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dirtytransmasc · 11 days ago

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Oh Strange Striped Boy, Where Do You Call Home? ─ Adventures of Rebirth; A visit from Tsahik (Chapter 1)

After six years of growing and patience, Spider can finally fit into an exopack, and, for the first time in his life, he will step out into Pandora, into Eywa.

Spider's entry into Eywa is like a rebirth, and a rebirth is cause for celebration, so Mo'at comes to spruce him up for the day and bring him some gifts.

Set six years after Spider's birth/"The Birth of a Strange Boy". Spider is being somewhat communally raised between Max, Norm, and Mo'at. Mo'at is the one who's nearly adopted him, but Max and Norm take care of him while he's at Hellsgate.

It took five long years of waiting, six, in the long run, for Spider to take his first steps out onto Pandora. Days and days of pouting at the airlock, begging to be let out. Far too many sleepless nights spent staring out windows at the stars and asking when when when? He wanted out. He wanted to be free. He wanted to dig his toes into Eywa’s earth and feel Her winds in his curls.

He wanted to feel the sun on his skin, and not through a window. Norm had told him it burned, that it was different than just feeling it through the windows. He wanted to know what that felt like. Wanted to feel warm after being stuck in the cold metal of Hellsgate for so so so, very very, super duper long.

Norm also told him he was dramatic. He didn't agree. Had huffed and puffed about it. Many, many times.

But today was the day. He was going outside. He had practiced and practiced and practiced putting on his exopack and changing the canisters and the battery and they made sure it fit snugly. So he was going to be let outside. Tsahik had even come to see him just after Eclipse fully broke and the sky lost its golden tinge, shifting to soft blue, her smile old and wise as soon as she entered the airlock, despite her distaste for Hellsgate, and she scooped him up and placed him on her hip when he came running to greet her, feet padding against the hollow sounding metal tiles.

“I see you, ma’yawntutsyìp,” she smiled, dropping a satchel off of her shoulder, letting it fall to the floor carefully, so her now free hand, one nearly as large as his torso, could tuck his wild golden curls back, her thumb tracing his forehead stripes affectionately.

She still remembers the day she had first set eyes on him all those years ago, having heard whispers of him from Jake after the war’s end. She insisted on seeing the infant immediately. She could not believe a human born in this prison could have been so deeply altered by Eywa, but the tales had been true. She remembers how tiny he had been, at least compared to her, many told her he was good-sized for a human baby. Sometimes she still can’t believe it though, not until she traces the stripes of the flat curve of his nose or sees those telltale fangs in his smiles.

He never hid his blessings, far from it instead he reveled in them. Besides his numerous accessories, he only wore a loincloth, which normally matched with the two boys he considered brothers, Neteyam and Lo’ak, her grandsons, and occasionally a simple top he would either steal from Kiri, her granddaughter, when she outgrew them or ones he made with her when someone had gathered the supplies for them, which put his stripes on full display. And he wore his braid proudly, always playing with it or rebraiding it. Even with his eyes and his fangs, he was always wide-eyed and excited, smiling for all to see, as if to cast their bright light on the world.

She was happy to know Spider was not alone in this world, he had siblings, even if they were not bound by blood or parentage, but by spirit. Especially considering those children were her own grandchildren. It felt right. She trusted Eywa’s intentions.

“Hi Tsahik,” the child giggled back, ears perked up, rosy with the blush blossoming from his fanged smile, his baby teeth still somewhat blunt, before touching his fingers to his forehead, and fanning them back towards her, “I see you too,” he imitated, wiggling a little in the elder’s arms.

Mo’at, as usual, was beyond amused by his excitement. He was such a cheerful child considering he had been locked in this box for years and years, even if for his own safety, she marveled at his bright spirit. She doubts many could burn so brightly after years of being smothered in this cold, unliving, person. But he still was. He was bright and golden and warm and full of life.

“You will meet your Mother today, are you ready, ma’evang?” She looked at him with a serious but soft look on her face. She was far from worried for him, she trusted him to hold his own and had no fear, just as she trusted Eywa to protect the boy, but she knew she should ask. It would be proper with any other child.

He just nodded, “want out,” he whined, throwing himself against her, sagging into her hold, quite dramatically, continuing to whine, “I’m soooooooo bored,” and squirming for a few moments, before settling, “Can you braid my hair first? Don’t want it to be messy… wanna look nice,” he got quiet, looking away, as if he felt foolish.

“Of course child,” she hushed, moving to sit by the window, not wishing to be far from Eywa and her land, kneeling on the floor while she sat Spider on the windowsill. “Why else would I meet you here, other than to pretty you up, hmmm?” her fingers started to run through his curls, taking out the tangles, huffing a laugh as his ears twitched as his hair tickled them. “I brought you something I think you will like, but they are a surprise, you have to be patient while I braid.”

The boy just giggled out a little “ok”, wiggling a little, but staying still enough for her to work on his hair. It had gotten quite long; his curls went well past his shoulders, while the thick black hair that sprouted from the large black birthmark on the nape of his neck, had grown to touch his hips.

She worked his curls till she could part his hair level with his temples, separating the top layer from the thicker bottom layer, with the strands just beside his ears included so they didn’t hang over them. She then halved that section down the middle, and French braided either side till about halfway down, before bringing the loose ends together and tying them tight with a leather cord. The boy liked his hair free but not unruly and in his eyes, the volume of curls suited him.

She worked carefully and meticulously. It was hard with her large hands, but after years of doing this, she had gotten quite good. She rarely pulled or snagged, and each intricate style or technique became easier with time. Now, it was truly no problem; she could do it with her eyes closed, but she was careful nonetheless.

They chattered all the while. Spider told her about his past few days since her last visit, about the lessons he had to sit through with Max and Norm, about Jake bringing her grandbabies to visit and the antics they got up to—

“‘Teyam forgot that we aren’t supposed to run into the lab when people are in there, so I jumped super duper far and tagged him right on his tail before he could get in trouble, so he turned around and chased me,” he boasted cheerfully, “and then to make him feel better, cause he’s a little bit of a sore loser, I let him tag me back, but told him to stay away from the lab so Norm doesn’t come and scold us.”

“That’s very kind of you, little one, I’m sure Norm and Neteyam were very appreciative,” she smiled.

The boy shrugged a little, “maybe,” he replied, pausing for a moment, “I can’t wait to play tag with him outside, it’s going to be great. We can run wherever we want, as long as we stay in the village, and he told me there’s this creek we can go to, and we can go fishing!”

“Yes you will, ma’yawntutsyìp, you will, very soon.”

—and he asked questions, ones he had asked dozens of times before, about the forest and the village, and she gladly answered just as thoroughly as she had the first, second, and hundredth times. She told him about the trail from Hellsgate to the village. She talked about all the animals they might see. She told him about all the important people he might meet. She told him anything she could think of.

As she worked, she placed an assortment of beads and feathers from a case in her satchel in front of the boy, allowing him to hand them back to her when he pleased, and added them in. He had some he kept in more permanently, but she thought this was enough of an occasion to spruce it up. And in the end, his hair was full of orange and red beads, and plenty of feathers of similar colors.

“Red is my favorite color, just like yours right?,” he asked, playing with the crimons beads of her shawl while she braided his overgrown baby hairs into little loopy braids and tied them up into his larger braids, using red feathers to hide the twine.

“That it is, ma’evang, that it is,” she smiled, “I’ve always liked it, it’s very bright and and mighty, like you, tsamsiyutsyìp.”

The boy giggled, hiding his face in his hands, “thank you Tsahik.”

She had long stopped trying to get him to call her by her name or some other less formal term. It seemed like ‘Tsahik’ felt like a term of affection in his young mind, and it is what he preferred to call her, and she wouldn’t force him to stop. And it was, quite frankly, adorable, anyway, so she was even less insistent on that front.

When she finished with his curls, she braided his ‘kuru’, gathering the thick black hair in her fingers and smoothing it so it looked nice and sleek, just like how Spider liked it. He didn’t have a true queue, but on instinct, she was immensely gentle, as if there was something to snag there outside of hair.

“Not too tight?” she asks periodically. He always says no, because she was careful. But she checks in again and again every time anyway. And with that, a final piece of cord, his hair was finished, and she was quite pleased with her work. “I think you look quite stylish, ma’yawntutsyìp,” she murmurs, “very proper for your big day.”

Spider jumped up at that, springing to crouch close to the window on all fours, something that looked both odd and overly natural on his tall, lithe, lanky frame. He crouched like a Na’vi would, but at first glance, he looked ever so slightly too human for that to look right. It still caught Mo’at off guard despite all her time with him.

She watched as he inspected his hazy reflection with a pleased look. “Perfect!” he cheered after a few moments, jumping off the sill and wrapping around her legs, “thank you,” he murmured against her.

She patted his head gently, careful of the beads, not wanting them to hurt his scalp, “you are very welcome my child, now, are you ready for your gifts?” she smirked, watching as he popped up and down excitedly.

“Yes yes yes yes!” he cheered, his golden hair bouncing, the feathers fluttering and beads clicking.

“Ok ok, ma’yawntutsyìp, ok,” she steadied him, a hand on his shoulder, “sit, and I will bring it to you,” she spoke softly but firmly, waiting for Spider to obey, still wiggling, something that seemed like a permanent state of being for the rowdy six-year-old, before reaching for the satchel she had left by the airlock doors. “I believed you needed some simple things before you ran out into Eywa’evang,” she said softly, kneeling beside him once more.

She opened the sachet and pulled out a few items; a folded fabric bundle, a small knife, a smaller bag, and a small bow accompanied by a small quiver of wooden arrows.

Spider watched on with curious awe, his head bobbing and weaving to try and see everything up close, but he was patient, hands kept in his lap, fiddling with the little songchord on his belt to keep from touching the other items before he had permission.

“You will train with this bow, it’s simple, and you are allowed to make mistakes with it, so you can learn how it can become damaged, so you don’t make the same mistakes with your proper bow, and when you are ready, you will carve your own from the remains of our Hometree, and make your own arrows,” she explained, handing the bow to him. It was small, made of common wood and string, a head shorter than Spider. A good introduction to the tool.

But Spider looked at it as if it was made of pure gold from Eywa herself. He marveled at it, even though there was truly nothing to look at. It was plain, not even painted or mounted with a grip. His fingers traced the wood, over smooth edges and hard knots, over the lacing, and down the taught edge of the string.

“Pretty,” he whispered.

“Very,” she agreed, even if she did not see the same beauty he did, “when we get to the village, you can practice with Neteyam, he got his bow a few days ago, and maybe you two could convince Kiri to help you gather some supplies to decorate them, yes?”

The boy nodded, “I can’t wait, it’s going to the best, ‘m gonna get to spend all day with them, and we’re gonna go on so many adventures. And I’ll get really good with my bow, so I can keep them safe. Better than ‘teyam even! Cause he’s my baby brother, and I have to be better so he’s safe,” he rambled, hugging the bow tight, “but he can be second best, I just need to be this much better,” he pinched his fingers tight, holding them close to his eye to show just how much better he needed to be, “not a lot, just a little.”

“I’m sure you will, child,” she nearly cooed, heart swelling at the sight of his determination, “and what about Kiri or Lo’ak, when they get their own?”

“That’s up to ‘teyam how much better he thinks he needs to be, but maybe this much” he shrugged and held his fingers just a little apart like it was obvious. Children were so sweetly simple. Especially this one. It endeared her to no end.

“I think that is a good amount,” she agreed, smoothing his cheek with a soft huff of laughter, before turning back to the items she had set out, picking up the tiny little hooked knife– the blade made of an opaque amber, intricate red lacing holding the red-dyed hide and bright tan and black braided sinew grip to the handle, a little orange feather hanging off the end –placing it in his tiny little palm, “this is very sharp, you can use it to forage and hunt, but also to protect yourself, as long as you use it very carefully, ok?”

“Ok Tsahik,” he nodded, inspecting it carefully, pressing his finger to the edge of the blade, careful not to cut himself, but rather feel the blade’s edge, to feel its strength and thinness, before feeling over the rest of the blade, at the little curves and edges made from carving.

“And you will need somewhere to carry it,” Mo’at murmurs, opening the bundle of cloth, “I had Norm give me this strap,” she presented an exopack strap, it was mostly plain, outside of a leather hilt fixed to the chest half of the strap, “it needs more work, but this is a start, so you can wear your blade at all times.”

“cool, thank you Tsahik” he murmured, his attention having moved from inspecting the knife to inspecting the strap and hilt, placing the blade in it and then taking it out several times, little fingers feeling every detail, before he began thinking, “it needs beads, and stain, this color is icky,” he commented to himself, “Norm said I could paint my exopack if I’m careful around the filters,” he looks to her, “can you show me how to make them?” he asked with a smile, scooting closer.

“Of course, ma’yawntutsyìp,” she replied, patting his back “What colors should it be?”

“Mmmmm….. Blue!” he shouted after a moment of thinking, “I can make it all stripey, like you and Kiri and ‘teyam and Lo’ak!” he giggled, cutting off his ramble of what might be the name of every Na’vi he knew.

“Blue is a very nice color,” she agreed, shaking her head at the boy's antics fondly.

“Mhm mhm,” he hummed, eyes tracking towards the rest of the cloth bundle.

She smirked, placing it in his lap to look through. He pulled out a new loincloth, one made of a finer deep brown, almost black, hide than his other loincloths, this one as much less meant for play and roughhousing, though it would likely see it anyway, but for formality, celebration. The main belt, made from the same hide, just braided into a thick band, wrapped around his waist, while thinner belts held back and front flaps together lower down his hips, and dripped in beads of amber and turquoise, and little feathers of yellow and blue. Long braided fibers that were more tufted near the end lined the sides of either flap, the fibers ranging from red to orange to a light tan color, more saturated at the top, and duller near the bottom.

His eyes went wide, his voice a soft whisper, like there were no words on his mind, just pure glee. He leaned close, piling into her lap as a ‘thank you’, hugging her arm for a moment, not even reacting when her tail came to wrap around him instinctually, eyes still fixed on the intricate item, before he broke into thank yous, jittering with excitement, “thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you Tsahik!!!” he bellowed, “did you make this?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Of course I did, ma’yawntutsyìp,” she smiled, patting his cheek, “who else could make such art?”

He shrugged, “you and Mrs. Sully are both really good,” he replied, before focusing back on the loincloth, “It’s so cool and fancy, I love it.”

She smiled at the fond comment he made towards her and her daughter. The boy held love for her Neytiri, even when she struggled to hold much fondness for him. She would come around one day, she was trying to anyway, and Spider was so good about it, even though he was young. He loved her despite the distance between them.

“Good. now keep looking, there’s more,” she prompted.

Spider nodded, keeping to his spot in her lap, eyes hesitantly leaving the loincloth he still held in his lap, before picking up a matching top. It was simple, and much more decorative than functional. It was a simple braided choker with beaded strands that hung down to armbands for either arm, both lined with little teeth and claws she had collected over the years, fitting for the little boy full of spunk. He showed it the same level of awe and care as the previous article of clothing.

“Kiri helped me with this one,” Mo’at informs, showing him the bicep cuffs, “she braided in beads left over from those friendship bracelets you all made together, see,” she pointed to the multicolored beads; Kiri had chosen soft green beads, Neteyam had pick jagged stormy blue ones, and Lo’ak had chosen rough black ones, while Spider had chosen shiny brown and orange beads that glowed when the light shifted over them.

“I like it,” he smiled, “they look pretty together.”

“She knew you would,” she assured, “was quite insistent she add her own touch.”

Then there was a braided shawl, a thick piece of hide was where his shoulders would be, while the rest was made of a thin but sturdy twine in a net-like fashion, and the edges were lined with little beads and feathers as well. Mo’at had gone all out for him, this was a big day, nearly the same as if it was his birth, which she had missed by many months. This was a rebirth. An entry into Eywa’s world. She had to spoil him rotten, she couldn’t help it.

“This is to protect your shoulders, the sun will be very harsh on your young skin,” she murmured softly, pulling a braided case made from old shell pods, opening it to expose a thick white cream, “make sure you apply this, all over, but mostly on your face and shoulders, every day, at every meal you spend outside, to protect your skin, yes?”

“Yes Tsahik,” he grumbled, already unhappy with it, because, for some odd reason Mo’at doubts she will ever find the reason for, children loathe suncream, even those who only need it sparingly.

“And wear your shawl when the sun is high, you will regret it if you burn down to the bone,” she warned.

“Yes Tsahik” he continued to grumble even more dramatically.

“Now, last thing,” she pulled a small bead from the bag, it was bright blue and intricately carved with braided patterns, “for your songschord, for your first journey into Eywa.” That got her an ‘oooooooh’ as he felt the pattern. “I want you to find something else to attach with this, and place it in this pouch, along with anything else you may want or need,” she handed him a simple pouch to tie onto his belt, “and when you find it, when you know it’s the one, I will help you tie them on.”

He nodded still transfixed, spinning the bead in between his fingers, leaning back against her chest, swallowed up into her arms, her beaded shawl hanging over him, and her braid hanging in her lap, close to his own.

“Now, go get changed, call if you need help, though I have no doubt that you are smart enough to figure it out. Be quick, Jake is bringing your siblings, they will meet us soon, they’re quite excited.”

He smiled at that, “I can’t wait, they have to show me everything!” he shouts, popping out of her lap, taking the clothing and the pouch with him, tucking the bead safely inside of the latter, “I’ll be right back,” he called out to her, running towards his room.

She could only smile, the boy was something else, so wild and free and loud, but in a way that was more charming than all else. Hellsgate could not hope to contain him much longer. The elder knew that well enough.

Spider was quick, he’d gotten very good with the workings of a loincloth, this one just had extra steps, and the top went on easily enough. He unfastened his songchord off of his now piled-on-the-floor loincloth, and tied it to the belt of the one he was currently wearing, before dumping out all his little trinket jewelry his siblings had made for and with him from his keepsakes box, tying on layers of bracelets and anklets, made from anything they could get their little hands on, even a few necklaces that hung just beneath the choker. Lastly, he put on his mama’s dog tags–

He used to feel ashamed of wearing them, but Mo’at said it was good to remember her, even if she wasn’t a good guy. She was always gonna be his mama, and she just wanted the best for him. He was allowed to love her. So he did

–before stuffing some trinkets and other little supplies in his pouch, grabbing his mask, the one he had decorated with beads and feathers to hang down from the straps, and bringing it back to his Tsahik.

She smiled at the sight of him, the pieces she– and Kiri, she couldn’t dismiss her efforts –made suited him well. He jingled slightly as he ran, sliding through the halls expertly, no doubt having done it dozens upon dozens of times a day just to keep entertained. She had gotten the proportions just right, and he looked like a true little warrior. A stylish one at that. She was proud. Of him and her work.

The tans and browns in the pieces brought out his stripes, and the yellows complimented his eyes. He was sliding the exopack over his face, which pulled his hair even further from his ears, making their fluttering to get comfortable within the straps of the mask obvious. The added feathers framed his features nicely.

“I say you look quite ready to go exploring, hmmm?” she asked, standing, groaning slightly as her wearing joints protested the move, and he was by her side before she could realize it. He was too tiny to help her up but tried anyway. Because that’s the type of boy he was. “Thank you, ma’yawntutsyìp,” she murmured, “I’m ok, it just takes a moment.”

“I know…” he admitted glumly, “just wanna help anyway.”

She patted his hair at that, before moving to scoop him up, “of course you do, with that heart of gold of yours,” she wiggled a finger at his chest, tickling him slightly, “isn’t that right?”

That wiped the glum look off of his face and he looked smitten once more, “I just like being helpful!” he argued, as if there were anything to defend.

“And there is nothing wrong with that, child, not ever, it is a good thing,” she assures, watching out the window as a gaggle of small blue figures start to appear from the forest line, “now, I believe your siblings are nearly here, see,” she points out the window, “why don’t you gather your things, we will be off shortly.”

The boy hesitated at first, still clinging close, his head rested on her collar, legs curled around her waist. Spider got…. anxious…. when those in his life gave him any inkling that they would leave. Whether it be her age, or when Norm or Jake left the lab for too long, or even when Neytiri went unmentioned for too long. It worried him. It was understandable, considering how much he had lost so young, but broke her heart nonetheless.

“I am not going anywhere, ma’evang, I promise,” she soothed, rubbing his back, “my bones are just stiff, do not fret.”

“... Promise?”

“I promise,” she moves to put him down, “now go, fetch your bow, and bring that cream over here, I will not have you cooked your first day out,” she has a cheeky smile on her face, knowing that being mad about suncream will distract him from his anxieties more than anything else.

And she is right, he scurries away from her grumbling “Noooooooooooo!”, hiding the bowl behind his back the second he gets his hands on it, a smile on his face, daring her to try and get it back from him.

She stalks him like a nantang would stalk a yerik, getting low, arms around ready to grab him. He’s pressed into a corner, waiting for the right chance to run. It takes a minute before he decides to try and make a break for it, sliding between her legs, but she catches him, picking up the wiggling child with ease.

“You aren’t quite fast enough yet, child, do not underestimate me just because I am an elder, my reflexes are still sharp,” she scolds playfully, holding out in front of her till his limbs sag and he gives up.

“Don’t want it, it feels yucky,” he pouts, the shell pod still in his little hand.

“You will live, I assure you,” she says finally, before sitting him on the sill, taking the pod from him, and scooping some of the off-white paste onto her fingers. The boy sniffs it, his almost feline-like nose twitching before he turns it away.

“Gross.”

“You are gross, ma’yawntutsyìp,” she refutes, “I have seen you take mud baths in the greenhouse.”

“That’s different!”

“Sure it is, that was mud, this is suncream. One of them has a benefit, and one was a mess that took hours to clean.”

The boy crosses his arms and huffs. She smeared her fingers down his shoulders and arms, and then over his ears, which he was trying to fold back so she could not reach them, but it was no yes.

“You have to take your mask off, it will not protect you from the sun.”

“I just got it on right,” he whined, leaning back against the window as if that was out of reach for her long arms.

“And you knew you needed to put this on first, I told you that, now come on, off with it, or your siblings will come in here and watch you be a baby about suncream,” she knows that’ll get his attention, “you want to be a brave boy for them, yes?”

He stares at her for a moment, then out the window at his approaching siblings, and then pulls off the mask. ��Fine,” he relents, sitting up so she can easily reach his face, and she smears her palm down his face, rubbing the cream down his face gently enough to not hurt but harshly enough to make him splutter a bit.

“All done, see how easy that was?” she asks pointedly, watching the boy recover.

“Yucky,” was all he said, blowing a raspberry.

The elder shakes her head and stands, “get your stuff and put your mask back on, I doubt your siblings will have any patience to keep them from dragging you straight out that door.”

He complies with general ease, pulling his bow and quiver strap over his shoulder, gingerly easing them to hang across his chest and onto his back, and double-checks that his knife is in his hilt and his pouch is secured to his belt correctly, before scrambling across the room for the exopack component that was currently charging.

She watched as he, near expertly from all his practice, putting the different pieces together, clicking battery packs and canisters and tubes into their place, checking them over, ensuring all was well, before fixing the mask back onto his face, and strapping that too over his chest, the hilt level to his heart.

“All done!” he declared, standing proud.

She inspects him. He was clothed and his hair was tamed. He had his new bow and knife. His exopack was, seemingly, in order, though she would have Jake check it before he even stepped towards the airlock. He did seem quite ready to go.

“You have been fed today, correct?” she enquires.

The boy nods. “Max made pancakes! I even got to use real syrup, not the icky stuff we normally use.”

She only vaguely knew what he was talking about, but she nodded anyway. He had eaten, that was all that mattered, and it even seemed like he was happy with his meal this morning, instead of grumbling about mush or the like.

After a few more moments of Spider continuing to ramble on about his morning and breakfast, he stopped. His ears perked up, and he heard the outer door opening, the airlock hissing, and the giggles of his siblings.

He waited right at the door, bouncing on the pads of his toes. Sometimes Mo’at finds herself imagining what it would be like if Eywa had managed to give him a tail. She believes it would manage to become a weapon when he was this excited. It brings a laugh to her lips.

And before she thinks he can fidget out of his own skin, hands finding his songchord once more, running over the beads, a habit of his, the inner door opens, and he is all but tackled to the floor by three little blue bodies, their tails high, and voices even louder.

Her eyes meet Jake's as they share an exasperated smile and a deep breath as they prepare for what's to come.

#Strange Striped Boy au #<- official au tag #Spider is a little fashionista. trust.#he has Mo'at indulging him and Kiri helping him. he has a good taste.#also. Spider. especially baby Spider. cannot sit still to save his life.#avatar 2 #avatar the way of water #spider socorro #miles spider socorro #miles socorro #avatar #avatar spider #spider avatar

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wickmitz · 5 months ago

Note

I decided to start talking about Wick and Rocky's relationship because I like their dynamics too, I like seeing Wick scared of Rocky and Rocky being aggressive with him, which is unusual because Rocky is rarely aggressive with anyone, but of course Wick is an exception to rule

Also my mini opinion about their possible relationship, I think that if Rocky didn't have to fight for his place, then he and Wick could become friends, or at least tolerate each other a little, I also see some superficial similarities, their gentlemanly and romantic natures, and their common love for explosions (remembering the quarrymen chapter), but this is my assumption, I think that I don't understand the characters' personalities well, so I can be wrong in this assumption, something like that. So, what do you think about their relationship?

for starters, i cannot thank you enough for this ask! as i’ve said previously, i have many thoughts on these two, so it’s nice to finally be able to share some of them. although given the extent to which i think about them, i apologize in advance if this is sloppy and sort of everywhere … while i’ll try to structure things the best i can, i cannot promise i’ll succeed! but hopefully this is an enjoyable reply nonetheless.

one of my favorite things about rocky and wick’s relationship is absolutely how aggressive rocky is towards the aristocrat ; he is prone to glares and cruel jokes and borderline hissing whenever the man is within his line of sight, or can be brought to a wailing-fit over the mere mention of his name from miss m’s mouth. there is a childishness to it, but a very prominent threat as well in spite of rocky’s usual incompetence. so he goes out of his way to posture around wick, readily lying and adorning himself with the gangster drapes he so badly wants to wear, in the hopes that it intimidates … will even badmouth wick’s family and make fun of his name and rock related obsession to mitzi, and so on so forth! yet all of this is very reminiscent of schoolyard bullying rather than anything too severe, though we as the audience understand rather quickly that rocky would bash wick’s head in with a tire iron if he could. ( translation : if it wouldn’t earn the tears or hate of a certain beloved mitzi may ) and it’s all very intense despite the absence of actual violence! and i understand why many fans see this as unusual for rocky and believe that it’s only wick who makes him act so aggressively, but i’d argue it isn’t really wick at all that prompts such scary reactions from him … and that rocky is a deeply angry character who’s a.) been boiling quietly for a long, long time and b.) has turned wick into a punching bag of sorts for this inner world of resentment and hurt. basically, when he’s judging the well-to-do or poking fun, his eyes don’t look at wick and actually acknowledge him as sedgewick sable ; instead this is a being, something vague and metaphorical, who threatens to upseat rocky’s permanence in the lackadaisy and steal away his savior, and he’s had a hand in the violinist’s misfortune for a long time.

obviously, rocky doesn’t think wick robbed him of his family twice over and made him homeless, but he is channeling the fear and anguish of those events into his loathing for wick, if that makes sense? it’s easier that way -- to finally have an outlet for everything bleeding inside of you, to be able to bite and claw at something without feeling conflicted or having to take personal accountability for your own mistakes … which is something that i think rocky does struggle with to a degree. he is sort of a finger pointer! his pain has to be worth something, it has to be for someone else ; spending years homeless and losing his last bit of family was for freckle, and the scrambling of his literal brain was for mitzi, and that means he can’t ever be angry with them! well, except that he is, somewhat, but he buries it deep down instead of feeling it. with freckle there is a sense of strain between them -- an air of ‘you owe me’ from rocky to freckle as he uses freckle to appease miss m, and he constantly pokes fun at his cousin too. it’s lighter than his jabs at wick, but there’s a constant pestering, a reminder of how good freckle has it : how he’s got the mom and the house and the job and the girl most notably. i don’t think rocky is intending to come across as mean, and to his credit he hardly does! but it’s rather clear to me that some part of him, some hidden and deeply hurt part, is rather indignant about taking the fall for freckle all those years ago. which he can’t understand, because how could he? he made that choice, he decided to take accountability for something he didn’t do because he loves freckle and knows it’d be so easy to believe this family tragedy was roark’s fault ; the devilish child he was, all troublesome and too broken to properly fit anywhere. so there is a disconnect born here, where rocky can’t comprehend that he’d be angry at freckle, so instead these not so great feelings are placed elsewhere and silently boil over time. and with mitzi … i don’t think he’s angry at her per se, but there is a frustrated and desperate chorus of : why him and why not me, when i’m the one out here dying for you? which is certainly unpleasant. of course, rather than allowing those feelings to be more aimed at miss m, whom he feels unloved by, he ( again! ) represses these emotions and allows them to fester into his greatest fears and fantastical complexes. i think there is a lot of other miscellaneous anger he could have towards others too … perhaps some part of him is sore upon seeing ivy’s normal lifestyle, watching her go to university and knowing that’s been taken from him. or an ache felt when hearing stories from zib and the band and how they used to travel successfully, living as nomads, and rocky is all too reminded of his similar lifestyle and how he couldn’t make it work as effortlessly. people with immense trauma are more prone to irrational anger and jealousy, to viewing everything around them as unfair and believing it’s even more unjust that so many people get to live comfortably while they’ve suffered. a situation that gets more messy when you’re someone like rocky, a man who’s willingly made choices that have harmed himself and wants to continue on with his smiling, bumbling fool of an act. he does not want to be angry, does not want to see it within himself, i think, which leads to an accidental increase of it.

all of this is to reiterate that wick is a scapegoat for rocky and nothing more. it’s why he’s rather hypocritical whenever it concerns the man. for example, it was stated by tracy that he looks down upon wick for his excessive presence at the bar, yet he appears to enjoy hanging out with zib -- who drinks just as often! he makes fun of how all wick ever talks about is rocks, when he himself is prone to poetry rambles that people find irritating or boring, and etc etc. this is also just a human nature thing, to critique someone you heavily dislike and even going as far as to belittle things you love or do in your own day to day because you just hate them that bad! but given rocky’s willingness to befriend anyone, it more so reeks of a dehumanization element. wick is every obstacle in his way, every divine force that threatens to send him packing again, so he is equal parts unnerved by wick’s presence and angry about it. it is mostly a fear response we are seeing, an emotion that’s morphed into long held resentment and anger. so his actions are extremely defensive, with him trying to push wick far away and keep him and mitzi separate, like some sort of animal attempting to ward off a threat that’s come too close to their home. despite the loaded animosity there, this hate has hardly reached its peak … but it shall only grow more intense as things continue onward i’m afraid, since as it stands ( in the comic at least ) rocky is at an all time low … and is ten times more desperate. i’d honestly say wick has become so warped in his mind’s eye that he can only strive towards ‘winning’ over the other man, because that’s all he can see anymore. i think mitzi implying that wick willingly helped her out, the intense head injury, and rocky’s fragile emotional state is exactly what pushes him towards premeditated murder in look-see. i don’t know how people perceive that arc, but to me it’s very clear that rocky actively sought to see the deaths of wes and fish that night. going as far as to lament that he’d be, “very disappointed if ( he ) dreamed them,” and purposefully luring the marigold duo away to have freckle pick them off. while you could argue that this was a smart move, in a gangster sort of sense, there’s still no denying that rocky is oddly chipper about the whole thing and is now seeking death out ; whereas before his methods of vengeance were just, well, ruining people’s livelihood but ultimately leaving them alive. this isn’t to discredit the fact that rocky is going through something! he is in a very muddled and dark place, mentally and physically, but even tracy has said that the head injury hasn’t changed rocky’s personality -- it’s only brought things to the surface.

source : q&a with tracy .

which, yeah! makes sense! head trauma can cause a person to become a wreck emotionally ( think mood swings, irritability, etc ) but it doesn’t completely morph someone either. personality changes may occur, but it’s not like you’re being rewritten entirely, you know? and given tracy’s old statement, it’s clear that ‘personality changes’ aren’t a side effect he’s suffering from. something that adds to my beginning statement, which is that rocky is a deeply angry and troubled person, more so than fans give him any credit for.

however, to touch upon your mini opinion about these two, i actually wholeheartedly agree that rocky and wick could become friends if circumstances were different. they do in fact have many superficial similarities, but one of the more prominent things they deeply share is never really belonging in the groups they frequent. this is more overt with rocky’s character, yet wick faces it too in subtle ways. the well-to-do crowd, seen through the investors, find the gentleman to be lacking in about every place imaginable ; to them he is an obsessive freak who cares too deeply for meager rocks, something they constantly mock him for, while he’s also being noticeably set apart from the rest of them … he seems younger than the investors, more excitable, passionate, and a little less experienced, and doesn’t seem to care for money or reputation as much as them either. there is a constant rubbing between him and them, where what he enjoys is seen as wrong, such as his love for the lackadaisy and his choice in paramor, a grieving widow with extremely dangerous ties. we also know that wick doesn’t have many friends at all, with the only two he has being lacy and church ( church is listed as such on his character profile, in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way ), both of whom work for or with him. they are obliged to hang around, and while they care in varying ways, they are prone to judging him just as much. honestly, it’s not shocking that wick seeks refuge at his chosen speakeasy! but even there he is rather distant from everyone else. he doesn’t speak to zib ever in the comics, nor seems all too close with viktor, ivy, or horatio … it is merely mitzi he is close to, even if he knows of the other people who work there. and, once again, wick very obviously doesn’t fit in. he is not gangster material, could never be an atlas may replacement, much less someone who could get his paws dirty in such an active way. so he has his feet in two different worlds and doesn’t know how to fit into either of them, or which one he actually wants to fit into more. i think in many ways rocky could relate -- these are two very lonely people who wish to belong somewhere and be accepted by some group or another but go about it in all the wrong ways. wick, who is too hesitant to fully commit to what he wants and is worse off for it, and then rocky, who obsessively throws himself against what he wants until he breaks every bone in his body. they also have explosives to bond over, lol, and other miscellaneous things like their taste in women i suppose … but this potential bond adds to the tragedy of lackadaisy, where we see two people who on every level should get along but we’re burdened with the knowledge that it’s an impossibility anyway, because there’s no removing the circumstance of which they’re in.

though i like to believe that despite wick’s fear of rocky, he maintains a kindness towards him regardless. i think his worries about rocky are rather surface level … he doesn’t know the boy at all, really, and thus can’t make heads or tails of him, hence him believing the lie in balderdash. so when i’m feeling particularly self indulgent, i like imagining a world where they’re forced together and sort of ‘stuck’ together ; to which rocky finally breaks and exposes his wounds to wick, in every sense of the word, and wick finally gets him. the aggression, the possessiveness of mitzi … it is all fear and desperation and a profound sadness, things he’d sympathize with. if rocky was able to explain that he loathes wick because if he saves the lackadaisy then mitzi won’t need him anymore and that it’s not fair that wick gets to so easily fix things when rocky would give his soul for his home, for her, and how wick could render every sacrifice he’s already made for naught by smoothing things over with some greenbacks and he can’t lose this, he just can’t --! … which, well, wick is too kind of a man to be able to do anything except feel awful, even though it’s not his fault at all. here we have two people who could coexist! and they should, since rocky logically can’t do every speakeasy job ( band member, rumrunner, mitzi’s shadow, also the guy who gets the money for the hooch ) by himself, just like how wick can’t save the lackadaisy with only his cash and limited booze stash. it’d be a joint cooperation, a collaboration between them, both equally important in the grand scheme of crime’s every turning wheel … but rocky’s rage and fear won’t let him see that, and likely never will. still, in scenarios where everything ends up alright for the lackadaisy and the people involved in it ( which is not how canon will go, by the way ), i fancy wick and rocky getting better within their relationship. rocky will always be prickly and quick to upset around the other man sadly, but perhaps he could see wick in a softer kind of light. or at least understand vaguely enough that he isn’t out to get rocky, so to speak. and then maybe wick learns that pancakes soothe rocky’s ire and poorly makes them anytime he wishes to talk to the man, and other fun things like that! but you should have more confidence in your character analysis skills, because you were spot on ( at least in my eyes ) about them potentially getting along if things were different. it’s certainly a fun aspect to play around with, and is important to note when discussing their relationship so you can fully understand just how warped rocky’s perspective on things are. and how unstable and traumatized he is too, of course </3 sidenote, but i also hope that throughout everything i’ve said here, or anything i’ve said before on my blog, that my love for rocky and my own sympathy for him comes across well enough. while he’s deeply flawed and i have no qualms discussing said flaws in depth, i also don’t think of him as some insane freak who’s evil at his core or anything like that. honestly, i adore analyzing him so much as a character because of how far down his issues go! he’s very well written, i’ll say, as is wick and many of the other characters, but i digress.

once more, thank you for the ask! i’ll end this here because i fear if i don’t i’ll start going in circles, since their relationship is so vast and very important for rocky in a character sense. hopefully i shed some more light on it though! i love these two to bits and pieces and i wouldn’t be half as invested in lackadaisy if their dynamic wasn’t so monumental -- at least to me.

#my asks.#lackadaisy analysis.#lackadaisy #rocky rickaby #sedgewick sable #tracy j butler #i also think rocky’s sudden taste for marigold blood is him making marigold his other scapegoat #he isn’t dealing with anything in a healthy manner and is so traumatized it’s starting to spill out of him … which is. uh. not good!!#but it sure is what’s currently happening regardless #cannot stress enough that rock is a very ill and traumatized individual who hasn’t had a single break in his life #he is constantly in stressful situations that are dangerous … and like.#when you’re constantly put in those situations you become numb. and angry. and it becomes hard to heal #or to truly connect to others … etc #i could talk in depth about rocky’s traumas and why they’ve caused this anger issue and this inner disharmony inside #because frankly there’s a lot there! and i hate to say it but people who are hurt normally show their hurt in ugly ways #especially if mentally ill … which rocky is imo #it’s just the reality of things! this isn’t me demonizing mental illness or the effects of trauma. i’m just being realistic here #someone as deeply troubled as rocky ( someone with NO outlet and whom hides his feelings from others and himself )#is bound to be. well. troubled!! his smiling facade is merely another mask he wears to cope and to be good for the people he loves #it is not … really rocky rickaby … rocky rickaby is that and the wrath and the self destruction and more #AHEM but i digress. how rocky treats wick and all that has really done wonders for understanding his character #and i truly love the wick / rocky / mitzi trio so bad. their relationships with each other is what drew me into this world #like. i am shaking them so much. the overlap!! the complexities inherit in their bonds and what that says about the individual characters!#it’s amazing truly lol like … i have had such fun thinking about them twenty four seven for the past three-ish months #anyway. anyway! i love analyzing these bitches. they can fit so much into them #and i’m rooting for wickmitzi endgame and for wick to desperately try to bond with rocky … while his bloodshot eye is twitching as we speak #lots of fun!!! lots of pain and agony too … rocky is nothing but a painful character alas. that is his nature. but that is also his appeal #and ooops i’ll shut up in the tags now i just. have a lot to say. and a lotta love to give to these two!! but uh. yeah <3 loved writing thi

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