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Masterlist
✦ About the Author
Name: Coulro
Pronouns: they/he
A few fun facts:
I love character-driven storytelling
I’m always weak for good angst and emotional payoffs
Summary: Mornings weren't typically kind to Corbeau. It seems like, today, afternoons weren't, either.
A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
Beta read by @nestedfeathers
Grisham
You’re not
working today. <
> Indeed I am not.
> Now you have me
worried, my dear
friend - have you been
having your grunts follow
me around, Corbeau?
> You know how we feel about
espionage and trade
secrets, my friend.
You have a
new barista. <
> Ah - so you’ve met them.
> They’re rather
charming,
aren’t they?
You don’t
take days off.
Neither
does Griselle. <
> My, my. Is that concern I
detect in the tone of your
text, Corbeau?
> I haven’t been able to
take a day off since there
hasn’t been anyone I could
trust my café with in my
absence.
> However, our apprentice is
more than competent regarding
both customer service and
coffee - I have absolute
faith in them.
> I trust they treated you well?
PING!
Philippe
> On my way, boss! Just had to
make a pit stop.
“Good morning!” You cheerfully greet as your next patron steps up. He’s a tall fellow, nearly as big as the food truck you’re situated in - he’d have to duck to look in if your kiosk window weren’t so huge. His stature, build, and stern, steely gaze would have been more intimidating if it weren’t for the slight dusting of pink in his cheeks from both the morning air and his slightly flustered expression. He looked like a man that normally wouldn’t have a hair out of place (even with what little he had, styled into a unique mohawk), but this morning must not have been that kind to him, either; his jacket was skewed -having been incorrectly closed by one button - his tie wasn’t even tied properly, and his lapel was off-center.
Looks like it was a rough morning for a few folks in Lumiose, today.
But that’s why you’re here, serving coffee and breakfast with a smile. Hopefully, you’d be able to make mornings just a little bit better.
“Mornin’,” he greets in return with a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement. He eyes you in the way that a handful of your customers had - a flash of confusion that you were neither the man or woman that ran this truck and silent appraisal before continuing with his order. “Two large Burn Ups, please. And a box of croissants. Ah, the chocolate ones, if you have ‘em.”
Corbeau would absolutely kill Philippe if word got out, but the crime lord had an overwhelmingly strong sweet tooth. He’d deny it until the day he died, though. Pride.
“Certainly!” You chirp with a nod of your own as you start his order. “You’re in luck - there’s a fresh batch cooling right now! I’ll get your coffee first.”
The large man chuckles, letting out a short sigh of relief as he pulls out his wallet - only to notice his wardrobe mishaps and quickly go about fixing them with a sheepish grin.
“You’re an angel, truly.”
That gets a small laugh from you as you absentmindedly go through your flow of making coffee. “I’ve been told that a couple times today - I don’t think I’ll get tired of hearing it.”
“Hey, it’s an important job. The good people of Lumiose would be lost without their caffeine - me ‘n boss included.”
You place the two large Burn Up Roasts on the counter and move to pack the fresh croissants into a box with care.
“Treating your boss to a coffee, huh? What a nice gesture! I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
“Hah…you’ve got no clue.”
It’s obvious you were new - not just to Nouveau Café, but to Lumiose as a whole. Sure, Philippe wasn’t as infamous as Corbeau was, but the city still knew his name and face; it was no secret that he played a pretty big role in the Rust Syndicate as Corbeau’s right hand man. Even businesses he and the boss frequented would treat them differently, either out of fear of them or respect for their status. There were only a handful of businesses in Lumiose that didn’t.
Nouveau Café was one of them, sure, but in reality, it was really just Grisham and Griselle that treated Corbeau and Philippe like regular, run-of-the-mill citizens.
And now you, apparently. He distantly wondered how long it would take for that to change. You couldn’t have been here that long if you didn’t recognize him. You didn’t even seem to acknowledge the syndicate’s symbol on his Key Stone lapel. Hell, your other customers had given him too wide a berth to be usual social courtesy, forming a line for their orders at least ten feet away from him. Surely that had to give you some sort of indication that he wasn’t some normal schmuck out on his morning routine, right?
Eh. He couldn’t really be bothered to care about it right now. Or ever, really. Whether or not you ever learned who he was, who he worked for, and what they did was a you problem. It didn’t bother him as much as it had amused him. Plus, it was nice being treated normally for once.
He hands you a, frankly, ridiculous amount of cash for his purchase, insisting you keep the rest as a tip or save it for someone who couldn’t afford a drink (he wasn’t necessarily as close with Grisham and Griselle as Corbeau was, but he appreciated their philanthropic business model). He then gives you a grateful nod as he pulls the drink holder and the box of chocolate croissants from the counter.
“Thanks, again,” and with that, he’s speed-walking off around the corner, equipped with bitter coffee and a stack of sweets to face the day. You wave him off before filing the money away and calling up your next customer.
Grisham (Boss Man!)
> I heard an associate
of mine stopped by
this morning?
> Stylish fellow with
glasses and a purple
undercut.
> I do hope he didn’t
cause you too much
trouble.
> He’s definitely an
acquired taste.
Oh! No, he
was fine! <
Well… <
I mean, he was
a little
rude, but I was
able to handle it! <
> I see.
> Well, thank you for
your patience with him.
Had I known he was going
to stop by today, I
wouldn’t have left you to
deal with him on your own.
I apologize for that.
It’s really no
trouble at all,
Mr. Grisham. <
But quit your
worrying! You should
be enjoying your
day off! <
I promise Dachsbun and
I have everything
under control here. (: <
> I know you do. Thank
you, my dear. Have a
pleasant remainder of
your day, as well.
“Sorry I’m late, boss!” Philippe’s steps are quick and measured as he enters the office, cheeks dusted pink from the exertion of speed-walking here from whatever disaster his morning had supplied him. Corbeau dismisses him with a wave of his hand.
“It’s fine,” the boss sighs, glasses pushed up onto his forehead so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. His eyes are squeezed shut tight as he tries to rub the migraine away.
Philippe knew Corbeau was a man of routine. Daily objectives were met in a certain order. Workdays were scheduled neatly weeks ahead of time and accounted for every contingency - early payments, late payments. Even new contractors and surprise deals and negotiations were prepared in advance. Corbeau made a point of not being taken by surprise.
A single blip in his routine (for instance, the lack of coffee at home or Philippe running behind, himself) could and would ruin his whole day.
Because of this, Philippe, ever attentive and dutiful, had anticipated today to be rough for both of them. Hence the peace offering/apology coffee and croissants. No doubt his mood would be worsened by the fact that the bastard refused to eat breakfast…
He goes to set his boss’ coffee order where it normally sits - the top right corner of his desk - only to find another identical to-go cup already occupying the spot. Ah. So he stopped by Nouveau Café on the way over, too. Well, another cup certainly wouldn’t hurt - he sets the second cup next to the first before placing the box of croissants on a nearby counter and plating one for Corbeau. He’ll eat it, eventually.
Scolipede, who was curled up by Corbeau’s desk when Philippe entered, now stood near the box of savory treats, giving Philippe the saddest eyes ever.
“Scolipede,” Corbeau chastises without even looking up from whatever paperwork he was busy with, “don’t beg. It’s unbecoming.”
The large bug lets out a whine and a huff, and with a low laugh of his own, Philippe opens the box to give the bug the coveted treat. Sweet tooth sated (once again), Scolipede scuttles back to his spot by Corbeau’s desk and curls up once more to munch on his snack (the third of the day, and it wasn’t even nine AM). Corbeau gives Philippe a tired look, silently condemning the act of indulging his ace, who’s already spoiled rotten.
“Rough morning?” The right-hand asks, despite already knowing the answer. Corbeau just hums in reply, dragging his hand down his face, pausing when he sees the second Nouveau Café cup on his desk. He can’t help but let out a huff of a laugh as he acknowledges it.
“Thank you, Philippe. I needed that.”
Philippe simply nods, returning the small smile before he takes a sip of his own drink…but instead of the usual Burn Up Roast that he’d swallow down quickly, however, he was met with the slightest twinge of sweetness. It was far from unpleasant - in fact, it sort of brought the drink together. It was a nice addition to the earthy flavor that the Burn Up had, balancing out the strong, smoky bitterness with just a dash of something lighter and airy.
His ‘refined palette,’ as Corbeau calls it, strikes again. Though, for some reason, whatever you put in there is slipping his mind. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it…and it’s absolutely going to bother him for the rest of the day. It definitely wasn’t anything native to Lumiose, that much was certain. Perhaps it was an ingredient that new barista brought from wherever they came from? Speaking of…
“So,” his boss’ voice interrupts him, “what do you think of the new hire? At Nouveau Café?”
“Them?” The right-hand shrugs. “They were nice. Efficient. Had a cute Dachsbun that seemed to really like ‘em.” He gestures to the croissant box with his chin. “Saw the sweet thing toss an extra one in there. Definitely new to Lumiose. Maybe new to Kalos, too.”
He glances at Corbeau from over the lid of his own drink. “Why?”
Corbeau hums again, finishing his first coffee and immediately moving onto the next. A content sigh leaves him as the warm drink hits his tongue and settles in his stomach - still empty, besides his previous coffee, which wasn’t food or breakfast no matter how much he insisted it was.
“Definitely new to Lumiose.” Corbeau tidies his already immaculate desk, tapping a stack of papers in line. “They gave me an earful this morning.”
Philippe can’t help the snort that leaves him at that - he quickly covers it with a cough at Corbeau’s sharp glance. “An earful? From them? The sweet little barista?”
“Yes,” Corbeau replies with a roll of his eyes. “Who else?”
Philippe lets his chuckle ring out this time, unfazed by his boss’ irritated stare. “Not laughin’ at you, boss. Just found it funny that that sweet lil’ thing had the gall to give you a talkin’ to.”
He brings his drink to his lips with another chuckle and a shake of his head. “New to Lumiose, indeed. Woulda paid to have seen that What’d’ya even do t’warrant that sort of back-talk?”
“...” Corbeau feels his cheeks warm slightly. He laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them, averting his gaze from his friend. “...I was…rather rude to them this morning.”
That gets a stern look from his friend and right-hand, somehow both admonishing and teasing. Philippe had always been a stickler for social etiquette - something Corbeau had always found amusing, given his background as Lumiose’s former local terror. But right now he’s hitting Corbeau with that ‘disappointed father’ look (despite the fact that he’s not much older than him) and the prideful syndicate leader refuses to face it. That would be the cherry on top of his rotten morning. He can already see it clearly in his mind’s eye, anyway.
“I apologized to them, of course.” In his own way. Sort of. A decent tip is a good apology, right? In retrospect, it certainly could have been a more generous tip…“And, again, they gave me an earful, which I took with grace and humility.” Not right away, but he got there eventually, and that’s what counted, right?
“Sure,” Philippe huffs, crossing his burly arms. “‘Cause you’re known for taking things with grace and humility.”
Corbeau whips around at that, giving his friend a sharp glare, which is met with a nonplussed smirk and hands raised in faux surrender. “Just callin’ it like it is, boss.”
With a huff, Corbeau returns his focus to his paperwork…and his gaze drifts to his phone, sitting in its rightful place next to his laptop. He still hadn’t responded. He knew his lack of response was damning enough, and it was most likely the case that Grisham had already reached out to his apprentice about their…less-than-ideal encounter with the syndicate boss. As much as Corbeau would like to simply forget about the whole ordeal, though, he just can’t shake it from his mind. Especially now that Philippe is privy to his ‘bout of barbarism,’ which he would absolutely be lording over his head at any chance he gets.
…Arceus, this…shame. What the hell was wrong with him? He was Corbeau, cutthroat leader of the Rust Syndicate; a man whose name was engraved into Lumiose’s very streets, into its streetlights that pulse with the heartbeat of the city - his city; a man whose reputation of ruthlessness preceded him, who people whispered about in both awe and fear, warning desperate, unfortunate souls about his merciless business practices.
Corbeau was a man of routine. He was a man who was put-together. He had an image to maintain. He didn’t have ‘temper tantrums’ - sure, he blew an occasional gasket, but those were (typically) justifiable, and they were most definitely not outbursts like the one he had today. When he lost his temper, it was typically at his contractors who failed to read the fine print and slandered his good name out of anger, who thought they stood a fighting chance against the syndicate’s morally dubious but technically entirely legal business practices.
Corbeau didn’t feel guilt at slighting or extorting others.
…so why the hell was this bothering him so much?
He taps his fingers together, mindlessly following a rhythm even he didn’t completely understand. After a few moments of silent deliberation, he grabs his phone and opens his messages.
Grisham
Their service was adequate. <
He returns his phone to his desk before Grisham can respond - despite his hectic morning, he was still working. With the next steps in place, he was at least able to push the issue regarding you to the back of his mind to be dealt with later. He hated leaving things like that unattended - neither he nor the syndicate as a whole left loose ends.
His phone buzzes again, and he can’t help but take a peek.
Grisham
> I’ll take that to mean they were
exemplary, as expected.
> I do hope the remainder of your
day is less inconvenient than this
morning.
Corbeau grumbles to himself and puts his phone away once more - he can hear the faint hum of the elevator, which meant their first appointment of the day was arriving…about ten minutes later than the scheduled nine o’clock. He feels a muscle in his jaw tick as his client strides in languidly, as though he hadn’t wasted ten precious minutes of this meeting. No, he’s completely unaware of how this will affect the rest of his tightly packed day, practically falling onto the couch across from Corbeau with an uncaring smirk - as if he wasn’t currently 500,000 Pokédollars in debt to the syndicate...
Corbeau didn’t necessarily believe in luck, but he gets an awful feeling that his dear friend Grisham cursed the remainder of his day rather than blessing it.
While you’re not nearly as startled as you were this morning, you still jump at the sound of his voice, whirling around from where you were mid-preparation of your afternoon batch of sweets. Thankfully, you don’t yelp - you don’t need any more reason to be embarrassed.
“Oh! Hi! You’re back!”
Yeesh. You could tell why. He looked a mess - tired, drained eyes squinting as he pulls his hand away from rubbing them in the vain attempt to look more awake and present than he actually was. His tie was undone, hanging loosely over his business shirt, which was no longer neatly tucked into his pants. His tidy undercut was ruffled - likely the result of him running his hand through it in exasperation at least a dozen times.
“...rough day?”
He barks out a dry laugh at that and cards his hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it. “You’ve no idea.”
You hum and offer him a sympathetic look. “Another large, strong Burn Roast?”
“Please.”
“Any afternoon treats?”
“No, thank you. My team have yet to finish the macarons from this morning.”
You nod and get to work silently - you didn’t mind talking while you worked, but this particular fellow didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. Not that you’d really want to engage in small talk with him. Not after this morning. Your cheeks grow warm in embarrassment just thinking about it…at any rate, he seems to be in a better mood now. Or, at least, he’s too emotionally drained from today’s events to be a dick this time around. You won’t voice your gratitude for that out loud, though. Instead, you go about making his coffee, running on pure muscle memory–
“What is that?”
You pause, looking up at your exhausted customer who was glaring at the freshly brewed coffee in your hand.
“Oh. Um. Your…coffee…?”
“You put something in it.”
Oh…oh! You look down to find your honey wand frozen mid-stir. You quickly pull it out of the pitch-black drink with a nervous chuckle.
“Oh! That! Right! Sorry - i-it was in your coffee this morning, so I just–”
“What is it?” He practically hisses, suspicion written plain as day on his face. Ah - right back to that rude demeanor.
“I-it’s honey, sir! That’s all!”
“I don’t remember ordering honey in my coffee.”
Corbeau’s eyes narrow at the honey wand suspended over his coffee, exhaustion sharpening into suspicion. Around him, the atmosphere in the truck shifts — conversations hush, customers glance away, and even the cheerful hum of Lumiose’s afternoon seems to dull beneath the weight of his stare.
You, meanwhile, feel every ounce of your newfound, budding confidence threatening to shrivel under the pressure.
“A-as I was saying, sir, i-it was in your coffee this morning, as well, s-so I just figured, y’know, it was, um, fine. This time. Too. Th-that’s just how I prepare my coffees, sir!”
By this point, a few other customers warily glance up, watching the spectacle unfold with caution - some look ready to up and leave at the first sign of confrontation. Dachsbun peeks over the counter edge again, letting out an irritated huff on your behalf.
“Was it not to your liking…?”
“...no,” he eventually sighs, leaning back to adjust his glasses that had slipped down his nose. “I enjoyed the coffee. I’m just…”
He inhales deeply and exhales a ragged sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind. It’s honestly nothing for me to get worked up about. I did very much enjoy the coffee from this morning, hence why I’m back for another. I apologize.”
“I-I’m sorry, too - I thought I disclosed that this morning but I guess it, ah…escaped me.”
Corbeau purses his lips at the reminder of the morning’s events, having the decency to at least look a little ashamed.
“Yes, I, ah…apologize about that, as well. Such behavior was unbecoming of me.”
“O-oh? Ah. You’re okay, sir. I promise.” You shrug with a smile. Dachsbun does not share your sentiment, huffing once more. You tactfully ignore him. “Happens to the best of us, right?”
That gets a small, tired smile from your customer who nods, taking the to-go cup you hand him. “Sure. The best of us.”
He pays you as he did this morning, leaving an even more generous tip. He nods, signalling his departure with another tight-lipped, tired, polite smile. You wave him off, blissfully unaware of the tension leaving the café’s grounds with every step that leads him back to his office. Your customers seem to let out a collective sigh of relief - they’re probably just as glad as you that no serious confrontation broke out. Lumiose seems like a city that likes its peace, something you’re more than grateful for.
Despite the many busy lives of the many different people, there was no sense of urgency like there was in Castellia. Unlike the bustling, crowded streets of Castellia, Lumiose’s streets were meant for strolling, sightseeing, enjoying being where you are and who you’re with. In Castellia (and similarly its neighboring city, Nimbasa), you could get told off in a very loud and public manner for brushing by someone - Hell, you’ve been berated for trying to greet someone before. The people of Lumiose, however, are far more warm and welcoming. Sure, you’ve run into the occasional jerk like your previous customer (you hope his day goes better from here, since, apparently, the morning continued not to be kind to him), but they’re few and far between and often are just stressed out.
No, all in all, even with a day like today (which honestly wasn’t even that bad), Lumiose was leagues above Castellia. Every customer that greeted you with a friendly smile and left a nice tip to buy a coffee for someone else made you feel better and better about your decision to up and leave that horrible life in Castellia and establish a place for you where you could be truly, truly happy. Like this is your new home and you are making a new life for yourself. A life where you would eventually be your own boss and you weren’t completely bossed about by a silly old (sometimes debilitating) condition!
…again, baby steps! You’d get there, eventually.
Eventually. Eventually, eventually, eventually. It was your current mantra - the internal chant that kept you going, striving towards the life you’ve been dreaming about for years.
But, for now, you had to navigate the perilous waters of standing your ground against grouchy customers who seemed to forget that you, the person providing goods and services for them, were human, too. Such a sea was choppy and rocky at times, but with Grisham’s help and encouragement (and seemingly endless patience), you were starting to develop your metaphorical sea-legs. Just wait until he heard exactly how you stood your ground to that first customer today without even flinching!...though maybe you’d play down your near anxiety-attack that came afterwards. Hopefully he isn’t too upset that you basically told off his friend…he didn’t seem angry when he texted you, but you know Grisham is just a very outwardly calm individual, he could just be very, very quietly angry and when he comes back, he’s going to fire you and refuse to be a resource for any business endeavors that you’ll have to make alone with only a week of apprenticeship under your belt–
Dachsbun barks and tugs at the hem of your pants, snapping you out of your thoughts before they can spiral more. You exhale a breath you hadn’t even realized you had been holding and lean down to pet the sugary pooch with a relieved smile.
“Thanks, bud. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His reciprocal yip echoes out into the small courtyard, and a few patrons laugh in camaraderie with his obvious joy. An older woman approaches the kiosk and holds up her hand as you go to ask for her order.
“No need dearie - I don’t want to order anything else. I just wanted to commend you for standing your ground against that brute.”
You blink twice in surprise. Brute? Sure, his decorum was less than pleasant, but you wouldn’t call him a brute by any means.
The confusion must have shown on your face. “Oh, dear…you must be new to Lumiose.”
It wasn’t a question.
“A-ah…yes, I am.”
“That would explain it.” The older woman shakes her head. “Just stay away from types like those, okay?”
“Ah…um. Sure. Yes, I can do that.”
She walks away, satisfied, and without explaining a lick of what she meant. Perhaps it was just the classic ‘older generation doesn’t like the young punks’ thing. He did sort of have a punkish vibe about him. Nothing like the punks in Unova, though. Perhaps his genre was just the ‘regional variant’ of punk. The silly thought makes you smile.
You brush the interaction off and call the next customer forward.
The rest of your day goes by quickly - a steady stream of pleasant customers and easy small-talk that gradually and gently drains your body of your social anxiety. A few even compliment your handmade pastries, remarking that they hope Grisham adds them to the menu permanently - which never fails to elicit a surge of bashful pride in you. A handful of older customers are able to clock your small bouts of anxiety and let you know you’re doing a wonderful job. All in all, it’s a great day!
The distant electronic vwwoosh of the Battle Royale’s barriers signals the end of the day. The heavy ker-chunk! of your key in the lock is accompanied by the city-wide chime to alert trainers that the nightly Royale has officially begun. There were some leftover pastries from the day’s sale, so you pack them in a box to take with you - Grisham insists there should be no such thing as wasted food. He’s sent you home with treats before, encouraging you to hand them out on the way home to any one who ‘just looked like they needed it.’
Easier said than done in a city of strangers, but it’s been a good exercise for you to come out of your shell and start stepping into your new life.
Tonight was your first time heading back home this late, but luckily, the way back to the hotel is generally clear of the battle zones. You’re far too cautious to get caught in the middle of one - ever since Grisham told you about them, you’ve been developing a mental map of the usual locations so that you’ll never get caught by surprise. After all, the only Pokémon you regularly had with you was Dachsbun, and he was a service-mon! You didn’t really even know what moves he could use, let alone any sort of strategy that would keep him safe.
Yeah, you knew battling would result in getting hurt regardless - that’s just how battles worked!
And that’s exactly why you chose to avoid them. You couldn’t stand the sight of your little buddy hurt! To throw him into a situation that will end up in him inevitably getting hurt just seems like an insult, especially after all the hard work he’s done keeping you safe over the years. No, you prefer to keep Pokémon battling as background noise for your peaceful walk back home.
‘Home’ right now certainly isn’t what you pictured it being when you got the idea to move out to Lumiose, but it was what you had for now. And it really wasn’t a horrible place to temporarily call your home.
You smile up at Hotel Z as you approach the old building.
“Good evening, gentil,” the towering AZ greets as you step through the threshold. Even though he’s trying to be quiet, his deep, booming voice still fills the lobby easily. “How was your first day on your own?”
“Good evening, Zed,” you greet in return. Dachsbun barks his own hello as the two of you walk up to the counter, where you place your still-full box of treats - you hadn’t run into anyone on the way back, after all. At least you knew the kids would enjoy them. “It actually went really great! Nothing caught on fire or exploded, and I didn’t die of embarrassment!”
He chuckles along with your joke, a proud, gentle smile on his face. Ever since you stepped foot in his beautiful hotel, AZ had become something of a grand-father to you. He warmly welcomed you into his little family, introducing you to the rascally teens that formed Team MZ who also stayed in the hotel. They all had their reasons to be here, but you weren’t one to pry into other people’s business. The teens were fairly open, though, and welcomed you with as much (if not more) excitement than AZ.
They were good kids. Nice kids. But you were definitely closer with AZ than with any of them. Team MZ already had its established dynamics, and you certainly didn’t want to butt into anything, even if they invited you along…
No, you’d much rather hang out with AZ and hear about their adventures instead of living them. It was safer that way.
It could also be incredibly more boring but…yeah. Safer.
Besides, you did technically have your role in the group. You were their unofficially official Team Chef!
You don’t think words could express the relief on Naveen’s face when the twins stepped down and conceded the title to you. To this day, you have never had their ‘croissant curry.’ Naveen seems to have made it his priority to ensure you never do.
It was a delight baking for them, really. Their little faces always lit up when they stumbled in from taming yet another Rogue Mega Evolution (talk about picking the wrong time to move to Lumiose) or the Royale and the scent of fresh baked croissants or choux or cookies or whatever you had decided to whip up for them that day sat warm and ready to eat on the table. It was a treat for you in and of itself to provide sweet treats for the hard-working team.
“That’s wonderful to hear, gentil,” AZ remarks with a hum. Floette chirrups beside him, twirling her flower by its stem in agreement. “I’m glad your first day alone went well. Floette and I were thinking about you.”
Ah, they really were too sweet.
“Aw, thanks, guys,” you beam back up at them. “I appreciate it. I’m feeling a lot more confident after today.”
Your ‘a lot more confident’ looked very different than most, but you were trying to be kind to yourself. Baby steps!
AZ knew of your condition. It’s not something you publicly express, and AZ never pressed - he just…sort of found out naturally. He had gone out with you one day to get more baking supplies (those kids certainly worked up some big appetites with all the battling they did) and just…watched Dachsbun go about his job. The Fairy type would stand behind you in lines, eyes on the market behind you to help mitigate paranoia. At one point, you began hyperventilating, murmuring something about it being ‘too crowded’, and Dachsbun quickly and safely herded you to the nearest exit and subsequent open space. After returning to Hotel Z, he would go in ahead of you to perform a ‘safety check,’ reassuring you that nothing had changed before you entered.
AZ’s only comment was that Dachsbun was a remarkable companion to perform such feats for you. When you went to explain, he held up his hand with a smile, wordlessly dismissing the matter. It wasn’t his business, after all.
You really appreciated that about AZ.
“It was a pretty full day, though - I’m gonna hit the hay a little early. If you see the team, let them know to have as many of those leftovers as they want.” You barely stifle a yawn as you turn to the elevator, giving AZ and Floette a tired wave and smile as the hum of the somehow-functioning elevator fills the air.
It really was a good day. You’re still smiling as you and Dachsbun enter your room. AZ refuses to let you pay for it, insisting that keeping Team MZ happy and fed was payment enough.
…come to think about it, you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him handle money. Does he even charge for these rooms? The twins seemed to be much more business-oriented with the hotel, wanting to turn it into the next Hotel Richissime, but AZ seems perfectly content with it just being a place for wanderers to find refuge for however long they need it.
…you should really make him a thank you treat sometime soon.
Dachsbun jumps on your bed and makes himself comfortable right next to your pillow before you’re even finished getting ready, as he always does. His fluffy tail wags like crazy when you finally move to settle beneath the sheets. He gives you his routine ‘goodnight’ kiss, leaving a faint sticky trail of sweetness on your cheek. You laugh, bid him ‘goodnight’ as well, and turn off the light.
Corbeau huffs to himself as he stares up at the old hotel. So, this is where those Team MZ brats were staying. It wasn’t too shabby - he appreciated the antique charm of it. That being said, he wouldn’t normally spend the night here - he had an entire, spacious apartment to himself and his team, after all - but a deal was a deal. Those kids did everything he asked of them, and he was more than happy to erase the accrued interest…but that still left the issue of the original loan, which hadn’t had a cent paid toward it.
Someday they’ll learn about financial responsibility and whatnot. And maybe also not to trust loans from established businesses with ‘syndicate’ in the title.
He steps through the threshold precisely at 9 PM.
“Hello, hello!” He calls into the empty lobby. The only other person present was the old man towering over…well, everything behind the check-in counter. He greets him with a nod and leans forward slightly just to peak into the rest of the room…just as empty as the foyer. “Anyone here?”
He hears the bumps and scrapes of people quickly shuffling out of chairs and the hushed whispers of the notorious Team MZ coming from what was most likely the dining room - it really was a quaint little place.
He straightens his tie as the teens come stumbling in; first Urbain and Taunie, practically tripping over each other to be the one to greet their guest, then Lida (who nearly trips over the twins, as well), and finally Naveen, who looked like he would rather be literally anywhere else in the world right now. The group freezes when they see him - it’s a little funny how quickly they turn into complete statues.
“So this is Hotel Z, eh? Not bad at all.” And it was true - given its age, it was well kept and had a unique charm about it. After all, Corbeau was many things, but he took pride in honesty.
“Wh-what are YOU doing here?!” Lida asks, eyes wide in terror. “Oh, no - are you gonna have the whole Rust Syndicate battling Pokémon here, like you said?! Please don’t!”
We just need a little more time!” Urbain states, followed by Taunie’s “We’ll pay off our whole debt tomorrow!”
Her twin shoots her a sharp look at the frankly impossible promise. She swats his elbow. He nudges her back with his shoulder. Corbeau rolls his eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Corbeau scoffs, walking further into the foyer. “This is a hotel, isn’t it? What do you think I’m here for?”
He crosses his arms, glaring at the teens. “Or what? Is Hotel Z too fancy for the likes of me?”
A moment of silence passes over the group as they process his words…until finally–
“I-if you’d like a room, we’d be happy to get you checked in, sir!” Urbain all but yells, nerves clearly setting him on edge. “Hah, uh, f-follow me, please!”
He shoves his twin sister off of him (leaving her to find her own footing with Lida) and leads Corbeau to the front desk. His smile is all teeth, tight and nervous.
“...kid, if this is your normal way to greet patrons, it’s no wonder your hotel doesn’t get any guests.”
Before Urbain can protest, Corbeau looks up at the man behind the counter - oddly enough, the old man’s towering height somehow made him feel less small. Perhaps it was just the fact that AZ made everyone feel small. “...y’know, old man - word on the street is you’re three thousand years old.”
AZ doesn’t even bat an eye, “If you would please put your name down.”
Corbeau smirks - straight to business. He could respect that.
“Of course. Give me your best room, please.”
As he goes to fill in his information in the guest book, AZ continues, “Oh, and please, help yourself to as many complimentary treats as you wish.”
He gestures to the right of the guest book where a miscellaneous assortment of treats sits neatly compiled on a tray. Sweet, baked goods. All of them.
…damn his sweet tooth.
“...very well. Though I hope you know these are only for my Pokémon.” Scratch that bit about ‘pride in honesty’ - his reputation comes first in situations like this.
It really wouldn’t be such a horrible thing to be known for…if he weren’t already regarded as a hardened, ruthless crime lord. Infamous underworld leaders didn’t have sweet tooths.
Taunie comes up with a white paper bag for him to put his desired treats into (at least seven - one for him and each of his Pokémon, who were truly getting spoiled today) and gestures to the elevator with an open palm.
“You’ll find the elevator right over here, sir,” she looks like she’s debating whether or not to bow, as well. Corbeau barely suppresses a smirk at her nervous display and waves a dismissive hand as he walks past her.
“It’s time for me to retire,” he announces as he enters the elevator. “A pleasant evening to you all.”
Once the doors close, he sighs, bringing a hand up to rub his temple. Today had been far too hectic. All those clients either blabbering on and on about their personal lives or blubbering that the terms they explicitly agreed to upon signing a Syndicate contract were unfair. His grunts seemed to be causing trouble again (who the hell deigns it a sacred mission to guard a holovator???) and needed a stern talking to as a group to remind them what the Syndicate stood for - it suited other gang leaders just fine, but he wouldn’t have his business being known for being miscreants and hooligans. It’s almost hilarious how a single change in his routine could snowball into such an exhausting day. All of this grief, exacerbated simply because he hadn’t had his routine coffee–
The elevator stops, syncing up perfectly with the sudden dread that washed over him.
He hadn’t restocked his personal supply of coffee. He and Philippe were too busy with more important syndicate matters to bother. He hadn’t even remembered it until just then.
Even if he did remember to restock his personal coffee stash, it wouldn’t have mattered. He hadn’t even thought about coffee at all when booking the night here, far too focused on getting a room and being done with this little debt with the brats.
He can feel another headache coming on.
Once inside the safety of his cozy hotel room, he pushes his glasses up to his forehead and groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Summary: Ah, yes. The renowned soft morning of the city before it truly became alive.
Corbeau was not a morning person.
And his mornings were not soft.
TW: Brief description of feeding Pokémon other Pokémon, treated as nature.
A/N: 'It'll just be a little drabble,' I said. 'It won't be that long, it won't have multiple parts,' I said. (Proceeds to write almost 2000 words about Corbeau's morning routine alone) ah.
So. Here we are now. With this evolving into a multi-fic chapter. Let's buckle up, team.
As always, reader is gender neutral with little physical description. Only confirmed Pokémon reader has (for now) is a Dachsbun.
Beta Read by @nestedfeathers
This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
Lumiose truly was a beautiful city. In the mornings, when the sun crested over the horizon and began its languid ascent, the city glowed a soft, warm rose - the sort of light that doesn’t startle one from sleep, but rather gently rouses with barely-there kisses and feather-light strokes of warmth against one’s skin. It filters in through windows and sheer curtains to join you in bed, an intangible form of temptation to stay in, sleep longer; don't leave its comfortable embrace. The break of dawn is filled with birdsong; Fletchlings gathering scraps for their nests; the coo of a Pidgeot as it shepherds its younger, less experienced kin back to the safety of its wings, its soft down a shield from the lingering chill of the night.
Shortly after, the rest of the city begins to wake; the rustling of a bin of Trubbish as they organize their hunt for the day; the soft, insistent cries of the dowt of stray Espurr that have taken to begging at the door of the bakery across the street; the barks and chirrups of the local Patrat and Watchog from the rooftops that alert the entire block that it is, indeed, morning once again.
The renowned soft morning of the city before it truly became alive.
Corbeau was not a morning person.
And his mornings were not soft.
As the sunlight quietly greets the other inhabitants of Lumiose, it rudely and abruptly startles him from his deep sleep, as it always does. Its brightness meets his sleepy glare with its own, temporarily blinding his already blurred vision. With a groan, the feared leader of the Rust Syndicate flops back into his bed, burying his face in his pillow as he blindly feels around for his glasses on his nightstand. He snags them by the chain and drags them close, throwing them on as he pushes himself up to rest his weight on his forearms.
He drags a hand through his hair, once more glaring out his window.
Abhorrent sunrise. Finding its way into his room despite the mostly-drawn curtains.
He’s considered eclipse curtains, of course, but Roserade and Arbok rather enjoy sunbathing, and he wouldn’t deprive them of that. The sacrifices we make for our Pokémon...
A deep chitter rings out from his side, as it does every morning when Scolipede wakes. Contrary to his trainer’s dislike of mornings, Scolipede was an early bird…early bug? Regardless, Scolipede is already off the bed by the time Corbeau rolls over to sit up properly. He chirrups again, his half-lidded eyes bright and almost playful as he regards his drowsy trainer. The stingers at his end wag to and fro like a tail as his trainer regards him in return. The human tenses, already reaching for his duvet.
“Scolipede, don’t–!”
Too late. Apparently, he’s taking too long to get out of bed, as Scolipede takes the corner of his blanket in its mandibles and tugs hard, pulling it and its contents (read: his trainer) off the bed. Corbeau yelps as he’s quickly torn from his seat and practically flung through the air - he would’ve crashed against the far bedroom wall if Scolipede hadn’t caught him.
The giant bug trills happily, the claws near his mouth tapping against Corbeau, tickling his skin and combing through his hair. He’d be annoyed if it wasn’t so damn adorable. Upon seeing his trainer’s tired, exasperated smile, Scolipede chirps again and lets him go, content that his mission of getting his trainer out of bed was complete. He couldn’t just let his human sit around all day - there’s work to be done!
Like breakfast, for starters!
Scolipede scuttles out of the room, leaving Corbeau to wait for him in the kitchen. With a huff and a smile, Corbeau throws on his morning robe over his pajamas (plain boxer shorts), grabs his team’s Pokéballs, and pads out to join his companion. His ace is standing at the end of the island, like he always does, as Corbeau sets about preparing his team’s breakfast.
He had it down to an art by now: fresh Veluza filets (caught and prepared in Paldea just yesterday) pulled straight from the mini freezer kept solely for Gyrados, set on a tray that’s practically a basin at the far end of the island. Following that was a plate with two honeycombs and a variety of fresh berries for Roserade, set by the large window in the living room.
Scolipede and Arbok preferred to catch their own food, which he was more than fine with - he had a hard time serving up a small swarm of Kriketot and a whole frozen Raticate.
He may be a crime lord, but he’s not heartless.
Scolipede and Arbok only ate big meals once a week. Not for any cruelty on Corbeau’s part, of course - he’d feed them his own limbs if the need arose - but solely due to their physiology. Larger Poison types digested their food slower, apparently. He’s never looked into it further than that, though.
Scolipede’s toxic saliva bubbled from the corners of his mouth.
“Hold your Ponyta,” Corbeau lightly chastises for the umpteen-millionth time. That Bug could never sit still when it came to food - his trainer knows by now his scolding is in vain. “You have to wait for Arbok.”
Scolipede lets out a pathetic whine, a rather humorous noise for such a large and formidable creature. Corbeau huffs out another laugh and releases Gyrados and Roserade, who both greet him with cheerful chirps before attending to their waiting meals. After giving them both a routine morning pet, he walks to the back door, where Scolipede is already waiting.
“Arceus. You act like I starve you.”
His only response is another petulant whine. With a soft laugh, Corbeau releases Arbok, who greets him with a tickle of her tongue.
“Yes, good morning, Arbok.” He coos as he scratches under her chin. She lets out a soft ‘Sssk-ssk-sssbok’ in return, ignoring the disgruntled trilling of her fellow Pokémon, who rocks back and forth impatiently. “I’m going, I’m going.”
He opens up the back door for the pair, revealing a rooftop garden secluded from the reaches of the city. From the humans, at least. Here, there lived several different species of Pokémon: a colony of Patrat and a warren of Bunnelby had made their homes in the soft dirt and the sturdy rocks of the secret garden; recently, a swarm of Weedle and Kakuna had taken refuge in the handful of trees towards the far end of the roof - the one that had the best view of the city at night, in his opinion. A few Budew and Bellsprout hobbled along, burying themselves in the soil (freshly tilled by the Bunnelby) among the plants that littered the open space.
His own little paradise, made for those stray Pokémon that wandered the streets. A little slice of nature.
…unfortunately, even nature had to be spoiled every once in a while.
He leaves them to their hunt to return to the living room. He wouldn’t partake in the vicious cycle, if he didn’t need to.
Instead, he went to tend to his own needs - his sluggish body moved a little faster at the prospect of caffeine. Even abysmal mornings like this one could be remedied with a fresh cup of coffee.
He hears Philippe nagging him at the back of his head, as he does every morning, ‘You need something more in your stomach than coffee, boss. Breakfast’s th’most important meal of the day.’
Which is why the first thing in his stomach is pure black coffee. He’ll eat ‘actual’ food later. But right now his body needs energy so he can actually exist well enough to get food. He pulls down his favorite mug (favorite might be a strong word - it’s his most used one) and mindlessly goes about his personal routine of caffeinating–
…ah.
There’s no coffee in the cabinet. He groans, pushing his glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had meant to resupply yesterday, but then that brat showed up and beat him in their ranked match. He had spent the rest of the day running the match on repeat in his head, analyzing strategy and how they had worked the battlefield - his battlefield in his office - that he must have…forgotten about restocking.
Damn that kid. His sentiments on the brat were mixed. Frustrated but impressed, respectable but irritating…
A little too much like him when he was their age.
He feels a sharp, subtle pang at the front of his brain. A downside to being addicted to caffeine: the abrupt withdrawal symptoms when one hasn’t had their ‘routine fix.’ He can already feel the headache starting to form.
It seemed like today was going to be that kind of day.
With a sigh, he leaves his companions to finish their meals as he heads back to his bedroom, a little more force in his steps than there was previously. Luckily, his laundry was done yesterday, so his usual suit was fresh and ready to go - very much unlike him, who seems to trudge through his morning routine without his coffee.
No, he wasn’t dramatic. Philippe would insist otherwise.
Ah. Philippe. Yes.
After tucking his dress shirt into his pants, Corbeau finds his Rotom Phone charging on his nightstand - one of the newer models of chargers that had just as much style as it did practicality. Only the best for his Pokémon - even those not on his battling team. The Rotom Phone wakes up with a ‘zzrrpt!’ and hovers in front of him, ready to fulfill whatever task Corbeau had for it.
“Rotom,” he addresses the phone as he begins to knot his tie, “text Philippe, ‘Please come to work with my usual order.’” Rotom blips and trills in reply, doing exactly as asked. It continues to hover nearby as Corbeau pulls his duster from its hanger, knowing a response would come in soon–
PING! ‘Bzzzuurrt!’
“Yes, thank you, Rotom,” he fixes the collar of his jacket as he reads Philippe’s response…
‘Apologies, boss.’ Oh, great. ‘Having a rough morning.’ He and Corbeau both, it seems. ‘Will be late to work.’
Another groan leaves his lips as he drags a hand down his face. Looks like he’s getting coffee, himself. It’s not the end of the world - his early life had him enduring far worse scenarios. Still, it’s inconvenient, and regardless of his childhood, he’s allowed to be irritated and inconvenienced by it.
No matter. There was no shortage of cafés in Lumiose. In fact, Nouveau Café was just a small detour on his usual route to the Syndicate office. That was perfect - their coffee was almost unnervingly strong, they were quick, and he hadn’t said hello to Grisham in a while. A nice little bonus in his dire situation.
He recalls Gyrados and Roserade just as Scolipede and Arbok wander back inside, bellies full and instincts sated. He closes the door and recalls Arbok - Scolipede preferred to stay out when possible. Plus, the giant Bug could help order and carry treats for the team at the café.
A small smile tugs at his lips at the idea as he slips his shoes on at the door. Perhaps he spoils his Pokémon too much, but what the hell else was he supposed to do with the money leftover from his business and philanthropic deeds?
With a click of his tongue, Scolipede is by his side and the large Bug lumbers out of the high-end apartment before Corbeau. His trainer follows, locking the door behind him before leading his Pokémon down the stairs.
You fumble with the keys to the truck. Again. You’re still getting used to these early mornings…but! That’s what you get for accepting an apprenticeship at a café. You’re going to have to get used to it if you want to open up your own someday soon…
You’ve apprenticed under Grisham and Griselle for just over a week now, and you’ve learned so much!
…of which many lessons consisted of how not to address your customers or sell your products. Thanks, Griselle.
But Grisham has been teaching you plenty, too! He’s been so generous in sharing his techniques and secrets despite knowing you were hoping to open your own café some day! From the perfect blend for iced drinks to using Pokémon moves to add a little kick, your résumé continues to grow more and more impressive.
Dachsbun barks, a sound born from a playful and feigned annoyance. You breathe out a chuckle and give him a stern look in return.
“Barking’s not gonna make me fail any faster, bud.” He sticks his tongue out at you, which you return, before you’re finally able to open the door to the little coffee truck.
It’s a quaint little get up, and you’re personally a fan of the vibe. Sure, the kitchen is a little cramped, especially when Grisham is here to mentor you, but he’s made it work all these years, so you can, too!
Especially since today was your first shift alone.
It was a thrilling and terrifying prospect. You’re honored that Grisham has enough faith in you to run his café after just less than a month of knowing you (with only a week of it being under his tutelage) and the mere idea of failing him and his precious business makes your heart rate spike. The keys in your hand felt so heavy…
But you can do this! You know what you’re doing! Sure, your specialty was with baked goods rather than the actual coffee itself, but Griselle had assured you that your attempts at brewing were no worse than the Lechonk swill they served.
…you’re not sure you’ll ever understand how Grisham puts up with that sort of criticism. So harsh, even for someone who didn’t like coffee…
Dachsbun barks to get your attention again, and this time, you shoot him a grateful smile as he snaps you out of your thoughts. Right! Time to get to work! Those baked goods aren’t going to make themselves! You throw on your apron (another honor Grisham bestowed upon you, despite his insistence that ‘it was nothing, really’) and get started with prep.
The sun isn’t even fully over the horizon by the time you’re done with the first few batches of treats and the first pot of coffee. The noises of the early morning, such as the fierce battle cries of Pokémon and their trainers participating in the Royale, begin to die down, soon replaced with the birdsong of passing Fletchlings and the chittering of the Patrat from the roofs. You stretch, a content smile on your face as the soft glow of the morning sun gently caresses your race.
Lumiose was truly a beautiful city. You only moved here just over a month ago, and hadn’t had much time to explore with settling in and hunting for a job before you got evicted from your apartment one month in…but from what little you had experienced it certainly lived up to its praise of being one of the most beautiful cities in the world!
And you couldn’t wait to explore more of it. It was nerve-wracking, sure, but…that’s supposed to be the great part of new adventures, right? Plus, you had Dachsbun with you, and you know that little fluffy Fairy wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
The sun caresses your face again, as though to silently reassure you that everything was going to be okay. The air, still chilly from the night before, fills your nose with the scent of your fresh baked pastries and a pleasant cool that settles comfortably in your chest. Your heart swells with hope, your lingering anxiety slipping away from you like the shadows of the night. Lights of apartments click on; another café worker waves and greets you from across the street as they pass, wishing you a good day, both of which you return with a smile that feels less and less forced by the minute.
You jolt with a yelp, hitting your head on the bottom of the counter from where you were retrieving some supplies. You hiss in pain as you emerge from beneath the counter, rubbing the spot where you bumped against the solid metal. You hadn’t even heard anyone approach! A glance at Dachsbun shows that he’s fast asleep on the floor, clearly neglecting his look-out duties in favor of getting some precious nap-time in. He was still adjusting to mornings, too, but how unfair!
You’re too caught up in your mental admonishment of your Fairy companion that you’ve completely forgotten about your customer.
“You’re not Grisham.” The voice says, very dry and matter-of-factly, and your gaze darts up from your Pokémon to the person on the other side of the counter. They look well put together - a crisp business shirt and iron pants that rest high on his hips and sharp business shoes. They seem to accessorize with Poison-type themed attire - a sharp white tie, glasses secured behind his neck with a chain with drooping tear-shaped beads that seemed to melt off of the metal, and an overcoat with similar tassels and lining.
A Scolipede rocks left and right beside him, chittering at the smell of the freshly-baked pastries that sat on your counter, waiting for a loving home in someone’s belly. Hopefully his. He may have just had his weekly meal, but who could say no to extra treats???
Their tone is tired and somewhat exasperated, as though your failure to be Grisham was personally offensive and ruined his day. You make a face before you clear your throat and regain your composure. You pull on your best customer service smile.
“No, I’m not, but–”
“Well, where is he?”
You huff softly, your customer service smile falling slightly.
“He’s off today.”
“He’s off?” Today just keeps getting better, doesn’t it? He can feel his headache thrumming and pulsing just under his temple.
“...yes,” you confirm, eyebrows furrowing at your customer’s apparent attitude. “He’s off. I’m running his Nouveau Café truck today.”
You see his lower eyelid visibly twitch. Yeesh. He seems to debate something, and when he comes to his conclusion, he combs a hand through his perfectly styled undercut with a heavy sigh.
“Well, if Grisham trusts you with his pride and joy, then you must be competent enough,” Rude!...you think? You’re…not really sure how to take a back-handed complement like that. “I’m sure you can handle a simple strong, black coffee.”
You feel your eyebrow twitch again. The nerve of this guy. You can understand being a little cranky in the morning without a coffee, but there was no need to be a jerk about it. Manners still existed at six-thirty in the morning!
“Yes, I can do that for you, sir,” you continue giving him your customer service smile, despite how his attitude has dampened your mood. “Is there anything else you’d like?”
“No,” he all but snaps, but he’s gently nudged by the giant Bug by his side. He shoots Scolipede A Look, but you can see his face soften as he regards his companion and sighs again. “Actually, yes. I’d like to order some treats for my Pokémon.”
He looks over the menu with a hum - there had been some additions since he last visited, it seems. Scolipede nudges his side again, half-lidded eyes big and wet like a Rockruff’s. If it had visible lips, you’re sure you would have seen it pouting. It was rather cute for a four-hundred-fifty pound bug, and you can’t help but chuckle at it.
Your customer seemed unbothered by his begging Pokémon. You could only assume this was something the giant bug did regularly, and hopefully wasn’t subject to the will of a neglectful trainer…
“...ah—”
“A box of macarons.” He demands. “The large variety pack.”
“Ah, sir–”
“And do be quick about it, would you?”
“Sir–”
“Some of us have important jobs to be doing.” What the actual hell was this guy’s problem?! You fume at that, officially and completely yanked from your good mood. Before he can say anything else, you slam your percolator onto the counter.
“Hey, would you mind taking that stick outta your ass?” You snap, voice stern. His head snaps up, golden gaze meeting yours with poorly concealed irritation and surprise. Did you not realize who you were talking to? He opens his mouth to retort.
“Now, see here–”
“I get that it’s early and all, but that gives you no reason to act like a dick,” you continue, staring down at him, one hand on your hip while the other propped you up against the counter. Dachsbun stands on his hind legs to peek over the counter and reinforce your stern expression (even though he can barely see over the counter - it’s the thought that counts). “I’m tired, too, but you don’t see me snapping at people for absolutely nothing!”
Corbeau’s cheeks tinge pink - not from embarrassment or his lack of manners, but rather the quick bolt of anger that flashes through him. Granted, he wasn’t normally this short-tempered, but there was something about your tone and the audacity to talk back to him - him - was really making him heated, especially after his already less-than-ideal morning.
“Have you any clue–?!”
“I’m not sure if Grisham allows you to talk to him like this,” which was hard to imagine - even with his soft-spoken nature, Grisham could very much stand his ground. You’ve seen him verbally shake down men much more intimidating than this one, always ending the conversation with a stern tone that resonated finality. But the nerve of this guy… “but as we’ve established before, I’m not Grisham, and if you want a coffee from this establishment today, you will not talk to me like that.”
Dachsbun huffed in agreement, once more backing you up.
Corbeau falters at that. Your expression was so firm, so no-nonsense in this moment - it was almost a total 180 from who had greeted him when he first walked up.
Even in his irritated state, he had to appreciate that sort of boldness, even if it was somewhat audacious for a barista to be chastising the leader of Lumiose’s own crime syndicate.
He stares at you for a few moments more, just to see if your bravado buckles under the weight of his glare…but no such luck. He exhales sharply through his nose as he straightens his tie.
He had two options now: one, go about his day and suffer until Philippe arrived with his coffee (he had no patience to deal with another barista, especially now that Lumiose was truly waking up and other cafés would have other patrons further delaying his sweet, pitch-black caffeination) or two, suck up his pride and leave without any further debate.
His lips purse as he mentally weighs his two options. Is his pride worth more than a 5,000 Pokédollar coffee?
After what feels like an eternity of internal debate, he comes to the conclusion that, ultimately, no. It isn’t. Not in this moment, at least. This is a personal low, but it’s a personal low he’ll live through with a strong cup of coffee to drag him out of this sluggish state of existence. His pride has suffered worse blows, anyway.
Granted, those were when he wasn’t the feared and respected crime lord of the Rust Syndicate. It’s significantly less easy to take such blows when you have an image to maintain.
…but what message was he sending acting like this? That the leader of the Rust Syndicate is a spoiled brat? That’s infinitely worse than being put in place by someone who absolutely did not deserve to be the target of his agitation.
With a sigh, he tilts his head to the side to pop the crick in his neck and rolls his shoulders back.
“...very well,” he responds, somewhat terse and strained. His hand curls into a fist and taps impatiently against his side, but he measures his tone as he continues, “I apologize for my earlier behavior. May I get one large black coffee and a box of macarons?”
You exhale sharply through your nose, crossing your arms as you weigh his apology…and finally relent, giving him a nod and a small but genuine smile, and even though you really want to, you won’t give him any more of a harder time.
“Yes, I’ll get started on that for you, sir,” Scolipede, who had been silently watching the exchange, trills happily, rocking left and right once more, though this time out of joy rather than impatience. You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your throat at his antics.
You see your customer’s expression soften further as he glances back at you. Not a lot of people found the antics of his giant companion cute - in fact, most people were afraid of Scolipede. Which was good, since his public image called for it. Still, nobody knew that behind that stoic, scary bodyguard was the heart of a grubby little Venipede who acted more like a Lillipup starved for affection than a fully grown venomous predator. Corbeau could appreciate someone who could appreciate his companion, even in a smaller capacity such as this.
“Here - hold on.” You pull out a tray of fresh samples (leftover ‘oopsie’ pastries from the first batches of the morning) and place them on the counter for Scolipede to see. The bug chirrups and eagerly leans forward to sniff at them. The corners of his mouth bubble with his venomous drool once more, and he consciously shuffles backwards to avoid ruining your offered treats. His rear horns are wagging once more and Corbeau swallows back a chuckle of his own.
“I got these fresh samples for this morning - a couple of each!” You beam at Scolipede as he steps forward again, making sure not to drool on anything. With a light laugh, you grab some tongs to pull one of each onto a plate of its own to hold out to Scolipede for him to taste test. You glance back at his trainer. “Hope this is okay? Just a little something to munch on while I get your order together.”
“That’s…fine.” At his word, Scolipede happily pulls a choux au craquelin into his claws, happily munching away at it. Based on his constant trilling, it must have met his standards. Not that Scolipede had as refined a palette as the rest of his team…
You nod and set about preparing his coffee - extra strong, just as he ordered (or at least sounded like he needed) with your own special touch to it. He watches as you masterfully move about the small space to prepare his order - his drink is perfectly hot and ready for him on the counter within a minute and a half. The carefully organized macaron box is next to it a minute after that. Speedy service, as requested. With a satisfied hum, he takes out his wallet and thumbs through the bills before setting a 15,000 Pokédollars on your counter. When you go to enter it into the till and get him his change, he just raises his free hand and shakes his head.
“Keep the change,” he murmurs as he places the box of macarons on Scolipede’s head, who lets out a low chirp as he finishes the last of the sample he had nabbed earlier. Corbeau’s gaze meets yours again, appraising rather than depreciating. He had no intent on apologizing for his, frankly, embarrassing behavior - the sooner he can pretend it never happened, the sooner he could get on with his day. This will have to serve as his silent apology.
“Ah…sure. Okay.” You retrieve the change from the till and drop it into the ‘tip’ jar on your counter - another idea you brought up to Grisham. Your reasoning was the tips could be used to pay for food and drinks for their patrons who are, as Grisham lightly puts it, ‘down on their luck.’ It’s got a little cutout of an Espurr peeking over the edge, and the writing in front of it reads, ‘Found our service Espurr-cially great? Leave a Meows-tip!’
It was corny, but it worked.
“Well,” you smile to your customer with a nod, “hope the rest of your day goes better.”
“Likewise.” He nods and raises his to-go cup in cheers before returning to his route. Scolipede happily ambles alongside him, using the utmost care in transporting the large variety pack of precious treats. As much as he’d love to have them all to himself, his teammates deserved to have a taste of your wonderful baking.
Once around the corner, Corbeau finally takes a sip of his drink, a content groan leaving him as the dark, addictive substance runs down his throat to warm and settle his empty stomach…and pauses. This is definitely not how Grisham made it…but he couldn’t place what was off about it. As much as his stubborn pride hated to admit it, it wasn’t half bad, actually. In fact he found himself liking it more than he liked Grisham’s.
…you were an odd one, that much was certain. He had never seen you around before - granted, he spent a lot of time holed away in his office, but he has enough eyes in the street to know who’s who, especially if that someone was working at a coffee truck he visited frequently enough. Perhaps it had been longer than he thought - if Grisham had trusted you to run it solely on your own, you must have been there for a while. Long enough to have garnered his and Griselle’s trust, at the very least. They were good people, but they were people who didn’t really let others in easily - a trait he shares and can appreciate.
At any rate, his interaction with you is over. He’ll have Philippe pick up some more coffee for home so he wouldn’t have to go through that sort of experience again. He’ll message Grisham later - it really had been a while, and he’d like to say hello, but he’d rather not have to encounter you again, if he could avoid it. It wasn’t usual for Corbeau to feel shame of any kind, but you had certainly and thoroughly shamed and embarrassed him today, and he wasn’t particularly keen on reliving that memory again any time soon.
…still, the coffee you made was better than the blend he normally had at home. Perhaps he’ll ask Grisham about the new recipe so he could upgrade his own stash. That would get two Pidgeys with one stone.
Coffee in hand and a renewed sense of focus, Corbeau steps into the syndicate’s building. He nods to the secretary, as he does every morning, and heads into the elevator. The coffee sits at the far right corner of his desk when he sits, as it always does, and the scent wafts over as he takes a deep breath of relief. He combs a hand through his hair and opens his laptop, ready to forget about his morning.
Your smile falls as your customer walks around the corner and you all but deflate against the counter, legs buckling. Dachsbun whines and nudges your leg, and he receives a pet and an affirmation of “I’m okay, bud,” for his troubles.
That was terrifying. You didn’t like that one bit. You’re not even sure where that energy came from! Your precious Pokémon could attest - you had trouble asking for extra ketchup when out at fast food restaurants, for Arceus' sake! Standing up for yourself like that to a customer on your first day working alone at a coffee stand that wasn’t even yours was something you’d never have pictured yourself doing in your wildest dreams.
With a weak exhale, you sink to your knees, your anxiety slamming into you like the truck you currently sat slumped in. You groan, rubbing at your face, and Dachsbun does his best to distract you before you have a full-blown anxiety attack. Your beloved partner was a service-mon, specifically trained for situations like this. He hasn’t needed to alert or use his skills since he was a Fidough, however - your job left you far too exhausted to even physically go through the motions of an anxiety attack. But then, you made the big-kid decision to move to Kalos and pursue your culinary dreams.
You remember his worried little face when you were in line to board the plane, ticket clutched in sweaty, shaking palms, suddenly doubting your life choices, ready to ditch everything and run back to the comfort of your home at the drop of a dime. Hell, someone could breathe in your direction wrong and you might take off, forgetting all about your dreams and the life you always wanted to leave behind for a new beginning for the same, dull routine that may have been sucking the life out of you, but, hey, it was safe.
Dachsbun practically dragged you onto the plane himself and he refused to leave your lap until you landed in Kalos. Whenever you tried to move the little bugger before your flight’s taxi and take off to make one last desperate attempt to escape from this incredible new opportunity, he’d huff, roll over, and give you the biggest, saddest, wettest puppy eyes you had ever seen. You knew he was guilt tripping you into staying seated…and damn if it didn’t work.
Your presence here is proof enough that you really couldn’t argue with the little guy, and ultimately, you’re grateful he did what he did. If he hadn’t, there’s a high likelihood that you’d be back in your crappy apartment in your run-down corner of Castelia City working your shitty eight-to-five office job that physically, mentally, and emotionally drained the life out of you.
But in moments like these? In which you were damn near close to crying because someone snapped at you? That shitty cubicle sounded like a dream. Normally, you’d let whoever yelled at you do as they pleased, offering apologies and fixing things that, more often than not, weren’t even your responsibility to fix. Not with what you were getting paid, at least.
Dachsbun licks the back of your hand, nudging it to make you look up at him. When you do, you see his tail wagging, and you could even swear there was a twinkle of pride in his eyes.
Normally, you’d be a doormat - one that apologized to the people walking all over you that they had dirt on their shoes.
…but today, something different happened. Again, you don’t know where that energy came from, but you stood up for yourself. Beyond that, you actually managed to put that guy in his place. Oh, there were so many moments where you felt like backing down, but something in you was steadfast and determined to stand against your timid nature.
This was your new life. One you worked so hard for. One you’ve dreamed about since…forever! You had the opportunity to reinvent yourself here. Here, in Lumiose, you didn’t have to be the shy, soft-spoken office worker who did whatever was asked of them. In fact, you’re never going to be that again! Not if you can help it!
Dachsbun barks at you, his little tail wagging faster as your anxiety ebbs, leaving your body in slow, measured exhales. Your grip on your wrists relaxes and your legs uncurl from where they’re pressed tight against you. Your companion props his front two paws against your arm and licks your face, encouraging.
“...yeah. I guess I did just do that, huh?” He barks, and you chuckle. “And…the world didn’t blow up. I didn’t blow up…and we were still able to make a sale.”
Your Pokémon nods and drops to the floor again, nudging your side to get you standing. The day had only just begun, after all! Those customers (of which there are thankfully none at the current moment) weren’t going to serve themselves!
With a nod and a newfound internal strength, you stand with the help of the counter (your legs were still just a liiiiiittle shaky, but it’s nothing that wouldn’t eventually go away on its own) and prepare yourself to face the day ahead of you. You smile, determined in making the rest of the day go better - nowhere to go but up!
Dachsbun hops up onto the counter, ready to perform his sworn duty of keeping a lookout for and attracting customers. He shares a spirited nod with you and barks out happily to a passing citizen, who stops in surprise and walks over to check out the coffee truck, greeting you with a warm smile.
Summary: Ah, yes. The renowned soft morning of the city before it truly became alive.
Corbeau was not a morning person.
And his mornings were not soft.
TW: Brief description of feeding Pokémon other Pokémon, treated as nature.
A/N: 'It'll just be a little drabble,' I said. 'It won't be that long, it won't have multiple parts,' I said. (Proceeds to write almost 2000 words about Corbeau's morning routine alone) ah.
As always, reader is gender neutral with little physical description. Only confirmed Pokémon reader has (for now) is a Dachsbun.
Beta Read by @nestedfeathers
This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
Lumiose truly was a beautiful city.
In the mornings, when the sun crested over the horizon and began its languid ascent, the city glowed a soft, warm rose - the sort of light that doesn’t startle one from sleep, but rather gently rouses with barely-there kisses and feather-light strokes of warmth against one’s skin. It filters in through windows and sheer curtains to join you in bed, an intangible form of temptation to stay in, sleep longer; don't leave its comfortable embrace. The break of dawn is filled with birdsong; Fletchlings gathering scraps for their nests; the coo of a Pidgeot as it shepherds its younger, less experienced kin back to the safety of its wings, its soft down a shield from the lingering chill of the night.
Shortly after, the rest of the city begins to wake; the rustling of a bin of Trubbish as they organize their hunt for the day; the soft, insistent cries of the dowt of stray Espurr that have taken to begging at the door of the bakery across the street; the barks and chirrups of the local Patrat and Watchog from the rooftops that alert the entire block that it is, indeed, morning once again.
The renowned soft morning of the city before it truly became alive.
Corbeau was not a morning person.
And his mornings were not soft.
As the sunlight quietly greets the other inhabitants of Lumiose, it rudely and abruptly startles him from his deep sleep, as it always does. Its brightness meets his sleepy glare with its own, temporarily blinding his already blurred vision. With a groan, the feared leader of the Rust Syndicate flops back into his bed, burying his face in his pillow as he blindly feels around for his glasses on his nightstand. He snags them by the chain and drags them close, throwing them on as he pushes himself up to rest his weight on his forearms.
He drags a hand through his hair, once more glaring out his window.
Abhorrent sunrise. Finding its way into his room despite the mostly-drawn curtains.
He’s considered eclipse curtains, of course, but Roserade and Arbok rather enjoy sunbathing, and he wouldn’t deprive them of that. The sacrifices we make for our Pokémon...
A deep chitter rings out from his side, as it does every morning when Scolipede wakes. Contrary to his trainer’s dislike of mornings, Scolipede was an early bird…early bug? Regardless, Scolipede is already off the bed by the time Corbeau rolls over to sit up properly. He chirrups again, his half-lidded eyes bright and almost playful as he regards his drowsy trainer. The stingers at his end wag to and fro like a tail as his trainer regards him in return. The human tenses, already reaching for his duvet.
“Scolipede, don’t–!”
Too late. Apparently, he’s taking too long to get out of bed, as Scolipede takes the corner of his blanket in its mandibles and tugs hard, pulling it and its contents (read: his trainer) off the bed. Corbeau yelps as he’s quickly torn from his seat and practically flung through the air - he would’ve crashed against the far bedroom wall if Scolipede hadn’t caught him.
The giant bug trills happily, the claws near his mouth tapping against Corbeau, tickling his skin and combing through his hair. He’d be annoyed if it wasn’t so damn adorable. Upon seeing his trainer’s tired, exasperated smile, Scolipede chirps again and lets him go, content that his mission of getting his trainer out of bed was complete. He couldn’t just let his human sit around all day - there’s work to be done!
Like breakfast, for starters!
Scolipede scuttles out of the room, leaving Corbeau to wait for him in the kitchen. With a huff and a smile, Corbeau throws on his morning robe over his pajamas (plain boxer shorts), grabs his team’s Pokéballs, and pads out to join his companion. His ace is standing at the end of the island, like he always does, as Corbeau sets about preparing his team’s breakfast.
He had it down to an art by now: fresh Veluza filets (caught and prepared in Paldea just yesterday) pulled straight from the mini freezer kept solely for Gyrados, set on a tray that’s practically a basin at the far end of the island. Following that was a plate with two honeycombs and a variety of fresh berries for Roserade, set by the large window in the living room.
Scolipede and Arbok preferred to catch their own food, which he was more than fine with - he had a hard time serving up a small swarm of Kriketot and a whole frozen Raticate.
He may be a crime lord, but he’s not heartless.
Scolipede and Arbok only ate big meals once a week. Not for any cruelty on Corbeau’s part, of course - he’d feed them his own limbs if the need arose - but solely due to their physiology. Larger Poison types digested their food slower, apparently. He’s never looked into it further than that, though.
Scolipede’s toxic saliva bubbled from the corners of his mouth.
“Hold your Ponyta,” Corbeau lightly chastises for the umpteen-millionth time. That Bug could never sit still when it came to food - his trainer knows by now his scolding is in vain. “You have to wait for Arbok.”
Scolipede lets out a pathetic whine, a rather humorous noise for such a large and formidable creature. Corbeau huffs out another laugh and releases Gyrados and Roserade, who both greet him with cheerful chirps before attending to their waiting meals. After giving them both a routine morning pet, he walks to the back door, where Scolipede is already waiting.
“Arceus. You act like I starve you.”
His only response is another petulant whine. With a soft laugh, Corbeau releases Arbok, who greets him with a tickle of her tongue.
“Yes, good morning, Arbok.” He coos as he scratches under her chin. She lets out a soft ‘Sssk-ssk-sssbok’ in return, ignoring the disgruntled trilling of her fellow Pokémon, who rocks back and forth impatiently. “I’m going, I’m going.”
He opens up the back door for the pair, revealing a rooftop garden secluded from the reaches of the city. From the humans, at least. Here, there lived several different species of Pokémon: a colony of Patrat and a warren of Bunnelby had made their homes in the soft dirt and the sturdy rocks of the secret garden; recently, a swarm of Weedle and Kakuna had taken refuge in the handful of trees towards the far end of the roof - the one that had the best view of the city at night, in his opinion. A few Budew and Bellsprout hobbled along, burying themselves in the soil (freshly tilled by the Bunnelby) among the plants that littered the open space.
His own little paradise, made for those stray Pokémon that wandered the streets. A little slice of nature.
…unfortunately, even nature had to be spoiled every once in a while.
He leaves them to their hunt to return to the living room. He wouldn’t partake in the vicious cycle, if he didn’t need to.
Instead, he went to tend to his own needs - his sluggish body moved a little faster at the prospect of caffeine. Even abysmal mornings like this one could be remedied with a fresh cup of coffee.
He hears Philippe nagging him at the back of his head, as he does every morning, ‘You need something more in your stomach than coffee, boss. Breakfast’s th’most important meal of the day.’
Which is why the first thing in his stomach is pure black coffee. He’ll eat ‘actual’ food later. But right now his body needs energy so he can actually exist well enough to get food. He pulls down his favorite mug (favorite might be a strong word - it’s his most used one) and mindlessly goes about his personal routine of caffeinating–
…ah.
There’s no coffee in the cabinet. He groans, pushing his glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had meant to resupply yesterday, but then that brat showed up and beat him in their ranked match. He had spent the rest of the day running the match on repeat in his head, analyzing strategy and how they had worked the battlefield - his battlefield in his office - that he must have…forgotten about restocking.
Damn that kid. His sentiments on the brat were mixed. Frustrated but impressed, respectable but irritating…
A little too much like him when he was their age.
He feels a sharp, subtle pang at the front of his brain. A downside to being addicted to caffeine: the abrupt withdrawal symptoms when one hasn’t had their ‘routine fix.’ He can already feel the headache starting to form.
It seemed like today was going to be that kind of day.
With a sigh, he leaves his companions to finish their meals as he heads back to his bedroom, a little more force in his steps than there was previously. Luckily, his laundry was done yesterday, so his usual suit was fresh and ready to go - very much unlike him, who seems to trudge through his morning routine without his coffee.
No, he wasn’t dramatic. Philippe would insist otherwise.
Ah. Philippe. Yes.
After tucking his dress shirt into his pants, Corbeau finds his Rotom Phone charging on his nightstand - one of the newer models of chargers that had just as much style as it did practicality. Only the best for his Pokémon - even those not on his battling team. The Rotom Phone wakes up with a ‘zzrrpt!’ and hovers in front of him, ready to fulfill whatever task Corbeau had for it.
“Rotom,” he addresses the phone as he begins to knot his tie, “text Philippe, ‘Please come to work with my usual order.’” Rotom blips and trills in reply, doing exactly as asked. It continues to hover nearby as Corbeau pulls his duster from its hanger, knowing a response would come in soon–
PING! ‘Bzzzuurrt!’
“Yes, thank you, Rotom,” he fixes the collar of his jacket as he reads Philippe’s response…
‘Apologies, boss.’ Oh, great. ‘Having a rough morning.’ He and Corbeau both, it seems. ‘Will be late to work.’
Another groan leaves his lips as he drags a hand down his face. Looks like he’s getting coffee, himself. It’s not the end of the world - his early life had him enduring far worse scenarios. Still, it’s inconvenient, and regardless of his childhood, he’s allowed to be irritated and inconvenienced by it.
No matter. There was no shortage of cafés in Lumiose. In fact, Nouveau Café was just a small detour on his usual route to the Syndicate office. That was perfect - their coffee was almost unnervingly strong, they were quick, and he hadn’t said hello to Grisham in a while. A nice little bonus in his dire situation.
He recalls Gyrados and Roserade just as Scolipede and Arbok wander back inside, bellies full and instincts sated. He closes the door and recalls Arbok - Scolipede preferred to stay out when possible. Plus, the giant Bug could help order and carry treats for the team at the café.
A small smile tugs at his lips at the idea as he slips his shoes on at the door. Perhaps he spoils his Pokémon too much, but what the hell else was he supposed to do with the money leftover from his business and philanthropic deeds?
With a click of his tongue, Scolipede is by his side and the large Bug lumbers out of the high-end apartment before Corbeau. His trainer follows, locking the door behind him before leading his Pokémon down the stairs.
You fumble with the keys to the truck. Again. You’re still getting used to these early mornings…but! That’s what you get for accepting an apprenticeship at a café. You’re going to have to get used to it if you want to open up your own someday soon…
You’ve apprenticed under Grisham and Griselle for just over a week now, and you’ve learned so much!
…of which many lessons consisted of how not to address your customers or sell your products. Thanks, Griselle.
But Grisham has been teaching you plenty, too! He’s been so generous in sharing his techniques and secrets despite knowing you were hoping to open your own café some day! From the perfect blend for iced drinks to using Pokémon moves to add a little kick, your résumé continues to grow more and more impressive.
Dachsbun barks, a sound born from a playful and feigned annoyance. You breathe out a chuckle and give him a stern look in return.
“Barking’s not gonna make me fail any faster, bud.” He sticks his tongue out at you, which you return, before you’re finally able to open the door to the little coffee truck.
It’s a quaint little get up, and you’re personally a fan of the vibe. Sure, the kitchen is a little cramped, especially when Grisham is here to mentor you, but he’s made it work all these years, so you can, too!
Especially since today was your first shift alone.
It was a thrilling and terrifying prospect. You’re honored that Grisham has enough faith in you to run his café after just less than a month of knowing you (with only a week of it being under his tutelage) and the mere idea of failing him and his precious business makes your heart rate spike. The keys in your hand felt so heavy…
But you can do this! You know what you’re doing! Sure, your specialty was with baked goods rather than the actual coffee itself, but Griselle had assured you that your attempts at brewing were no worse than the Lechonk swill they served.
…you’re not sure you’ll ever understand how Grisham puts up with that sort of criticism. So harsh, even for someone who didn’t like coffee…
Dachsbun barks to get your attention again, and this time, you shoot him a grateful smile as he snaps you out of your thoughts. Right! Time to get to work! Those baked goods aren’t going to make themselves! You throw on your apron (another honor Grisham bestowed upon you, despite his insistence that ‘it was nothing, really’) and get started with prep.
The sun isn’t even fully over the horizon by the time you’re done with the first few batches of treats and the first pot of coffee. The noises of the early morning, such as the fierce battle cries of Pokémon and their trainers participating in the Royale, begin to die down, soon replaced with the birdsong of passing Fletchlings and the chittering of the Patrat from the roofs. You stretch, a content smile on your face as the soft glow of the morning sun gently caresses your race.
Character duo where one *remembers I don’t like fitting characters into trope boxes* is a completely fleshed out and realised person *remembers treating characters as real people and not story devices written with intent is bad* who is written by the author and *remembers death of the author* uh. And *fumbles and drops my pile of queue cards* ah fuck wait no *the menacing horse* what was that.
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 23 Never as Before (For Better)
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 5070
Summary: In which Snatcher finally confronts his trauma and makes a friend in doing so.
TW: Emotional, mental, and physical abuse! Like we get into it! Read at your own discretion! Take care of yourself!
A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
It was hard to imagine that the dark forest—eternally damned to the biting chill of winter—had ever been sunny and warm, let alone flourishing with life.
But it had been, once.
Lex assures her of that. Long before the snow and silence, before the twisted trees and the endless cold, the forest had been vibrant—alive with color, laughter, and the quiet bustle of a small but thriving community. Houses once stood between the roots of these trees. Lanterns once glowed in their branches. People once called this place home.
Hattie listens more closely than she ever has before. If learning anything about this forest can help her save you, then it’s worth hearing every word.
Still, the story makes something uncomfortable twist in her chest.
Grief. Loss.
Not for you. For this place. For the forest she had always hated. The forest that took you away.
Apparently, it had not always been winter here. Once, the sun shone down on a small province hidden deep within the woods—tucked halfway between the sovereign kingdom and a quiet fishing village. (Where you and she had lived, Hattie muses, though Lex likely wouldn’t know what in the peck a “Mafiatown” was.)
At one point, there had even been a proper government. Laws. Leaders. Order.
But somewhere along the way, things changed.
No one remembers exactly when.
Or why.
Some say the province voted to secede from the kingdom—peacefully, at first. A simple bill, a quiet declaration of independence. Others insist the change came more suddenly, more violently. That something darker crept into the forest, twisting the hearts of the people who lived there.
Whatever the truth was, the little province did not remain the same for long.
Once, Lex says, the forest had been bright.
Not merely alive—but joyful. The great trees that now clawed at the grey sky had once grown wide and strong, their branches thick with green leaves that whispered in warm summer winds. Lanterns hung from those branches during festivals, their golden light swaying gently above crowds that laughed and danced beneath them. Music drifted through the woods at night, carrying laughter and fiddle-song between the trunks like wandering fireflies.
Now, only the wind moved through the branches.
Hattie can almost see it as Lex speaks—the ghost of what the forest used to be. Children racing between the trees where drifts of snow now piled knee-deep. Market stalls bursting with fish, bread, and bright fabrics where the ground now lay frozen and barren. Windows that once glowed warmly at dusk, now nothing more than dark hollows swallowed by frost and creeping roots.
The silence that filled the forest now had not always lived here.
It had arrived quickly.
Lex explains that the province had once thrived beneath the watch of the sovereign kingdom. It was small but prosperous, its people stubbornly proud of the life they had carved out among the trees. They traded with nearby villages, held lively seasonal festivals, and lived comfortably beneath the quiet protection of the crown.
And the queen—before everything—had been kinder then.
But that was before Prince Lukas left the kingdom.
It had only been meant to be a year.
At first, nothing seemed terribly different. The prince’s absence was felt, of course—his warmth had always filled the palace halls in a way few others could—but the kingdom endured. Life went on. The forests still bloomed. The people still gathered beneath lantern light and music.
Then winter came.
Too soon.
The first frost arrived before the harvest had even finished, creeping across the fields and forest floor weeks earlier than anyone expected. The people grumbled about it, of course, but early winters were not unheard of. They gathered their crops more quickly, stocked their homes with firewood, and prepared to wait out the cold.
But the cold did not behave as winter should.
The snow fell heavier than usual. The winds cut sharper. And when the time for spring should have come…it simply didn’t.
The frost lingered stubbornly in the soil. The ice clung to the rivers long after it should have melted. Even the sun seemed reluctant to stay, slipping behind thick grey clouds as though the sky itself had grown weary.
It was during that same year—Lex says quietly—the queen began to change.
She appeared less often among her people. When she did, her once gentle demeanor had hardened into something distant and cold. Smiles grew rare. The palace gates closed more frequently. Festivals were shortened… then quietly stopped altogether.
As though the warmth of the kingdom had left with the prince.
And the forest, somehow, seemed to feel it too.
As Lex speaks, Hattie feels that strange twist in her chest again.
Because the way they describe it—the sudden cold, the way warmth seemed to vanish all at once—it reminds her of someone.
Of how someone could once laugh. Once smile. Once feel like sunlight itself.
And how, in what felt like the blink of an eye…something colder had taken its place. Something darker. Considerably less feeling. Numb.
After what seemed like forever…Prince Lukas finally returns.
Word spread through the province faster than the winter winds that had come to plague it. Messengers rode hard through the villages, lanterns were lit in windows, and people gathered along the roads despite the biting cold. After nearly a year of absence, the prince had finally come home.
For a moment—just a moment—it felt as though the kingdom remembered what warmth was. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
The people believed his return would fix things. Prince Lukas had always been beloved among them: kind where others were proud, gentle where others were harsh. He had walked among the villagers as easily as any common man, laughing with fishermen, helping farmers repair broken fences, listening to stories and complaints alike as though every voice mattered.
If anyone could bring warmth back to the kingdom, it would be him.
When word of his arrival reached the palace, the queen rushed to meet him.
For nearly a year she had waited within those cold stone halls, her heart twisting tighter with every passing season. The moment she heard he had returned, she did not summon servants or prepare a formal welcome. She ran—out through the palace gates and into the town itself, eager to see him again.
But when she found him…
it was not the reunion she had imagined.
Prince Lukas stood in the village square, laughing softly as he purchased flowers from a young maiden at the market stall. The girl’s cheeks were flushed pink from the cold—and perhaps from something else—as she giggled shyly while handing him the bouquet. Lukas leaned close to thank her, his voice warm and easy, the two of them standing far nearer to one another than the queen found acceptable.
To anyone else, it would have looked harmless.
To the queen, it felt like betrayal.
The warmth that had followed the prince back into the kingdom faltered the moment she saw them together.
And just as quickly as it had returned…it began to fade.
Something sharp and bitter stirred within her chest, curling around her heart like frost creeping across glass. The laughter in the square suddenly sounded cruel to her ears. The closeness between them felt unbearable.
Jealousy, Lex says quietly, has a way of freezing even the warmest hearts.
In that moment, watching the man she loved smile at another, the queen’s heart grew colder than the winter that surrounded them.
The queen did not confront him there.
She did not shout. She did not call his name.
Instead, she turned away.
Lex says she fled the village as quickly as she had arrived, the cold wind swallowing the sound of her footsteps as she ran back toward the manor that overlooked the forest. Whatever warmth had returned with Lukas' arrival faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving the sky grey once more.
By the time the prince finished his errand and made his way back to the palace with flowers in hand, the kingdom had already grown colder again.
Inside the manor, the queen waited.
The stories say she stood alone in the great hall, pacing the floor like a restless beast, her thoughts twisting tighter and tighter with every passing moment, mangling her form with the same mysterious magic that had swept the land in its prolonged winter. By the time Luka arrived, the woman who had once been beloved by her people had already begun to change.
When the prince entered, he greeted her warmly—just as he always had. He held out the bouquet he had purchased, selecting the single most beautiful flower among them to offer her first.
But the queen did not see a gift.
She saw proof.
Proof that while she had waited for him, he had given his warmth to someone else. The story goes that her heart, already frozen with jealousy, could no longer hold its shape.
And something inside her finally broke.
The woman who had once been queen twisted into something darker—something monstrous. Her hands stretched into clawed shadows, her hair fell wild around her face, and the warmth that had once lived in her eyes turned bitter and distant.
The prince tried to explain. He tried to apologize. But by then it was already too late.
In her fury, the queen declared that if her heart could no longer beat for him, then it would not beat for anyone at all. She called the world diseased and cruel, declaring that beauty had no place within it.
And so she cursed him.
The prince who had once been loved by everyone was transformed into a terrible beast, bound forever to the manor that overlooked the forest. The land itself twisted beneath the spell, the warm woods turning into the frozen wasteland that still surrounds the mansion today.
Anyone who wandered into the manor from that day forward would never truly leave.
They would become servants of the beast, bound to the same lonely curse.
Yet the stories say the queen hesitated before she vanished.
Because despite everything…despite the jealousy and rage that had consumed her…there had once been love between them.
Before she disappeared into the ice, she left him with a final condition.
If the beast could one day learn to love another and earn that love in return before the last petal of the enchanted flower fell the curse would break.
The tale of the jealous queen and the cursed prince had been passed down for years, polished and softened by time until it sounded almost romantic. A tragic fairytale. A warning. A legend whispered in taverns and around hearthfires.
But the story people told was not the one that had actually happened.
Snatcher lets out a dry, humorless laugh.
“Oh, that’s a lovely version of it,” he mutters, his voice low and rasping as he lounges back in the armchair that was stationed by the window. One clawed hand gestures vaguely in the air, as though dismissing the tale itself. “Real dramatic. Lots of heartbreak, tragic betrayal, the whole poetic ‘love turned to ice’ nonsense.”
His golden eyes narrow slightly. For a moment, he is quiet. Not the theatrical kind of quiet he usually enjoys—the kind meant to make people squirm—but something heavier.
“...I didn’t know she’d seen me in the village,” he continues after a while. “I had no idea what she thought she saw. I was just… happy to be home. So happy to see her again.”
His claws drum lightly against the arm of the chair. “Bought the flowers because I knew she liked them. Figured I’d surprise her.”
Another humorless chuckle escapes him.
“Funny thing about surprises.”
Snatcher’s gaze drifts somewhere distant, somewhere long buried beneath centuries of shadow.
Why was he so happy to see her, again? Because at the time, he wa stupid. He was stupid and human and believed she loved him. How has it taken this long for him to realize that what they had wasn’t love?
Looking back now, the signs had been everywhere—subtle at first, then glaringly obvious in hindsight. Vanessa hadn’t loved him the way people in stories loved one another. Not the kind of love that lets someone grow, or laugh too loudly, or wander where their curiosity leads. No—hers had been something tighter, sharper. Possessive. She had adored him the way someone admires a beautiful thing placed behind glass: something to keep, something to polish, something that must remain exactly as she liked it.
He had been molded into that version of himself little by little, the way water slowly reshapes stone.
The things he loved had been the first to go. The music he played too loudly in the halls, the ridiculous poetry he used to scribble in the margins of books, the long afternoons spent wandering through the town speaking with fishermen and farmers and anyone else who had a story to tell. Vanessa would laugh at those things—lightly, sweetly, as though she were only teasing—but the laughter always lingered a moment too long. Too sharp. And eventually the teasing turned to gentle corrections, then quiet disapproval, then outright ridicule. A prince, she’d remind him, had more dignified pursuits.
And he believed her.
He stopped playing the piano. Stopped writing the poems. Stopped reading about law. Stopped wandering so far from the palace walls.
It pleased her when he stayed close.
She liked knowing where he was, liked knowing who he spoke to, liked knowing that if he spent time among the people of the kingdom, she would be there beside him. If she wasn’t, questions followed. Gentle ones at first—Who were you with? What were you talking about? Why didn’t you wait for me?—but the warmth beneath them cooled quickly if his answers strayed too far from what she wanted to hear.
Soon enough, it became easier not to go at all.
Easier to stay in the palace. Easier to let her speak for him, guide him, shape the image of the prince she wanted the kingdom to see. He told himself it was devotion, that her attention meant she cared deeply for him, that love simply looked different behind palace walls.
But love was not supposed to feel like shrinking.
Love was not supposed to leave him feeling smaller every year, quieter every season, until the only version of himself left was the one Vanessa approved of.
And the cruelest part—the part that made him want to laugh at his younger self—was that he had thanked her for it. He had mistaken control for affection, obsession for devotion, possession for love.
So yes. When he returned that day with flowers in his hands and hope in his chest, he had been happy to see her.
Because at the time, he still believed the lie she had spent so long teaching him to believe.
That he belonged to her.
And that belonging meant love.
“...When I walked into the manor, she was already different. I knew it the moment I saw her.” His voice lowers. “You spend enough time with someone, you learn the little things. The way they stand. The way they look at you.”
The way they judge you. Chastise you. Berate you in private and praise you in public. The way a hand at the small of his back meant they would have a discussion when they were out of the eyes of the public. He tilts his head slightly.
“And she didn’t look at me like she used to.” He pauses. “...She didn’t even listen when I tried to explain.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“You ever try talking to someone who already decided you’re guilty?”
Silence stretches for a moment. Then Snatcher scoffs.
“Yeah. Doesn’t work.”
For a moment, his thoughts flit to you. How you were so defiant and fiery when you arrived. How you opposed him at literally every single opportunity. And now…how you actually give him a smile while passing in the hallway. A real one. It’s brief, but it’s real. How you apologized to him in the library. How you continued to work so stubbornly just because you felt bad for other people doing work that was originally your responsibility.
…what was different about you and Vanessa? Many things, obviously, but…
His gaze drops briefly to the floor.
“When she changed… when the curse started… I didn’t even understand what was happening at first.” His claws flex slowly. “One moment she was screaming at me, the next moment the whole room felt like it was collapsing inward.”
He gestures lazily toward himself.
“And then I looked down.”
A faint, wry, humorless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Claws. Shadows. The whole monstrous package.” Snatcher leans back again, though the movement lacks his usual smug flair.
“At first I thought it was temporary,” he admits. “Some kind of rage spell. She’d done similar things before. Something she’d calm down from once she cooled off.”
Another hollow laugh.
“But she didn’t.”
His eyes dim slightly.
“She was gone before the sun even set.”
The room grows quiet.
For a long time, Snatcher says nothing. Grooves looks at him in absolute horror - not at him, but at his story. The ghost scoffs and looks away.
“...told you not to look at me like that–”
“She hurt you?” Grooves interrupts, appalled. Snatcher blinks and looks at him in confusion.
“...yes. That was sort of the whole point of the story, Grooves–”
“No, like…before that, darling. You said that you thought it was some kind of rage spell, because she had done those things before.”
“…that’s the part you’re concerned about?” Snatcher cackles. “Not the ‘ooohh dramatic reveal, I was the prince from the fairytales oooooh—”
…he has the decency to cut himself off at Groove’s continued, pointed look of concern.
“Darling…she hurt you.”
Grooves’ words sink in like lead. Sure, he had only just been realizing the extent of her…mistreatment of him, but for the longest time, he had…written it all off. Even after she killed him, he had subconsciously forgiven her.
Snatcher had spent a long time convincing himself that Vanessa had simply lost control. It was easier that way. Easier to believe that the curse had been born of anger, of grief, of a moment that spiraled too far out of hand. She had always been intense, always a little possessive, but he had told himself that meant she cared. That kind of devotion had to mean something. Even after she killed him—after the manor twisted his body and the shadows sank into his bones—some stubborn part of him had continued to make excuses for her. If he had been more careful, more attentive, less embarrassing to her position, perhaps she would not have snapped like that. The thought had settled into him quietly over the years, hardening into something he never bothered to question.
It wasn’t until much later—much, much later—that the idea began to crack.
Watching someone else risk everything for another person had been… unsettling. You had come crashing into the manor not for power, not for vengeance, but simply to save a child. You had fought, argued, bargained, and endured far more than anyone reasonably should have, all for someone else’s sake. It was reckless and infuriating and strangely… selfless. And the longer Snatcher watched it unfold, the harder it became to reconcile that kind of devotion with the thing he had once called love. Vanessa had wanted to keep him close, contained, shaped into something that suited her. You, on the other hand, seemed willing to tear the entire cursed forest apart just to bring someone home. For the first time in a very long while, Snatcher found himself wondering if the difference between the two had always been obvious—and if he had simply never known what real love was supposed to look like.
It was…uncomfortable for him to confront that. So he just…ignored it. But you kept being so damn…you. Unapologetically you. Kind and caring even towards him, who ruined your life.
How can your hate be so much kinder than her love?
He looks away from Grooves, turning his attention to the eternal snow outside.
A moment of silence passes before he looks at Grooves again-just a brief glance before he’s looking out the window again, expression tightening. “She… had her moments,” he mutters, claws tapping idly against the armrest.
“The palace was never exactly kind to her. Everyone wanted something from her—advisors whispering, nobles circling like vultures, the crown sitting on her shoulders like a boulder. If she snapped once in a while, I didn’t blame her.” His mouth twists faintly. “Most of the time I figured it was because I’d done something to irritate her. Stayed in town too long. Talked to people she didn’t approve of. Made a fool of myself-and her, by proxy-in front of the court.” He shrugs, the motion stiff and hollow.
“You know. I…hah. I screwed up a lot.”
He goes quiet for a moment, gaze drifting somewhere far away. “And it wasn’t always like that,” he says more softly. “There were days she was… wonderful. We’d sit in the gardens for hours while I read her those ridiculous poems I used to write. She’d laugh, tell me they were terrible, then make me read them again anyway.” His claws curl slightly against the chair. “On days like that, the whole palace felt warmer just because she was smiling.”
A brittle laugh escapes him.
“So I learned to live for those days,” he admits quietly. “Learned how to stay out of her way when the court had been particularly cruel to her. Learned when it was better to keep my mouth shut.” His eyes dim slightly. “You start hoping if you just… handle things right, she won’t be angry this time.”
His smile turns thin and bitter.
“…funny thing about that sort of love,” he murmurs. “You spend all your time waiting for the good version of them to come back.”
A pause.
“...And when it does… you convince yourself the bad version must’ve been your fault.”
“Darling,” Grooves gently cuts in. He places a flipper on Snatcher’s claw, forcing him to loosen his death-grip on the armrest at the still-unsettling feeling of…well, feeling snaps him out of his memories. The avian’s eyes shone with that disgusting pity and it makes him want to–!
“That isn’t love.”
…no. Not pity, the human part of him gently corrects.
Compassion.
Tenderness.
Empathy.
It sits there between them, heavier than the accusation he’d been expecting. Snatcher had braced himself for revulsion, for horror, for the sort of soft, delicate sympathy people gave to broken things they didn’t want to touch. That was easy to sneer at. Easy to swat away with a joke or a cruel remark.
But this isn’t that.
Grooves’ flipper doesn’t pull away from his claw. It doesn’t tighten either. It simply rests there, steady and patient, as though there’s nowhere else it would rather be.
There’s no disgust in his eyes.
No fear.
Just a quiet, stubborn warmth that Snatcher hasn’t seen directed at him in a very, very long time.
Concern.
The realization lands awkwardly, like a foreign language he hasn’t spoken in years.
Concern meant someone was worried about him. Concern meant someone believed he deserved better than what had been done to him. Concern meant someone was looking at the wreckage of his story and not blaming him for it.
Snatcher doesn’t know what to do with that.
For centuries, every reaction he’s gotten has been predictable—terror, hatred, bargaining, the occasional burst of righteous defiance before the shadows closed in. Those emotions all made sense. They fit the role he’d grown so comfortable playing.
But this?
This soft, stubborn refusal to treat him like a monster…
It reminds him of something. Something old. Something buried under years of cold stone halls and colder winters. The way people used to look at him when he was still human.
Before claws. Before shadows.
Before the world had decided what he was.
Back then there had been warmth in people’s expressions when they spoke to him. Kindness. The quiet assumption that he was someone worth caring about.
He’d forgotten what that looked like.
Forgotten what it felt like to have someone sit beside him without fear, to have someone meet his eyes without flinching, to have someone care about the hurt beneath the teeth and the shadows instead of the spectacle of them.
Grooves is looking at him that way now.
Like he’s still someone worth saving.
And Snatcher finds that far more unsettling than pity ever could have been.
That isn’t love.
Grooves’ words repeat in his mind as he just…stares blankly down at him. Processing everything.
That isn’t love.
That wasn’t love.
And it’s not him saying that. It’s someone else. Someone with no connections or ties to either Vanessa or his human self to defend either one, to laugh at the story of how the clumsy prince got another bruise, to turn their head from her cruel behavior.
Yes, there were times when it was good.
But that’s all they were.
Something wet hits his hand. He wipes it away without looking. Snatcher heaves a heavy, shuddering sigh-distantly aching as he feels the way it makes his chest rise and fall, feels the air entering him and leaving like a breath should-and looks out the window again.
That wasn’t love.
You’re allowed to feel like you were wronged. Because you were. Because that was not love.
That hurt. He didn’t like that…but at the same time…it felt…necessary. All the pain he wasn’t allowed to feel before, everything he had repressed for decades, for centuries…now finally free. Free to be labelled and seen and felt.
“...I’m sorry for breaking the piano bench.”
Grooves scoffs. “My dear, frankly, I couldn’t give less of a damn about that piano bench.”
That, at least, gets a weak chuckle from Snatcher. Grooves didn’t really swear. Looks like it was a day of breaking habits for both of them.
“...can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.” He stops trying to wipe away the odd, viscous tears that fall from his eyes-most turn to vapor before they leave his face, anyway. He braces for whatever it is Grooves will ask him, most likely questions that have haunted him in recent years, like ‘why did you let her treat you that way?’ or ‘why did you love her?’ or ‘how could you be such a pathetic, foolish coward?’ or–
“Can you tell me what you liked? When you were alive.”
…what?
“...come again?”
Grooves falters a little at that, but clears his throat and tries again. “I-I want to know what you liked as a human. If you, ah…remember and don’t mind sharing.”
…what an odd request. Of all the things Grooves could have asked—about the curse, about Vanessa, about the shadows that act as substitute for skin, for any real part of him—that’s the question he chooses?
What did he like as a human? What had made him feel alive?
…hah….that feels like a question you would ask. He’s oblivious to the stupid, dopey grin that stretches across his fanged mouth. Grooves doesn’t say anything about it.
“...I, uh…played piano.”The words feel clumsy coming out, like something he hasn’t said in a very long time. The ghost clears his throat—more habit than necessity.“And, uh…I had gone overseas to study law, which…I thought was interesting, at least.”
Piano…law…
…was that it?
He wracks his brain, trying to find any fleeting glimpse of happiness that wasn’t focused on her. Snatcher frowns slightly, brows knitting together as he digs through the dusty corners of memory. He tries to find something—anything—that belonged to him. Something bright, something warm.
But every road he follows seems to bend back toward the same place.
Toward her.
Conversations shaped around her moods. Decisions filtered through her approval. Entire years where the only thing he remembers clearly is trying to be whatever version of himself she preferred that day.
His grin fades.
He searches harder, sifting through the wreckage of those memories, trying to find even the smallest flicker of happiness that hadn’t revolved around Vanessa.
Surely there had been something.
Hadn’t there?
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the slow tap of his claw against the armrest as he keeps digging, stubbornly refusing to believe that the answer might truly be… nothing.
“So…” Grooves finally interjects after an awkwardly long moment of silence, “this piano…it’s yours, then?”
Thank the maker for his gentle redirection.
“...yes. It’s mine.”
“Then…that music I hear at night sometimes. That’s…?”
Snatcher can’t help but sigh, but there’s no malice behind it. Rather, there’s the ghost of a smile on his face (no pun intended). It should bother him, he realizes. It should feel like an invasion, knowing that people have heard him in those quiet hours when the manor sleeps and the shadows grow restless. First the greenhorn stumbling into it by accident… now Grooves asking about it outright.
Those late-night melodies were never meant to be shared. They were one of the few things left that belonged solely to him.
…Strangely enough, he finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.
“No, actually, that’s the other malicious, unfulfilled, angry ghost.”
“The WHAT?!”
“Relax!” Snatcher cackles. “I was joking, Grooves. Yes, the piano you sometimes hear at night is me.”
The penguin clutches his chest dramatically, feathers slightly puffed from the shock. Grooves lets out a sigh of relief, “Well…it’s lovely. If you’re open to it…I’d love to collaborate with you sometime.”
The idea hangs in the air between them.
Snatcher had expected many reactions to his playing from her.
But an invitation?
That… is new.
…he…doesn’t hate it.
He blinks back out of his thoughts to Grooves gently pressing a handkerchief into his claws. The bird is smiling up at him.
…and Snatcher finds himself giving a gentle smile back.
And if his fangs seem shorter than normal, or his features softer, or his eyes a little more lively…well. That’s between him and Grooves.
This apology had gone much better than he anticipated.
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 22 First, a Little Scared
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 3381
Summary: In which a certain ghost truly begins to confront his past and begins to delve into the horrifying ordeal of being known - by someone most unexpected, to boot...heel?
A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
Apologizing to Grooves was an…interesting challenge.
Whereas the Conductor had been refreshingly forthright in his response to Snatcher’s apology, Grooves proved too honest, only to overcorrect in nervousness.
And it was starting to get on Snatcher’s nerves.
“For the last time, I promise I’m not going to break the piano. Stars, Grooves, have a little faith,” Snatcher grumbles as the penguin fusses with the ivories yet again. Grooves chuckles nervously and backs away, flippers anxiously rubbing over one another.
“I know, I know, I just…I can’t help but fret, dear!”
That was something Snatcher was still getting used to—pet names. Grooves had wasted no time in using them for Snatcher since the ghost’s apology to the Conductor. Apparently, Snatcher’s newfound—albeit wobbly and graceless at times—camaraderie with the Conductor was enough reason for Grooves to get on board with the whole…niceness thing with the others.
The penguin had practically thrown himself in headfirst when Snatcher approached him, as though he had been waiting for this.
Moonjumper had probably snitched.
Traitorous bastard.
At any rate, Grooves was looking forward to this—not for an apology, but for some quality time, apparently. Or something like that. It made him incredibly open and receptive to everything Snatcher did during this awkward attempt at an apology, which consisted of cleaning up and tuning the piano together, as suggested by the Conductor. Every blunder or flare of his temper was met with gracious leniency.
Which Snatcher would have normally tolerated—might have even, Maker forbid, somewhat appreciated—
…if he weren’t in such a sour mood.
His hand had been human this morning.
At first, he had thought he was hallucinating. Or dreaming.
He’d been having more of those lately—dreams, not hallucinations, though at this point he wasn’t entirely sure there was much difference between the two—and they had all left him with the same sour, haunting feeling upon waking: that something had happened to him in the night. Something subtle. Something impossible. Some shift in the foundations of what he was that he could never quite catch hold of before it slipped away again.
So when he looked down and saw it—really saw it—he had simply stared.
There, instead of claws, were five perfectly ordinary digits.
Plain.
Round.
Blunt.
Still purple. Still somewhat see-through. But otherwise…
Normal.
Human.
For one horrible, suspended moment, he had forgotten how to move.
He had only stared at it like it might bite him. Or vanish if he breathed too hard. He had turned it slowly, watching the light catch on skin that was not skin, on knuckles that did not end in hooked talons, on fingertips that looked so unbearably familiar that something deep inside his chest had twisted with a sudden, nauseating force.
It looked wrong on him.
It looked right on him.
That was the worst part.
He had begun to spiral almost immediately. Reached for something—anything—to prove to himself that this was not real. That it was only some cruel trick of his mind. Some desperate fantasy his lonely, half-rotted consciousness had conjured to cope with the endlessness of what he was.
He reached for the nearest book.
…and he felt it.
Not vaguely. Not distantly. Not through the muffled, wool-stuffed numbness he had long since grown used to.
He felt it.
He had grown accustomed to the mild, numb deadness that came with his spectral body. It had terrified him at first—this inability to truly touch the world around him after a lifetime of doing so without thinking. It had been one of the slowest agonies to adapt to. One of the quietest.
Floating? Fine.
Moving through shadows? Tricky, but manageable.
The soul-crushing vacancy deep within him that hollowed him out and left him echoing with cold and hunger and everything he had once been? An issue that obviously didn’t exist.
…but not being able to feel…?
That had hurt in a way he had not expected.
In a way other things had not. That had been the nail in the coffin—no pun intended. The thing that had made his death feel final. The thing that had made the curse feel real. More than the claws. More than the shadows. More than the smile stitched across his face like some bad joke.
It had been the loss of sensation.
The loss of simple, stupid things.
And he had not realized until this morning just how much he had missed them.
It had been decades. Damn near centuries. The pressure of the book against his palm had been warm and solid and there.
He had almost choked on it.
The cover had been worn leather—old, softened with age and handling. It had bent ever so slightly beneath his fingers. He had felt the dry little ridges where the material had cracked. The shallow scrapes left behind by his own claws years ago. The faint drag of paper shifting inside the binding when he picked it up.
It had almost felt like when he held your hand.
Not because a book was anything like a hand.
But because it had answered him. Because when he touched it, that long-forgotten sensation of feeling had not dissolved into that familiar half-nothingness.
It had been there.
And so had he.
For one brief, catastrophic instant, he had been there too.
He had reeled his hand away with a hiss, staring at it with something dangerously close to horror.
And by the time he looked again, it was gone.
No fingers.
No soft, stupid little knuckles.
No ordinary hand.
Only the claws.
His claws.
Long. Curved. Gnarled.
Useful for harvesting souls and looming dramatically and tearing into furniture when he lost his temper.
Not for feeling things.
That had bothered him. Immensely. More than he wanted to admit.
Because now he knew. Now he remembered.
And remembering was always the part that hurt the worst.
And on top of that…those dreams.
He had never dreamt before.
Not really.
He hardly slept—there wasn’t much point—but sometimes he did, out of boredom or habit or that pathetic lingering desire to simulate humanity in whatever ways he still could. But sleep had never brought him dreams. Only the same nightmare, over and over: the moment of his death, endless and unchanging, preserved with the perfect cruelty of trauma. So vivid, so intimate, that there had been nights he had woken with a cry caught in his throat and his arms locked rigid with remembered pain.
That had been before Moonjumper.
After Moonjumper came, the nightmares had gotten worse. Crueler.
There was something especially vile about being haunted by your own face when your own face no longer belonged to you.
But he had refused to run from them. Refused to give them power. Refused to let that thing—his body, his death, his shame—see weakness in him.
Then the nightmares stopped. The first truly dreamless sleep he had gotten in decades had come after you arrived.
And he had hated that, too. Hated the absence of them. Hated the unfamiliar peace of it. Hated the way it made him feel softened somehow, unguarded. As though some icy, barbed part of him had loosened without his permission.
Then you ran away.
Then he saved you.
Then you saved him.
And then the dreams started.
Not nightmares. Couldn’t be. He knew his nightmare by heart. These...were something else.
They were dark. Cold. But not with the same internal, marrow-deep cold of his death. This cold lived outside of him. It pressed against him. Bit at him. Wrapped him up in itself and left him alone in it. He could never see anything. Only blackness and snow and the awful, helpless certainty that he was crying.
Always crying.
The tears felt like molten metal down his face. Scalding. Endless. And some sick, ravenous part of him reveled in it, because the pain meant he could feel something. Anything. Even grief was better than that dead, endless nothing. He had felt the ground beneath him and known it was snow. Had felt himself kneeling in it.
Felt the shaking of his own body.
He just didn’t know why.
Why was he crying?
Why did his throat burn?
Why did every attempt to speak end in that hideous sound—something between a choke and a howl, horrible and wet—tearing itself out of him raw and wrong?
And then the tar.
The thick, hissing, black fluid spilling from his mouth in heavy globs whenever he tried to say anything. Falling hot against the snow. Defiling the pure, beautiful white with ugly, spreading stains.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that in the dream. Unable to move. Unable to stop crying.
Unable to understand what he had become inside it.
It had felt like eons.
Unbearably human in all the worst ways.
Then, one night, there had been a voice.
“Hello?”
The sound of it had cut through the frozen dark like a match struck in a crypt.
Familiar. Foreign. Not warm, exactly—but certainly warmer than the snow. Warmer than the wind. Warmer than the awful, endless loneliness of that place. Cooler than the boiling tar that rolled down his face and sizzled into the no-longer pristine snow beneath him.
He had sat up straighter before he even understood why.
“Hello? Are you okay? Who are—”
The voice had broken off when he turned toward it.
And he had known.
Known with the sick certainty of old shame what it must have seen.
How horrible he must have looked. How monstrous.
How wrong.
He had not needed eyes in that dream to know the shape of the silence that followed.
The presence disappeared.
The voice went with it.
And all it left behind was that question, echoing through his waking hours and sleeping ones alike:
Who are you?
Who was he?
He had thought he knew.
Once, he had been the kindly, foolish Prince of Subcon Village. Overlooked, perhaps, but loved enough. Gentle enough. Human enough. Then he had become the remnants of that prince—the sad little whispers of a man too weak, too disloyal, too unworthy.
And after that?
After that he became what she said he was.
A monster.
And if she had so easily cast him into that role, then surely it had always been waiting for him. Surely it had always lived there under his skin. Surely she would not have done what she did to a man who was innocent.
She had been without flaw.
So if she named him monster, he must have been one.
…except.
Except the changes had not started with you.
That was the infuriating part.
They had started long before that.
In tiny, unbearable ways.
In watching his servants forgive one another for mistakes.
In hearing laughter where there could have been resentment.
In seeing care offered freely, without bargaining, without debt, without cruelty attached.
He had dismissed it all as peasant nonsense.
A lesser sort of love.
A lesser sort of understanding.
Something beneath him.
Then your sister showed up and traded herself away for a friend.
Then you showed up and did the same.
And that small, stubborn, mortal part of him—that hideous little thing that had refused to die even after the rest of him had—latched onto that; refused to let go.
Because if that kind of love existed…if love could be giving instead of devouring, tender instead of demanding, chosen instead of extracted…
Then perhaps—
No.
No.
That was when the seed of doubt began to grow.
When the barren valley of his soul stopped being barren.
And he hated it.
Hated the way it rooted itself deeper with every stupid thing you did.
Bringing him home.
Cleaning his wound.
Apologizing.
Listening.
Smiling at him.
Caring for him as though he were something that could still be cared for.
He hated it.
He hated how much it mattered.
He snaps back to the present at the dull pressure of a flipper on his arm.
The sensation is sudden—so real—that it yanks him violently out of the labyrinth of his thoughts. Awareness crashes back into his body like cold water over the head.
Contact.
Someone touching him.
The feeling of being touched.
He recoils before he even fully understands what’s happening, shadowy wisps bristling up from his form like the raised hackles of a feral animal.
“What?!” he snaps instinctively, jerking away.
Grooves’ shape resolves in front of him as the world slowly rights itself again. The penguin stands there with a flipper half-raised, his expression caught somewhere between concern and mild offense—but mostly concern. Genuine concern.
Snatcher falters for a moment. His form slackens slightly, shadows settling back into place as the pressure pounding behind his eyes throbs unpleasantly.
“…don’t,” he mutters hoarsely, pressing two claws to his temple as if that might somehow contain the migraine threatening to split his skull. “I’m fine.”
A terrible lie. They both know it. But Grooves, to his credit, doesn’t push. He simply nods once—small and grateful—and returns his attention to the piano. Snatcher does the same. Or at least pretends to.
Minutes pass in uncomfortable silence. Snatcher can feel Grooves looking at him. The sensation prickles along the back of his neck like static.
“Grooves.” The rasp of his voice makes the penguin jump. “If you have something to say,” Snatcher mutters, dragging the rag across the polished wood with more force than necessary, “then say it.”
This sort of thing is new in the manor. Once upon a time, speaking to the Master like that would have been…inadvisable. Now he doesn’t exactly encourage it, but he tolerates it sometimes—mostly so Grooves will stop staring holes into the back of his skull.
“Sorry!” Grooves laughs nervously, waving a dismissive flipper. “Just…worried, dear. You looked so…lost.”
Lost.
That’s one way of putting it. Lately his thoughts feel like a house that keeps rearranging its rooms when he isn’t looking—every corner another hallway, every door leading somewhere unfamiliar, every step uncovering something he very much does not want to see.
“…guess I was,” Snatcher mutters. He doesn’t elaborate. Unfortunately Grooves is not the type to let things go easily. Snatcher knows two things about him: he can gossip about absolutely anything with theatrical enthusiasm, and he can guard a secret like it’s locked in a steel vault.
A month ago the idea of confiding in him would have been laughable.
Grooves. Of all creatures.
…now?
Now Snatcher is just too tired to fight it. Not with that look on Grooves’ face.
He exhales slowly.
“…I was lost.”
The words barely leave his mouth before the sound tears out of him.
A scream.
It rips through the manor with such violence the walls seem to shudder. Raw. Broken. Animal.
For a moment he doesn’t even realize it’s coming from him—until the burning tear in his throat makes the truth unavoidable.
The sound is horribly familiar. It’s the same noise he makes in the dreams.
But wrong.
Distorted. Like a gramophone record dragged across shattered glass—something meant to sound human, but warped just enough to be unmistakably unnatural.
The world returns to him in fragments: the scratch of old carpet beneath him, the disorienting tilt of the floor, Grooves’ flipper gripping his arm, far too many goddamn sparkles bursting across his vision. Too much sensation all at once. His mind fractures under the pressure.
Snatcher lashes out instinctively, shoving the contact away. He needs space—he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe? How is he breathing? The sensations crash through him in overwhelming waves: a heartbeat that shouldn’t exist, lungs that shouldn’t exist, the terrifying illusion of being trapped inside something that feels dangerously close to a living body. Tight and binding and cramped and alone and cold, always so, so cold-
“Master!”
“WHAT?!” The word explodes out of him. Snatcher’s head snaps up as his senses finally begin clawing their way back into place. Grooves stands a few feet away now, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Snatcher becomes abruptly aware that he is shaking—his entire form trembling, shadow rippling like wind through smoke.
Grooves’ expression twists with something that makes Snatcher’s stomach drop.
Concern.
Fear.
Something dangerously close to pity.
Snatcher lets out a brittle half-laugh.
“Don’t,” he hisses, voice cracking. “Don’t look at me like that—”
“Because you are, darling! You are hurting—I can see it!” Grooves presses on, voice shaking but stubborn. “And you can push me away all you want, and you can keep pretending everything’s fine, but damn it— you can’t keep pretending you aren’t hurting anymore!”
Silence drops over the room. Grooves is visibly shaking now.
Snatcher realizes distantly that he is shaking even worse.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Two sets: one quick and light, the other heavier and more measured. A familiar chill seeps into the room.
The Conductor, the greenhorn, and Moonjumper, respectively.
Shame hits him so fast it nearly chokes him.
How humiliating. How utterly degrading—to be seen like this. Not by one witness, but by all of them. That stubborn, disgusting shred of humanity inside him curls up and wails in mortification while another part—older, colder, meaner—erupts into furious defense.
How dare they see him like this.
How dare they look at him with sympathy.
He can’t even turn around. He can’t let them see his face.
“Nothing to see here, dears.”
Grooves’ voice cuts through the tension. At some point he has stepped directly in front of Snatcher. It doesn’t hide much—Grooves is far too small for that—but the gesture is unmistakably protective.
“Everything’s alright.” The silence that follows says otherwise. Snatcher can practically feel their confusion…their pity.
“You can return to your jobs,” Grooves continues calmly. “We can clean up here.”
Another long pause.
Then the footsteps retreat. The chill fades with them.
They leave.
Snatcher doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the room empties. Air rushes into lungs that shouldn’t exist. His body heaves with dry, desperate gulps.
The warmth returns to his arm.
Grooves again.
Still there.
Still patient.
Still…kind.
Snatcher stares blankly at the scattered wreckage around him—the splintered remains of the piano bench littering the floor. He has no memory of breaking it.
“...you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Grooves says quietly, voice careful now. Gentle. “But if you need someone to listen…well.”
A small smile touches his beak. “I’m here for a while.”
The joke barely lands, but it still pulls a weak huff of laughter from Snatcher.
The next hour is spent in relative silence as Grooves and Snatcher collect every splinter they can of the piano bench. Snatcher can fix it tomorrow with magic - Vanessa should have a spell for that, right? If she was able to curse him to a damned eternity of winter and loneliness, she should have a damn spell for restoring a piano bench - that was, apparently, smashed to bits when Snatcher had shoved Grooves away. Miraculously, the penguin hadn’t befallen any harm from his claws, and had only a tiny scratch or two from the flying debris.
The first thing to break the neutral silence is an muttered, “...I’m sorry.”
And it’s returned with a small, patient smile, which, in turn, is returned by a hesitant, yet hopeful fanged one.
Exhausted from experiencing emotions, Snatcher curls up by the fire - very snake-like in appearance, his shadowy tail coiled like a serpent’s. Grooves wordlessly sits next to him.
…Snatcher can’t remember having anything like this before.
Sure, he had subjects who adored him and a few acquaintances in the neighboring nobility…but nothing as simple yet profoundly deep and personal as this. She would never have let him have something like that.
“...do you know the story of these woods?” The ghost asks, voice low and quiet for once. His companion shakes his head. Snatcher sighs. He was really doing this, wasn’t he?
“...well…a long time ago - I’m talking centuries - it wasn’t…like this.”
Grooves scooches closer, that patient smile still playing on his beak.
And as he begins to share his story - the first he’s ever confessed it to another being, living or not - for the first time in a long time, perhaps his entire life…
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 21 Small to Say the Least
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 4186
Summary: Another moment between you and Snatcher in which there's actual communication and a little bit more understanding.
TW: Graphic description of frostbite and subsequent injuries
A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
“You want me to what?” The ghost pauses his reading to regard his slightly more corporeal companion incredulously.
“Well,” Moonjumper begins, “I figured since your first apology…with our dear Conductor went so well, you should ask…him how to best apologize to our…resident musician.”
At this, Snatcher scoffs.
“Please. If I wanted to make my brain melt from the pure obliviousness of a lovesick fool too blind to see his feelings are requited, I’d rather just read one of those sappy romance novels gathering dust in the library.”
Moonjumper gives him an unimpressed, blank look. The kind where Snatcher just knows what’s going on in his head and it makes him feel too vulnerable. It makes his cold, ghostly cheeks warm slightly, the yellow of his blush reflecting off the white pages of the book.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
It’s true. There is a cruel, twisted irony to Snatcher’s words, and he can’t hide it from Moonjumper. That damn body-thief knows him too well at this point.
Despite all odds, it seems the terrifying soulkeeper of Subcon Forest is developing feelings for you.
Platonically, of course.
Yep! Only strictly a platonic crush! That’s it! It couldn’t be anything more, since he is totally incapable of feeling love! One hundred and ten percent! Besides that, it isn’t as if you have this magical ability to light up whatever room you walk into, or return his sassy remarks with just as much fire and good humor, or somehow lift the burden of what it means to be this monster with your little smile and caring personality and the late-night talks between the two of you that he has grown rather fond of…
…Moonjumper is still staring at him.
The larger ghost growls and returns his attention to his book with a grumble. Damn it, why does nearly every conversation with Moonjumper somehow circle back to you?
He can try all he wants to get it through to Moonjumper that it is nothing more than the desire for simple companionship — he still cringes at just using the word friendship — but Moonjumper simply won’t believe him. That ghoul is about as hopeless a romantic as they come.
Another thing they TOTALLY DIDN’T inherit from his husk of a body when they stole it.
Snatcher clears his throat and sets the book down with a sigh.
“Fine,” the specter concedes, “I’ll talk to him. But if I’m stuck there for hours listening to his incessant romantic drivel without getting anywhere, I…”
…he’ll what?
He has never actually enacted physical acts of torture onto his servants. Psychological pain is good enough for him — at least, that’s what he tells himself for all these centuries, and it absolutely isn’t the fact that he can’t bring himself to physically injure any of them. Still, threats used to come easily to him, and now he finds himself puttering.
He’ll do…what, exactly?
Moonjumper seems to know this, as he always does when it comes to Snatcher’s inner turmoil. Their smile is just the faintest hint of smug.
Bastard.
“...whatever.” Snatcher growls, dragging a clawed hand down his face in exasperation as he mentally prepares himself to be stuck listening to the Conductor wax poetic in the stupidest way possible over his fellow avian coworker. “See to it that if I’m not out within two hours that the manor burns down or something.”
Moonjumper grins. That small smile looks much more natural on them now.
“Of course, Master.”
Snatcher groans as he sinks through the shadows of the floor to find one small yellow servant. Moonjumper watches him leave with a small smile and a hum, entirely certain that Snatcher is making too big a fuss over nothing.
After all, talking to the Conductor can’t be that bad.
The specter slinks into the shadows, mentally preparing himself for a hopefully brief discussion.
When he arrives at the kitchen, however, it isn’t the Conductor who greets him.
There you stand by the window, the cold wintry light a stark contrast to the warm, easy smile on your face as you hum, bustling around the sink while you clean pots and pans.
You look comfortable.
You look happy.
It's…strange, in a way. Seeing you happy — truly happy. You aren’t smiling, but he can tell in this moment, you are happy. Content, in a way. Like you aren’t trapped in a frozen wasteland with an injured foot — which, as he looks at your still-swollen ankle, is starting to look worse, actually — with two ghosts and two birds who were all but recently strangers to you.
It makes part of him…jealous.
Sure, the others have adapted just fine, but…he knows their stories; knows why the Conductor would have signed his name away along with his soul; why Grooves is perhaps a touch too eager to get his flipper on the pen. He can understand why they get used to their lives here so easily.
But you?
You…aren’t like them. Aren’t like any of them. You have a family to go back to — someone who cares about you, someone you take care of. He can still remember the fire in your eyes the day you come to save Hattie. A fire that burns purely on the need to survive and protect and love. One that refuses to be snuffed out, even as the two of you physically grow apart.
He still sees flickers of it in the brief moments his golden gaze meets yours. It still isn’t dead. It’s what is driving you every single day. A goal you’ve never lost sight of, even when the darkness of the night creeps in and plants seeds of doubt in the fertile soil of your soul.
How on earth could you ever be content here? A place with so little life, so little warmth?
And how the hell can he take that for himself?
That little bit of humanity in him shuns him. Such avarice. He hears her voice in his head. So selfish, always wanting more, despite having everything you could want.
He bites back a wry chuckle at his thoughts. Yes, because this is exactly what he wants. Cursed to live in the place where he died, where she killed him — because that’s what she did, isn’t it? — by himself with the only companionship he can secure being taking people’s souls and forcing them to stay with him. Cursed into becoming a monster for a basic human need.
That’s what she has done. She killed him and then made it impossible for him to ever feel human again. Because killing him wasn’t enough, was it? No, he thinks, of course it’s not. Not for his crime of…of what? Of being human? Of existing outside of her perfect little world for once?
…why did he ever love her in the first place?
Because he was naive and young and stupid, he tells himself. Because she loved him, and that’s all he ever wanted.
To be loved.
“...-cher?”
And now here he is. Completely alone and hopeless.
He can’t help but actually chuckle dryly out loud at that.
“...-atcher...?”
Ironic, isn’t it?
The one thing any human ever needs from another, and she denies him that with this godforsaken curse.
And now he’ll—
“Snatcher!”
“What?!” Snatcher hisses, his voice booming in the kitchen, his shadows raised like a scared cat’s hackles as he is violently pulled from his thoughts by a voice.
Your voice.
You’re looking up at him…concerned.
Like in the library when you apologize.
Like you actually care.
He scoffs to himself and forces himself to calm down and compose himself…but he’s too tired to put on that fake smile.
So he doesn’t.
You don’t seem to mind. You’ve seen him without it plenty now.
“...what.” He repeats, voice significantly quieter and softer as he manages to pull himself together. Stars — he’s going to have to talk to Moonjumper about the increased frequency of these…intrusive thoughts. If one can call them that.
“Just asking if you’re okay.” You reply bluntly as you take a step back — not out of fear, no, you’ve stopped doing that since the first night spent in the foyer. There hasn’t been a lick of fear in your eyes since then, and he hates to admit how much inner turmoil it causes for him. “You just sorta showed up and started laughing and mumbling about something.”
“...it’s nothing.”
Bullshit. You both know it is.
But you don’t press him any further, which he silently appreciates.
“Where’s the Conductor? I came here to talk with him.”
“Oh, he’s out…ah…how did he say it again…?” You smile, trying to remember. “He said he was ‘fair scunnered’ and was ‘hankerin’ for a shneeb’.” You do your best Conductor impression as you say it. Which, admittedly, is not very good. Still, it gets Snatcher to smile a little bit, too, so you count that as a win.
“Which means he’s…?”
“Hell if I know,” you chuckle and shrug. “All I do know is that he stepped outside maybe five or so minutes ago, and he said he’d be taking fifteen so…maybe check back in ten?”
As you explain, you lean against a counter, your face contorting into a small grimace as you put weight on your once-frostbitten foot. Snatcher’s small smile falls as he glances down at your ankle. You aren’t putting much weight on it at all, favoring your other foot heavily. His eyes flit back up to yours, and your sheepish expression tells him all he needs to know.
“You haven’t been taking it easy.” He observes, giving you an unimpressed, scolding look.
Your hands fly out to the sides as you immediately assume defense with an indignant groan. “I can’t help it—!”
“You can.”
“I can’t!” you insist, despite the fact that he is obviously not going to take your side in this. “It’s so boring taking it easy! I can work!”
“You’re making it worse.” He notes coolly and logically, even though he knows you probably won’t listen. "I've never heard someone complain about not being able to work."
He hates how endearing your stubbornness is to him. How it is just another part of you that he’s growing to lo—appreciate. Appreciate and also hate at the same time, specifically because of moments like this, where you refuse to listen because you are too headstrong for your own good.
You pout at his logic and look at the ground. You fidget with your fingers as you try to think of an excuse.
It's cute.
He buries that thought deep within, locking it in a box and throwing away the key. That thought doesn’t need to see the light ever.
“How, exactly, did you injure that flesh-sack of yours more?” he asks, partly because he is curious, partly to distract himself from that traitorous thought.
“I, erm…” You cough into your hand, awkwardly clearing your throat. “I had, um…fallen. From the stepladder in the library. Landed wrong.”
You wince as you recall the memory. Yeah, that one hurts reaaaaaally bad, especially since you land on your injured foot, which means all your weight goes onto it. And you had been doing so well, too.
“It wasn’t that bad, but I think it, uh, heh, set my healing back a couple days…” you murmur that last part, still feeling somewhat ashamed of the accident under his scolding gaze. “But I’m fine, see!”
“...stars, you’re hopeless.” he mumbles in response and floats away, disappearing into the shadows of the kitchen.
You figure that must be that and turn to hobble back to the sink when the shadows shift and move to wrap around you as well and suddenly you’re on the chair in the piano room. Snatcher hovers over you just long enough to mutter a, “Don’t move,” before he’s gone again, leaving you to your thoughts.
What the hell had gotten into him?
You don’t have time to think about it for too long before Snatcher returns with the medicine kit kept in the kitchen. Honestly, most of the stuff is probably expired, but it is better than nothing.
He shifts to “sit” in front of you, waiting for you to…do something. You just look at him in confusion in return.
“...well?”
“Well…what?”
“Take your shoe off.”
What?
“Uh…why?”
He gives you another unimpressed look, his already thin patience growing thinner. “Because I’m secretly a creep who gets off on shoes that have been passed down at least five times. I’m going to check on your frostbitten foot, fool.”
The look you give him must convey your thoughts and increased confusion, because he is already frowning before you can reply.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” you say, cringing slightly as it sounds a bit too rushed to seem nonchalant.
He rolls his eyes and goes to take your shoe off himself, but you reach down and stop him with a nervous smile. He only pauses because the sight of your warm, human hand on his makes his mind stop working for a moment.
“Really! It’s fine! I can have Moonjumper check on it later if it’s still hurting.”
His flat look doesn’t change.
“Well, it’s hurting now and Moonjumper isn't available.” He huffs. “Trust me — I checked. Just…shut up and let me do this, okay?”
You blink at him owlishly, eyes wide…and nod, awkwardly shuffling to sit back more in the chair.
This is definitely weird.
For both of you, it seems — Snatcher’s movements as he goes to take off your shoe are jerky and shaky and unsure…so unlike him. When you offer to take it off yourself, he just shoots you a glare that makes you sink further into the cushions of the chair.
You feel him remove your shoe and peel off your sock and—
“Fucking stars!”
He exclaims, making you sit straight up in concern. Before you can ask what is wrong, he shoots you another glare, holding your ankle with surprising tenderness. You cringe as you look at your foot, knowing exactly what makes him swear like that.
Your foot has not, in fact, been getting better.
Most of the sensation has returned…but it stops after a certain point, and you are left with that heavy, awful numbness that settles deep into the meat of your foot and makes it feel more like something strapped to the end of your leg than part of your body. Your skin is damaged — pale and mottled and discolored, ugly patches of red-purple and waxy white spidering over the top and sides of your foot. A huge blister sits swollen over the top, stretched tight and shiny, angry-looking against the rest of your skin. The areas that aren’t blistered or discolored are cracked, rough, and stiff, the skin pulled so tight in some places it looks like it might split if you flex the wrong way. Even the simple gesture of Snatcher turning your foot slightly to inspect it better sends a hot, needling pain shooting up from your toes to your knee, and you let out a hiss of pain, reflexively trying to pull away.
But Snatcher keeps that firm, gentle hold on your ankle, being surprisingly careful not to touch any of the worst of it.
You look away, unable to meet his admonishing gaze. You can feel his judgment weighing you down, pushing you further into the chair. How you wish you could just disappear into the shadows like he can right now…
“How long has it been like this?”
“...since it happened.”
“And you’ve been walking around like this? Greenie, this thing’s practically fallen off!”
You cross your arms and huff. “Oh, what, you’re a doctor now, too?”
He scowls at you. “I know enough to know that skin isn’t supposed to look like this.”
“I could have told you that.”
“But you didn’t.” He hisses, and that promptly makes you shut up. “So you’ve been walking around on it, putting pressure on it, and the rubbing from your sock probably caused the blister to grow. So you’ve actually been doing a really shit job at healing.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Zip it, Greenie.”
He looks over your foot some more before gently poking and prodding around it. You wince and hiss at him to get off, but he just gives you another look that makes you grumble and sit back once more. He seems to be taking mental notes as he examines your foot, going through the motions of a physical exam, gently manipulating your foot this way and that to assess your pain.
Part of you thinks he’s doing it on purpose.
Sadist.
The other part of you is…surprised he’s still here. He could have left you to your own devices the minute the sock came off — Hell, you assume he would leave you alone in the first place, leaving you to suffer silently.
But he doesn’t.
…for once, you are glad to be wrong about someone.
After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence and examination, you sigh.
“What’s the prognosis, Doc?”
“Quit it,” he warns again before gently setting your foot down with a sigh. He looks up at you, expression grim. “...we’re going to have to amputate.”
“What?!”
Your blood runs cold, and your body reacts to it the same way it does when your foot slips into that stupid freezing pond in the first place. Yeah, you had joked about it to yourself before, but that was when you were delirious and hysterical after a traumatic event. You didn’t think you’d actually need one. But amputation means dead tissue. So much time has gone by — how far has the dead tissue spread? How much would need to be amputated? Oh, Maker, they don’t have any sort of anesthesia here, let alone any sort of sterile surgical equipment. Your heart starts to race as anxiety tears at your thoughts and—
“Kidding!”
A smug, playful smile breaks out onto his face and he laughs at your reaction. Like a deep, full-bellied laugh. It would be contagious if you weren’t teetering on the edge of a heart attack.
“AHAHA! Oh, Maker, the look on your face! Priceless!”
“Ha-ha.” You huff. “Very funny.”
“Worth it.” He shrugs and opens up the medical kit. “Don’t worry — your stupid stubbornness hasn’t seemed to kill off any tissue. Worst thing you might have is chronic compartment syndrome, but that’ll be an easy fix.”
“Chronic what?”
“Compartment syndrome,” he repeats without further explanation.
“...thanks. Really clears things up for me.”
He sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes. “It’s something Moonjumper told me about from one of his medical books.” That's right - you remember Moonjumper mentioning something about medical books after The Shitstorm Night, as you've taken to calling it. “Something about how internal pressure from traumatic injury or prolonged strain causes bleeding in the muscle compartment. As if that’s not where the blood is supposed to be.”
He jokes lightly, trying to dispel the stale awkwardness in the air as he grabs a roll of bandages.
“Could just be talking out of my ass here, and I’ll have him actually check you out when he comes back from…wherever the hell he is right now, but that’s my guess as I’m looking at it. Not like we can do much about it anyway — that’s one of those conditions that only a change in habits can fix.”
He gives you a pointed look.
Wow, would you look at that? The snow outside is suddenly so, so fascinating. You don’t think you’ve ever seen snow like this. It is definitely much more interesting to look at than your spectral companion who keeps staring at you with a reprimanding glint in his eyes.
“...if there’s nothing we can do to fix it,” you say, hearing him roll his eyes at that, “why are you getting the bandages ready?”
He gives you another maniacal grin.
“For all the blood.”
“Snatcher.”
“Fine! We’re just gonna drain your blister and get some ointment on your foot. Spoilsport.”
You watch his smile drop as he focuses again. You barely feel the prick of the lancet over skin already stretched too tight, but you do feel the pressure when his ghostly fingers work around the swollen blister, coaxing the trapped fluid out. The sensation is disgusting more than painful — a deep, queasy ache, the kind that makes your stomach twist. You do, however, take note of his exaggeratedly disgusted look and stifle a snort. You’d think a ghost who steals souls and has such imaginative threats would be fine with a little drainage.
…he cares more than you expected him to.
That is the thing you still find surprising.
You don’t voice this, however, knowing it would ruin…whatever this moment is, opting instead to just watch silently as he takes care of you. The ointment stings a little as he applies it, sinking into the cracked skin and the angry rawness around the blister like fire under ice, but he follows it up with a quick, muttered apology, and the bandage he applies isn’t too tight or too loose. In fact, his movements almost look…practiced, in a way. Not like his hands at the piano, but a similar sort of familiarity.
“Heh…you sure you weren’t a doctor or a nurse in your past life?”
That gets a small chuckle from him and he shakes his head, his fluff-like shadows swaying with the movement.
“Far from it.”
“You seem familiar with patching people up.”
He stills at that, thinking about your words as they sink in.
“...I…” He fumbles, looking for something to explain that learned behavior that isn’t the truth…but he falls short. After a moment or two, he shakes his head again. “It’s just applying a bandage, Greenie. Don’t read too much into it.”
With that, you watch as he packs up the remaining medical kit supplies — it might honestly be best to just throw it out at this point — and lets it disappear into the shadows. He goes to leave, too, but you stop him with an outstretched hand.
He looks down at you and for a moment…
…he almost looks human.
Like he does that first night you see him playing the piano.
There is a faint definition to his jaw that you’ve never seen before, the beginnings of a nose just barely outlined as if it were something small pushing against heavy fabric. A look down at his hands shows that they don’t look as long or as sharp or as threatening as before. His claws are still imposing, but they seem less…menacing.
…you don’t comment on it.
Instead, you look up at his strangely yet barely defined face and lock eyes with him. He flinches a little at that — you tone down your seriousness just a bit and tuck that information away.
“I…thank you, Snatcher.”
Before he can interrupt with a snarky comment — which you know he will, given the shit-eating grin that is already forming on his face — you continue,
“Really. I…I know I was being stubborn and obstinate and a pain, so…I really appreciate you taking the time to…y’know…care.”
He freezes again, and the two of you are enveloped in another silence. After a few moments, right before you start to pull your hand away, his shoots out to hold yours.
Just like in the library.
Like he’s reaching for even the smallest bit of connection.
You give that to him without complaint.
It takes him another moment to form his words, and you are patient with him while he does.
“...you’re welcome.” he rasps out, the words still somewhat foreign and strange in his throat.
Still, you give him a small, warm smile, which he returns, before pulling his hand away and clearing his throat like he is above such things as want and connection.
“But, seriously, you gotta start taking better care of yourself, Greenie,” he chuckles. “I’m not always gonna be willing to help make your boo-boos all better.”
This time you laugh with him, unaware that the weird sinking feeling that occurs in your chest at that statement is also felt by him. You both leave it unnamed and untouched.
“Hah…but…it’s not all better.” You pretend to pout.
Concern flashes in his eyes, despite his best efforts to hide it, and he leans in again.
“What? What do you mean? I did what I could.” He starts to argue. “What else could you possibly need from me?”
You smirk and lean back, lifting your leg a little with the help of your arms to bring your foot up slightly.
“You didn’t kiss it better.”
You laugh to yourself as yellow blooms across Snatcher’s face and he scoffs, making a dramatic exit into the shadows…
…but not before you catch the fond smile on his face.
You adjust how you sit, absently staring at the place where he disappeared, your own smile still lingering on your lips. You look down at your freshly bandaged foot and hum.
Sure, the healing is set back because of your stubbornness, but…if other days go like today…
…maybe staying here a little longer wouldn’t be so bad.
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 20 Interlude
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 1963
Summary:
A/N:This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
The forest isn’t any better than Hattie remembers it. It isn’t any easier, either.
She’s just prepared this time.
At least, she thinks she is. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts to prepare, Hattie still finds herself victim to the whims of the wild; the icy cold beats against her, the wintry winds whip around her, and the occasional howl echoes through the brisk forest air that makes her blood run as cold as the ever-present snowfall around her and lets dread seep into her bones.
She has to press on, however.
Hattie vows that, when she rescues you and you are finally reunited and that dumb ghost is dead forever, you two will leave this stupid corner of the earth. No more mafia. No more creepy eternally-winter forests. No dumb ghosts and their dumb manor deep within the woods.
No more chances for Hattie to mess up so royally that it results in the loss of her sibling’s soul.
Tears of frustration sting at her eyes as she trudges onward. The whole incident has been replaying in her head since she left the mansion.
Since she left you.
She can never forgive herself for this whole…situation. She has worn herself ragged staying up planning how to rescue you. She has been neglecting to eat.
Not even Bow can get through to her.
The bags under her eyes are as heavy as the pack that weighs on her back. But none of that matters.
All that matters to Hattie is getting you back.
But…she feels more lost than before.
She has tried to recreate a map of the forest from memory — all they had to go off of last time during their first expedition were vague directions and an unquenchable sense of adventure. But it’s as if the forest has changed from her last visit. Either that, or Hattie’s memory doesn’t quite remember the exact details of how she and Bow got to the Mansion in the first place.
But Hattie’s memory is almost always correct.
…man, this forest is weird.
The deeper she ventures, the more…unfamiliar it becomes. The trees she remembers as being twisted and gnarled and sinister are…well, they’re still very ominous, but they seem softer. Their twists aren’t as jagged and their branches don’t gnarl or gnash as much.
Even the wind seems quieter here.
There isn’t as much snow.
…she is definitely lost.
She tries not to let panic overtake her — she really, really does — but it’s hard not to when everything just pushes her closer and closer to the edge mentally. She pushes through the grief and guilt — everything will be OK when she gets you back. You will be with her, watch her grow up, laugh and play and eat and live together and all of this will be just a bad dream.
…was that a light?
It is.
There, about maybe a hundred yards or so away, is a little flickering light.
Despite its warm and welcoming appearance, Hattie stares at it warily. She has learned her lesson: don’t trust anything in this forest. Technically speaking, one hundred percent of her experiences here have been thoroughly horrible.
…but there is something about the light that makes Hattie doubt herself.
Maybe it’s the weariness that weighs on her, or her grief and guilt that burdens her, but something about the light seems inviting, despite her apprehension.
She is just so…tired.
Tired of walking.
Tired of hating herself.
Tired of missing you.
Her feet begin to take her closer to the light without her even noticing. She only realizes her feet have betrayed her when the light opens up, taking the shape of…a doorway?
The warm light silhouettes a figure in the threshold…but their features aren’t discernible. All that exists of them is darkness.
An emptiness, not too unlike the shadows that comprise the form of her sibling’s captor. The darkness of the being stirs, swirling in a hypnotic pattern around a single light that emanates from it.
It doesn’t matter, though, because the next thing Hattie feels…
…is falling.
Hattie barely registers the cold of the scant amount of snow soaking into the knees of her pants. She barely feels the impact of her head against the cold, hard forest ground, barely hears the shouting voices that somehow grow louder yet more distant as the darkness consumes her vision.
“...ey! H…on…!” a voice cries.
Weird. There isn’t anyone around…
“Sta…th…us…!” another voice rings out.
Hattie can hear clamoring and panic around her, but the cold and the darkness envelop her.
Eventually, the little lights that have made themselves home in her vision fade away.
And all is black.
When Hattie awakens, it is still black.
Well, mostly.
She’s in a bed. She can tell that much.
It isn’t hers, however, unless she has a growth spurt in the middle of the night — half her feet and toes dangle off the edge, the tops of her feet are barely covered by the blanket, and the pillow beneath her head barely supports her weight.
If she is in a bed, then she must be in a room.
It is warm.
Cozy.
Definitely not outside in the freezing forest.
It is definitely not her room.
It is dim — comfortably so. A fireplace at the far end of the room glows with a healthy flame that provides the only source of light.
Yeah — you would never allow Hattie to have a fireplace in her own room.
She can’t blame you for that decision.
Okay.
So.
Strange, small bed in a strange, small room.
Definitely not the worst place she’s woken up in.
Enough lying about.
Hattie has a you to rescue.
With a flourish, Hattie throws the too-small sheets off herself and quickly collects her things — her boots sit by the fireplace, and her hat and bag hang by the door.
Strange.
But oddly hospitable of her…kidnappers?
Technically, that would be the proper term for them, since they moved her without her consent…but she might have died out in the cold, so perhaps they are just good, neighborly people…?
…good, neighborly people who live in a haunted forest where it is eternally winter.
…yeah.
Sure.
With a huff, Hattie prepares her umbrella — it is the only thing she has close to a weapon, after all — and opens the door with a horrible, whining creeeeeeeeeaaaaaak…
…well…nothing yet.
Given her experience with weird houses in the woods, Hattie is certain someone will pop up—
“You’re awake!”
Hattie gasps so harshly it hurts her lungs, surprised by the sudden appearance of…a shadow.
“I’m so glad! We were starting to wonder if you were dead!” the shadow chirps happily.
What stands before her is a swirling mass of dark purple, much like the form that dumb mansion ghost takes, though remarkably less threatening. Where the mansion ghost is all sharp points and edges and fangs, this shadow is smooth and rounded and soft.
It doesn’t have a face like the mansion ghost.
Only a light in the center of what Hattie can only assume to be its head.
It’s too late to apply these findings to logic, however, because Hattie has already begun to swing at the creature.
The shadow yelps and throws up its hands to save itself from the harsh blow of her umbrella, but it does little to save it. Her umbrella thwacks into the side of its head — and yes, it does seem like the light is meant to represent its face, because it scrunches in pain when struck — and sends the poor shadow flying to the other end of the small room.
“Who are you?!” Hattie demands, her voice cracking and hoarse from disuse. She takes a step forward, umbrella raised threateningly.
“Where am I?!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the shadow cries, holding up its hands in defense. “I ain’t gonna hurt you! I’m Lex! I’m just a Subconite who lives here!”
At this, Hattie pauses.
She lowers her umbrella — just enough to not be in attack mode, but still ready to use if this…Subconite proves dangerous or hostile.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except a painful squeak that scrapes its way out of her throat.
“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re lost and confused, but you don’t gotta go beating up poor Lex about it!” the shadow — Lex — whines as they stand, rubbing the side of their head where Hattie struck them. Despite having no discernible facial features, Hattie can tell they wince as they rub their head — something about the way the light that composes their face flickers and shifts around the ever-swirling darkness that makes up their body.
“I’ll explain everything to you! Just don’t hit me again, okay?”
In spite of her reluctance, Hattie nods.
She is lost and confused and scared and missing her older sibling.
At this point, she’ll take whatever help she can get.
Plus, she is way too tired to fight.
The cold really depletes her energy.
At her acquiescence, Lex sighs and relaxes a little. They turn and gesture for Hattie to follow them to a table that, much like the bed she wakes up in, is just barely too short for her.
It is perfectly sized for Lex, she notes, as the mysterious umbral figure sits across from her.
“Okay, so, for starters, I’m Lex…guess I already said that part, huh? Anyway, I’m a resident of Subcon Forest, particularly this little village that you stumble into. Which, gotta give credit where credit is due: it is almost impossible for the living to find this place!”
They pause, chuckling at Hattie’s face at the realization that she might, in fact, actually be dead.
“No, no, don’t worry. You’re alive, alright! You corporeal folks are way heavier than us Subconites — no offense, of course. You’ve just got, like, an actual body and stuff. Us ghosts…sort of do…? But it’s different and irrelevant to what I’m telling you about…which is just basically that my name’s Lex and you’re in a place called Subcon Forest.”
“That’s all there is to it!”
…that’s all there is to it?
Really?
“Well, there’s that, but there’s also the mystery of how exactly you could have found this village. Let alone see us!” Lex holds up their hands. “But I digress. There are much more important things to discuss. Let’s skip the nitty-gritty: yes, I’m a ghost; yes, ghosts exist; no, we’re not volatile, we’re just ghosts; no—”
“Where’s the manor?” Hattie’s neglected voice finally finds the threads of strength it needs to painfully scrape out a question.
At this, Lex freezes.
“The…manor?” they ask, sudden apprehension creeping into their voice. “Why on Earth would you ever want to go to the manor?”
Before Hattie can respond, Lex sighs.
“...you’ve lost someone there, haven’t you? It…I thought it was hidden by the storm…” Lex sighs again, shuffling out of their chair and into the adjoining kitchen unit, where they turn on the stove and set a kettle over the flame. They turn back to Hattie, the light of their face dimmer than before.
“Listen…I can tell you what you want to know…but you should know the history of that place — of this forest, really — as well.”
“And that’s gonna be…a long story.”
“So…what kind of tea do you like?”
The next few minutes are filled with nonsense small talk from Lex. They try to engage Hattie, but they can tell she isn’t really in the mood to talk, and they just begin telling mundane stories about their own life to pass the time as they prepare two cups of chamomile. Once she has the hot, delicious tea securely in her hands, Lex takes their seat across from her again and begins the tale of Subcon Forest.
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 19 Just a little change
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 5340
Summary: Small, to say the least...
A/N: This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
The next few days go by similarly.
That is to say, weirdly.
You are able to do more work, but there seems to be less and less work to do. You ask the others if they have noticed something similar, and they confess to you that the ghostly master of the manor himself is helping around with chores. Grooves claims that he makes the excuse that, after his fiasco in the kitchen with the Conductor, Snatcher finds that doing chores makes the day go by faster and that he totally isn’t doing it to help out.
Part of you highly doubts that.
Most of you highly doubts that.
He’s been…weirdly softer since your encounter with him in the parlor. That’s not to say he isn’t angry or snarky or even downright rude from time to time, but his words don’t bite as much, and his claws seem a little less sharp, and whatever poison drips from his fangs is considerably less toxic. He makes markedly fewer threats, though you can tell that he certainly thinks them. His manners, although rough around the edges, are actually present. Even you get a couple “please”s and “thank you”s growled out your way, however grudgingly.
The weirdest part, though, is having him in the library while you work.
It’s unsettling, at first, walking around the corner to see the ghost combing through the books you have already put on the shelves. You don’t even hear him enter. Perks of being a ghost, you suppose. You don’t have the fortune of sneaking up on him in return, though, as you alert him to your presence with a sharp yelp as you’re brought back down to earth by his sudden appearance. He doesn’t even react that much to your sudden, loud noise, looking up from his book with a scolding, disinterested look.
Like a librarian telling you to be quiet.
It hurts more than whatever jeer he could say.
He still teases you anyway. Because of course he does.
“Keep it down, newbie. This is a library.” He shoots you a smug smirk.
You resist the urge to tell him where he can shove his book. That would be very disrespectful to the book, after all.
“How long have you been there?” you ask, walking over to the stacked books. It must be his doing, as you had sort of just…left them in a pile. An organized-ish pile, to be fair! But you are planning on tackling any sort of actual organization after you get all the books down and dusted off.
“Long enough.” Why does he have to be so damn mysterious all the time? He’s probably only been in the library for, like, ten minutes, tops. He could just say that.
“May I ask why you’re here?” You don’t intend for the question to be malicious or rude, but you are curious. You appreciate the quiet alone time in the library, even if it does get a little too quiet at times (but you just fill those moments with singing — another reason you’d prefer to be alone. Singing time is sacred time!). Plus, with Snatcher helping out around the manor in other places, you’d figure he’d be too busy to visit the library, or perhaps he just prefers the company of the others over yours. Which is fine by you. It makes you happy to see your companions slowly but surely open up to him and be able to genuinely smile around him. It doesn’t really matter that he doesn’t come to see you, because you’re out of here in a few more weeks anyway.
Speaking of, your ankle is doing much better! It’s still tender, but most of the swelling has gone down and you are able to comfortably put pressure on it. You still have to take many breaks, as you can only stand on it for about thirty minutes before the pain becomes too much, but that’s still progress!
Snatcher regards you with his usual wicked smile — which, admittedly, is not so wicked anymore — before he turns back to the book he has. Looks like some sort of law book. Gross.
“Reading,” he says simply. “What else am I supposed to do in a library?” He looks over his book again, and though his smile is covered by the frankly massive text in his hands, you can see his stupid little grin in his eyes. “Jeez, you make it seem like you’ve never even stepped foot in one before, greenie.”
“Well, duh! Of course I have!” you retort, somewhat indignantly. You tack on an annoyed huff for good measure, too. “But I just—I mean, you’ve got that personal library up in your…um, your room, right?” You cringe a little — it still feels weird and invasive to bring it up again, even though it’s been about a week or so now since The Incident. Thankfully, Snatcher doesn’t seem to share your sentiments regarding The Incident, or if he does, he doesn’t express them, as he just watches you with his arrogant gaze over the top of his book. His eyes still reflect his annoying grin.
“Course I could!” He shrugs with a nonchalant, almost cheerful attitude. “But where’s the fun in that? Up there I couldn’t watch you scurry around like a mouse trying to get everything sorted in here.” He hums, momentarily closing his book. He doesn’t dog-ear the page or anything, and the way he sets it aside is rather gentle despite his large, shadowed claws. “No, no, greenie.” He chuckles with a shake of his head as he regards you with his usual sly smirk. “That’d be so boring! This way, I get a little show along with my light reading.” He laughs again as he gestures to you and then back to his law book.
“Light reading,” you scoff. “Sure, if you can consider…‘McGraw-Hill’s Real Estate Law for Paranormal Paralegals’ as light reading.” Your nose scrunches up as you struggle through the title of the book alone. You remember seeing a few other law books in his room before shit hits the fan. He scoffs in return at you.
“What? You’re telling me you haven’t flipped through an intensive law compendium from time to time?” He tsks at you, his light and nearly playful tone a far cry from the harsh, mocking tone he uses when you first get here. “You’ve gotta be pulling my nonexistent leg, greenie! This stuff is practically for babies!”
You huff and roll your eyes at him again as you get back to work, ignoring his impish laugh as you do so. It’s a little weird and unnerving at first to know he’s in the room with you as you set about your business. More than once you swear you can feel his burning yellow gaze following you around the library, but whenever you look, he’s immersed in his book and isn’t giving you a second thought. It almost makes you feel like you’re the one invading his personal space and alone time.
It reminds you of how you feel when you lock eyes in his room. The sudden realization that what you’ve just done is wrong that crawls up your spine and burrows into your skin like a parasite.
You’ve spent what feels like countless hours every night thinking about that interaction. Normally, you’d never be so…invasive. You typically try to be polite and respect other people’s space, just as you want yours to be respected. For a while, you justify it as deserved retribution for stealing your sister’s soul and only letting her go if you, in turn, sell your soul for hers.
Which…feels reasonable! For a while!
But then you start thinking more — with how little your companions let you do, you have a lot of time for reflection — and you come to the conclusion that, whether he hurts you or not, it doesn’t feel…right to invade his privacy like that. That’s not something you think of before The Incident.
Maybe it’s because before it happens, you don’t realize he can be hurt.
Seeing the pain in someone’s eyes up close, knowing you’re the cause of it…can seriously mess with your understanding of another’s feelings. Especially when you think them to be a heartless monster before.
All this to say, you don’t forgive him for what he does to you and Hattie. He’s never properly apologized for it (giving you back your soul doesn’t count as an apology), and it’s hard to believe he would. However, that doesn’t make your actions okay. That is definitely a tough pill to swallow. It’s been difficult seeing him in a more human light, but with each interaction…it’s slowly but surely getting easier.
…it occurs to you that you haven’t spoken for a few minutes. You are lost in thought, staring down at the floor when you come back down to earth. Your eyes snap up to Snatcher again to see the looming shadow-ghost looking down at you with a confused — one might even argue worried — expression. A burst of air fills your lungs as you suddenly remember you do need to breathe, and the sharp sound cuts through the previous silence in the library like a hot knife.
“...sorry,” is all you can muster to say after another thirty seconds or so. “I, um…zoned out.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Snatcher quips back, his confused-maybe-worried expression melting into an inquisitive one, a mostly invisible eyebrow arched as he stares down at you. “You, uh…you thinking about something too hard in there?”
Strange as it is, you’ve gotten used to Snatcher’s…unique way of asking if you’re okay. He slithers or manifests upon you more than once while you struggle through doing the chores that you insist on doing, and he typically asks if you’re okay through a biting, sarcastic comment. His message gets through all the same…after the first few times, that is.
Your head moves on its own, unsure of whether to shake or nod in response. “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean…yeah, I’m good, no, I’m not thinking about anything ‘too hard.’ I just…” You bite the inside of your cheek, your eyes falling to the floor again. A heavy weight has been on your heart since you accept the fact that what you do to him by ignoring his rule to stay out of his room is wrong. You’ve been meaning to address it for a few days now, but there never seems to be an opportune moment…
…well, might as well plunge right in, right? You take a deep breath before looking up at Snatcher and continuing.
“...I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For…yeah.” The air has already become tense between you two the second the word sorry slips out of your mouth. You’re certain if you continue you’ll just word-vomit and make things even more awkward…somehow. So you just…stand there in front of him, waiting for his response.
The silence drags on between you two. You fidget with your hands as he just stares down at you. Eventually, you have to look away — it is too much to feel his piercing golden gaze on you as the heavy, stifled atmosphere threatens to break your collarbone. Will he accept your apology? You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Will he throw it back at you sarcastically? Mock you for thinking someone like him needs an apology from someone like you?
Finally, after what seems like ages, he speaks up again. He leads with a laugh that, had you not known him as long as you do, you would naturally assume is real. You’ve heard his laugh too many times, however, and you are able to clock that this one is…not as natural as the rest.
“HAH! And what exactly are you apologizing for, newbie?” His tone is off, too. You genuinely can’t tell if he’s mocking you, or goading you into feeling more guilt than you do, or if he…actually doesn’t know why you’re apologizing. Maybe…it’s something else altogether? You can’t parse what, though, and decide to elaborate…even if that means facing his mockery again.
“Well, ah…well, for…you know…” You almost expect him to rush you, yell a “spit it out” at you or…something. But he doesn’t. He just watches you with a tense, awkward twist to his usual smile. You take another breath. “...I’m sorry that I disrespected your privacy and your rules and went into your room. That wasn’t right of me. In fact, it was a real peckhead move of me. So…I’m sorry.”
Another nervous silence stretches over you. You manage to stick it out this time, holding his gaze. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, searching for whatever the best response might be for this, and you truly can’t tell what is going on inside his mind. After a suffocating pause, he laughs again, but it’s even more uneasy and strained than before.
“Oh, THAT?” he says, a little too loudly for it to be natural or for him to seem composed by any measure of the word. “You think I need an apology for THAT? Aha, oh, no, no, you’re much too soft, aren’t ya, greenie? It’s almost cute that you’d be worried about me like that, HAH!” He’s talking much quicker than normal, his eye contact is a little too direct, and his clawed hands have tightened their grip around the book he was reading — though he’s somehow still mindful not to scratch or hurt it.
“No, I’m totally fine, greenhorn. You don’t need to apologize for that. In fact, let’s say we never bring it up again! Sound good?” You go to respond, but he cuts you off before you even take your first breath. “Good.” And with that, he sticks his face back into his stuffy law book, trying to pretend like you weren’t there…though it isn’t really effective, since he is holding the book upside down.
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion at the sudden change of tone and conversation, another bout of mental whiplash jarring your psyche.
“What?” you respond, smartly. You can see he pauses his fake reading as you speak up. “No. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think we should leave it at that.” The hair-like shadows on his neck bristle at your words, much like a cornered, threatened cat’s would. You steel your resolve and take another step toward him.
“Look, it’s not comfortable for me to talk about either—”
“I never said I was uncomfortable talking about it.” He growls out from over the edge of his still-upside-down book.
You shoot him A Look. “You didn’t have to.”
He gives you a weak, withering glare over the pages, the tail of his ghostly body setting a slow and steady rhythm of tapping against the floor in an irritated manner. Your eyebrows furrow further in response. He wants to be stubborn, does he? Two can play at that game. You’ve got a headstrong younger sister, for peck’s sake — if he thinks he can beat you in a battle of wills, he’s got another thing coming!
“As I said, it’s not comfortable for me to talk about either,” he starts to open his mouth in a snarky response, but you trample over his words before he gets the chance, “BUT I think this is a very important thing to talk about. I’m not saying you have to forgive me or anything, but you deserve an apology at the very least. I violated your privacy and rules out of pettiness and anger. Whether or not it was justified is irrelevant, because I could tell that it…um…hurt you. Somewhat.” Now it’s your turn to awkwardly avoid making eye contact, trying to look anywhere but him. You don’t know how he will take being accused of feeling things, least of all pain inflicted by some mortal whose soul he took. Yet another awkward silence passes over the two of you, the only sound being the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
After a few more moments, you sigh and look up at him. His face is eerily neutral. Not a passive peacefulness like when he is playing the piano, or that empty, distant look he has when he catches you in his room. Just…neutral. It’s off-putting. You clear your throat and continue.
“So I just…wanted to apologize for acting like such a stupid peckhead and hurting you. I’m sorry I did that. Truly.”
He maintains eye contact with you for a few more seconds. Despite the fact that his giant spectral form looms over you, he looks…small. Not physically, of course, but the look in his eyes betrays just how lost he is. Like he was thrown into a labyrinth, unfamiliar twists and turns ahead of him, no end in sight, with walls that stretch beyond imagination. Small. Lost. Alone.
You can’t help but think about your dream visit as you look at him in this moment.
You give him the time he needs to figure out how exactly he would like to respond. It’s interesting, though, seeing him struggle with responding to a sincere apology.
You distantly wonder if he’s ever gotten one. A true apology. The thought makes your heart hurt a little bit — a feeling that’s amplified as you see the corners of his neutral mouth turn downward ever so slightly. The look in his eyes is distant now. He truly is not mentally here right now. You’re not sure if you should speak up or walk away, so you just…stand there as well. In front of him. Silently. Totally normal behavior here.
After what feels like actual eons, he sighs and sets aside his book. He doesn’t look sad or hurt, he just looks…tired. Tired and defeated. His golden gaze shines on you again, and his thinking seems to completely change tracks.
“...did Moonjumper put you up to this?” he asks with a dry, humorless chuckle. “Sweet of them to care, but I really don’t need an apology.”
“No.” You affirm, trying to keep your tone gentle as he continues to try and find any holes in the sincerity of your apology. “Moonjumper hasn’t even spoken to me about that night. Nobody has, really. Just…had a lot of time to think, you know?”
“And you thought that someone like me would need an apology from someone like you?” Theeeeeeeere it is. You just have a feeling he would pull something like this. “You think your little act of rebellion hurt me? That I feel, hah, what, disrespected by someone I know hates me?”
“Hey, wait—”
“I get it, newbie.” He chuckles wryly again. “You don’t have to pretend to play nice with little ol’ me. I’m used to being hated. I don’t. Need. An apology.”
You stare at him in pure befuddlement. “Look, I’m not even asking you to accept my apology, but you could at least acknowledge that it’s sincere?” Your hands curl into fists at your side. Why isn’t he understanding? Why can’t he just see that this is a wrong you do against him that you regret?
Seeing that he doesn’t seem swayed in the slightest despite your words being true, you tack on, “And I don’t hate you!”
He bristles again at that. “Now I know you’re fucking with me. Drop it, greenie. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not fucking with you! I don’t hate you! Why is that hard for you to understand?”
“You certainly don’t like me.”
“Yeah, I don’t!” you reply. He goes quiet, taken aback — and a little confused — by what you say. He starts to respond, but you once again cut him short. “I don’t like you. And you don’t like me. And that’s fine! We don’t have to like each other to be at least…I don’t know, courteous to one another. I don’t have to like you to know that what I did was wrong and it hurt you and it’s not fair that I go around living here, being cared for by the others, and by extension, you, without acknowledging that. I don’t have to like you to be a decent fucking person toward you. You don’t have to be some knight in shining armor to be treated with respect. That was something that was ingrained into me as a kid and I’d practically be spitting in my parents’ faces if I decide to pick and choose when to apply that mentality.”
You end your little rant with a huff. Your hands unclench at your sides. The pressing weight of needing to address this lifts from your chest, and you're able to breathe clearly for the first time in a week. When you open your eyes again — you hadn’t even realized you closed them after your impassioned speech — you see Snatcher still staring at you with that damn neutral expression. Once again, you seem to have rendered him speechless. The silence envelops you for a few more moments…before you’ve had enough of it. With another small sigh, you reach forward and extend your hand.
“I get it, it’s not a lot, and again, you don’t have to accept my apology…but do you maybe want to…start over? I feel like we’ve got some shit to work through, and it would be nice to do so with someone who doesn’t despise me or think I hate their guts in return.” You offer him a small, weak smile. “So…what do you say? Not-enemies?”
His eyes drift from your tired, nervous face to your hand, which shakes slightly as it is held out to him.
Your hand.
Fragile. Warm. Human.
Held out to him.
Ethereal. Cold. Monstrous.
He looks back to your eyes, which do display a genuine regret and a gentle understanding.
Why?
Why are you like this?
After everything that's happened, how can you be so…pleasant? How can you offer him a kindness he doesn’t deserve? How can you think this is a small thing you’re presenting him? An acknowledgement that you had wronged him is huge for him in and of itself, but a genuine apology and a chance to be more civil towards each other, despite past misdeeds?
As you move to draw your hand away, taking his lack of response as a kind, firm, silent no, he reaches out with a speed even he didn’t know he had.
That isn’t how you think he’d react.
You don’t react the way he expects you to, either.
You don’t pull away from his sharp claw.
You don’t shudder at the touch of his frigid, spectral hands.
You don’t cower away from his gaze or fangs, silhouetted by the eerie yellow glow of his mouth.
Instead, you just accept his hand in yours with that damn gentle smile. You shake hands, and your grip is surprisingly firmer than what he expects. You’re surprising him in a lot of ways, it seems.
…perhaps he should stop assuming so much about you.
He is pulled from his thoughts as your warm hand gives his a little squeeze. The smile that crawls onto his features is more natural than any you’ve seen from him thus far.
“Not-enemies,” he repeats with a chuckle — a genuine, humored chuckle. “I like that. Yeah, sure, if it makes you happy, not-enemies is just fine.”
It makes him extremely happy, too. Not that he’d ever admit it.
You smile at him, and it makes that warm pit in his chest do flips, way more potent and palpable than what he feels when joking with you in the hallway or seeing you sleep after listening to him play.
It scares him.
It excites him.
It makes him feel alive again.
It’s a weird feeling, like slipping into an outfit you haven’t worn in years and it shows. Coming to terms with the fact that you’ve changed, and the shirt no longer fits as well as it once does or complements you anymore. That the pants don’t quite cover your ankles and the oversized jacket is now a little snug. But it’s comforting and it smells like home, and you could still make it look and feel great if you had a little work done to it.
Maybe that’s what he needs to change.
Maybe he needs to change his perspective and relationship with humanity.
After all, he didn’t have very good examples when he was alive. But now he’s met someone that shows him what he felt and experienced while he was alive wasn’t actually living.
Just how much did Vanessa deprive him of? How much of his life did she take, even before condemning him to this form and an eternity of loneliness?
He’s snapped out of his thoughts once again as you speak.
“Not-enemies it is, then.” you say with a smile.
He responds in kind. How odd and familiar it feels to smile so naturally, with kindness.
“Not-enemies it is.”
_________________________________________________________
You open your eyes to nothingness once again. The icy wind whips around you, but like before, you feel nothing but the deep dread that has settled into your heart. The last time you are here, you’re afraid of the unknown.
This time, you know what’s out there.
Your mind and heart fight against each other, arguing over whether or not to seek the man out again.
We were certain he was hurting, your heart pleads. He reached out to us for help.
He could have been lying, your mind counters. He could have wanted to hurt us instead.
Your heart and mind quarrel, whipping up a storm inside you as ferocious as the one you solemnly trudge through. You feel numb, inside and out, as you continue to wander through the frozen, wintry hellscape aimlessly. You just want to feel warm again. Is that too much to ask? You just want to feel anything again.
The wind howls around you, answering your quiet question with a bitingly cold answer that nips at your nose and the tips of your ears.
You continue on for what feels like hours, just like last time.
And just like last time, your heart leaps to your throat when, out of the darkness, a faint light shines. It isn’t there a moment ago when you close your eyes for but a second.
He’s there, too. Still kneeling in the snow, defeated. His sobs are whisked away by the raging winds and they echo around you, overwhelming and suffocatingly close, yet weak and far away at the same time. Steaming tar still leaks from his face and onto the pristine snow below him. His hands still desperately scramble to cover his face, though you’re not sure if it’s to hide his disfigured features or to keep more of the tar from spilling onto the soft, white nothingness below him. You distantly realize it’s snowing. It isn’t snowing last time. The pitch-black snow, dyed by the thick tar that spills from his face, is slowly, yet surely, covered up by the fresh layer of snow that is beginning to accumulate. You see that the snow is actually up to his knees — has he been here that long, that the snow is piling up around him?
Your only assumption is, yes, he has been there that long, as when he moves to face you, he does so with great difficulty.
As if he hasn’t used his body in a while.
You hope he hasn’t stayed in one spot waiting for you.
You hope you aren’t his only company in this dreary, wintry abyss.
You feel bad for hoping that — you don’t wish it for his sake, after all. You just don’t want him to be dependent on you. You don’t want him to seek you out.
What a horrible thing to think, your heart scolds you, and this time, your mind agrees. You feel a sinking sensation inside you as you realize how selfish that is. True, it is always best to make sure your own needs — mental, emotional, and physical — are met before helping others. However, your avoidance isn’t because your own needs aren’t being met — you hardly have needs in this endless winter. No, you don’t want him to rely on you because you’re scared of him. Because he is different. Because he bleeds a deep, thick, shadowy tar instead of blood. Because the ends of his hands curl into talons. Because his cries sound like someone drowning.
How horrible, you realize. How can you shun someone for something they aren’t responsible for? How can you turn away from someone in need just because of how they look? That isn’t like you. Something stirs deep within you as you approach him once again.
He’s already facing you when you walk closer, stepping into the single, solitary light in the vast nothingness with him. His face, still marred with the gaping claw marks, now has a mouth, and the beginnings of a nose, though his eyes remain scratched out. The furious snowfall, that has since evolved into a near-blizzard, does little to help you discern any other features.
His breathing is quick and shallow, interrupted every so often by a cough that leads to him spilling more tar onto the ground.
“Hello?” Your voice, garbled and distorted and twisted, echoes around you. The sound suspends you, your muscles growing cold as the recognition seeps down to your bones — you hadn’t said anything.
It takes you a moment to realize it’s him using your voice to beckon to you. The concept in and of itself is enough to send your heart racing and your body once again shifts into fight or flight mode. You want to run, you really do, but it feels almost as if the snow falling around your feet is freezing you in place. There is no sound except the raging storm and the furious beat of your heart as your brain scrambles to understand or take action or just do something…!
“Hello?” he calls out again, using your voice, which wavers and cracks let something trying to step into something far too small and far too fragile to hold it. His clawed hand reaches out in your general direction. With the horrible injury to his face, he’s rendered blind.
You could leave.
He wouldn’t know.
…but you can’t. You can’t find it in yourself to leave him.
You will yourself to move again, taking a few more steps toward him before kneeling in the snow. You’re still a few feet from him, but it’s much closer than you get last time.
“Hello.” You finally respond, and the man visibly tenses before another bout of tar cascades down his face. You flinch back, only to pause when you hear him…crying. His shoulders shake with each heaving breath he takes as he continues to sob with…relief, you realize. He’s crying tears of relief. You sit with him silently until he’s able to mostly compose himself. He takes a moment before reaching his clawed hand out to you again.
This time, you take it without hesitation.
This time, he smiles — it’s splintered and fractured, worn from the cold and loneliness and pain and sorrow you could never even begin to think of.
You can’t help but feel like you’ve seen that smile before.
The light starts to fade around you again, but there’s no panic this time. You know where you’re going. Your heart skips a beat, though, as you realize he’ll still be here, alone in the nothingness. Before you can say anything to him, however, he speaks for both of you.
“Thank you.” His voice — his voice, you realize, not yours — is also oddly familiar.
But you don’t have time to think about it as he and the abyss around him fade to black, the nothingness consuming you both…
…and you awake, once more, in the manor.
A cautious peace drifts over you as you stare at the ceiling.
…there’s distant piano music.
With a soft smile you didn’t realize was there, you slip out of bed and head to the foyer.
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 18 A Chord
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 5478
Summary: Dinner, dreams, and (music term that starts with d that makes sense)
TW: Body horror in the dream sequence. Read at your own discretion.
A/N:This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
Suffice to say that dinner that night wasn’t…amazing, but the new, somewhat weird atmosphere of the dining room made up for it. The Conductor was seated next to Snatcher - a rare sight, as Snatcher only had his occasional dinner alone in his room with very few exceptions - and they were…laughing. Joking. It was, albeit, somewhat stunted and awkward at times, but they were joking nonetheless. You and Grooves had shared a confused expression, but remained silent for now. You’d have time to ask the Conductor what exactly happened later.
But for now, you and Grooves were forced to watch the two…genuinely enjoy each other's company. You were torn between a light-hearted feeling at seeing them smile and joke together and a deep, gut-twisting sensation that something was horribly wrong. It wasn’t anything new to see the Conductor laughing rambunctiously - his laugh could fill the entire manor with noise - but it was…weird, to say the least, to see Snatcher smiling and laughing with such genuine mirth. It was like that little bit you saw from him in the hallway while you joked was just a preview of how happy he could really be. He seemed to be really enjoying himself - so much so that he would forget you and Grooves were there. You might as well have eaten somewhere else. This is the longest you’ve been in Snatcher’s presence without him cracking a joke about your “pathetic, mortal body” or some morbid joke about death and the afterlife, specifically, yours. It was…a little unnerving, to say the least. Still, you ate your dinner without interrupting whatever sort of moment the Conductor and Snatcher were having…though you couldn’t help but notice the twinkle in Moonjumper’s eye from across the room. They looked like a proud parent, watching their baby take their first steps as they studied your avian companion and the ghost. Your expression softens…maybe this wasn’t as weird as you were making it out to be.
“What?” Snatcher barks out an incredulous laugh. “Now I know you’re lying to me. There’s no way a small thing like yourself took down an entire squadron of those military seals.” Military seals? Like…actual animal seals in the military? It's not impossible in this weird world of yours. Looks like you zoned out for too long.
The Conductor laughs back. “An’ just how would yer know that?”
Snatcher laughs again, giant, shadowy claw hitting the table with genuine mirth. “You can’t even reach the top shelf of the pantry by yourself. You expect me to believe that you, by your lonesome, armed with a weapon twice your height and weight, fought off an entire crew of seals?”
“Aye, I do, ‘cause it’s the truth!” The Conductor guffawed as he took another bite of his mediocre dinner.
“Sure,” Snatcher scoffed, in an oddly good-natured fashion. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
You and Grooves share another confused look. You finally clear your throat and open your mouth to speak, “I’m sorry…what’s going on here?”
Snatcher’s…hair? Fluff? Bristles a little at the sound of your voice and he flusters, as if just noticing you two were there. A faint yellow tinges his cheeks - it’s almost indiscernible in the candlelight. “I- well, I-”
“‘Twas just regalin’ him with old war stories, nothin’ too exciting.” The Conductor cuts Snatcher off, saving him from the embarrassment of just now realizing that the two of them weren’t alone at the dinner table. Somehow, under all his feathers and his hat, you could tell the Conductor was winking at you - a silent request between friends to let Snatcher be. How weird…
Still, you oblige, shifting the focus from Snatcher’s still slightly flustered face (he looked more…annoyed with himself then anything) to the Conductor. “Really? You never told me you were a veteran.”
“That’s ‘cause he’s not.” Grooves huffs beside you, causing the Conductor to flush and squawk indignantly. You bite your lip to refrain from laughing.
“An’ what would yer know, yer shiny twit? Jus’ ‘cause I never told yer about it doesn’t mean it didnae happen!” The Conductor fires back.
The two fall into their normal bickering routine, and you can’t help the smile that stretches across your face. This felt normal. You ate another bite of your food - it really wasn’t all that bad, if you put enough salt on it - and hesitantly turned to Snatcher to gauge his reaction.
He looked…odd. His face was void of its normal, wicked grin, but he didn’t look upset. His face was just…neutral. He looked like he was thinking…like he was contemplating letting himself enjoy this moment with the rest of you.
You stared for too long, apparently, because he turned to look at you sharply. He stared at you with his unnerving, neutral gaze. You felt your own smile waver. Not knowing how he was feeling was…a little scary. You internally braced yourself, waiting for him to snap that you weren’t sitting up straight or that your elbows were on the table and that was improper or something like that…but he just continued to stare at you. You nervously chewed on your bottom lip. It was like he was…looking to you for something.
However, Grooves and the Conductor’s bickering snapped you out of your daze. You looked over to them, still fighting across the table, and your smile returned. You looked back at Snatcher and offered him a grin and a shrug before continuing with your meal, the birds’ argument serving as adequate ambiance. This was right.
After another moment or so, Snatcher followed your lead, turning his attention back to his meal as the birds squabbled. A faint grin of his own made its home on his face as the two of you continued your meal, an odd sense of normalcy blanketing over the group.
Yeah…this...kinda of felt right.
This almost felt like home.
You stood in the darkness, an icy cold seeping into the marrow of your bones. You didn’t know where you were…but you didn’t need to. There was no panic in your heart, despite the steadily growing sense of dread that crept up your spine. No, you felt…lost. No matter where you turned, there was just more darkness. You walked for what felt like hours - you’d given up calling out for anyone a long time ago, as your voice refused to leave your throat, regardless of how hard you tried.
Your body never tired, despite how long you had been walking for. You never grew colder, despite the constant nip of the icy wind on your skin. You never cried, despite how much you wanted to.
Finally, after hours of walking, you saw a light. That looming, growing dread washed over you again as you saw it, but your heart couldn’t help but flutter with hope. Your heart and mind clashed. Fear took hold of your mind - what if it was dangerous? Hope alit in your heart - what if it was salvation?
You shook aside your internal struggle and continued forward, towards the light. Something about moving towards it felt…right, despite how scary it seemed. As you approached, you saw…
A young man, pressumedly. He couldn’t have been much older than you. His light brown hair curled just above his shoulders, and his attire was that of royalty, clothed in a beautiful, deep red. A crown sat beside him in the white nothingness that surrounded him - snow, you realize. Your brows furrow in confusion…he looked familiar but foreign at the same time, and the headache-inducing sensation of your mind being pulled in two different directions caused you to wince, the first time you felt anything but cold in this odd place. You hear the faint sound of sobbing as you approach…the young man’s shoulders shake as he cries in front of you. Your heart aches at the sound.
“Hello?” Your voice finally manages to leave your throat, and you almost sigh in relief as the being actually reacts to your presence. He sits up a little straighter. “Hello? Are you okay? Who are–” your voice is cut short as he turns to face you. You feel your face drain of its color.
His face is void of any features, instead bearing only hideous claw marks that mar his pale skin. A dark substance spills from the wounds…but it’s not blood. A deep, shadowy tar oozes from the slash marks. They fall onto the ground beneath him, steaming as they sully the once-pristine snow. Your hand that you didn’t realize you had extended pulls back in fear as the young man reaches out in turn. He can’t speak - how can he, with no mouth? - but he tries to anyway. You wince and cover your ears as the gross, bubbling, squelching sounds escapes his throat, more tar falling from his wounded face in the process.
You’re frozen, and not by the cold wind that suddenly whips around you. Your mind and heart are once again at war with each other.
Run! Says your brain. Can’t you see he wants to hurt you? Run, and live! Your legs tremble, ready to spring into action, to carry you far away from here in a moment’s notice.
Stay! Cries your heart. Can’t you see he’s hurting? Reach out to him! Your arms shake, wanting to lift the poor soul into your arms and comfort him.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you stare at the man. This familiar stranger. He doesn’t advance on you, but his hand is still outstretched. Were those claws on his hands, or just residual tar dripping from his fingers? Was that hope that made his hand tremble, or was it an anger that would be brought upon you if you reached out in return? Your breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps as the light above him begins to dim.
What do you do? The darkness begins to consume him, but he doesn’t move. What do you do?! He seems like he’s accepted his fate. His hand starts to fall - those were claws on his hands. You see the imprint they make in the sullied snow as his hand falls. Was that defeat? The light continues to fade.
What do you do?
What do you do?!
What do you-?!
You wake up with a start, the distant sound of a piano drifting into your ears. The sound is so soft, so far away, but it still manages to drown out the pounding of your heart in your ears. You heave ragged breaths, as though you just surfaced after nearly drowning. Your brain whirls in a panic - drowning, water, cold, icy water that threatens to consume you, wolves closing in, a shriek and a howl, your ankle, the darkness, the man, the man, the man—!
The piano continues its distant melody. You snap out of it. You look around the room. Your room. Your bed. Your fireplace. The things you’ve accepted as your temporary safehold. Your wardrobe. Your bedside table.
The distant piano.
Your head snaps towards the door. The soft music has been playing far too long for it to be imagined. Your room is well lit. You aren’t in the darkness. You aren’t alone. There’s music playing. You aren’t alone.
You close your eyes and take a few deep, shuddering breaths, forcing yourself to calm down. That dream…whatever it was, it was just a dream, and it’s over now. Still…your stomach turns as you think about the man.
The man…was he okay?
What did it matter? He wasn’t real. You shake your head and force yourself to calm down.
In your defense, the dream was…insanely distressing, to say the least. Not only was the matter itself upsetting, but that was the first dream you had since you came here. A week and a half of dreamless nights, and the first thing you see in your sleep falls strikingly remote from anything resembling the comfort you so desperately needed in this place.
You pray to whatever’s out there that your subconscious brain never seeks out those visions again. You’re not sure if you could take it.
The piano continues to play.
Well…you’re not getting any more sleep tonight, anyway. With a sigh, you slip out of bed, mindful of your ankle. You welcome the chill of the stone floor as you stand - it’s grounding, in a way. You grab a blanket, wrapping it over your pajamas (graciously lent to you by Moonjumper), and slowly make your way out of your room. You walk quietly, though the distant piano muffles your steps well enough that you don’t really have to worry about waking anyone up.
The music grows louder as you approach the foyer. Now that you’re not freaking the peck out in your bed, you’re able to truly listen to it. It’s a beautiful melody. It’s light and dreamy…but it carries a deep, deep sorrow and grief.
You’re not sure what you’re expecting as you step into the room where the piano stays. You’re not sure if you’re surprised, but your body is too drained to react accordingly to whatever you may feel when you see Snatcher on the bench. Whatever you feel - you’re too tired to name it - it causes you to pause as you stand in the doorway, watching Snatcher play his hauntingly beautiful refrain. Your mind is too frazzled to be shocked that Snatcher can play beautiful music, let alone play at all. Instead, you just stand in the doorway, watching him silently. It might be the moonlight that filters in through the window, or your exhausted mind, but in this moment, believing himself to be alone with his music, Snatcher looked almost…
…human.
There’s no sound of his claws clicking against the ivory. There’s no fangs that are enunciated by the yellow of his mouth. The moonlight shines against an actual, defined face instead of a mass of shadow. You take in a deep breath, quietly, as to not disturb the peaceful atmosphere he’s made for himself. You’re not sure if he sleeps, but if he’s down here playing the piano, then he must not be able to find rest in whatever form he takes it in. You lean against the doorway, eyes closing as you let the music relax you…
…only to lean too much on the door itself, causing it to creak open softly.
The music abruptly stops. Your eyes shoot open. The air grows thick with tension.
Your heart races. Snatcher turns, slowly, to look at you over his shoulder. His claws still against the keys. His fangs poke out from his mouth, drawn into a small, unnatural frown. The face that the moonlight gently traced is overtaken by shadow and it’s Snatcher who looks at you, not the human your brain tricked you into seeing. Though, you always knew it was him.
Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t dare move. Your brain tears through thought after thought as his golden eyes pierce the soul that now once again rests inside you.
That night. The room. The silence that overwhelmed the room as gentle rustling of pages stopped immediately.. His expression, unreadable. Wide eyes. Shock. Terror. Fear. The flower in the glass. The silence that seemed to last an eternity. The tension. The apprehension. The all-consuming dread. The single flash of the thought that you would never see your sister again.
It all came flooding back to you as you and Snatcher watched each other. You gulped. There you stood, once again having disturbed Snatcher’s peace. The dread seeping into every fiber of your being as he saw you with your hand on the glass. The pain and anger and fear that shadowed his expression in that moment. How could you not see the fear in his eyes? How did you—
“You’re up late,” was all he said. There was no anger or reproach in his voice. Just an observation. His claw clicked against the ivory of the keys, which had fallen silent without his guidance. The moonlight framed his back in an almost angelic manner, the soft white light haloing around his shadowy figure.
“So are you,” you respond. The tremble you thought would be laced in your voice wasn’t there. You spoke in a hushed tone, to match his - you’d never heard him speak so softly before.
“I don’t sleep,” was his reply as he turned from you slightly. A lie, but you didn't need to know that. His attention was torn between you and the piano.
“Hm. That seems like it would suck.” You challenge your body to relax. Your muscles were as stiff as the doorway you leaned on…
The ghost lets out a huff of air - a quick, quiet laugh, much different than his loud, boisterous one. “It’s not so bad. I’ve gotten used to it.”
You hum in response. Silence falls over the two of you again. The perpetual snowstorm outside cast small, dancing shadows on the ground. You shift your weight. The cold of the stone was starting to get uncomfortable.
“Can I-”
“Would you-”
You and Snatcher speak at the same time, both of your mouths snapping shut at the other’s words. You motion for Snatcher to speak.
“You, first.”
Snatcher shakes his head, the shadows that curl around his head like hair rustling softly at the motion.
“No, it’s nothing. What do you want?”
You know better than to argue. “I was…gonna ask if I could hang out here with you for a while. I’m…not gonna be able to go back to sleep. But you’re…doing your own thing, so I’ll just. Leave. Sorry.” Your voice, raspy from sleep, cracks a little at the thought of returning to your room, left to be subject to your thoughts, alone. You take a step back out of the doorway, turning to leave.
“Wait.” You pause, immediately. You look at Snatcher, your heart picking up speed again. Did he decide that he was angry with you for interrupting? Did he see this as an opportunity to make you work? You were already up and confessed that you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, after all. You wouldn’t put it past him to assign something to you, seeing as you continue to work despite your injured, yet healing, ankle. You wait for him to say something. You’re too tired to fight and argue. You’ll just…bear whatever it is he asks of you—
“You can stay.”
You blink in surprise. You shift nervously on your feet, the cold of the stone biting into your skin. Was this a test? Was it a trick? Was it—
Snatcher sighs and rolls his eyes. “Stop standing there - you’re gonna freeze to death. Take a seat. The carpet’s comfier than the stone.” He turns away from you again, back to the piano. His claws brush against the keys, but he doesn’t play.
You take a moment to process his words. They aren’t a demand, but an invitation…in their own weird way. A small smile creeps its way onto your face, despite yourself. You enter the room - the skin and muscles of your feet immediately tingle in gratitude as you step from the cold, hard stone onto the soft, warm carpet. You awkwardly stand there for a few moments, watching Snatcher, before you decide to head to the window parallel to him. You take a seat on the windowsill, turning from him in favor of watching the snow fall. It’s something you’ve gotten used to watching, but it still manages to make your heart skip a beat every time. Your little town doesn’t get snow all that much. You smile as a memory worms its way into your mind.
Your parents had decided to take your small family up North to a small mountain range during the Winter one year. It was only a day trip - they couldn’t stay for long, having jobs to return to - but it still felt magical. You remember Hattie’s face when she climbed off of your father’s back, taking in the majestic sight of the snow that gently fell around your family. The way her eyes lit up and her cheeks turned red from the cold…the way she flinched away from the gentle snowflakes at first, and the way her face lit up when she mustered up the courage to let one land on her nose. It was her first time seeing snowfall, after all. Your heart warms at the memory. She was probably around five years old, then. How time flies…as she is now, it’s hard to imagine Hattie ever being scared of anything, even things she hadn’t experienced yet.
You remember laughing at her fear of the snow.
You remember wishing you could be as brave as her as she grew up. How she threw herself into the snow despite her fear.
Your heart threatens to sink at the thought of your sister, but you close your eyes and will the feeling of sorrow away. You won’t let yourself be swept up in emotions. You’ll see her again soon enough, once you’ve healed.
Silence fills the room as Snatcher watches you watch the snowfall.
“...Had a bad dream?” His low, raspy voice doesn’t cut through the silence as much as it gently pushes it aside. His words are almost embraced by the silence with how softly he speaks. You don’t have the energy to be put off by how mellow his tone is. You shift a little in your seat, turning to look at him.
Did you dare open up to the ghost? Part of you nags at you, claiming he’d only taunt and tease you for daring to be vulnerable around him in confessing your nightmare. The other part, a softer part, a part that caresses your heart instead of harshly pulling on it, flutters. What have you to fear? Scorn? Mockery? It compels you to think instead about what you have to gain. Compassion. Company. Someone to sit with so you weren’t alone with your thoughts, trapped with them in the prison of your mind as they stalk and hunt you like starved beasts.
You sigh and offer a weak smile to Snatcher. “How’d you know?”
Snatcher’s lips twitch in the faintest shadow of a smile. “Just a hunch.”
Silence falls over you two again. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, though it is an odd one. Questions scratch at Snatcher’s throat, though he wouldn’t dare ask them. The nightmare sits restlessly at the front of your mind, pushing against your lips to be let out at the possible invitation of being told to someone else, but you stubbornly keep your mouth shut.
The snow continues to fall.
A few more minutes of silence pass and you look back over at Snatcher. His eyes are trained on the piano, his claws tapping against the wood of the bench. It’s odd seeing him look so…uncertain.
“...I didn’t know you played,” it tumbles out of your lips before you can stop it. Snatcher freezes, the shadows around him bristling a little…before they fall into their natural place again.
“It’s been a while, but yes, I do dabble in music from time to time.” Understatement of his afterlife. He hadn’t touched an instrument since the Conductor signed his contract. That was almost a century ago…
“...It was really nice. I liked it.” You hum, bringing your knees to your chest. You hug them close to your body, your blanket draping over your form like a warm embrace. “What was it from?”
“What’s it from?” Snatcher repeats. “It’s not from anything.”
You tilt your head as you watch him. “So…you just…made that song up?”
“I…yes.” Snatcher turns his head from you. A deep memory toils within him. Her disappointed gaze as he played. Her mocking sentiments, her cold voice telling him how useless music was for someone of his stature. That he had more important things to do. That hobbies were unfit for a prince. Unfit for her fiance. That running the kingdom and being by her side alone should be enough joy to keep him content.
The wood of the piano bench creaks as his claws dig into it. He hates his past self for letting her deprive his life of joy.
He forces himself to be calm. Why should it matter if you mock him? Why should he care about your opinion? Why did his gut twist itself into knots at the idea of you staring at him with cold, disapproving eyes—
“Really?” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. There was nothing in your voice to indicate…anything.
Snatcher huff, a sneer twisting his lips. “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”
He turns to look at you, seeing your eyes wide with…awe? His own eyes narrow, confused. There wasn’t a trace of disdain in your expression. He opens his mouth to question you, but you beat him to the punch.
“That’s really cool!” Your voice, no longer a whisper, rings out. You flinch back, remembering that it was late and your companions were hopefully still sleeping. “That’s really cool,” you repeat, in a whisper this time. “You can really just make up music on the spot, just like that?”
Snatcher blinks, taken aback. “I…well, yes.” His voice trails off, confused. Where was the disappointment? The disdain? The cruel laughter, taunting him for his childish hobbies?
There’s no such emotions on your face. Your lips aren’t pulled into an ugly frown, nor do your eyes burn with dissatisfaction. Instead, a smile graces your lips and your eyes alight with…wonder. Snatcher feels something deep inside him curl in on itself as he studies your face. He can’t understand the feeling. Is it curling up for protection? Or do his insides tighten at the unusual feeling of warmth that weakly flickers in him, deep inside?
Whatever it is, he doesn’t like it.
…but he doesn’t hate it, either.
You take his silence for permission to continue. “That’s amazing! I thought for sure you were reading music. I can’t believe you just came up with that on the spot.” The moonlight is no match for the soft glow that radiates from your smile.
Snatcher fights the deep, warm feeling that if he needed air, his breath would be swiftly seized by the sight. He fights the warmth that threatens to rise to his cheeks. He fights the warm sensation that consumes that deep, deep part of him that longs for something he doesn’t have the strength to admit. The part that’s been sealed away for hundreds of years.
“...you don’t have to brown-nose, greenhorn.” He chuckles. Heh. Brown-nose, greenhorn. He looks at you, expecting some sort of reaction to his stupid joke…but you’re just staring at him.
“I’m not. I really liked the song. I thought it was pretty, even if it was a little sad…” You trail off, your tone suggesting an unspoken question…
Why was it so sad?
Snatcher looks at you…before turning away with a scoff. “It wasn’t sad.” It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but you don’t press it.
“...you can keep playing, you know. You don’t have to stop ‘cause of me.”
Snatcher stills again. It’s been so long since he let himself play, let alone let himself play in front of someone else. Her scorn was enough to drive him to pursue his hobbies in private or on the rare occasion where she was away from the mansion. His silence is enough to prompt you to speak again.
“Or you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. It’s, you know, whatever you want.” You look out the window again, giving him space to breathe a little…metaphorically, of course.
Snatcher takes a few moments to respond, “...I guess it can’t be helped.” You look at him again, confused. His face takes on its usual smile as he continues, “I guess I have no choice but to continue if you’re gonna sit and mope and pout if I don’t.”
You sputter, defensively. “I do not mope and pout.”
Snatcher snickers, “Coulda fooled me, greenie.” He laughs as you stutter more, crossing your arms over your chest as you sit a little straighter. You hide your smile behind an obviously fake pout. It’s good to see him smiling again, even if it is his normal, sinister smile. It beats looking at his frowning or neutral face - he looks so…unnatural without a smile.
You cozy up on your chair, wrapping your blanket tighter around you as Snatcher sits up with a flourish. At this point, you’re betting he was a showman in his past life, given his flare for the dramatics. He hams it up, miming sweeping his imaginary coattails off the bench, his face pulled into a “serious” one as his claws gently float down to meet the ivory keys. He clears his throat and does a posh little wiggle - you never knew what a “posh little wiggle” was until he did it, and you just manage to keep yourself from chuckling at his silly display - but as soon as his claws press down onto the keys, the goofiness melts away. Suddenly, he’s just Snatcher in a way you’ve never known him. He isn’t a sarcastic ghost. He isn’t a cruel monster. He’s just…him.
This is the most honest you’ve ever seen him.
You keep your thoughts to yourself as Snatcher plays. He picks up where he left off with his previous somber melody…but something about the tune has changed. It’s still laced with grief and sorrow, but there’s something missing from the first time. You close your eyes as you listen intently, thinking about what could be missing from the first time he played.
The missing element eludes you and you give up thinking about it, focusing on just listening to Snatcher play. The feeling of fear that had sunk its cold claws into you during your nightmare melts away as you listen. He plays softly, so as not to disturb the others in the manor…or to make sure that no one else witnesses him, the great and mighty Snatcher, playing such a beautiful melody. You smile to yourself - who would’ve thought, huh?
As you listen, your mind replays your nightmare, or at least the pieces you can remember from it. At the climax of the song, the young man flashes into your head again. His clawed hand, reaching out…you realize now that it was never meant to strike you. He was asking for help.
It hits you.
What the song was missing…was the despair that was woven into it the first time, instead replaced by the faintest breath of hope. It was distant, but it was there.
Hope…
Your smile grows as the song begins to fade with the world around you and you drift to sleep in the chair.
Snatcher finishes the song. The human part buried deep inside him that refuses to die thanks him. It thanks you. Not that he’d ever admit it. No, he puts a cap on that stubborn, human part of him again. Not here. Not now. He clears his throat, his sinister smile lifting his lips in a perfect, practiced motion. He turns to your bundled up form.
“So, greenie, what did you—” He stops short at the sight of you sleeping. He watches as you breathe in soft and slow. At peace, despite his presence. Despite everything. He continues to stare for a few more minutes, your form so small compared to him. So…human. That unnamed, unsolicited, but not unwelcome feeling stirs in him again as he watches your chest rise and fall. Full of life - living.
After a few more moments, he looks away with a scoff. “Unbelievable. Asks me to play, then falls asleep…the nerves of some people…” His words hold no bite though as his golden eyes drift to your form again. He huffs out a disbelieving chuckle and closes the piano lid quietly. “I guess I’ll let it slide…this time.” He jokes to himself. He reaches out for you…only to draw back when he remembers his claws.
That feeling in him sinks a little and he gladly lets it. Good. He doesn’t need to be feeling it anyway. Snatcher waves a hand, summoning a shadow beneath you to teleport you to your room, onto your bed. It’s not like the first time he did it, where it felt like you fell 50 feet before roughly landing on your bed. No, this time, the shadows move you like a gentle wave washing upon the shore.
He sighs as he slinks into the shadows himself and reappears in his own room. His insides refuse to stop twisting themselves into knots or rid themselves of the warmth feeling that has comfortably settled in that deep, hidden part of him. He groans and runs a hand down his face. A distant, once-loved voice whispers in the back of his mind.
Beauty and the Beast - A Snatcher x Reader AU || CH. 17 A Shift
Pairing: Snatcher x Reader
WC: 4194
Summary: A little more into Snatcher's (sparkle emoji) trauma and inner turmoil (sparkle emoji), some advice from a "friend", and a very bizarre interaction.
A/N:This work is solely mine-I do not consent to it being used in any AI works. I do not consent to it being intentionally copied in any manner.
“....so he told you all that, did he?” Snatcher had long since abandoned his hope of a quiet afternoon of reading when Moonjumper burst into the room, spouting some sort of nonsense about the Conductor. Something about the curse, blah, blah, blah, something about you and the curse, snooooooooor-
Wait, you and the curse? Moonjumper had Snatcher’s complete attention now as the servant ghost described, in detail, the Conductor’s thoughts on the exchange between him and the newbie in the hall to the library. He closed his book with a sigh, placing it on the table next to him, and rubbed his temples to soothe whatever sort of headache a ghost might have.
“Listen, Moonjumper, I don’t care what the Conductor said he saw. I’ve already told you that it’s not going to happen.” Not on account of your temper or personality, per se. No, in all truth, he found you and your feisty spirit rather…well, annoying, but in a charming sort of way. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, of course. He’d rather die again before saying something so embarrassing. “You three need to give up hope like I did. It’s far better to knowingly suffer than to keep up hope and blindly reach out for something you know isn’t there.” Snatcher’s smile was gone - he tended to let his smile down when he was just with himself or Moonjumper. He wasn’t snarling or scowling. All that sat on his face was the small, thoughtful frown that pulled his mouth ever so slightly downwards.
But Moonjumper knew better. He was the closest thing Snatcher had to call a friend…if a ghost parading around in your physically dead body could be called a friend. In all honesty, Snatcher hates the sting that shoots through his body every time he sees the turn of the red waistcoat, but with Moonjumper’s face replacing his old one, it wasn’t hard to sever whatever remaining connection he had with his past body. However, because Snatcher allowed Moonjumper to reside in his…eugh…corpse, Moonjumper was privy to many things…many things that Snatcher would have liked to keep secret.
Moonjumper knew all about Snatcher’s past before his master finally opened up to him after 50 years of service. As Snatcher told the story of his past, Moonjumper could see the memories of the long-forgotten prince flash by in his mind, like a moving picture. The mansion, bright and lively, with people wearing smiles as they worked. The warmth of the sun high in the sky on an early Summer day. The weight of another’s hand in his.
The burden of another’s stare, cold and void and malicious. Red eyes piercing into his very soul as hot tears ran down his cheeks. A gloved hand reaching out, not to comfort him, like he was used to, but to cast a wicked spell on him, dooming him to a life of solitude for a crime he didn’t commit, pushing his soul out of his body and transforming it into something monstrous and unrecognizable.
In all honesty, Moonjumper supposed that, in a sense, he deserved losing the fight that transpired the night he arrived at the manor. They would probably also react violently if the first person they saw in literal years was their former, now reanimated body. Yes, Moonjumper knew all too well the hardships of his master. While it didn’t excuse his performative cruelness and apathy, it did at least explain in some way why Snatcher was the way he was. It seemed that Snatcher was also aware of the odd bond he shared with his longest servant, and chose to confide in them and them alone. It was an honor, truly, to allow someone who had suffered so much a small piece of comfort.
However, while Moonjumper could read Snatcher’s body, tone, and facial expressions well (which was honestly a little bit of a challenge at first, given his master’s proclivity to smile), Moonjumper had little to no idea of what Snatcher felt in this new situation. Moonjumper could only draw on the forgotten prince’s fast fading memories for some sign or inclination as to what Snatcher was feeling. Despite what he said, though, Moonjumper couldn’t help but feel that a small, small spark of hope still burned somewhere within the prince. He just hoped that telling him what the Conductor told them about their exchange was the right call.
Snatcher was silent as he watched Moonjumper’s thoughts race about in their head - he could practically smell the smoke of grinding metal as their gears churned out whatever somewhat decent response they could come up with. He knew it sometimes took Moonjumper longer to respond in conversations - just a little tidbit about him that he picked up over the centuries they’d suffered in each other’s company.
“...yes.” Moonjumper finally replied, slowly. “He had said that you two looked to be…rather enjoying yourselves.” He couldn’t help the teasing grin that wormed its way onto his face as Snatcher hummed and picked his book back up to attempt hiding his embarrassment. “I figured I…should visit you…and get your…thoughts on it.”
Snatcher rolled his eyes, still hiding behind his book. “The only thought I have is that our dear little Conductor has been spending too much time around Grooves and should keep his beak in his own damn business. Besides, the Conductor is hardly the one to be passing out any…eugh…’relationship advice’. Maybe I’d learn a thing or two if he beaked up and told Grooves he likes him.” His normal smile slithered back onto his face at the prospect of his two little bird servants flailing over each other as they tried to confess their feelings. It would be just like one of the scenes from one of the many romance novels Vanessa so kindly left behind for him.
“And another thing-”
“So you do like them.”
Snatcher froze at Moonjumper’s interruption, not only because Moonjumper never interrupted anyone - too rude, they say - but because of their-
“-completely and utterly insane accusation!” Snatcher’s face was glowing yellow, and the white pages of the book he was burying his face into only reflected his blush back into the world for Moonjumper to see. Moonjumper chuckled softly.
“Apologies, my prince-” A sharp glare from Snatcher had him correcting himself, “Apologies, Master. I didn’t know…I would take you so off…guard.” Snatcher glared over his book at the ghost’s shit-eating grin. If they didn’t possess his body, he would throw them out in the snow. “And, if I may, Master-”
“You may not.”
“-you’ve been acting…differently since the night of the incident.” Moonjumper ignored Snatcher’s own interruption. He was used to talking to him like this. It was comfortable for them - probably the only thing in the manor that even came close to being “friendly banter”. When Snatcher looked away and didn’t respond, Moonjumper decided to continue. “I wanted to make…sure they didn’t….hurt you in some way.” He knew they didn’t, of course. They just wanted a reason to tease Snatcher.
“Piss off. Don’t you have chores to do?” Snatcher buried himself deeper into the book, but he couldn’t concentrate. His golden eyes skimmed over the same paragraph again and again and again and didn’t absorb any of it. And Moonjumper was still there. With an exasperated sigh, Snatcher slammed the book shut and placed it down again. “Just cut to the chase already. What are you up to and what do you want?”
“Nothing, Master,” Snatcher shot him an unbelieving look. “Truly. I just wish to…see you happy. I think becoming friends…with them could be…very good. For both of you.”
“Pft…HA! Yeah, RIGHT! Like they’d ever want to be friends with the way I’ve been…” Snatcher coughed into his fist and waved a hand through the air dismissively. “Or, rather, I should say that it’s not like I want or need any friends, and I don’t care about their opinion of me whatsoever.” Oh, but their laugh really was nice, when it wasn’t derisive, and they’d proven themselves quick-witted since the moment they stepped foot in the mansion. They are undeniably charming, in their own, weird way, and the way they remained true to themselves despite their hardships stung Snatcher in a way he didn’t know was good or bad. They were the kind of person that, if they were both alive centuries ago, he would’ve easily been friends with. He had seen the way they interacted with the other servants. They were easy-going and everyone just seemed drawn to them, likely due to their warm and caring nature.
If only things were different.
If only he was different.
If only he didn’t kidnap their pecking sister and steal their soul in exchange for servitude and companionship. That’s what it became, after all. After the first contract with the Conductor, all Snatcher wanted was someone here and living to…well, liven up the mansion. Was it really friendship he sought after all these years?
…nah, that’s a stupid idea.
…that was actually true. He really did just want a companion, even if he didn’t act like it. He was constantly at war with himself. One part wants to say “fuck it” and be the beast he was cursed to be, another wants to prove Vanessa wrong, and the last part…doesn’t know what he wants. These are things that he’s kept trapped deep, deep down and used as fuel for his malicious demeanor. True, he had never actually physically hurt his servants (besides taking their soul, but that was something they had signed up for), but he knows that he treats them horribly, anyway. His cruel words are only backed up by the fact that they’ve all seen him in action before - Hattie wasn’t the first trespasser to defy him, after all - and the thought of such deeds being enacted upon them had scared them into eternal obedience. Those feelings of loneliness are the feelings that nourish the anger that has lived within him since Vanessa betrayed him and cause him to lash out…
…but at the end of the day, he didn’t mean any of it. Not that that mattered. It’s not like saying “I’m sorry” could help him out of the hole he dug himself.
“I’m not so sure…about that…master.” Shit, did he say all that out loud? Snatcher groaned and draped himself over his large chair dramatically. Leave it to Moonjumper to trick someone into accidentally spilling their deepest thoughts and fears. “I think they…might all appreciate an apology…from you.”
Snatcher scoffed. “Sure. Let me just give them their souls back while I’m at it.”
“You gave…their soul back…did you not?”
“THAT’S-!” Snatcher snapped up to glare at Moonjumper again. “That’s…different. They were going to die out there without it. No one is in danger of being eaten by wolves or freezing to death here in the mansion.”
“...still….you didn’t…have to save them.”
‘And they didn’t have to save you, either’ hangs in the air, unspoken, but understood.
A tense ten minutes passed by before Snatcher sighed again and spoke up. “Ugh…even if I did consider apologizing, I’d have…no way to go about it.” His last apology was playful in nature, a “sorry I was gone so long, but now I’m back” that didn’t have any negative emotions in it. No malice or hatred or spite or despair.
That apology had gone horribly, and now he’s stuck with a magic rose and a lifetime of misery as a reminder of how badly he messed it up. He knows deep down that it wasn’t his fault…but she had made it so very clear that it was. Part of him still desperately clung to her, despite what she did to him. Part of him wished he could go back and make everything right. He can’t even bring himself to hate her - how pathetic. But…how could he hate her for something he did?
Seeing his Master’s melancholic look, Moonjumper spoke up, “Well, there’s the usual things--flowers, chocolates…promises you don’t intend to keep…” Their voice trailed off, a small smile on their face as Snatcher began to bring himself back up to a sitting position with a peel of laughter.
“Did you just make a joke?”
“I’ve been…practicing.”
“It was awful. You should practice more.”
A silence, now comfortable again, settled over them, both with easy smiles on their faces. Moonjumper always knew how to cheer him up best. They did have his old memories and have spent centuries with him, after all. They stayed like that, quiet and in each other’s company for a while before Snatcher spoke up again.
“...Moonjumper…would you…ah, that is to say, I would—stars this is difficult. I order you to-”
“I would be happy to help you…apologize, Master.”
Snatcher sighed in relief. Thank the stars Moonjumper didn’t make him say it.
“...but asking nicely is something we’ll have to work on.”
Snatcher groaned, leaning back into his chair, and placed a book over his face to block out Moonjumper’s insidious little cackle. He wished he could say that he had immediately regretted even considering asking for help, let alone apologizing to his servants, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset at the notion.
Instead, the thought made him feel…good. A little hopeful, excited, even. It’s…kind of scary.
Work in the library was tiring and slow-going - with your ankle only doing slightly better (you’re able to stand now without too much discomfort), you’re still wobbling to and fro with the books. You stubbornly tamp down the notion that this task was more than you can handle because damn it you’re so going to finish this project! It breaks your heart seeing all these beautiful books blanketed by dust and you’re not gonna leave this place to rot. Not while you had something you could do about it!
…something that you could do very, very slowly, it seems.
No matter! You’ve got your mind set to it so you’re going to see it through. You’ve made decent progress in getting the books down from the shelves - but that’s just the easiest part. You’re having to move them to the center of the room so that you can organize them when they all came down off the shelves. After you set (another) heavy tome of ancient reliquaries down on the shiny floor, you turn to look at the progress you’ve made.
You’ve cleared out the entire bottom shelves of all the bookshelves on the right side, since that’s all you could reach without a ladder - you wanted to wait until your ankle healed a little more before you tried that. Perhaps you could convince MJ to give you a ride up, but you knew how they were with close physical contact. You know Grooves can’t fly, being a penguin and all, and you doubt the Conductor, despite all his obvious energy and strength, would be able to fly you up there without exhausting himself midway and dropping you.
Snatcher simply wasn’t an option.
So you’ll just have to wait. You clap the dust off of your clothes and hands, face scrunching in order to keep the dust from entering your eyes and lungs. You’ve taken at least 150 books down by now, and you tried not to let the overwhelming dread and premature exhaustion at the idea of continuing get you down. Now seemed like as good a time as any to stop, though, because your stomach began grumbling and you’ve been able to smell what the Conductor’s cooking for a half hour and it was sort of driving you crazy.
You exited the library, gently closing the doors, and headed to the dining room. You still sort of felt like you weren’t contributing as much as you could, so you decided to see if the Conductor needed any help - he’d probably say no, but it couldn’t hurt. You gave Grooves a smile and a wave as you passed, headed to the kitchen, but you froze in your tracks when you heard
“AHAHAHAHA! You can’t be serious!....you’re not serious, right?” Snatcher? What the hell was he doing down here? You didn’t know what he did on a day-to-day basis, but being in the kitchen at any time probably wasn’t on his daily to-dos. Quietly, you poked your head into the open doorway.
There, standing proudly in the kitchen, was Snatcher. Good to know your ears weren’t playing tricks on you. He was standing in front of The Conductor, who was smirking up at the ghost. When the bird didn’t respond, Snatcher’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion and his smile twisted into a small, confused frown. “Conductor, please tell me you’re joking.”
The small yellow bird barked out a hearty laugh - one that could even rival Snatcher’s - and shook his head, hopping over to the counter to grab an apron. He tossed it to Snatcher, who caught it with ease, and was still staring bewildered at the Conductor.
“Ah umnae! I’d never haver ‘bout havin’ some bampot in me kitchen, ‘specially when it come t’makin’ supper.” Snatcher, like you, looked confused. “Am I supposed to be insulted by the things you just said? I didn’t understand any of it.”
Again, the Conductor ignored him. “If’n yer lookin’ to apologize to lil’ ol’ me, yer gonna have t’prove yer serious. Just as serious as I am when it comes to an honor such as this.” Apologize? For what? you thought.
The Conductor put on his own apron and gestured for Snatcher to do the same. Snatcher looked up and glared at Moonjumper, who you didn’t notice was floating in the corner adjacent to you. MJ simply smiled and shrugged.
“This is not what I had in mind.”
“S’not what I had in mind, either, mind you! I pride meself in me kitchen, ‘n I make sure every meal I make isn’t a load of pure bogging.” Snatcher went to scoff, but was cut short when the Conductor took the apron from his hands and threw it over his neck, where it landed crooked over his body. You slapped a hand over your mouth as you let out a little snort - he looked absolutely ridiculous. The white and pink apron clashed horribly with his faint yellow blush - you’d even almost say he looked cute all flustered like that.
While Snatcher and the Conductor paid you no mind (too busy arguing, not in an angry way, and it seemed like the Conductor was having a little too much fun with it.), it seems someone did notice your presence. MJ subtly nodded at you before the other two could catch him. He was smiling, naturally, as he watched on. Just what in the cosmos was happening in there?
Ah, that’s it. You must be dreaming. You probably did something stupid in the library like hit your head with one of those ridiculously heavy tomes and fell unconscious (just what Snatcher said NOT to do) and now you’re having a weird dream in which the Conductor is trying to coerce The Snatcher, master of the mansion, into cooking a meal with him while wearing aprons as Moonjumper watched in the corner.
“Actually, that’s exactly what’s….happening, my friend.”
You nearly screamed as you whipped around to smack whoever was behind you, but thankfully Moonjumper had ducked before your hand collided with his cheek. His smile never faded though - in fact, it seemed to morph into more of a shit-eating grin. You didn’t know Moonjumper was capable of such a look. That means something is going on. It took you a moment to realize what had just happened.
“Wha–...oh. Did I say all that out loud?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I’m sure their…arguing drowned it out.”
You confusedly pointed to the kitchen and then back to him to confirm. They laughed again.
“Yes, that was…actually the Master with the…Conductor.”
“...making dinner.”
“Yes.”
“...together?”
“Yes.”
“...why?”
At this, MJ shrugged. “That isn’t…my place to…say. But, you must admit, it is amusing to…watch.”
Okay, Moonjumper was definitely hiding something. You had a little sister for star’s sake, you could smell a lie a mile away. But you decided to leave it be for now - MJ would tell you when the moment is right. You picked up that he had a sort of appreciation for dramatics. Still, you nodded along with him, a small smile of your own forming.
“Yeah, okay, it is sort of fun to watch. I just hope the mansion doesn’t get burnt down during the fight.”
“It won’t.”
You and Moonjumper settled back into your respective positions: you looking around the open doorway and MJ floating in the corner supervising. By the time your conversation with MJ ended, the Conductor had managed to get the apron onto Snatcher (you could hear him grumbling something about not getting gross mortal food on himself) and was beginning to set up the ingredients for dinner. It looked…fairly simple. Too simple, in fact. The Conductor had set Snatcher up to make…spaghetti. Spaghetti? Really? You could guess that Snatcher may have never made his own food before, but spaghetti just seemed a little…silly for someone of his caliber.
Though you could understand why the Conductor chose this dish specifically after he had let Snatcher do what he wanted with the uncooked pasta - he even had the water boiling for him to give him a head start.
You could never imagine pasta going so wrong. You’ll never be able to look at tomatoes the same way again. And how exactly did he do that with the herbs?
In the end (which took about 5 whole minutes to get to), the kitchen was somehow covered ceiling to floor with undercooked noodles, tomatoes, and raw meat. Some even landed onto poor Moonjumper’s face, though he stayed passively smiling the whole time, even as he wiped a chunk of burnt tomato off his face. You bit down your laughter as best as you could. Shit, even Hattie can make spaghetti without meatballs that are somehow simultaneously burnt and undercooked. You were trembling with effort in the doorway. You couldn’t blow your cover now - you HAD to see what happened.
Snatcher, in his defense, did look at least a little sheepish for the chaos he caused. He gently grabbed a limp noodle off the Conductor’s beak and threw it back somewhere behind him where it landed and stuck to a wall.
“Eh…aheheheh…s-...” He cleared his throat, shot a quick glare at Moonjumper (who still had that same shit-eating grin as before), and tried again. “Sorry. I, heh, I’ve uh…not stepped into a kitchen for, ah, quite some time now.”
You all waited with baited breath for the Conductor’s response (probably only you, though, as you were the only one who breathed). A pregnant, tense silence hung over you all. The tick from the grandfather clock in the piano room seemed so distant yet so overwhelming and deafening in your ear. You didn’t even know what to expect. Would the Conductor lose his cool? Would he yell at Snatcher, and then in return, Snatcher would do something awful to him? Well, something even more awful than exploding spaghetti in his freshly cleaned kitchen. Oh, man, he only just cleaned that yesterday! That must be so frustrating…
Before you could think any further, however, you heard a soft snort that evolved into a truly uproarious peel of laughter.
“HAH! Ahahaha! Oh, oh stars, if yer could see the look on yer face!” At this, you and Moonjumper both tensed. Of all the things to say to Snatcher - was the Conductor trying to get himself killed?! Snatcher, whose face was flushed yellow with embarrassment (or anger, you couldn’t really tell), kept trying to interject through the Conductor’s laughter, though his words fell on deaf ears as the Conductors guffawing consumed all other sounds in the room. It would be so easy to join in - his laugh was so contagious - but you were more scared for him at this moment. Snatcher had never made good on any of his threats to you, but that didn’t mean the Conductor was in the clear. Snatcher’s face flashed with anger, his yellow blush receding quickly, and he wound up to do something to the Conductor and you braced yourself, ready to run in and jump in between them if need be–!
“Patch! Patch it up, Snatcher, I-I–HAH! I cannae do it anymore! Hold on, augh, I feel boke, that’s t’hardest I laughed in a while. Ach, I feel skelped, hold on.” Snatcher, whose face now bore a look of anger and confusion, waited for the Conductor to catch his second wind. “Hoo-boy. Och, thanks fer that, Master, sir. I needed that.”
Snatcher scoffed in disbelief. “Needed me to ruin your kitchen and waste your food? I know I don’t eat, Conductor, but you should really be more concerned about the rations you have for those who do.” Snatcher, who had long since teared off his apron, crossed his arms over his chest. “May I remind you that I came down here to ‘atone for past grievances’, not become some laughing stock for a bird smaller than my arm.” Snatcher all but growled that last part out, anger taking over and threats already bubbling to the surface.
But the Conductor simply shook his head. “Aye, sure, but t’be fair, I dinnae expect yer to actually go through with it.” He picked up a towel and began wiping the splattered food off the counter. “I sort of just expected yer to demand me forgiveness, ‘n then I would, ‘n we’d both choose to ignore the fact that I lied, and then you’d float away ‘n I’d be back to makin’ supper.
“But then you asked how you could apologize. See, that was yer own fault right there.” No one could see his eyes under his shaggy yellow feathers and hat, but you could all discern the distinct feeling that the Conductor winked playfully at Snatcher. “I figured it was jus’ an extra step to the regime and you decided t’mix things up. In my defense, there was no way I could’ve known yer were being serious.” The Conductor cleaned off a small area of the counter for himself to sit and pulled out a pipe from his pocket. Moonjumper instinctively opened the kitchen window a crack.
“Yer know yer could’ve backed out at any time, and I ken you’ve got yer pride and all that,” he packed his pipe, lit a match under it and started to smoke, “but I guess I am curious. Why didn’t you?”
Again, Snatcher froze. You and MJ just…stood there, watching. The Conductor, though, seemed to give him the grace of thinking about the way he wanted to respond. After Snatcher didn’t respond for a few seconds, the Conductor hopped back off the counter and began to clean again. He got halfway through a piece of meatball that had already caked itself to the floor when Snatcher replied.
“I…I…don’t know. I just-” He growled again, frustrated with himself. “I just wanted to help! I guess! It wasn’t even my idea, Moonjumper put me up to it!” He huffed indignantly, glaring at the aforementioned ghost, who was still smiling.
“Now, wait, did Moonjumper want you to help, or did you want to?” The Conductor replied from the floor, still trying to pry the meat off of the ground.
Snatcher snarled. “Does it matter?” He gestured around him. “I didn’t do anything useful.”
“Nae, y’didn’t.” Harsh, but true. “But yer proved t’me yer were serious about an apology, ‘n while this is probably the worst apology I’ve ever gotten in my life,” Snatcher growled again at that, “it’s also the most honest one I’ve gotten too.”
Snatcher’s features softened as he continued to watch the Conductor clean up. He still looked torn and confused. Nothing went right and he had even lashed out at the very person he was trying to apologize to. The Conductor shot him a look over his shoulder. “Iff’n yer wantin’ to make good on that apology, though, I suggest you grab a towel.”
You couldn’t help that smile that broke out on your face as Snatcher, taken aback by a suggestion from a servant, did as he was told. He grabbed a nearby rag and set to work cleaning the ceiling - a place the Conductor needed the tallest ladder to reach. You looked over at Moonjumper, flabbergasted at the turn of events, and MJ in turn shrugged, floating over to you so the two could focus on their cleaning. Snatcher wasn’t an idiot by any means, but he would definitely need some guidance when doing things in accordance with the Conductor’s rules in the kitchen. Neither of you wanted to see whatever arguments may ensue.
Once you both were well away from the kitchen, you stopped MJ by grabbing their shoulder. “Okay, spill. ‘Apology’? What the hell was all that about!”
Moonjumper just smiled cryptically at you. “You’ll find out in due time, friend.” And he floated away.
That evening, something was beginning to change in the mansion, and everyone, including Snatcher, could feel it. A warmth settled in the pit of your stomach, though you didn’t know what to make of it. It felt like, somehow, things were beginning to change...for the better.
