#whistlestop jackson | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ananonbyanyothername · 6 years ago

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Gift for Landofcartoonsandnostalgia

Warning: references to real world violence, politics, and events. None of it is super graphic but it exists, also it’s unedited which deserves a warning of its own

Christmas, 1927

Opening the door to his shared apartment open with more force than strictly necessary, Sher Khan, entered, taking off his winter coat, then paused.

There was a vase of fresh cut poinsettias waiting for him on the small desk beneath the window he had claimed his own after fishing it out of the rubbish heap behind the Proskauer Rose law firm and scrubbing it free from the city’s muck until his paws had ached.

His roommates knew him well enough by now to know he was very particular about his things and did not like them being touched. Perhaps he was more territorial over what little he had than what the items merited but for someone who’d grown up with nothing, any item that he claimed was priceless. He rarely if ever threw anything away.

After the last incident that had involved someone foolishly invading his space and touching his things he doubted very much that there would be a repeat performance, so, for now he ruled out his roommates.

He frowned at the envelope propped up beside the flowers.

His home was beautiful, a penthouse suite situated in the very heart of New York City, but it was merely window dressing. An upscale address to impress his possible customers and nothing more.

The fact that practicality had forced him to live among five roommates who shared neither blood nor bond had made it clear to the Landlords that he and the set of them were hardly in the position to warrant a personalized holiday greeting. In his current persona, he had no one who would care enough for him to send seasonal flowers and only the security guard downstairs knew he had finally returned after the devastating meeting he had shared with one Whistlestop Jackson.

He hissed softly as his thoughts betrayed him, once again souring his mood with the unwanted reminder.

The bloody fool had not earned the transportation contract he had been hand gifted. All he had over Khan was a set of identification documents with an American citizenship attached. In true xenophobic fashion the businessmen had refused to entertain the thought that he might be the better choice of the two. They had wasted both his time and his money to make the trip. They could have sent him a rejection letter rather than allow him hope, only to have it cruelly dashed when they told him he wasn’t wanted. No matter how hard he informed himself that the loss was theirs and that one day he’d prove himself superior to not just Jackson but anyone else who might question him now, it was still a blow to his ego and a painful one at that.

He doubted anyone who had known him as Lungri would have sent them either.

Those who might have connected the two tigers would have understood his alias was false and it was highly plausible an attempt to blackmail would be made, if they didn’t just opt to call in the constables and have him imprisoned. Even if they were among the latter group it was doubtful simply opening the letter would cause him any more grief than it already had, he suspected they wouldn’t have given him a warning of their intent.

Lungri hadn’t been that significant.

He was not worth the effort of hunting down yet again should he decide to flee. And he would, if someone came, attempting to drag him back to where he’d been, he’d run for as long and as hard as his body would let him.

Opening the damn letter would be a good idea now.

But still he hesitated, it wasn’t until he’d recognized the seal of Governor Alfred Smith pressed upon it that he finally got a grip on himself, the swell of paranoid nervousness in his gut tempered by curiosity. He opened the letter with a retracted claw before scanning it for a signature.

He’d found none, only a message wishing him a Happy Christmas and a location for a gathering that was happening that day.

Khan had felt his frown deepen as he examined the note before him.

He was exhausted.

The tiger had been on the train, stowed away in the back coach among members of lowest economic class for what seemed like an age, packed like kippers in a can as his fellows discussed the Christmas shootout in South Pittsburg Tennessee in voices a stretch too loud to allow him the rest he’d needed. Perhaps he could have afforded better seating, but his last business meeting hadn’t gone as planned and he’d lost a very important contract to a witless buffoon who was more likely to drink his earnings away than invest them in something worthwhile, and the loss had made him unwilling to make any unnecessary expenditures. In truth, he hadn’t planned on doing anything beyond talking a stroll to one of the local churches to stretch his legs and volunteer for their Christmas dinner setups.

The public service looked good on paper and grabbing a bite to eat from whatever was left after the homeless had picked at whatever was deemed festive would fill his belly at the very least.

Perhaps later that evening he’d even sneak into a theater to watch Edward Sedgwick’s ‘West Point’ if he felt particularly daring, as he’d heard the picture was quite good, and then curl up on his mattress and rest until he was expected to appear for work tomorrow to oversee the progress his workers made at his construction camps.

He paid the men to work hard and while he might allow them something of a break, he expected them to be hard at task the next day. It was Christmas, it wasn’t a holiday he celebrated, but supposedly that meant something. Sher Khan dropped the card back on the desk and sighed. He was in no state to meet with anyone, let alone anyone of import in New York politics, but it looked like he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

The location for the event was located at 4 Irving Place. The building the home of the infamous Tammany Society, a political organization whose electoral base lay predominantly with New York's burgeoning immigrant constituency. But while their power seemed to have been waning in recent years, it still had the influence to get him through doors his surname lacked the authority to open. It still held power he could use, and his place in society was not yet so assured that he could easily scratch an extended hand when charity was offered.

After debating the pros and cons of attending, he removed his suit from his travel bag and exited the same door he’d come, padding down the hall to reach the community showers.

Twelve minutes later, with water dripping from his fur, he was to be found in the elevator heading for the lobby. Travel fatigued or not, he recognized when he was being thrown a bone. This was a chance to finally get somewhere and he intended to make the most of it.

The Christmas party has already begun by the time Sher Khan had finally made it to the location, frozen fur clinging to his face, forming tiny icicles on his prominent chin. He swiped at the ice with his paws impatiently while he assessed the crowd.

There’s a long line of guests, lawyers, judges, all of them people he recognized from the papers, waiting to get inside the gate, and he felt out of place among the flock of drakes with expensive high throated Arab collars, him standing alone while each one of the suited gentlemen was accompanied by lovely ladies in designer dress. To add to his own embarrassment, the head butler had noticed him and rather than ask to see his invitation, he’d been ordered to take the back door with the other servants. On another day he might have been annoyed by the assumption and hastened to correct it.

But he was nothing if not opportunistic, and he had never enjoyed the freezing weather of New York, and if playing along with the man got him out of the cold faster he was willing to take the excuse he’d been given. The Doberman guard didn't look twice as he stood in, he noticed with a frown, irritated that he hadn’t been asked for identification. He hadn’t even needed to remove the invite from his suit pocket to be let into what was meant to be a black-tie event. If these men had been in his hire, he’d have fired them on the spot. He loathed incompetence and this place reeked of it. Lax security did not bode well for the future of Tammany Hall. The staff should have been set on proving the rumors wrong, especially during an event such as this.

Behavior such as this reflected poorly on the host.

He only just kept the scowl at bay, plastering a smile there instead.

Poorly trained guards on 14th street wasn’t his concern, he reminded himself firmly. He wasn’t Irish enough for the organization.

However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t wine and dine with the prominent personalities of the times, and maybe make a few friends while he was at it. All gumption cleared from his features, he cut through the kitchen like he was born to be there, picked up a platter of smoked salmon crisps, and followed the wait staff to the correct location.

He’d easily located a server who was headed out, his platter free from food and quickly traded with him. The next stop was the bar, where the tray was hidden beneath a vase of poinsettias. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised to see alcohol at the party, the Governor was an outspoken anti-prohibitionist, but reading it in the papers and seeing it in action are two different things entirely, he thinks, staring dubiously at the various alcohols for the offering.

He’s tempted, sincerely tempted, but in the end, he selects a virgin apple cider, it was close enough to what he’d truly wanted to drink without risking intemperance. This was a night he needed to keep a clear head, and he did have work to do in the morning. Glass in hand, he sets his mind to mingling. Most seem uninterested in both him and his business. When they do, they do, they seem to visibly frown upon hearing his name, he’s a nobody here. To his knowledge there are no famous relatives in his line to speak of, all he had to offer was just him, him and his business.

They glance at his clothing and while it’s well made, it certainly wasn’t prepared for him. It bunches in places where it should be seamlessly cut, his pronounced muscles reflecting a life of labor, and he can feel their assessment of him plummet. He feels slighted, but there’s not much he can do besides remember them, these cool conservative men and their condescending upturned beaks and hope that one day, if he works hard enough, he may yet be able to pay them back in kind. Khan was not a man to cross. He might be forced to take disrespect now but, in the future, he knew he was destined for much better than what he had.

Even now, he was in a far better place than where he had begun. But at present, he would keep his head down. Now was the time to practice politics, smiling pleasantly with these men who looked down on him from their lofty perches in society, as he struggled to win them over with false friendliness he wears like a mask. If he can’t get them through his achievements, charming sociability, even geniality so fake it burns through his throat like acid, is the next best thing. He was handsome in a classical sense, his ancestry “exotic” and could be considered quite the fascination in its own right.

If the situation required him to turn himself into a zoo attraction he was prepared to do so if it worked the room in his favor. And work it did. It was 1927, and business was booming. The workers prices may have stayed the same, but the industrial shares were tripling in price and the wealthy were often looking for a project to spend their dollars on.

One day, when his position was more secure, these little plays would not be necessary, but at present he did what must. It still took him longer than he’d like to get through bureaucrat after bureaucrat before he can finally shake the Governor’s hand. He was all too aware that this ridiculous farce would be over with so much faster if he didn’t have to speak with slow and deliberate syllables to prevent his native dialect from slipping into his speech, but he manages with what he has. In a way it amuses him how things have changed since he’d moved to the States. When he was still a cub living in Bombay, his accent had been a shade too English to escape his fellow servants’ mockery, but now that he’s among Americans his natural speaking voice was too Indian to avoid judgment from those sanctified souls who would think lesser of him if only they’d known the place of his birth. He must still his tongue even among those who supposedly had the best of intentions towards Immigrants.

Keeping the accent of his birth from his voice was normal for him.

No matter what he might think of the aggressive colonizers and passive aggressive employers of his youth, in this new land it was better to be considered to an European, specifically English than Indian, as the Americans at least viewed the first as civilized, instead of a Frankensteinian assortment of frightfully offensive stereotypes. Thankfully he could keep enough of it from his voice to prevent those who would hold his heritage against him in the dark if he was addressed.

It was with this in mind, that when he finally did meet the man face to face, Sher Khan had swallowed his pride, cranking up the charm and smiling for all he was worth.

The Governor is well spoken, his words are polished, and while traces of his roots are present in his voice, he spoke in Midwestern, the closest thing to “neutral” as an American accent can get.

He wonders if the man had found someone to help him scrub his voice free of tells that pointed to a less affluent background or if he, like Khan himself, had needed to learn on his own. It wasn’t the kind of question one asked strangers, so he kept his peace.

As usual playing the sycophant worked in his favor.

He comes away with an invitation to meet with the man again, this time to take a look at a few personal projects, the most interesting of which is the Empire State building. Governor Al Smith his well known for the infrastructure improvements he'd fought tooth and nail to make, and if Khan’s lucky he and his business might be on the receiving end of a publicly funded gravy train, and he almost salivates at the lucky break he might have just received. He gives himself an internal round of applause and uses the buffet table to bide some time. Then it's on with round two, and he's trying to get a read on Smith’s likely successor, one Franklin Delano Roosevelt. If he can get in good with both men, he might be well on his way to affording a better suit. He’s almost figured out the best angle of approach when a voice on his left says, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Sher Khan ears were flattening against his skull before he’s able to check himself, and he lowers the tongs he’d been using to place a slice of Pear, Brie, and Balsamic Bruschetta on his plate. “Excuse me, sir?”

The speaker-Scrooge McDuck, a successful miner from the Klondike, if Khan remembers the snippet of second-hand gossip correctly-flashed a smile at him. "Trust me, you’ll hate them. Try the cocktail meatballs instead." Said tray was shoved unceremoniously in his direction. Khan frowned at the tray of meat as if it had personally wronged him. It took a lot for him to take anyone's advice over his own intuition, and McDuck has got that knowing look on his face, a sick smug expression the tiger is all too familiar with seeing on the well-to-do men of circumstance. It’s an expression that rarely fails to get his hackles raised, and this was no exception.

Across the room, Roosevelt seemed sincerely interested in the woman he’s conversing with, Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd, his wife Eleanor's secretary unless he was much mistaken. “They look fine to me,” Khan says, taking an extra serving of Bruschetta out of spite. “But thank you all the same.” The last part is thrown in for the sake of politeness, but he doesn’t mean a word of it.

"Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Scrooge McDuck says cheerily, toasting Khan with his plate. He snags one last spoonful of meatballs from the table and ducks out with a brisk, "Enjoy the party."

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of glad-handing, inconsequential prattle, and angrily regretting his decision to consume that damn Brie. There aren’t many guests left when he manages to introduce himself to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and to his relief he doesn’t make a fool of himself when he does. They talk longer than he had planned, and he comes away from the conversation with a genuine respect of the man. The staff is busy sweeping the floors when he finally takes his leave.

Christmas, 1932

Sher Khan knows he looks wrecked. His clothes are rumpled, fur mussed and out of place, his suit jacket sliding down his shoulders with no effort on his part to right them. There are bloody imprints of his teeth on his lower lip, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins and putting him on edge. But for now, he’s done all he can do to help the families until tomorrow. It’s Christmas in Moweaqua, Illinois and there are 54 minors trapped 625 feet below ground. The railroad car he’s currently lodged is better than a hotel, seemingly no bed bugs in sight, fitted with a crackling fireplace and a bed just for him. It’s a damn sight better than some of the other homes he’s made for himself, he’ll give it that but not much more. He can hear the crying from the families through the walls. Khan tests the bed and sits there on the edge of the mattress kicking out his legs like a child for a while looking at the palms of his paws like they held all the answers of the universe. The rush of the last two days was crashing down on him and left him low. He didn’t have to come here, but the mine had been owned by a business associate and he’d wanted to show his support. So, he’d brought a few Railroad cars from his delivery service equipped with firewood for the family members and rescue miners to live in while they tried to find the missing parties. There was no way those men were still living, he thought with a sigh. He growled in annoyance. The soft mattress and the crackling fire isn’t a comfort when he’s too worked up to sleep. Eventually, he resorted to pacing. When that doesn’t work, he opts for a long walk and perhaps a smoke if someone has one handy.

And that’s how he finds himself at eleven thirty at night sizing up Scrooge McDuck all over again.

"Meatball?" McDuck asks, holding up a roasting skewer to as the flames flicker over him, casting his figure in a mix of bright gold and deep shadows. He’s surrounded by children and not a few women, wearing a red jacket, with top button of his shirt undone and the collar uneven. A wooden crate is next to his knee and inside the crate is pile of frozen meatballs. He felt an eyebrow raise at the unexpected sight. Someone had a thing for it, he thought with some bemusement.

The way Scrooge McDuck looks at him is all casualness, but Sher Khan knows an act when he sees it and can better read the deliberateness in his gestures. Everything about him says easygoing, from the way he undoes his cuffs and tosses the cufflinks to clatter beside the log he’s sitting on to the way he brushes back the fringe of his feathers from his forehead. It’s all pretense: Trust me, I’m an open book. Sher Khan often employed the same affectation when he met with future business partners, only that was all Pecksniffian smooth talking and this, well, he has no idea what this is, or what he wants, but it’s frying his already strained nerves.

“You look lost.” Scrooge McDuck comments, crossing one leg over the other to make space for him on his log. "Why don’t you come join us?"

Sher Khan ran a hand over the back of his head and wishes he had a cigar handy. The light from the campfire casts shadows on the snow. He shakes his head ruefully, not really in the mood to talk to anyone, and takes out a vacuum flask, the strong smell of wassail wafting from the vacuum flask. The mulled cider helps to calm him when before he’d been anything but.

Scrooge straightened up, his attention focusing briefly on the flask. Khan gave him a challenging smirk, daring him to say something. The ink had yet to dry on Wednesday's vote on the "Collier beer bill" but legalized 3.2% beer the House had. If the Duck said anything against it, he wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand against him. “Right then, let’s make this simpler” he said, furrowing his brow, as if deep in thought. “What do your friends call you?” The silence stretches for only a moment before he turns to leave, only to find the duck has risen to his webbed feet, his stray collection of spare sticks in hand and nibbling at the meat straight from the skewer. “Come now.” He says, gesturing between them and the little crowd of families he has gathered around him as he swallows. “It’s Christmas, no one wants to be alone on Christmas.”

Sher Khan fights a frown that threatens to take over his face and nearly sighs at the tendency of Christians to impose their own beliefs on everyone whether they noticed it or not. He likes the extra day it theoretically provides him to catch up on business finances and even some of the festivities, but the 25th would always be just another day in the year. If you only cared about what a person was doing one day out of the year and could care less the other three hundred and sixty-four than you were not nearly the beacon of holiday cheer you thought you were.

“Friends, eh,” Khan murmured, lost in thought. There had been few who counted themselves friend of Lungri and none who had thought themselves comrade to Sher Khan. But he remembered them, he thought before taking another sip of the mulled cider, he would always remember everyone who had left. One way or another. He could practically hear singing off-key Tabaqui’s in broken English in the background while everyone gathered around the remains of the bowl they’d made for their employers.

Wassail, wassail, all over the town!

Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown,

Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree;

With the wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee

“Are you well?” Khan startles at the sound of Scrooge, suddenly standing so close without his notice. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d been shaking. ‘Wassailing’ was an English tradition he’d picked up from his employers, and one day he intended to quit it. Just... just not this year. “You ask a lot of questions.” he said softly only just managing to keep the growl from his voice. Scrooge McDuck’s boisterous laugh is genuine and disarming and hits Sher Khan like a kick to the ribs. “It’s my job,” he says, flashing a smile fit for cinema. The smile faded as he gazed back at the group huddled around the fire. “But I’m not here for business.”

Khan raises an eyebrow at the unexpectedly soft tone, then shook his head. Scrooge McDuck had been a minor once. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if he were to make a few subtle inquiries and discover he’d lost adventurers in those hills. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know the man at all, doesn’t understand why he’d share anything with him in the first place, and part of him wonders this is an attempt at emotional manipulation. It only the warmth of his personal brew that prevents him from giving voice to the host of questions buzzing around inside his skull.

“I guess you’re here for the same reason.” Scrooge said finally, and Khan clenched his teeth, saying nothing as he assessed McDuck head to toe before finally letting loose an audible sigh. There’s a large part of him that wants to stick around and tease out just what kind of angle the guy thinks he’s working on him, but his eyes are dry from exhaustion and the intelligent move is to beat a strategic retreat until he is better prepared. Screwing the cap back onto his flask, Sher Khan lowers himself to the other man’s eye level. “My job is my own business, Mr. McDuck,” he said flatly, before gesturing at the meatballs. “And I'm in not someone in need of comfort at present, so you had best keep those to yourself, my friend.”

He’s retracing his own steps in the snow to return to his train car when McDuck calls out to him one last time. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Khan,” he says, voice carrying. “Perhaps we’ll meet again under better circumstances.”

He raises an arm in an acknowledgment without giving him so much as a backwards glance, but when morning comes on the 26th the duck is nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of his presence were a couple of half-eaten cocktail meatballs and several pallets of food his company had left, donated to the families of the disaster, upon his departure.

Christmas 1938

“Why are you so keen on working with the military, Mr. Khan?” He glanced around upon hearing a man talking to him, finding no one at eye-level he gave himself a mental eye-roll and glanced down, and sure enough he’s looking at McDuck who’s accompanying the man he assumes was the speaker, a young, militant -looking owl whose eyes are covered by dense coke-bottle glasses.

The three of them were both safely outside in an alley he’d been using as a shortcut to work. But still, from the steady gaze the man had leveled him with, and the calculatingly even-tempered stance Scrooge adopted, Khan was given the distinct feeling he could very well find himself in trouble if his answers weren’t to the smallest of the three’s liking.

He shrugged, as Scrooge walked to the right of him retreating far enough that the tiger was sure the duck could no longer hear him, effectively fencing him in, caught between Scylla and Charybdis, and trying to seem less on edge than he was. He wasn’t sure how honest he should be, his goals were of the self-serving sort that tended to earn a man the judgmental stares of any listeners present.

What he wanted was to be wealthy, he was better off, entire worlds better off than he’d been in his youth, and it pleased him, to a degree, but it still wasn’t enough, it didn’t satisfy the eternal itch he felt in his soul, that yearning want that seemed to forever crave more than what he had. He needed to be at the top of the social order, looking down on the ants of civilization, so far removed from the impecunious less than worthless scrap of a cub he’d been that he might as well have truly been another person, but the separation of his two “selves” was costly. His goals required money and power, and there were profits and valuable connections to be gained from working with bureaucracy, opportunities to be had he wouldn’t get anywhere else. There was a war coming, anyone with any intelligence could see it in the way Roosevelt flaunted the Sino-American relationship (most recently with a loan of loan $25 million to Chiang Kai-shek) in Japan’s face and the demands that the Sudetenland and Danzig be ceded to Germany.

Roosevelt could state it was "100% wrong" that the U.S. would join a "stop-Hitler bloc" under any circumstances for the restful dreams of the public but the paintballs were colliding on a map of the world at a rapid pace and all of it spelled war. And where there was war there was profit.

“Well, you’re a skilled businessman.” The owl whistled. “Seven offices across the states, profits flourishing all, and I hear your couriers are top notch.” He chuckled lowly in a way that made Khan’s claws itch and he had to work to keep them settled. “It seems if you continue to play your cards right you’re set to become quite the success story.”

A feline eyebrow rose. “You flatter me.”

“Your accomplishments precede you.” Glasses flashed in the dim light, glancing from Scrooge who was leaning on the brick wall of the alleyway still out of earshot, and Khan had a feeling not everything that had been said would be to his benefit.

“I do my best.” Khan had to prevent himself from shoving his hands in his pockets. The man was government, of that he was convinced, and those types tended to get jumpy ridiculously quickly.

“Good.” Khan frowned at the response, impatience flickering inside him before he ruthlessly snuffed it out. It would not bode well for him if he lost his temper now.

“I suppose this is where I ask you who you work for?” Khan asked, because he needed to ask something, then winced internally at his little slip. By asking the man anything he had placed control of the conversation squarely in the other man’s hands.

“We’ll return that in a moment.” Was the predictable response. If he wasn’t keen on keeping his emotions subdued he knew he would have sighed. As it was he was the only one who heard it. “You never gave me a satisfactory answer, Mr. Khan.”

“I have a vision.” He said simply. "This world will change with me around."

It’s true enough. He didn’t intend to depart from the world a faceless unknown. People would know and fear the name Sher Khan.

“They already have.” The owl’s look is intent, and Khan finds himself suddenly amused.

“This feels like a job interview.” He said, unable to prevent the smile from crossing his face. “And here I am without my Sunday best.”

“Perhaps.” The man stretched out his hand. “Or maybe, I simply prefer to make friends over enemies.” Hesitating only a moment he took what had been offered, and his paw was immediately seized in an unpredictably sturdy grip. He felt a slip of paper pressed to it and his brow furrowed when he realized he’d been presented with a card, on it were the letters S.H.U.S.H beneath a quaint little logo.

“If I say no,” he said slowly, placing the card in his pocket and sizing up the small bird in front of him whose hand he had clasped only brief moments ago. “will I wake up tomorrow?”

He’s relatively sure he could take them both on in a fair fight, he may have been born handicapped, but he was still a tiger and had a tiger’s strength besides, but he doesn’t know how many people were watching them, waiting for him to seem at all threatening.

“I’ll admit I’d be disappointed,” He laughed. “but winning you away from a lucrative profession seems a long shot.”

“You’re probably right,” Khan said, smile more confident now that he was satisfied the owl meant no harm.

“Well, I think you’ve made your decision, but I’ll leave you to think about it a little longer,” he said, already walking towards to Scrooge who met him halfway. “we’re always looking for civilian liaisons, Mr. Khan.”

Khan waved goodbye to them both, unsure what to make of the encounter.

Christmas, 1949

This last decade, Sher Khan has felt less like a businessman and more like something else. He works a lot in collaboration with the military. And sometimes he thinks perhaps it’s that, he’s a lot going for him if he chose to commit himself in that direction.

He's got the awards for services to his country displayed somewhere in the foyer, but he doesn't feel like a soldier either. They use his delivery services on missions neither the military nor the newly created C.I.A. want to own up to, making him complicit in their activities. Sher Khan has thought that perhaps the government needs to create a whole new agency to take care of it rather than rely on civilians, but the thought is brief and passing. He’s making money and employing more pilots than any other company he can name.

No one seems to think it odd that the majority of his employees are of a large predatory build, most likely thinking the employee choices he'd were just evidence of his preferences as a large predator himself.

Sher Khan's pilots are stationed wherever the government tells him to place them. It's the beginning of what the newspapers are calling the cold war, and from the way, Truman and Stalin are behaving it doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

Sher Khan wakes up. Brushes his teeth and takes a shower using salt water that tastes faintly of fish. Walks through the grim, grey metal corridors, he takes a left past the cafeteria. On his way he passes by the rooms that are currently housing his men, now and then he catches glimpses of conversation, hears notes of rhythm and blues, and the occasional rock and roll, and what sounds like Bing Crosby down the hall, and finally exited out into the flight deck. The clang of something metallic falling to the floor catches his attention, and he stops, turning towards the source.

White feathers. Fit. Handsome if you fancied Avians. Looking at the duck, you’d never guess his actual age, that he’s at least two decades older than him. The man is bending down to pick up a silver chain, and when he stands, he looks startled to see Sher Khan there. He grins sheepishly, but his hand doesn't let go of the silver chain.

"I didn’t know you were the jewelry type." Khan comments, filing it away in a mental folder he is beginning to devote to the man as he watched him fidget with the chain.

Scrooge gave a wry smile and offered a closer look, revealing a ten-cent piece. “It’s my lucky dime.” the other man explained. “It’s done right by me so far.”

Khan nods.

He owns nothing of the sort but can understand the appeal of superstition during trying times, at least. “Let’s hope it keeps doing the trick.”

Sher Khan turns to go, surprised despite himself to learn he really does mean what he’d said, they weren’t friends, but he was a familiar face in a world that was constantly changing.

Just last month a new constitution had been adopted by the Indian Constituent Assembly.

His home state, Bombay was now Mumbai, it seemed that, just like him, it had found itself a different name. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He knows Scrooge is bound towards the coast of South Africa near Chalumna to see if he could find any coelacanth of his own. It wasn’t every day a man caught a fish previously thought to have been extinct, and a fisherman in that area had done just over a decade prior. The only surprise in McDuck’s announcement was that it had taken him this long to visit, world war or no. He had made but seven steps down the hall before the man calls out for him and he turns around again.

The duck’s standing in the doorway, partially shrouded in shadow. “I just wanted to tell you, Khan, that I’ve been keep track of your activities and I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.” He smiles brightly. “The country is a lot safer with heroes like you out there.”

Hero. The word makes him go cold inside.

He clenched his teeth. People were such simple things. They always wanted to a label to stick on whatever struck their interest on any given day. Right or wrong. Good or bad. People always seemed content to ignore those moments where bad things were done for good reasons, and good things could serve to bring evil people to power. That was the what he did. He made sure the good outcome was assured for his side. If that meant that people died, that things went to hell here and there, well… the greater good would be served.

He thinks of all the people he’s indirectly killed, by bullet or fire or any other method, and all the questions he never--he refuses to ask his military contacts out loud. He dreams of screams and terrified faces and desperate begging.

And thinks of profit he’s making from these runs.

Owning a company and remaining so intensely involved in its operations as he was, demanded moral ambiguity and as long as he profited from it in some way, whether it helped his company directly or preparing to make the environment friendlier to the free market, he could live with it.

He could lie to himself that it was worth it. He’d learned to lie and lie well when he was very young. It hardly mattered if he was the target of it. And as the years went on and the shades of grey he was willing to step into got darker.

What was stopping him from becoming truly monstrous? Had he already gone too far?

He didn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. Some days he wonders why he should even care.

"Hero," he repeats dully. "Well, if I’m a hero, then I’m afraid there's no such thing."

He turns once again and walks away. He hears the duck huff behind him, but he no longer has the desire to devote himself to the conversation. It’s not until he sees Scrooge and his rental pilot take off that he’s able to relax.

Christmas, 1955

If Sher Khan was asked to pick a mortal enemy and he was feeling unusually honest, he would have asked if it was possible to list events rather than any specific person. Oh, he had his rivals like any other successful businessman. The meetings with the board and investors could be stressful, particularly lately as after the recent bomb explosion in the cargo hold of United Airlines Flight 629 in November.

He’d been attempting to increase security on his own planes, and his directors were intent on dragging their feet every damn step of the way. He had a reputation to uphold and the idea that some idiot with a grudge against their mother could come along and destroy an empire he’s spent his life slowly building troubled him. He could understand their reluctance to spend the money necessary to make the improvements, but when those changes were needed to ensure safe operation for customers and personnel, the delay was maddening.

But grating as he found their continued resistance to be, none of them held a candle to the utter waste of time that was office Christmas parties.

Decorative and phony as an Addis Housewares Christmas tree (the only difference between the trees and the toilet brushes the company made is that one was dyed green), it was one of the few times of the year that he felt more like a living prop than a someone capable of independent thought.

On the plus side, he was high enough on the social ladder that he could assign department managers to handle his own offices, but that left him with no defense against the board many a potential investor that might want a piece of his valuable time. If the events themselves were entertaining that would be one thing, but sadly they always tended to be full of insufferable men he knew it was unwise to alienate and as always it was all about paw licking. When it was him doing the politicking, he’d hated that such compromises if his ego were necessary and now that his efforts (and lengthened lifespan) had made him rich the lean and hungry opportunists were after him.

Away from their noise and intrusion, he could find humor in the situation.

It was as if karma, the order of the universe, had seen fit to reward for all the times he'd stubbornly pestered the wealthy for a moment of their time but when actively faced with it, he relied on the grand all and sundry of his patience reserves to prevent himself from snapping at them. Most irritating of all was, of course, the endless parade of men asking him to dance with their daughters when they never truly just wanted the two to dance. He was a wealthy bachelor and considered “Quite the Catch” (TM). He was, however, content to remain alone, thank you very much. Still, they persisted, and he would continue to reject them.

He did feel sorry for the young ladies, he was old enough to be their grandfather, and most seemed highly self-conscious and embarrassed by their relatives’ actions (those that weren't usually rung more than a few alarm bells in his head for their own merit), but he supposed that was family for you. If you were useful, they were more than content to manipulate you for as long as possible and if you were deemed useless they mocked you endlessly and washed their hands of you as soon as they were able, declaring all the while that they were merely acting in your own best interests.

And with women, well, society seemed content to make them utterly reliant upon the men in their lives. He'd read women's rights were on the rise and hoped he would see less of this in the future. It was one thing to be approached by a woman interested in making a connection for herself and quite another when her father was bartering her up like she was livestock and you were the butcher.

But despite his laundry list of misgivings, when Rockerduck had sent him an invite to join him at his home for a night of yuletide festivities, he’d done his duty and arrived pressed, polished, and punctual. He’d shared a polite conversation with the host, dodged what had seem to be a deathtrap set for Scrooge by the youngest(and apparently most Scottish???) industrialist at the party, and had subsequently mingled with the crowd, engaging in all manner of discussion before settling at a miraculously unclaimed table next to the free buffet where he had certainly not tried to hide like a coward behind his reputation as a workaholic for the remainder of the evening. The fact that he’d done a written comparison of the varieties of mousse available in order to look like he was doing paperwork could hardly count as proof of his intent in his mind.

Perhaps he just liked mousse.

He'd been in the middle of internally debating with himself on whether he wanted to branch out into the crème bavaroise and other desserts from the custard family or if he should go with something a little more health conscious when he'd heard a cough behind him and recognized the source instantly.

Sure enough, the man behind him was none other than Scrooge McDuck, clearly out of breath and just a touch flustered. He idly wondered when his brain had decided that devoting valuable space in his mind to recognizing the Scot’s identity from coughs alone was a useful feature. But he supposed that whatever else might have been wrong with his body his hearing had never been an issue, so it really couldn't help itself.

As for why he felt the need to explain himself, well, it was best not look too deeply into that.

"Could I take this?" He asked gesturing at the glass of water opposite him.

Not seeing any harm in letting the man drink from a glass he hadn't planned to use, he wordlessly bid the bird take it. He'd found himself briefly transfixed as he watched the feathers of Scrooge's neck move while he downed it in a grateful swallow.

With some difficulty, he lifted his eyes back to Scrooge's face before he was caught staring. Other animals were so very fascinating.

McDuck gave a satisfied sigh and thanked him, but the tiger directed the gratitude towards the overzealous, or he would have if his companion hadn’t chosen that moment to dive under the table. He felt the man brush against his paws and pursed his lips, discomfited at the sudden intrusion of his personal space.

A woman passed his table, she was likewise out of breath, and apparently searching for something, or someone if he guessed right.

“Didn't mean to disturb you, Khan, but I was hoping you might be persuaded to do me a favor of Brobdingnagian proportions."

"Depends on the favor." He said automatically as he casually set his folder beneath his plate.

"See that woman over there?"

He turned to look and nodded, recognizing her from earlier.

Slender, white feathers, a stunning face framed by blonde hair immaculately styled in a heart-shaped coif, a fashionable gold patterned red dress, gold earrings that most definitely cost more than most cars, and a lovely set of pumps that matched the intricate designs on her dress.

She was quite easily the loveliest lady at the revelry.

"Well, she's got it in for me to dance with her all evening.”

“Have you tried informing her of your lack of interest?” he inspected his plate to search for any remaining smears of the mousse. He was not above scrapping at crumbs with his spoon.

“That’s the problem!” Scrooge yelled, then winced as several heads turned curiously in their direction. “That’s the problem." He sighed loudly. "It's Christmas, and I want to be a gentleman for the holiday, but I’m fresh out of courteous ways to tell her no.” He leaned in closer and Khan could feel the tips of the duck’s bill press against his whiskers. They were so close. He should feel irritated by the invasion but he didn’t. He was too busy inspecting Scrooge’s face, spellbound by the variety of emotions that could pass over the duck’s face in one conversation. He was so very alive, it was a pleasure to watch. “She’s got it in her head to marry me for my fortune, and ol’ Rockerduck over there seems to get a great chuckle out of watching me suffer.”

“Sounds like you should round up a few officers of the law to take care of the problem then.” He had the feeling Scrooge wasn’t taking him seriously and pressed him. “I mean it, McDuck, unhealthy obsessions rarely end well for anyone involved.”

He thinks of his own vice, what he’d done that still kept him away from India in fear that some old acquaintance might yet recognize him still, and only barely avoids shuddering before the other man. The fixation had not been romantic in nature, you didn’t need to be driven by motives that were romantic or sexual to be impassioned by a goal, but the way he’d acted while in its thrall had been fatuity in the extreme.

“No,” came the rather strained reply. “She’s actually a rather sweet girl if it weren’t for the fact that it’s mostly my money she fancies we’d already be married.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

"Dammit Khan, I’m being serious here.” he said, giving him a heated look. “I need your help.”

He rose his paws up in mock surrender.

"So, you want my help, I suppose you’d wish to look busy until she leaves?" he asked, clarifying what the duck had wanted. “There’s not much you can do to avoid a lady determined to get her way, the only thing that ever really seems to work is…” Khan paused, then raised a dumbfounded eyebrow when he realized the most obvious solution. “By dancing.”

The Duck looked relieved that he’d caught on and nodded.

“You do realize what people will think if they see us, two single men, dancing together.” He said slowly. He was well off enough that as long as he kept things discrete, those who might attempt to have him institutionalized under what the DSM-II referred to as a “sexual orientation disturbance”, but he’d rather avoid the possible fallout among his business associates over what was essentially a nonexistent relationship.

“Don’t worry that striped head of yours, Khan, if we play our cards right they won’t think anything of it,” Scrooge said looking at him eagerly, as he slowly seemed to be assuring himself of the merits of his own idea. “At least, not in the way you're implying, at any rate.”

“Really,” he said nonchalantly, thinking of the interactions he’d seen from boys in New York on the topic of dancing and throwing every ounce of his own skepticism into his words. “I fail to see how that can be arranged.”

“That’s because you're overlooking one crucial factor about me,” Scrooge said, eyes shining fiercely. “I’m Scottish, you know.” `

If he thought he would get a pat on the back for stating that rather obvious revelation, he was quickly disappointed. Sher Khan was a leery as he’d been before he’d made the announcement.

“What are we Scots known for?” He said bluntly. “Really, for once the dratted stereotypes are actually useful.”

He looked at him thinking of the comments he’d heard towards the Scots and smirked at him. “If you feel inclined to paint yourself in white and blue and carry a barrel of whiskey in one arm and a bag of haggis in the other screaming freedom at all who approach before beating them with the haggis don’t let me stop you.” he lifted a glass of water to toast to his success. “You shall find me a most admiring audience.”

He sipped his drink, watching the duck slap a hand to his forehead in exasperation.

“No, I am not going to be trotting about willy-nilly throwing haggis at people.” Scrooge growled at him heatedly. “Where would you even get that idea?”

“You asked, I answered.” he said, enjoying the play of emotions across Scrooge’s face. “And truth be told, I think such an event would be a vast improvement over the live orchestra our prestigious host has selected for his guest’s entertainment.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you then.” came the irritated reply. “You’ll just have to endure violin #8 untuned D4 string like the rest of us.”

“What a pity.”

“Indeed.” The duck frowned at him, “Now, what I’d hoped you would say is that we Scots are well known for our dancing.”

“No, that honor would belong the Irish.” he interjected, then laughed. “Though I suppose you’d be hard pressed to find many Americans who would understand the difference between your cultures, Scotsmen are just like Irishmen, only angrier, aftterall.”

"You’re trying to be intentionally irritating, aren’t you?” the scot growled as he bundled up a tablecloth and threw it at him.

“Perhaps.” he said, chuckling as he caught the cloth before it had the chance to hit him. “Is it working?”

“Look.” Scrooge sighed, then tilted his head to the side. "I know I’m asking much from you, but I promise, as soon as it looks like she's on her way out we'll part ways and I won't bother you again."

“There you are Scroogie!” Both men heard the woman’s approach and he found himself unable to hide a snort of laughter upon seeing panic-stricken look on the man’s face. It was actually adorable in it’s own way.

“Help me!” The man said, all pride gone as he whispered the words urgently.

Khan looked at the Duck for a moment, considering the possible social repercussions for his assistance, then shrugged them off as he stared at Scrooge’s despairing face.

As a cub in India there had been no stigma attached to dancing, even dancing among men. It had been perfectly acceptable. And in when he’d first traveled to Europe it had been viewed similarly. It had been surprising, then, to watch as the years rolled on that western men had unexpectedly begun to think themselves too masculine to commit themselves to dance. An ironic stance to take since a professional male dancer tended to boast incredible strength and endurance, thanks to workdays packed with rigorous activity and weight training.

The thoughts of Western men and their fragile notions of masculinity should hold no sway over him.

It really had been too long since he’d last danced.

"Fine, but do not think my assistance comes free.”

The Duck nodded, looking like he was tempted to drag him to the dance floor if necessary, but before he could attempt anything of the sort they were interrupted by the woman of the hour. He sensed the Scotsman attempt to subtly place Sher Khan between him and the (deceptively?) innocuous individual before him, placing Khan in the awkward but unstated position of protector of his person, a position he'd never had the opportunity to have been placed in before.

Frankly speaking, most people rightly felt themselves in the need to of protection from him instead, and he finds himself stricken dumb and mute by this show of trust, limited though it might be.

“Hello, Bridgetta.” Scrooge said, awkwardly waving at her from behind Khan’s back.

“Hello Scrooge,” She said cheerfully then started as if suddenly noticing the bright orange and black obstacle between herself and the focus of her interest. “And a very warm hello to you as well, Mr. Ah~?” She ended on a questioning note, giving him a curious once over.

“Khan.” He said immediately, wondering if Scrooge had the right of his assessment towards the lady or if she was a gentlewoman of the first order, like the English Memsahib's of his youth. A quintessential lady to her social equals and superiors but a terror to those beneath her. He'd reserve his judgement until he'd had the opportunity to observe her behavior at a later date. “Sher Khan.”

“Oh. I've heard of you!” She said, automatically smiling politely, but he noticed it had become rather strained, her arms closer drawn to her body. His name had inspired fear in the woman. How intriguing. In the years since the second World War and the American involvement in Korea’s civil war he’d noticed people had grown significantly less enamored with his business practices. “I wasn't aware you and Scroogie were friends.”

‘We're not.’ He thinks the words but doesn't say them, not if he’s meant to be of any help to the man hiding behind him. Scrooge and he seemed to have an odd tendency of orbiting each other’s social spheres only occasionally did they collide, usually at a party or some other random function. He reached out to shake her hand instead. “I don't believe we’ve had the pleasure of being properly introduced.”

She smiles prettily and tolerates his touch, but he let's go quickly, taking pity on the lady once they'd gotten over the social niceties. He can tell she's uncomfortable to be in the presence of a war profiteer and he can't particularly blame her. He'd been questioning his own decisions as well lately. He doubted much would come of it, he always seemed on the verge of quitting his involvement in state affairs before some higher up approached him with a project he felt foolish to refuse. He wanted money and power, and these contracts provided him with both.

“Well, it’s been fun meeting you.” She said with the smile of someone who was eager to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible. “But I was hoping to steal Scroogie away from you for a bit?”

“Oh.” He feigned surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Well,” She said, sending a questioning look behind him. “We were rudely interrupted by young Mr. Glomgold and I'd like to resume dancing with him, if it's acceptable with you both?”

“I'd like nothing better than to return him unto your capable hands.” he said, smiling at her in turn, his lips only stretched wider when he heard McDuck’s betrayed wheeze from behind. “Unfortunately, Mr. McDuck has promised to teach me traditional formalized dance from the dannsa Gàidhealach and I'm afraid that in the interests of cultural exchange I find myself quite intrigued at the prospect.”

“He’s done what?” She said, directing the question at the smaller man, who had widened his eyes comically at his near perfect pronunciation of the Highland dances in traditional Scots Gaelic.

“Well,” Scrooge drew out the word, suddenly appearing almost remorseful. “I agreed to show him how to do the Pas de Basques and Highcuts,” after there was no discernible change made in her frozen expression of sheer incomprehension he explained further. “It’s usually taught to young dancers who are not yet prepared to learn the entire, Ghillie Callum, the, ah... Sword Dance.”

“Your teaching him to dance.” She said sounding entirely baffled by this revelation, and Khan could more than appreciate the sentiment. He was a little perplexed by this odd turn of events himself.

“It is not just ‘a dance’” Scrooge sounded affronted now, and she lifted her hands hurriedly as if to placate a particularly nervous pet. “The Ghillie Callum is one of the oldest and most famous of Scotland’s traditional war dances and is said to date back to King Malcolm Canmor who performed it after he defeated one of MacBeth’s generals at the Battle of Dunsinane in 1054!”

“I’m sorry for not giving your dance the proper respect it deserves.” she said attempting to sound soothing. “I’m simply curious about why you would want to teach him a venerated dance of war from the Scottish Gael tradition.”

“Because he’s curious and I am more than qualified of teaching my...my friend how to dance if I do so choose.” Scrooge said, stuttering a bit over the word ‘friend’.

Friend.

Khan was glad the woman’s attention was focused on Scrooge rather than him, because if she had bothered to look in his direction she would have seen the stunned expression develop over that one single word, but both were too focused on each other to take notice of him, and he quickly reigned it in, adopting a more neutral bearing.

“But isn’t a sword dance performed with swords?” She asked puzzled by the heat in his words.

“Yes, and that is why we are doing the Pas de Basques and Highcuts.” He said tersely. “I know better than to think John D. Rockerduck would trust his guests with swords at a Christmas party. Scrooge smoothed out his lapels the grabbed Sher Khan’s paw with a startling amount of strength. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my friend has been patiently awaiting my instruction.”

And with that he led a mystified Sher Khan onto the dance floor.

“That was ‘civil’?” Khan questioned, raising an eyebrow over a confrontation had seemed to be on the verge of becoming a rather heated argument, especially considering the public nature of the conversation.

“Believe me, Khan. Scrooge said softly, a dark look on his face. “For us that was civil.”

Khan realized some of his continued confusion must have been visible from his features because when Scrooge spoke up next, he seemed annoyed with him personally. “My relationship with the lady, or lack thereof is my own business, and that is all I’ll say on that matter.”

Khan nodded, he’d already decided the topic was none of his business, but he hadn’t been quiet for even a full minute before Scrooge became the first to break it.

“Besides, I’ve got a question of my own.” He was silent, trying to think of a way of voicing his inquiry without sounding reproachful, but realizing he didn’t have the acting ability to pull it off. “How did you know how to pronounce ‘dannsa Gàidhealach’, I thought you said dancing was for the Irish?”

“I thought we had established that I was merely attempting to catch your ire?” Khan laughed, then became more serious. “Let us simply say, you are not the first man of Scottish blood to have earned my attention.”

McDuck frowned at the enigmatic retort but as he’d been ready to question him on his cryptic reply when Khan chuckled darkly. “Looks like we have ourselves an audience.”

His supposed dance instructor followed his gaze and sure enough there was Brigitta MacBridge, arms folded, and foot tapping petulantly as she watched the two men stand idly on the dance floor without initiating any steps of their own.

Scrooge groaned. “Let’s just get to the twirling and hopefully she’ll go away quickly.”

If he had indeed thought it would be over with swiftly, he was very wrong in his initial assumption. Khan did not dazzle him with some instinctual flare for the art, neither did their bodies synchronize without conscious thought.

It was quite the opposite, in fact. Like nearly any class featuring a novice, Khan’s dance steps were tottering and clumsy, Scrooge’s instruction a comedy of errors, and all overseen by the guests, some watchful, judging the two men austerely for their complete absence of class, while most adored it for the same, considering it a welcome ice-breaker, a spectacle to observe among the drinks and music and conversation.

Somewhere in the night Khan’s right hand found Scrooge’s steady shoulder while his left squeezed the small but warm hand holding his, leaning on the Duck to find balance. They were close enough that his acute senses could feel the telltale beating of the duck’s heart beating when they had knocked into each other on more than one occasion. Scrooge’s hand on his back was firm, and steady. The instruction would continue well past Ms. MacBridge’s departure, and long into the night.

When they finally departed, both covered in a myriad of bruises and scrapes, mutual regret was felt by both.

Christmas, 1960

Khan’s not entirely sure why exactly Scrooge started doing this.

The tiger is not entirely sure what the Scot’s angle is, even if he’s quiet about it, there is undoubtedly an angle because no one in his adult life has ever opted to spend time with him without having some kind of angle. He knows full well he isn’t the approachable sort and they weren’t connected in any way that mattered.

Perhaps their time at Rockerduck’s Christmas party years back had been enjoyable, but it had only been recently that he’d started this confounding behavior, so it made no sense for the duck to suddenly decide to make Sher Khan’s favorite coffee shop his own secret little safe nest away from his own company.

But Scrooge buys them both coffee and hardly ever talked unless the café received a call from the outside, and then it was to apologize for intruding on his silence.

No, it seemed Scrooge was seemingly content to join Sher Khan in his favorite café in Cape Suzette, set his folders down, pull up a chair and go back to work.

He rarely asked the tiger how he felt. But he enjoyed the coffee and if it became more than that, he could simply walk away.

Big things were set to happen in the future. He had, aided largely by the series of major airline crashes earlier in the year: Avianca Flight 671(January 21), Alitalia airliner (February 26), Northwest Orient Airlines Flight 710(March 17), the associated deaths, and the cost of every commercial flight in the past decade, finally been able to convince his investors that it would be in their best interests to have the airplanes in the service of Khan industries inspected and improved where needed, but when it came time for him to pay the piper the entire lot of them suddenly became as fierce as any insurance company and at their behest the board had rejected an earlier report by his research and development team. This meant it was left up to him to relay the motivations of his workers and he’d been forced to write up his own report explaining in simple terms why he felt everything outlined had been necessary. He had no doubt he would eventually convince them that he had spent only what was required for continued operations but until he had finished writing his thoughts he was persona non grata. It was interesting how his investors and board of directors were intent on seeing him as some sort of spendthrift when most of society thought him quite the opposite, but he supposed that was part of the reason he continued spending his time with McDuck. Purportedly lavish spenders had to stick together.

In the face of the stress of owning a business. He had found these meetings were…tolerable, and he did not mind at all if they continued.

But the curiosity always lingered when he saw McDuck in the city he was growing to see more and more as his own personal territory. He hadn’t yet ventured to ask anything about why the man chose his space to invade, always fearing the answer might disturb the bizarre peace that they had found, but he had a suspicion or two, especially when he noticed the older man watching another frequent patron with something akin to wistfulness.

He remembered returning to his business from a meeting early one afternoon, feeling inexplicable cross the first time that had happened, but his feelings had cooled rapidly as they usually did once logic had settled upon the situation. If Scrooge wanted to use him as his “wingman” so to speak, he did not mind, but he would have preferred a verbal confirmation of it rather than the constant questions his presence, rare as they were, instigated.

Whatever his intention. it’s quiet. Comfortable. No irritating bluster. No idle chatter. No questions he had to lie to answer, Scrooge isn’t some interloper he needs to glower at to avoid. Companionable silence was, he thought, one of the best things to be able to share with anyone.

So, on a particularly rough Sunday, when Scrooge isn’t really getting anything done, the owner--one Ms O’Gilt he had discovered after making a few phone calls--is not present, and the duck is pressing his white feathered fingers hard against his temples in what is obviously an effort to stave off a headache, he has a rare moment of spontaneity. Deciding his table companion has had quite enough for the day, he reached over and closed the manila folder for him. When Scrooge lifted his gaze to the tiger, he seemed ready to tell him off before he shook his head, and fidgeted with the silver chain he has clasped around his neck.

“Follow me.” The tiger said, frowning to himself when it comes out as more demanding than it had seemed in his own head.

“Where are we going?” Scrooge is mistrustful even if he is attempting to put on a deliberately laid back front, and he can understand why. Before now they had always met in public places, even if said locations weren’t strictly neutral. By following him McDuck would place power in his court, and while he’d never given him cause to fear for his life, he hadn’t given him reason to trust him either.

“Dinner.” He said shortly, allowing a small smirk to cross his face, bright yellow eyes sparkling mischievously. “Away from here, unless you’d rather pastries over something more savory?”

“Mr-“

“I’d rather we remove the word ‘Mister’ from the lexicon for the next few hours if it’s all the same to you.” He said crisply, feeling strangely light in a way he hadn’t since he’d been a small whelp of a boy.

“Fine.” The smile doesn’t come but there is a lightening of putting the folder back in his bag and stretching out the kinks he must have in his spine, sitting for too long in a rather uncomfortable chair was in no way good for the body. ”Sher Khan...”

“Yes?” his reply is a study of practiced informality.

“I’d prefer to choose the place,” Scrooge says this quietly and as politely as it’s phrased, Khan can see the line in being drawn the sand even if McDuck didn’t say it. “If you don’t mind?” The last is tacked on to keep, but he knows if he doesn’t allow the Scotsman this one provision they won’t be going anywhere.

“By your leave then.” He said slowing down to let the smaller of the two men take the lead. It isn’t until this moment that Scrooge had begun smiling, obviously more certain of the proceedings now that the power had moved into his own court.

“Thank you.” The words are genuine this time, and Sher Khan shrugs as if it didn’t matter but it’s not until he does so that he realizes he doesn’t actually care as long as it’s somewhere together. He wonders briefly if all this time among westerners has made this day feel more important than it is.

“There’s a Turkish restaurant I saw a while ago I’ve been meaning to visit, might as well visit on Christmas if they’re open.”

“Vegetarian?” He teases because he refuses to eat cow unless there was no other choice(beliefs from his past were hard to break, and he knows for a fact that deities did exist even if he doesn’t know which ones were fact or fiction), Muslims didn’t do pigs, and his colleague is bird enough to make consuming poultry awkward. The only other meat group he can think of was seafood, but for some reason he’d yet to fully grasp, many pescetarians still referred to their diet as vegetarianism

“You know me better than that!” The Duck says, looking positively offended, and the chuckle nearly escapes as he stares down at the tiny bundle of feathers. Tiny, but fierce. It’s a good description of the man in front of him.

“I suppose I do.”

Most Westerners who have never visited Turkey seem to believe Christmas and Turkey did not mix, inevitably some variation of the words, “After all, Turkey is a Muslim country” would be thrown somewhere into the conversation.

Obviously, it was true that Turkey was in fact a Muslim country, but ignoring the fact that just because a country might officially subscribe to one religion did not mean that every citizen did the same, one thing civilization had down to a fine art, is that where there is money to be made, they will make it.

It was more than possible to spend Christmas among people who didn’t celebrate it, especially is a person was prepared to move the goal posts a little on their definition of a true Christmas.

But when they walk into restaurant covered in seizure inducing lights and a wait staff wishing them a happy Christmas through false smiles while Jingle bell rock played on repeat in the background he feels something indescribable shrivel up and die inside him.

They order their food and sadly the tackiness of their surroundings is no deterrent to Scrooge, who, unlike his namesake seems to quite enjoy Christmas, even in it’s secular excess.

He feels a rueful smile breaking out across his face and shakes his head when McDuck orders Akcaabat kofta, Turkish meatballs, but brief moment of chagrined amusement aside Khan promises himself that next year he will spend Christmas alone doing paperwork inside his office using his brand-new microwave oven to warm up some carry out.

Christmas, 1966

He’s been doing research on his own, trying to gather every known fact and rumor about what had happened in Bình Hòa. Nearly every source turns up the same information, just sung in a different verse. The South Koreans were out of control, and not unlike what had happened in Binh Tai in October the numbers were staggering, only it seemed they’d outdone themselves this time. The numbers from his sources were still pouring in, ye dieties, how could this have only happened nineteen days ago when the reports had said this massacre had ostensibly ended? His body feels heavy, and not just from the hours long debriefing or the cab ride that followed. He looks at the pictures a final time and decides tonight he’ll go to the motel clerk and ask where a man could get himself some hard liquor in Point Pleasant because tonight was not a time for sobriety.

This was what being a part of the war meant, of course, because he was not the kind of boss who sat back and hibernated through every single mission Uncle Sam handed over to his men – even the missions he’d had no part of were read, he liked to know everything he could about his most frequent “client” so to speak. Khan liked to think he had a strong stomach where warfare was considered, able to excuse just about anything that came across desk in favor of keeping his gaze on the end goal-the steady flow of profits and favors owed to him by men in positions of power who might be able to be of use to him at some later date, but after what had happened, the event not even fully recorded in it's entirety at present, he’d found himself doubting his fortitude, all it had taken was obtaining a collection of files so revolting that he’d needed to take breaks just so he could dry heave over the basin, grateful he had a policy of never eating before reading a war report and he knows some of this sick Gorey yaatana ashleel these people had dreamed up and put on display for all to see is going to find its way into his nightmares for years. The list of civilians killed is long, it includes the type of people he would not have had the stomach to have personally ordered dead, a testament of the horror seemingly normal people can do when they devote themselves to a ideology and set their minds to accomplishing. Very few had it in them to have killed other's in such vast under his own will. He doubted the majority South Koreans who had committed this atrocity would have ever done so without the presence of others pushing them along.

He goes outside, stepping into the snow that’s coming down so hard it’s tough to breathe. He’s covered in moments and when it melts he’s soaked to the bone. The street and what passes as sidewalks are empty. He’s standing here alone and there are a hundred roads for him to follow, he lives in a world of fragments and shadows where bad things happen to good people. This has been creeping up on him for years, but it’s now when it smacks him in the face.

His trip to the corner store is quick.

It seems there aren't many places in this area that are open on Christmas, let alone on a Sunday evening and with the way the clerk had acted, he should consider it a Christmas miracle there is any alcohol to be had. But his trip is successful, and he's got both the alcohol and a bottle of carbonated water to get him drunker quicker. He hears another customer grumble about the snow but he can barely feel it as his paws tread through it. He'll draw himself a bath and warm them up in lukewarm water when he reaches his room, but he feels no discomfort other than what had been bothering him before he'd even set out.

The paint on the motel walls is peeling all over. He'd wanted to remain inconspicuous and had wasted as little money as he could purchasing this room. He'd wanted cheap, and that was what he'd gotten in this place that smelt of mildew and cigarettes. Externally he's striding through proud as anything, steps confident as always, his sharp eyes looking directly ahead of him, eyes checking the sidewalk for cracks, but internally he's...he's feeling vacant, like a house after a fire, his mind 8961.76 miles away, in a small village in Vietnam. Distantly he recognizes he's in shock. Hours alone with the photographs and the written reports had worn him through and he knew not what to do. He'll leave tomorrow, act like nothing had happened, but he didn't know what to do with the facts he'd been given.

He knows he's being watched, he'd seen two agents he'd bet were from the American government follow him, and he sees it for what it is, a quiet reminder that if he were to let his arrangements with the US government die over this little upset, he'd be making a decision that would anger quite a few his business associates in regrettably high places but right now he’s too spaced out to care whether he was being followed or not, and he has to fight the absurd urge to wave at the pair of them.

“Well, talk about a small world.” Someone says, and he startles at the instantly recognized voice. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Sher Khan.”

“Mr. McDuck.” He acknowledges, turning his head in Scrooge’s direction and is struck dumb by the sight of a man so lively in this dark place. “I must admit to a degree of surprise myself, but it is a pleasant one to be sure.”

The man is walking closer to him, he’s so small but carries himself well, it seems impossible that such a person could share this place with him, but the sight before him is irrefutable and without realizing it he’d slowed down to allow him to walk in step with him.

“Now, now.” Scrooge chided, shaking his finger at him as green eyes twinkled brightly at him. “It’s you who’s done away with titles in the first place, so I believe it’s my turn to say I agree that such things are behind us, we are friends after all, and by today’s standards a man does not refer to his friend as a ‘Mister’ unless in jest.”

He seems to ready to argue the point, but Khan wasn’t in the mood to argue with anyone. Wasn’t their enough of that ridiculousness in the world without adding to it?

“True enough.” He mumbled his assent and had prepared to take his leave when the Scot had noticed his purchases. From the narrowing of his eyes he got the feeling Scrooge did not approve, and he almost laughed at the thought. He was more than willing to bet that had he become privy to what he’d been doing for the last several hours that a disapproving look would be the least of his troubles.

“Got a party in mind?” Scrooge asked, referencing the size of the alcohol bottle he’d purchased. “Didn’t hear any noise in my room, and I’d have thought even a mouse’s steps would have carried through these thin walls.”

“No party.” Khan said, admitting to the truth easily enough. “I’ve nothing to celebrate at present.”

He sees his room in sight but now that McDuck is with him he feels reluctant to show the man where he’s spending the night. The thought that Scrooge will see him while he’s fit to be pickled is intolerable but he’d wanted a brief escape, had bought the carbonated water to expedite the process(he’d noticed carbonated beverages seemed to help him when he was in the mood to be well oiled), and the thought of leaving his purchase unused put his back up like little else.

“You can come with me, if you want,” Scrooge says, and he knows he’s tense his eyes sweeping from Scrooge and his destination, he feels more confused and angry than he feels the situation warrants, like he’s a small child trying to assess a trick being played on him, but this thought is so distant that it feels as if it could have come from a stranger. Scrooge frowned, visibly confused and more concerned by the behavior than he’d been when he first noticed the alcohol.

“Come,” Scrooge says, with as much authority as he can muster, and Khan finds himself unwilling to ignore it. Being alone again with those photographs is the last thing he wants to do right now and if the duck was offering him an escape he was more than willing to take it.

They enter the room together, the Scot talking glibly about his quest to find the Mothman, a strange moth-like creature that had reportedly been seen in the area by two young couples on the fifteenth of November, while his eyes sweep the room for bugs of both kinds, before standing backwardly next to the space heater, the man had brought.

He sits when told to sit, and takes the tea the man gives him when it’s offered, ignoring the vague warning bells in his head that tells him this could be a trap, that Scrooge has no reason to help him and so his assistance was only a ploy to get something from him but he’s comfortable here. It’s like a story his memsahib, told her son at night about how friendships were supposed to work and for once he doesn’t feel like debating whether or not this was real, happily intent to let things be.

He’d fallen asleep to hearing Scrooge talk and when he’d woken up on Christmas morning, the heater off, but the room pleasantly warm his body tucked in to Scrooge’s bed, surrounded by a warm comforter. A brief once over provides the memorable image of the man in question sleeping in a bivouac sack next to him, and the sight stirs more fondness than he thought it ought, but he doesn’t fight it, content with how things went.

He’s briefly concerned with how the agents following him had viewed the scene, and what they would report to their superiors in Washington, but he decides that he’ll deal with that problem later, right now he needed to escape the room and make it back to his own without waking his unforeseen roommate.

He manages it, somehow much to his own surprise and when he vacates the premises, he leaves the alcohol he’d purchased, a silent thank you to Scrooge for tending to Khan’s person while the tiger been in his condition the night before.

Christmas 1977

Khan would have loved to simply ignore the invitation he’d received.

Perhaps he’d have lied and say it had been lost in the mail.

But Sultan, doubtlessly reading his fellow tiger’s aversion to remaining in his presence for any extended amount of time, had delivered his summons in person, presenting him with a garishly decorated card and then wishing him a happy holiday as if oblivious to what he had done.

He wasn’t unaware, that much Khan was certain.

For one thing, the man was a tiger and his fur was not all that dissimilar from his own, and in a move Khan was willing to bet was pure passive aggression on his part, the card had been filled with sparkling glitter that had stuck to his fur and refused to release their hold on him, even after he’d tried a number of increasingly frantic attempts to remove them.

After some soul searching, he’d been forced to shave his hair up to his shoulders to finally be rid of it. Fortunately, he preferred suits to all other forms of clothing and after having his clothes cleaned following the unexpected glitter bomb, they had worked well to hide his naked skin from view. That had left only his hands to contend with and he’d needed to wear gloves to prevent anyone of importance from realizing what had happened. Sultan had made a visit later on that week and upon seeing the cloth coverings Khan had worn over his hands he’d smiled like a model from a toothpaste commercial and commented that Khan looked rather good in gloves.

If they hadn’t been in such a public place, Khan knew he would have attempted to strangle the man.

Even with people watching it had still been a very close call, his temper was always close to the surface and he did not tolerate fools making a mockery of his person easily. He’d managed to tolerate the teasing with as much grace as he was able, but he’d found himself wondering for weeks afterward what it would have felt like had he given into the temptation. On a more constructive note, this had been a lesson, and one he was not likely to forget anytime soon. When he was given a letter, even by someone who’s identity he knew, he would have security screen it first. Sultan was a business rival, and the letter could have easily contained something far deadlier than glitter. By trusting him at all, he’d set himself up for this fall. It was with that in mind that he’d lowered himself to joining Sultan at his little soiree.

People seemed curiously grave and he could not blame them. It wasn’t that Sultan wasn’t trying to make his event a pleasant diversion for all. The man was festooned in trappings of red, white, and green, the spitting image of Christmas Baba himself, all warm chuckles and gentle ribbing, while his home had become a sight worthy of a thrice be damned Hallmark card, bedecked as it was to look like a winter palace.

There were beautiful crystalline icicles that dripped from the ceiling, garlands of Fraser Fir that cascaded down the stairwell ending in wreaths of Basalm, and tiny juvenile Canaan Firs decorated to excess next to lit blood red candles on every guest’s table.

There was no fault to be found in the food selection either, fine assortments of seasonal favorites from around the globe could be found on that spread, and he found himself glad to have visited despite himself for the meal alone.

The problem was that it had simply been a bad month to cherry top a lousy year, and though an effort was made by all, many were less inclined to put their full effort into that old song and dance routine when no one present would buy it.

Perhaps it was petty of him, he knew he would not be forgiving the man for what he’d done to his fur in the foreseeable future(if ever), but he felt a spark of Schadenfreude when Sultan finally pulled himself away from the crowd in a visible pout.

He surveyed the crowd and spotted another familiar figure extract himself and Khan followed him with his eyes to the balcony outside where he seemed content to remain. Excusing himself at a quarter to midnight, he'd finally followed him out, curiosity winning out in the end. The door sweeps opened with a whisper across plush carpet and it’s quiet as the grave outside, a hush so thick it’s like stepping into the vacuum of space. The cold air hits him like a physical blow, and he’s glad that for once he’s wearing shoes because the last time he was out in freezing cold with Scrooge McDuck he’d caught ill and had been sick for weeks afterward. He takes in a mouthful of his heated cider, sips it slowly as the drink does battle with the cold that sinks into his bones.

Scrooge is a silhouette of white and red on the balcony.

The temperature outside over fifty degrees cooler than inside Sultan’s home, the chill of winter is thick as molasses in the December air. Scrooge is huddled up against the railing in a thick coat Khan’s never seen before, his arm draped over the cold metal decorated in flashing lights with a small shot glass dangling from his white fingertips. Wordlessly Khan joins him, leaning over the banister to look across the lights blinking merrily in the distance. They’re both high enough up that the sounds the Cape Suzette nightlife can no longer be heard.

He shut the door and suddenly it felt as if they were the only two people in the world. Scrooge sends him an unfathomable look and Khan returns it with a probing stare of his own.

“So, I take it the party is not to your not liking?” he asks. The wind snatches away half his words, tosses them out into the night as he clicks his lighter on and then off, before repeating it once more. He's given up on his smokes, it was something his English master had done that he'd copied in an attempt to create a public persona the masses would find palpable. But smoking had run it's course, the cons far outnumbered the pros, and so he'd quit, but there was something about carrying a lighter that he still found relaxing. “Normally I’d expect to see you right in the thick of the festivities.”

“That would be like me, wouldn’t it?” Scrooge is moving the empty shot-glass from hand to hand, mind elsewhere. Khan pictures the glass slipping free from his hands and shattering on the sidewalk below. “Somehow I just don’t feel up to it today.”

“If I were of a more curious disposition, I’d find myself wondering as to the cause.” He wants to know what has McDuck upset but asking him outright has never been in his style.

“Charlie Chaplin.” Scrooge says suddenly, turns to face Khan and his tongue flashes over his beak before he swallows the last of his wine. “I don’t suppose the name rings a bell to you?”

“A British Comedian, if I’m not mistaken?” He says diplomatically while thinking of the trouble the Hitler- doppelganger who had gotten himself into a number of years back for being chummy with Commies (both on and off the camera) and had gained the wrong sort of attention for it. His career had suffered greatly in an active smear campaign against him led by J. Edgar Hoover and he’d been barred re-entry into the United States as a result.

“That would be him.” Scrooge nods his head towards the open french doors and Khan follows him back inside. It really is a lovely home, though he doesn’t say it, as Sultan would probably see it as some kind of personal victory over his business rival.

“How’s your German?” Scrooge asks brusquely as he goes to grab a plate of food and Khan lines up behind him next to the table.

“Not as good as my English, but enough to be conversational.” he said after briefly pausing at the seemingly random question.

Scrooge was looking at him, appraisal in his eyes, and Khan frowned at the weariness in that look, like Scrooge was finally feeling his age. It didn’t look natural on his normally exuberant face. “Early this morning Chaplin died at his home in Switzerland.” He said quietly as they sat together at a nearby table, his eyes suddenly anywhere but Khan’s face. “I’ve been invited by Oona-- ah, Mrs. Chaplin to attend his funeral on the 27th, and I was hoping I might be able to take someone with me.”

Khan doesn’t respond, waiting for Scrooge to continue, but all he’s greeted with is the sight of Scrooge’s eyes glancing at him then the back wall, before returning to him, hopeful anticipation written on his face.

The realization that Scrooge meant him was slow in coming, and once it did, left him more confused than anything else. Scrooge was not without options, it made no sense for him to seek his company.

“I’d be honored if you joined me.” Scrooge finally gave voice to the request when Khan remained silent.

“Wouldn’t such a trip better suited to someone else?” the tiger asked. “I doubt the late Mr. Chaplin would have liked to know that someone of my moral standards was attending his funeral.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” The duck commented in a tone of practiced faux innocence and earned a scandalized laugh from his listener.

“I’m sure his wife would love to hear your justifications.” Khan said, far more amused than appalled. “But it still seems nigh disrespectful to have someone such as myself at the inhumation of an anarcho-syndicalist.”

“As long as you don’t start preaching the glories of total capitalism and monopolization, you should fair about as well as me.” Scrooge wiped his beak with a napkin and leaned across the table, looking him straight in the eyes. “Everyone knows. I’m an Adventure Capitalist and somehow I’ve got an invite.”

“You’re their comrade.” He said frowning at McDuck. “I doubt the people Mrs. Oona Chaplin would invite would welcome me.”

“You’d be coming as my friend.” White hands clasped his own across the table and when he looked up from where their fingers intertwined he found himself paralyzed by the pleading in the older man’s gaze. “Please come, it’s the holidays and both Duckworth and Beakley are with their loved ones.”

“So, having no one else available to pester, you choose me.” He smirked at him. “How very magnanimous of you.”

A napkin was tossed at his head but expertly caught and returned to the sender’s side of the table. He noticed the look of hurt that had crossed the duck’s face and Scrooge was already getting up to leave.

There are few constants in Khan's life: death and taxes and the constant offense his words inspired in someone, unhappily, this time the person harmed is someone he cares about and he felta stab of dread course through him as he watches the duck depart. Habit keeps Khan's face neutral, but he’s up in an instant following McDuck out the door.

"You can be rather tactless." Scrooge comments bluntly, turning his gaze to stare at him when he finally caught up with him. "I know it can be hard to tell what words to say at any given moment, heaven knows I struggle with it myself, but--"

“I’m sorry.” Khan says it instantly, he’s unfamiliar with saying the word, but this was something that needed to be said in normal conversation when one person hurts another. It’s not a lie either. He doesn’t want them to be at odds over something like this.

Scrooge walks over at him and sighed, leaning against him, saying nothing for a moment as the tiger’s body warms from the touch. "Don’t be, Khan, it was a mistake."

Frustration toyed at the corner of Scrooge’s mouth before he’d pointed an accusatory finger at the window. "I’m just worried how his friends will take my presence and I find myself desperately in need of backup."

"People are fools.” He says shaking his head. “You could always opt not to go yourself?”

Mcduck lets a huff of breath escape out his beak, and Khan feels it brush against him. He has to work to remain absolutely still. He’s not familiar with someone standing so close to him. The sensation is one in which he is unversed, but it is not disagreeable. "Better for my blood pressure that way, but no, even with that temper of his, he was a stand up man, and I want to ensure he’s recognized as such."

"You're still staying for dinner, I hope." Khan asked, not trusting himself not to say anything that land him in hot water for what was clearly a sensitive issue. “You left that plate of meatballs nearly untouched.”

“I suppose it won’t hurt anything.” And just like that McDuck is following him back where they’d come. To the other tiger’s visible pleasure(he swore he saw those pearly whites sparkle more than once) the soiree become a damn sight more lively in their absence, the guests finally getting into a festive spirit. It was hard to begrudge them this, because when their “peers” got into it, so did Scrooge. It was nice to see the Scot absorb some cheerfulness from his surroundings after the palpable unhappiness he’d felt all evening.

As for Khan, while he still refused to go to the funeral at the Corsier-sur-Vevey cemetery, Scrooge had somehow still managed to rope him into accompanying the older man to Switzerland. (But he put his foot down at sharing the same hotel, yes it would be cheaper, but a man had to throw up his boundaries somewhere)

He wondered if he should be concerned by how frequently that seemed to happen.

Christmas, 1983

Scrooge was hard to get hold of the day the Ducks died. Shere Khan had found out about it on the news. He tried to find the man at the funeral but it was too crowded. He hoped his servants were able to do something for him.

The cameras had captured his appearance at funeral for him. The shots showed Scrooge crying. Khan had never seen him do that before. He had never been close to people who cried. His mother had always been too tired to cry. He’d never been good at mourning either. People were alive and then, warning or not, they weren’t. He’d never known how to process that.

If a death affected him at all he usually numb. He stared into space and sighed a lot. He paced aimlessly. Crying would be easier, he thought as a stranger from the outside looking in; then perhaps the mourning would be done and he could move on. But he didn’t cry. He didn't move on either, not really. Just kept the emotions within until they threatened to overwhelm him. Scrooge had been there to see him in such a state. It seemed unfair that he hadn't been able to do the same.

Still, he'd felt unease when he'd discovered a note Scrooge had left with his Secretary on top of his files. It wasn’t like Scrooge to request his presence without actually being present to do the deed himself.

He stood frowning at the fireplace in the grand foyer, waiting for the master of the house to make his appearance. He'd been shown in by Duckworth, a visibly aged canine who acted as both butler and valet to the man. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd face when he was finally facing the man, especially if he began crying, he wasn't much good at comforting others either, not genuinely. It took a good deal of pressure, typically slowly over time to get him to feel for the deaths of strangers, despite their connection to McDuck that was all they were to him. And Scrooge, well, Scrooge had a talent at detecting when others spoke falsely. Khan was not adverse to simply putting up an mask of empathy when the situation called for it but if Scrooge detected the ruse the act had the potential to backfire fantastically. It wasn't worth l expending the energy if it only created drama. But this situation, awkward as it was, could be conquered. He'd faced far worse opponents than a grieving old man and despite his lack of experience, he was prepared to take whatever came his way.

He was still thinking up various scenarios he could very well encounter and the various avenues of attack he had open to him in each that would place him in a position that was, if not advantageous, than at least in a situation that was no worse than he was at present when door opened behind him. “Well met, my dear-“ He heard a soft sound from the doorway that had not been among his various predictions, he’d dismissed anything to do with this scenario straight out of hand, believing Scrooge wouldn’t be the type to take interest in such mundane things. It seemed he still had much to learn about the man, he thought as he turned around. “ Scrooge…”

“Khan.” There in the doorway stood McDuck, carrying two young ducklings, newly orphaned if he was not mistaken, their soft downy white feathers formed a halo of floof around their little heads.

“I’ve never imagined you as a family man.” he said, "Who’s children are they?” He had a strong hunch that they were the young Duck twins, children of Scrooge’s recently departed sister.

He could not deny to himself that he secretly admired the way the man looked carrying the young children in his arms. He wondered what type of father he’d make, and thought of those looks Scrooge made at Ms. O’Gilt and imagined the sort of children they’d have together. Rather than inciting jealously, he’d felt a smile threaten to break out over his lips. Both Scrooge and Goldie were attractive specimens for their species, there was no doubt their children would all be quite lovely. Khan was well aware he was hardly parent material himself, there was too much in his past that prevented him from truly considering it, but the idea of Scrooge looking after children of his own was a welcome one, the mother was an important factor, but as long as she treated them as a parent ought he didn’t really care about her identity.

Scrooge sighed and kicked the door shut behind himself with a webbed foot. Khan stared at the man who suddenly looked far more tired than he’d originally thought. He didn’t look like he was ready to cry, thank the fates for small but priceless miracles, but he had certainly lost some of his luster. Like a battery that had been used and discarded, the energy was depleted but the empty husk remained. That look wasn’t one he ever wanted to see on Scrooge’s face again. “Thought you’d have been through the news reports by the time I got back here.”

“That’s not an answer.” He admonished lightly, looking at those signs of weariness and finding himself drawn intractably closer. The desire to take Scrooge’s head in his own paws was strong, but the impulse was dismissed. Besides, the ducks arms were laden with children. It wouldn’t do for him to make any unexpected actions that might result in the older male dropping them.

“I hadn't planned on becoming one." Scrooge stated shortly. "But sometimes life likes to throw us it's curve-balls.”

Khan looked at him for a moment, then down at the tiny blanket bundles, one of gentle blue the other soft pink, each nestled in his arms. He’s not sure what he thinks about Ducklings in general, doubted it would be wise to leave him alone with them for an extended amount of time, but the fact that they were related to Scrooge made them special. “Indeed, it does.”

“These two sweet young ones are Hortense and Quackmore's wee bairns.”

“I heard about them from the news.” He moved to get a closer look, tail tucked in close to his body as he stared at the two, both seemed too peaceful to share a blood relationship with Scrooge McDuck, but time would surely change that. He wondered which of them would resemble their uncle most closely. “But I hadn’t expected to see you taking care of them.”

“That’s what family is for.” Scrooge was staring at them as if they were the most precious beings he had ever seen, and the tiger felt as if he was interfering in something sacred. He wondered if he should leave. His experience with family matters had been nothing but pain and heartache. He knew without having witnessed it that he had never been on the receiving end of such unbridled adoration. “Did you pick up on the tyke’s names from the news too?”

“No, I hadn't…” he trailed off, more than content to simply watching the tiny family interact. He wondered if, before his mother had realized he’d been born broken, she might have ever looked at him with half the adulation Scrooge possessed as he watched at his niece and nephew. He let himself imagine for a moment, then shook his head at his own mawkishness. He was far too old to be getting jealous over such things and that was all such fantasies would engender.

“The girl is Della, the boy is Donald." Scrooge said suddenly giving him a full-on stare. "I wanted to introduce you to my family and perhaps invite you to Christmas dinner, we still have room for a plus one, if that’s agreeable.”

“They're delightful.” He said with a soft murmur of approval. The tiny puff balls were ridiculously cute. ”But I’m not convinced most people would consider me child friendly…”

“I don’t see why you can’t,” Scrooge corrects. “Besides they’ll both be judiciously guarded by Elvira, and should you suddenly display any heretofore unknown pediaphobic tendencies, she’ll be more than capable of fighting you off with a broom if need be.”

“You honestly want me,” Khan says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “To spend the evening in your home?”

“You keep saying that like it’s surprising.” Scrooge asked frowning at him. “We’re friends, and besides our housekeeper makes this unbelievable smoked salmon with freshly crushed-”

“Scrooge.” Khan rests his hand on the fireplace, begging for some higher power he didn’t believe in to give him the patience to continue. “This might have slipped your mind, given your dissociation with the public at large, but I’m a war profiteer.” His stern gaze became more grim. “Do you honestly think the woman is going to want someone like me near her grandchildren?”

She’d just lost her son and daughter-in-law, it didn’t seem like his place to intrude on a time that should probably remain within the familial circle.

“Elvira is one of the sweetest and most nonjudgmental ducks in the family.” Scrooge says evenly. “And besides, I’ve told everyone about you before and none of them have condemned my association with you.” He laughed. “Quite the contrary, most have expressed an interest in meeting you.”

There was no way this was going to work. “You’re a fool, my friend.”

“Some would say it’s my best quality.” he smiled irreverently at him, and Khan rolled his eye, knowing that no argument would sway him otherwise, finding himself powerless to resist the invitation, the tiger followed Scrooge into the dining hall.

The Christmas dinner went more smoothly than Khan had expected. It was awkward at first, at least for him. Elvira and Humperdink(the older woman’s husband) were polite and cheery and didn’t seem to feel he was a danger to them or their families. They asked him questions about his work, discussed local politics, and about his own family. Elvira chatted happily about her daughter Daphne and son Eider and cried over fond memories she’d had of her recently departed loved ones, while her husband spoke of the daily duties of owning a farm.

The housekeeper, Ms. Beakley, and Duckworth eat with them, and the two most of the time talking with Ms. Duck about some New Years charity drive the three were planning to carry out.

It makes it easier for him to settle back in his chair, slowly letting himself grow at ease with his surroundings, to relax. These people loved each other, it was hard not to notice something so obvious, it felt like just another fixture of the house, hanging over everything, and making it bright.

And Scrooge had not exaggerated his housekeeper’s cooking abilities, it is, in fact, some damn good crusted salmon.

It’s not until the housekeeper was cleaning up and Elvira is off putting her husband to bed(who’s a little too sloshed to make it to bed on his own) after announcing that she’ll be taking the children up next that Scrooge finally turns his attention to him.

“I wanted to thank you for attending.” Scrooge says finally as silence had stretched between them. “H-Hortense was among those who’d wanted to meet you, and aft-after she passed, I thought, better late than never.”

Khan was silent for a moment. “Thank you for having me.” There wasn’t much to be said, but he made a stab at it anyway. “It was a pleasant departure from the norm, and if she was anything like you, I’m certain I would have enjoyed meeting her as well.”

“I think she’d have liked you too.” Scrooge said after, brushing at over-bright watering eyes. “After she knocked your ego down a few notches first, at least.”

“Well, she’d be welcome to try.” he sniffed in false pomposity. “But I’m afraid my ego is untouchable.”

Scrooge laughed then turned serious, gaze contemplative.

“I'm having Elvira take over the duty of watching the children.” he said, staring at the children who were wiggling in their bassinets.

“Makes sense.” Khanaid watching as the little boy, Donald sucked thoughtfully on his tiny fist. “Children require constant love and attention, you’d have to make sure you were always ready to provide for their needs… raising twins would be a logistical nightmare for anyone, but as a CEO that holds especially true.”

“I still feel like she’d want me to stick around for them.” Scrooge said, voice defeated.

“Then why not wait until later.” The tiger said, shrugging. “Then when you run across an ancient artifact carrying some terrible curse, you can tell them not to touch it and still reasonably expect them to obey.”

They both shared a private laugh before Khan left him shortly after that, ushered back the way he’d come by a silent Duckworth.

Christmas 1988

It was amazing Khan thought, that F.O.W.L, which was an acronym for “Fiendish Organization for World Larceny, could be cartoonishly buffoonish in some moments then live up to their name in the next.

Well, it would be amazing if he wasn’t as angry. In August they’d struck Bihar while the citizens were still reeling (709 persons dead and thousands injured) the after the earthquake in Nepal on 21st.

The criminals had stolen precious artifacts from the country and were intent on selling it to the highest bidders around the world. Ironically, he’d been among those called and their greed had sealed their fates. Knowing window to retrieve the stolen artifacts was rapidly closing and he was intent on using the chance he’d been given before it was lost to him.

He had well-trained men and women, ready and able to lend their considerable talents, the one’s he’d hired each and every one of them after witnessing their test flights first hand and continued to retain at the high costs of fully unionized workers because they were the best, and he was only interested in hiring those he had determined were the best.

And to his own fury and righteous indignation he was aware that, for this case, that they, even with the money attached they would be of little service to him.

He needed to keep this situation discrete, and to attain that he needed to request aid from Scrooge McDuck, a man who he was aware could keep his presence discrete while robbing from the thieves, but his work did not come cheap. Cashing in that favor he was owed for that Christmas dance many years ago had meant he’d been able to secure his assistance without paying him by the hour (he’d instead agreed to pay for food and travel expenses).

Scrooge had accepted it, but he hadn’t felt as strongly about the theft as he did. But he supposed that was to be expected from the man. It wasn’t his country so instead it had become a game. Khan had needed to repeatedly tell himself that the man had meant no harm with his witticisms before he could finally settle down. Scrooge was the best man for the job and he had faith he could retrieve the items if he put his mind to the task, he just needed to accept his personality would not change, even for something as important as this.

Besides, most days he found that personality charming, it wasn’t hard to settle back into that line of thinking as he watched Scrooge practice his new persona with the same sort of lively intensity that he had always exerted when facing tasks assigned to him.

He might have believed the situation should be treated with more solemnity than it had, but even he couldn't stop the smile that crossed his face as Scrooge came trudging out of the changing room, fully dressed in a suit made for a body quite a bit larger than him and looking like a disgruntled sheep after a sheering. "It's a good cover."

"I know. " Scrooge looked down at the sleeves of his suit jacket and sighed heavily as he rolled them up a few inches. "Nonthreatening Pencil pusher, exactly the person most will dismiss off hand.” He pouted when the rolled sleeves were lost when he moved, leaving only wrinkles behind to speak of his trouble. “That's the point of it, I suppose."

"I want you to be be prepared that your cover might not fool all you meet.” Khan said, he’d moved in behind the duck, watching him as Scrooge stood inspecting himself in front of the mirror. "Those items are to be returned, but it won't happen if you're dead." And he would mourn the duck's passing. The treasures stolen were invaluable relics of times long gone, and Scrooge, was, as the years rolled on, a living reminder of the past, much of it the two had shared (and those moments when they didn't, the ones from his adventuring, made for such interesting tales, an unlooked-for diversion at otherwise dull as dust dinner parties). Khan could go on without him, but he'd mourn his passing.

"Such concern for my wellbeing does an old man's heart proud." Scrooge said sarcasm dripping from his words. "I've yet to hear you say even word about the suit itself."

Sher Khan laughed at the petulant tone in the other man's voice and gave him a thorough once over for his benefit. The suit was oversized, not surprising for a garment that had originally belonged to Sher Khan and smelled strongly of mothballs. It was his first suit, one he'd worn as a teen in his master's home. It was a reminder of a past he wanted to overcome but he'd felt loath to rid himself of it. For once it had been of use for something beyond the sentimental, he hadn't wanted to do something so intimate as buying the man a suit(but had greatly underestimated his own reaction to seeing Scrooge in something that he'd worn in his youth.)

“Perhaps there is a sort of youthful charm to it.” He said thoughtfully, raising his paw to smooth out the shoulders of the ill-fitting suit. “All inexperienced in the art of buying suits for yourself, unfashionable and clearly second hand at that." He smirked as he lifted his paws from Scrooge's shoulders. "Clearly a young man looking to make something of himself but in need of a firm hand to smooth out his innocence into something grand."

Scrooge glared at him, meeting his eyes through the mirror but there was a twinkle in his eyes that said he was mildly amused. "Keep talking and your liable to lose a hand."

"Such violence in one so young." He laid a paw over his heart. "Our young man is repressing a good deal of anger beneath his unassuming facade." Khan smirked back at the glare. "Perhaps you'll find yourself the perfect fit for a life of crime."

"Careful.” Scrooge rolled his eyes, pushing Khan's hands away gently, and shook his head at the younger man's words. “This new version of me might just take them up on that."

"Following the orders of others beyond yourself, at this esteemed point in your life?" Khan laughed at him outright, the duck had changed at the bit the moment he felt he was being treated as anything less than an equal. "You wouldn't last a week."

Scrooge smiled without shame. "Probably not, they'd have to teach me my place."

"And then it would be my responsibility to care for you upon your return." He smiled to indicate He was teasing. "I'd have to piece this you back together."

"And how would that go, exactly?" Scrooge said turning his head back so Scrooge could see the little smirk playing across his features.

"Good food, for one." Khan said, piercing the fabric with s lapel pin featuring a partridge on a tree branch to his breast pocket (and a recording device concealed within). "Holding you while you cry." He chuckled, and Scrooge huffed softly. "Maybe return you to a suit that actually fits that tiny form of yours."

"Please, I see you watching me, and you can deny it if you want but you're keen on changing my clothes to suit your desires." Scrooge laughed, amused. "Tiny or not, we both know full well you like my form."

Khan raised an eyebrow at the suggestiveness of those words but answered evenly all the same, feeling amused rather than offended. "I believe I prefer it better in a suit that actually fits it."

the duck laughed at that, then in a softer tone. "I think this suit is working better than I thought.” Scrooge smirked at him. “I’ve never seen you more eager to get me out of one."

"Indeed." Khan smiled before giving the man’s hair a ruffle. "Once this mission is concluded I might find myself compelled to ensure you’ll never be able to wear it again."

“Oh?” Scrooge smiled, leaning in unconsciously to Khan's warm paws. “Well, put it that way, I suppose there’s nothing I can say against that plan."

"I thought not." He turned Scrooge around and assessed his appearance with a more discerning eye before stepping back and slipping back into work mode. "They're not going to make your job easy for you, these people are the sort of idiots who keep important information from their lawyers and end up behind bars when their legal team could have gotten them off if they'd simply given them full disclosure."

"I know that." Scrooge said, nodding as he'd carefully straightened his tie. "How long should I let that slide?"

"This isn't your first time dealing with these people, I trust you to get a read on the situation.” He said firmly, it was the truth, Scrooge McDuck was intelligent and understood people, even if he occasionally let his fallible heart lead him astray rather than rely on the logic of his own mind. “According to my resources F.O.W.L is lacking proper accountants and are in desperate need of someone to put their affairs in order." He gave the duck a once over. "And that will be our easiest way in."

"Who'd have thought international criminals would have been so bad at keeping track of paperwork." Scrooge commented sardonically, and Khan had scoffed in response.

Scrooge had turned to leave, he had a flight to catch and superiors to impress, but Khan's voice called him back.

“One moment” Khan smiled and reached forward, setting Scrooge's tie just slightly off center. "And, there he is, Joakim von And, your typical boring accountant with absolutely nothing to hide."

"Even in this context that's not a compliment." The man addressed rolled his eyes and sent a mock salute his way.

"It’ll grow on you." Khan insisted and shook his head. The mission would require a lot of radio silence between the two but he hoped he'd hear from Scrooge soon. "Good luck to you, Joakim."

"Thank you, Mr. Khan." He followed Scrooge with his eye well past the moment when he rounded a corner and was no longer visible.

Christmas, 1994

Somehow, the last thing he’d expected when his security forces kicked the door in was to have been beaten to the punch by the man they were there to rescue. But there they were. The entire damn terrorist cell, scattered about the room like a landfill after a hurricane. Those laid out either barely conscious or worse. Khan was impressed, of course. He might have even said it out loud if the duck that had no doubt been behind this little surprise wasn’t standing there, looking like a page out of vogue hommes international, adjusting a hat he must have stolen from one of the fallen F.O.W.L agents.

It took him a moment to catch his breath. There was blood everywhere, and thankfully most of it did not belong to the small proud figure before him.

“Well aren’t you very picture of the cat who got the canary.” He remarked to the self-satisfied man in the center of the room, body placed in combat position and ready for battle.

“Sorry.” Scrooge smirked at his audience, then lowered his arms to his sides, clearly more relaxed after seeing the tiger. The action drew Khan’s attention to the spot of blood on his shoulder. “Were you looking forward to catching me in a Damsel in distress moment, my friend?”

Khan stepped into the room as his men secured the area and leaned down entering into the duck’s personal space. He hadn’t seen Scrooge in years and he’d felt the loss harder than he’d expected.

“Perhaps.” He admitted, keeping the emotions from his voice.

"I’ll have to keep that in mind next time I’m captured.” Scrooge smiled. Looking almost as glad to see him as Khan felt. “Perhaps we could even reenact one of those stories of old.”

Khan’s attention had drifted away from Scrooge, occupied with supervising his men in their efforts to package up the pilfered relics, but the large cat had spun around upon hearing Scrooge’s words and laughed. “Have you no fear for your virtue, McDuck?”

Scrooge raised an eyebrow looking more intrigued than censorious. “That’s not a very noble question, khan.”

“Unless I recall the subject matter differently,” he said slowly, adopting a smile that might have been a touch feral, flashing those pearly whites as he grinned in the duck’s direction. “Neither were the knights in those stories.”

Without warning Scrooge had grabbed him around the middle, pulling Khan into a quick, hard hug. It probably stung a little on the duck’s end, stretching out the wound on his arm, but that was what he got for not letting the tiger rescue the man properly.

“You have no idea how much I missed your stupid jokes.” He said clutching at him with enough force to wind Khan, who had, for his part, froze in place, eyes widened impossibly large. Scrooge let go all too soon and Khan fought the mad urge to return the gesture. He ruffled his hair instead.

“Let’s go.” He said, as he latched on to the smaller man’s hand without noticing the motion. “We need to find you a decent meal to slay your ravenous hunger.” and have a closer look at the wound on the duck’s shoulder while they were at it to ensure it was nothing life threatening.

Khan heard him chuckle and watched the duck separate from him to fetch an ornately decorated chalice as Khan leaned out to check the hallway. “Honorable as ever, my Champion.”

Khan didn’t correct him, finding the playfulness pleasing, he too had missed this dearly, but knew, had the duck been anywhere near serious he’d have been unable to contain his derisive mirth, as a less fitting person for the title of a "King's Champion" could scarcely be found anywhere.

Far more likely was he to seize a throne for himself than to defeat any challenger to a monarch's right to be crowned.

But, for the moment, he was contented to play along. It cost him nothing to persist, he was feeling much improved, less drained, more fit, than he had in months, and if he continued, if he lingered a little longer with Scrooge and the old duck’s many moods and phases, it would upset none of his plans. It would be temporary. A butterfly passing in the night, as all things were, but in this second, there was no reason to leave, he was where he wanted most to be, and so he hardly required convincing to stay.

Somehow Scrooge had learned to make this part easy.

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