wags his tail and barks at a passing bird. Dodger stands sentinel behind, tail waving slowly, resident expert at communing placidly with the neighbourhood.

Pup looks to him and back. “Boof!” Nope, the new kid on the block isn’t going to get a rise out of Dodger. Birds and bees and butterflies are people, too.

They seem fine to let be left alone for a just minute, so you rise and set about getting organized. A second dish of water goes beside Dodger’s in the kitchen. Pad are laid beside the back door. The new blanket is draped beside Dodger’s wicker basket. You set the ingredients for puppy lunch on the countertop and pull the rudiments of a sandwich from the bursting fridge

From the couch you can hear Chris’s stomach grumble loudly. He may be exhausted but his stomach thinks it’s almost time for English Tea.

“Come on, you never ate,” you say, pulling him up and guiding him over to the kitchen. “Lets get the little guy’s space all set. He’ll need to eat soon and then go out. We can play with him outside and then it will be time for a nap.”

Over by the windows Dodger has brought puppy a bedraggled, one-eared teddy he uses for a friend. They play tug of war, shaking their heads and mock growling at each other, the pup repeatedly losing his grip but bouncing forward to catch a leg again. It’s hilarious and sweet. Big brother playing with the little guy, but just when you think they’ll start another round the little guy plonks down on his butt, opens his jaws wide and yawns. And coughs.

“Hey…”

He’s scooped up into Chris’s big strong arms and nestled against that wide, sleep-inducing chest. A whine turns into another mighty yawn, the baby is getting tired. It’s been a busy day and he isn’t quite over his sickness yet.

You wrap your arms around them both and Chris drops a kiss onto your head. He smells like spice and soap and Dodger and the warm-cinnamon-bun perfection of new puppy smell. Intoxicating.

As you brush your fingers lazily across his back he grins, folds you under his shoulder where you fit the best. There’s a twinkle in his eye. One you’ve missed for two whole weeks.

“How long does a puppy sleep?”

#@theycallmebecca #chris evans x reader #I lost the bet #but this was so much fun #puppies #dodger

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