I changed the URL of this blog, I figured might as well. I will try to update and reblog more of other's content on here.
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I changed the URL of this blog, I figured might as well. I will try to update and reblog more of other's content on here.
There is Thunder in Our Hearts
Cross-posting from AO3. A LCB78 / Heathmael / Ishcliff one-shot series taking place across Mirror Worlds. 1. Missing Piece - Wuthering Heights and Edgar Family - Rated M - On the day of the Wolf’s Banquet, he announces something that stops all their hearts: he now legally owns that damnably grand mansion.
Warnings: Sexual Content, Melodrama, Suicidal Ideation and (Minor) Character Death.
2. Hands On - Pequod Captain and Harpooner - Rated M - Heathcliff is l ft alone with the Captain while the crew resupplies.
Warnings: Dubious Dynamics, Heavy Sexual Content, Violence.
3. We’re Like A Family Here - Kurokumo Clan Captain and Wakashu - Rated M - A few Wakashu newly transferred to the 34th branch take their Captain and Heathcliff out for drinks.
Warnings: Sexual Content, Drinking, Swearing.
4. Low Profile - Shi Association Fixers - Rated T - A look into the daily struggles the South Section 5 Shi Association Fixers face as underfunded and overworked assassins.
Warnings: Mentions of Blood
Low Profile
Cross-Posting from AO3
Warnings: Mentions of Blood
Rated T - A look into the daily struggles the South Section 5 Shi Association Fixers face as underfunded and overworked assassins.
Crumbling Safe House Building
Will you stop nagging at me?!” Heathcliff bellowed. “The job’s done innit?”
“I’m just trying to help you, you’re gonna get us all killed!” Ishmael snapped. “All this time and you’re no better at keeping a low profile!”
This was a common argument between these two assassins, though one of them would say her coworker is more like an opportunistic butcher than a proper covert assassin. At least his blows were effective, but they’ve had more than few loose ends to deal with across missions. The nightly races back to their temporary accommodations before the sweepers were becoming more and more arduous. Efficiency was long beginning to suffer from all the unhealed injuries of countermeasures they’ve been up against.
Somehow, they’ve made it through another night. They’ve managed to get back inside, but are practically impassive to see their Director waiting for them. She was covered in blood, surveying the meager and dilapidated building she scouted for this line of missions, her face almost instantly lighting up with a saccharine smile as their eyes met. “Ah, thou hast arrived!”
It was becoming more usual for the Director to make these visits, than the messaging system they had in place for association’s activities. It was slightly disconcerting, and the mood was immediately gloomy. The two associates had nothing but prickled silence at her presence, which she could pick up on. Her expression began to falter.
“Oi, Director lass. You alright?” Heathcliff spoke first. “Looks like you were in a bit of a mess.”
Don Quixote threw back on the smile that began to slip. “Prithee, no need to inquire! In the presence of my juniors and their liveliness, I am well!”
“Well your juniors are still concerned…” Ishmael frowned. “And liveliness is a generous description to give our mutual annoyance of each other.”
Don Quixote’s eyes flicked between them. “Ah, ‘tis good to see thee alive in any case—”
Heathcliff's brow creased and Ishmael’s mouth twitched in anticipation. They knew what was coming, the forcefully optimistic expression of their director was seared into their brains.
“Another set of jobs for us, then?” Heathcliff said quickly, sparing her.
“Indeed, but for the next round, you shall have each other's company.” She drew her hands up a bit. “Temper thy annoyance into a truce against the villains, mayhap?”
“We’re capable.” Ishmael sighed. She saw no point in arguing about working with the person she just finished chastising, there was likely no room for an alternative. “Double rate then, at least.”
Don Quixote also tried to spout off some more hollow encouragement wrapped in an unspoken apology, but Ishmael cut her off.
“Well, thanks for telling us directly.” She said calmly. “That must mean you are taking on more as well?”
The director’s stunned face quickly became a resigned smile. “Indeed, I am soon parting, I hath decided to delivereth unto thee the news myself this time. Forsooth, I am so glad both are faring well!”
It was partially a lie. She wanted to see the progress of their bruises and count the total of bandages herself. She wanted them to know she saw them suffering, but decisions were always made beyond her. Furthermore, she had tried countless times to ease their burdens by taking on as many requests by herself as possible. She wondered if they knew, but part of her wish they never would, as that would make them push themselves more. She has already lost so much.
“Director…we’re holding up fine.” Ishmael placated, though she knew none of them were guaranteed to even see tomorrow. “We can manage, right Heathcliff?”
“Yeah, good luck on your own job, lass. Me an’ naggy over there can handle a few neck slices tonight.” Heathcliff slightly grinned, despite the exhaustion in his eyes.
This is one thing the juniors saw eye to eye on, a constant factor; the desire to prove themselves sufficient—though the intention for each was rather different.
Don Quixote’s expression lightened as she picked up her blade. “Verily, I shall look forward to hearing thy reports!” And soon, she departed into the shadows, unable to bear facing them for long. “In these moments, I will be resting a few floors below as the time of sweepers passes.”
“Take care then, lass.” Heathcliff replied, not pressing her to stay. They were all a bit solitary in their own ways in this line of work.
“We’ll also sleep and then spend a bit of time preparing until we set out. Until then, rest well Director.” Ishmael also assured Don Quixote before she left to descend the stairs.
Soon after; another awkward silence fell, but also an attempt to dress down a bit to find enough comfort to encourage sleep. They were left in their under-layer tanks and pants, as they removed the hard-leather harnesses and straps. A bit of weight off their aching joints, but it was only marginal relief. The two of them settled on their sleeping bags to attempt to rest. Ishmael set a small vibrating alarm with a small wrist device they carried in their supply pack; its function was to silently wake her up if she was actually fortunate to fall asleep. The agreement was usually to sleep in shifts, but more often than not she laid awake overthinking for a few hours while Heathcliff slept in increments of a half an hour at a time, usually woken by night terrors. She never asked particularly of what, but there were plenty of rough ways of life in the backstreets. They needed to catch sleep when they could. Otherwise, they need to rest their bodies, and hope that the injuries they’ve sustained will have a bit of a chance to heal.
They managed to toss and turn and doze a bit, but soon enough the stray beams of daylight peeked through the bent leftover blinds that the previous tenants of this building left behind. They fought to sleep longer, as it's only been a few hours.
Between another fit of sleep and waking, Ishmael’s eyes flicked open as she felt a gentle tug on a strand of her hair. “I can’t sleep, let’s spar.” Heathcliff’s voice said, but her hands already fled to his neck. He pulled them off, with a sharp exhale, fatigue plain on his face. Did he even sleep? She wondered, but soon hitched her thigh around him, rolling and pulling him underneath her, baring a knife that she kept with her to his throat. He was unamused. “Oi! You—We didn’t have to start right this second!”
“You’re-”
“Don’t bother sayin’ it.” He groaned.
“Dead.” She said, matter-of-factly, fighting the urge to smirk.
“Bloody fucking hell. You don’t always have to do that!” He groaned.
“Quiet your voice down. The Director said we shouldn’t wound each other so much anymore. But we can’t forget the basics, never put your guard fully down with me while-”
He took the moment while she was lecturing to gain the upper hand again, swiping her knife and pinning her down, grunting with pain as his leg wrapped around her. He held the knife above her head to make a point before tossing it across the floor. “Coulda knifed you in your sleep a long time ago, you know? You have to draw the line somewhere if you’re gonna use every interaction we have as a free for all to nark me about something pointless!”
Ishmael’s shoulders slumped beneath him, and he took that moment to get back onto his feet, feeling uncomfortable; hovering over her like that always felt a little scummy. He wished she wouldn’t so casually resort to pulling him down like that, what if things get awkward? But any inkling of what might occur was thrown away because bloody hell, something hurts. His face was filled with pain now as well exhaustion; he knew something didn’t quite heal right.
And perhaps his point finally came across, as Ishmael turned away from him completely to face the wall, swiping her fingers throughout her hair in a crude effort to fix it as she drew to her feet. “Haah. Fine, I guess I get what you’re saying.”
He flexed his leg, remembering the deep slice he endured recently. “I’m sick of it, you know.”
“Alright, I get it, I won’t test you like that again!” She said quickly, hushing herself to a harsh whisper. “Why ask me to spar when you look like you’re going to keel over, anyway?”
“What else would we get up to at this hour?” He grumbled. “It’s not like we can hold a conversation well.”
Ishmael huffed. “Like you are easy and reasonable to talk to? We’d only end up fighting more.”
“Maybe if you tried not acting like you’re my second boss all the time I’d feel a bit more inclined to trade more than blows with you! You can think whatever you want about me, but I am tired of how you think you have the right to look down on me!” He limped back over to his sleeping area.
“First off, stop yelling. Second off, what?” Ishmael replied, stunned. “Is that really what you think? Hey, Listen-”
“Don’t wanna hear it, you’re gonna tell me this nitpicking is all for my good somehow, like some other fucking arseholes I've known; but even if I act the way you want, you’ll still never let up for a moment.” Heathcliff spat out bitterly. He wanted to put it away from his mind, but no matter how long he’s spent the years on the move, the troublesome past always seeps into his thoughts.
Ishmael felt a sudden disgusted feeling, she was also a bit mortified. “Now seriously, Heathcliff! How can I be better than you when we’re sleeping only a few meters apart in this dingy building!? What could I possibly have to show that I am better than anyone? We’re in the same sinking boat whether we like it or not.”
He wasn't having it. “You sure? Because from what you’ve tried pounding into me, is that I can never do a damn thing right.” He grumbled, electing to cross the room to sit in a creaky metal chair, to try to relieve some of the shooting pain he was experiencing. “Fuckin’ knock me out or something.” He spoke under his breath.
Ishmael glanced at him, but couldn’t tell if it was just the usual injuries they’ve had, or something had torn. “I just… I don't want you to die for something stupid. So yes, I am sorry I just keep being hard on you.” She said with a cold tone, but the slightest shake in her voice. “I'm used to places that if you don't do something the right way, you'll die.” She suddenly had a faraway look, like she was remembering something deeply unpleasant. Heathcliff’s eyes met hers as she snapped away from the memory.
“You never did tell me what place that was.” He said calmly, trying to distract himself.
“I know I just mentioned how hard it is to talk to you, but let’s save that conversation for another time.” She asked in a tone that was more pleading than expected. “Anyway, since you hate it so much, I’ll stop giving you unprompted feedback.”
Heathcliff noticed the darkened look of her eyes. Had they ever lit up or softened in the time they’ve worked together? “If I die, then that’s that. You’ll get some other stupid bloke off the streets to work with. Maybe one that doesn’t have rocks for brains.” He sighed, not liking how defeated she looked. “I don’t really hate our squabbles all that much, what else are we gonna do? It's something like a rapport or such at this point. To be honest with you, though I could do with being less browbeaten, it's mostly the knives to my neck that I could do without.”
Ishmael still felt humiliated, how could she admit that bit was her own attempt of playing with him? Purely for levity, of course, because they were assassins. They were always in close contact while battling it out and in stake outs for jobs. “If you say so. I didn’t mean that to be anything serious. Like, I was uh, um. Ugh, forget it. I just thought we were on the same page, with the whole, ‘you're dead’ bit. W-Was it not registering as a joke to you?”
Hold on now, why did she look so embarrassed? Heathcliff felt a prick of sheepishness, as he began to think maybe he blew this out of proportion. “Huh? Did I miss something? Wait, you’re calling it a ‘bit’-- it was just a jape, then?”
“You didn't know?” She got a little mad again. “Ugh, it's kind of your fault too, I mean, you also flipped me over, I thought we were gonna wrestle for the knife or something…”
“Seriously?!” Heathcliff felt weirdly almost shy from the mental picture alone. Why would she want that? “Even if I did, you’d say something like, ‘Ugh, we’re assassins, not grapplers’.”
Ishmael grimaced. Hell, he’s right, she probably would. “Well, it's fine, we need to practice swordplay more anyway.” They also need to conserve some energy for their upcoming target. Her eyes landed on him. “So, hey, what’s going on, I noticed you wincing earlier. Is it your leg again?”
He was sweating. “Haah, don’t even worry about it, it's just an annoying scratch.” He wiped his brow with his arm sleeve. “I’m still breathing, yeah?”
“For now.” Ishmael sighed, knowing there wasn’t much they could do about it. “I'm gonna check on the Director to see if there are any updates, so how about you try to sleep a bit longer? You look pretty rough. We don't have to fight each other every day, you know? I could have helped you try to sleep a bit more.”
He wanted to ask how, but didn’t. “Kind of became routine though, my body wouldn’t let me have a say otherwise.” He looked far more than just rough, but so did she with her own patches of scratches and bruises and forming scars. But things currently were dire; they needed to stave off using supplies as much as possible. “Guess I’ll lay down for a bit anyway, scream if you're dying.”
“So you can get a head start?” Ishmael responded flatly, but with a slight smile.
Two floors down, it was eerie and dark. Ishmael wasn't used to this big of a multi-floored building being used for their little hideaways, it left too much open; but these strings of requests didn't give them much time to find any better alternatives within budget. She called out for Don Quixote, but didn't find a trace of the Director ever staying there except for an open edition of Fixer's Monthly on the floor along with a discarded pile of used gauze. Also on the back of the door was a message written on repurposed yellow paper, wishing them well on their next mark and that the magazine was free for them to take. ‘Probably accidentally bought the same edition again.’ Ishmael thought, unsure what to do with it. Perhaps it'd make good kindling if they ended up stuck in a worse off place with no sprinkler system.
“Any updates?” A voice from behind her made her jump. Hell, how did he manage to get the jump on her? Heathcliff smirked as she whipped her head to see his hand pretending to slice her neck “You're dead.” He announced, proud of himself.
“Huh. Told you had it in you to use stealth. Now you have no excuse in the future.” She said, batting his hand away from her neck before turning to walk back up to their floor of the building.
He chuckled sardonically and dragged himself to follow behind. She had a point, but damn could she spoil a moment for him.
It was nearing evening now, and Ishmael opened a small cache trunk full of supplies, grabbing two chalky nutrition bars and small liquid packs, tossing one of each to Heathcliff. “Breakfast and Dinner. And then we’ll change our bandages and get ready to set out.”
“Taking the lead as usual.” He said, but really didn’t have an earnest complaint. He was used to being contrary with her, though he really had no reason to keep provoking her after their little chat. Luckily, he managed to catch both provisions before they hit the floor, but winced as his leg wound’s stitching tugged, and he jerked, putting pressure on it.
“Fuck, did it reopen?” Ishmael came to his side and examined it quickly. “We’ve already gone through this month’s ampule allowance too…come here, let me see.” She quickly rummaged for some gloves, thankful there were still some clean disposable ones left.
Heathcliff allowed her to unwrap his infliction, freezing in place. “It’s just my leg, at least.” She snapped for him to sit down, and he couldn’t help but note this felt strangely intimate like earlier, no matter how many times she’s wrapped wounds for him.
“Yeah, only a vital part of you that’s needed.” She scoffed, undoing the bandages to see “Ugh. I knew I should have stitched this myself, it needs to be cleaned and redone.” She prodded it, grabbing gauze and a pair of surgical scissors and the rest of the stitch kit to get to work.
Heathcliff snarled both from pain and her nitpick. “It’s not even torn, you just think nothing I do is right. Just slap on a few bandages and leave me be.”
“That’s not—no dumbass, I was going to say I knew you were clearly about to black out when you did this.” She clarified. “It’s always difficult to do your own stitching, especially in this spot, it's an awkward angle.”
He was a bit surprised. But Ishmael was like this sometimes, too. Despite the arguments, it wasn’t all piss and vinegar between them. He reflected earlier; he knew she desperately wanted to see him improve, even if her approach was often rude and callous. Ishmael was an extremely guarded person most of the time. She desperately wanted some sort of assurance that he could not provide her, especially in those early days. Though, to his benefit he was pretty sure most people couldn’t meet those rigid standards. No one in this lifestyle, by far. He was also sure neither of them liked each other much, but it's not as if either gave it a chance. They also knew little much about each other’s lives, but neither invited the closeness that came with sharing. Though it was becoming a bit odd to know barely anything, considering the two may be destined to die together one night at the rate things were becoming unmanageable. ‘Isn’t that kind of romantic?’ a sly thought snuck up on him, and then another thought quickly bashed its brains in with, ‘Isn't that depressing?’
Now he kind of wanted to know at least something. What color flowers does she like best? What would she remember about him if he’s not the one to make it?
“Heathcliff…”
He tore away from those thoughts before it drifted back to her offhand comment about wrestling. Focus. He had to keep going, he had to keep fighting to return to…to who? Or what? He had no home anymore. His eyes settled on her again. He watched as she became his impromptu surgeon, prepping a curved needle to create sutures. She then laid a plastic tarp on the ground, patting it, prompting him to lay down so she could sew it properly. He slowly splayed out by her knees, feeling the cold concrete of the decaying building beneath him. “Ah, yeah?”
“Do you need something to bite down on?” She asked carefully.
He didn’t even consider it. “Probably.” He would brace himself to go without, but it was a good idea.
“We need the rolls of gauze we have left, so let me see if I have anything else in the kit…” But she came up with nothing that could be spared, supplies were very low. One of their gloves, maybe? The hilt of one of their swords? Something finally came to mind. “Heathcliff. Just…use this.” She said quietly, removing her headband from her hair. “It won’t break or fray, so bite down as much as you need.” She had a memory of someone else with a similar piece of rope in their teeth, as they carved their own flesh, scratching away mistakes. She repressed it away quickly, offering the rope in her hand.
He was once again surprised by her. “Cheers, guess now I’ll know the taste of rope and ginger sweat.” His voice was rough and bitter as he accepted it, but he didn’t push her away. He had asked about this rope before, and from her caged reaction he instinctively knew of its importance to her. That made something in his head go a bit strange again, how strangely kind.
“There might be a bit of blood mixed in there too.” She replied snarkily.
“Oh, just grand.” He curiously sniffed it, and at least it was cleaner than a sock, somewhat. It smelled faintly metallic and salty.
“Get ready.” She instructed, after prepping the wound with disinfectant. Once it was clean, she swiftly began her work. Luckily, the gash wasn’t extremely long; it only took minutes.
The rope fell from his lips as he gasped out, as if he was holding his breath. At least he could always count on her to be efficient. “Uh, thanks.” He caught the rope in his hand for her to take.
“Are you going to black out again?” Ishmael asked, grabbing it. “If I need to do the job by myself it's fine, I can manage.”
“Shut your gob on that, I am going.” Heathcliff stood up, pulling the plastic tarp to fold and stuff back into their kit. “There are multiple distractions expected to be hanging around the target, do you have a death wish?”
“Somehow, I don’t. But perhaps you should keep a distance, you may slow me down otherwise.” She pulled up the single metal chair in the room to a rickety table, where she placed their ‘dinner’. “Anyway, eat. We’re on the clock soon enough.”
Heathcliff sat down, brows knitted in anguish from the fresh layer of pain. He thought they’d be numb to grazes like this at this point. He stabbed a straw into the liquid pack to drink.
“Here is dessert.” Ishmael portioned out two doses of painkillers, one slightly larger than the other, placing his pills on top of his still-wrapped nutrient bar. They were from her own stash she paid for via her salary, but that really didn’t matter at this point. They needed to survive, no matter what, and he needed some relief.
The liquid pouch was placed on the table as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes landed on her sitting on the floor, tying the headband back into place. Something occurred to him. “Why don’t you ever tie up that mop of hair? Doesn't seem helpful in a fight.”
She scoffed. “I haven’t been grabbed or pulled yet by it, except for your clumsy and cheap way of fighting.”
“Yet. Why don’t you shove off with the comparisons already?” He was annoyed with her sudden rebuffing after their earlier conversation, but he expected it anyway.
She let her hair fall down behind her, dragging it to the dirty floor. “Yeah. You've got a point.” Ishmael said quietly. “I have nothing to show for any of this experience, do I?”
Heathcliff’s mouth went slack a bit, but he realized he knew that exact feeling. But he couldn’t just let her sink when they were just about to go on a job. “What? The hell you mean? We’re still alive, ain’t we? We’re already doing much better than a lot of the poor sops that were in this position.” It came out noticeably half-hearted.
“At this point, that’s not much.” She fidgeted with her hair, his comment did get to her a bit, but she left it be.
Soon they went silent for a long pause, and Heathcliff fiddled with the wrapper of the stiff block of ‘food’, but found himself also spiraling. He placed it down, its unappetizing nature and the sudden mood shift doing him no favors. “And what is it you were hoping for?”
She sighed heavily. “I guess I wanted to be accomplished in ways that matter, I guess. The only things I've gained through this job are lifelong scars.” Her voice came off a bit too emotional for her own comfort, she cleared her throat. “Is there even a way out of this career path?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Heathcliff responded candidly. “It’s a bit…much lately.”
Ishmael took a bite of her chalky block, chomping it down with a sip of water. The Fixer magazine was on edge of the table, and her eyes settled on it. “But, we’re not the only ones. I wonder if the Director even slept.”
“Doubt it.” He replied, biting down the bar in large chunks so it’d be dealt with quickly. “I think she’s been pulling double-duty for weeks now.”
“Yeah…we even had a day off this month.” Ishmael remembered, the Director even dropped in on them to supply them with a couple extra ampules she got from who-knows-where. “We’d be dead by now without her. “Do you know she thinks we resent her?”
Heathcliff frowned. “The only reason she left us early last night, probably feels guilty.”
“To think I’ve wanted to be considered for that kind of responsibility...” Ishmael sighed. “If anything, we detest upper management for putting us all through this. Does she know that?”
“Let’s let her know we’re on her side next time.” He said lightly.
Ishmael nodded in agreement. “Gonna change my bandages now, it’ll be time to go soon.”
Somewhere in the night…
Don Quixote was completely covered in blood. She was a little repulsed by the refreshing feeling she usually experienced from the post-massacre; an element of herself that made her ideal for an assassin. But any trace of euphoria was replaced by the sting of her flesh aching. Her body wasn’t invincible, after all. But she knew she was definitely durable, however this was becoming unmanageable, with no end in sight. She had been quarreling with management for months now as the severe workload was starting to become an expectation of herself and her companions.
But all these dubious organizations and groupings needed to fall somehow; and it seems there was no end to villains in this part of the city.
Though it went against their ‘get in and get out’ approach, Don Quixote pilfered through the bodies’ belongings of her latest assignment in hopes of finding anything useful for supplies. Unfortunately all she found was some small amount of money and a pack of chewing gum as the only spoils of note. She got out of there after ensuring surveillance was destroyed.
It’ll perhaps get her in trouble, but she needed to provide something to keep them all going.
Onward Rocinante, to the next target.
Foodstuff Warehouse
The place they end up is all too typical; in an industrial warehouse, there was a meeting between two gang leaders, it's a set-up of course; to kill the competition while they think there’s a chance to conspire. It seemed like a lighter job compared to all the jobs of human traffickers, cannibals and other high-class thugs they’ve had to encounter this past week.
But simple jobs can also be easy to screw up with complacency.
Ishmael and Heathcliff secured a friendly shadow to wait in overhead in the rafters, but Heathcliff has a feeling that they were not the only ones up there. He placed his hand on Ishmael’s shoulder to grab her attention, and she shook her head. Target first, whatever else can wait.
“Now we know why they contracted double. Who is gonna pay if they’re dead?” Heathcliff whispered against her ear, hand raising to his blade.
“Split up.” She whispered back. “Kill him quickly.” She crept silently forward across the beam to check out their competition.
Heathcliff’s blade sliced the target in two in a typical strike, but he’s quickly rushed by their company as he leapt down from the shadows to fend them away from the client. He dealt with the pain like a champ, at least his stitches will hold through. He’s only more motivated to gut the rest.
“That was close to my own face, you damn unprofessional imbecile!” The client yelled, fuming while running out of the way.
Ishmael sighed for her partner as she sliced through the rookie fixers that were hired as their competition. However, she wasn’t expecting one of them to shoot a damn net at her from behind, and while trying to slice it away, her hair and legs get entangled as she slips off the rafter into a pile of crates filled with some type of generic foodstuff packages. It took her a bit of time to cut free, but three of them emerged to attack her with swords, one actually managed to pierce her abdomen as she tried to dodge their blows. Her voice cutted through to Heathcliff as she cried out with an agonizing sound. She managed to catch a glance; it was much deeper than she expected, but it didn't go through.
The opposing side made their own counter as he attempted to end them quickly, to help her out of that mess. Heathcliff still managed to kill them, but his recklessness earned him a stab, but it's even worse; his flesh began to feel like it's boiling.
Ishmael kicked off her assailants and made the most of her strike. They fell, and she managed a whimpering escape from the pile of now-broken crates. They’ve both won, but it did not look good. The client spoke a half-hearted thanks and left them there without any further contact.
They forced themselves, through limping and hobbling, to meet in the middle, but nearly collapsed in the process.
”I-I think I have been poisoned.” Ishmael said quietly, eerily calm.
“Is that what that is…” Heathcliff struggled with his pockets, his limbs started to feel numb.
“Have we lost our minds? Are we getting worse at this?” Even breathing seems too much for her. There’s an ailed look that almost seemed like relief. “I feel so hot that I am freezing.”
“This is just an off night, we’ll get through it.” Heathcliff whispered back, as a pool of blood from his own fresh wound started to pool and seep on his clothes. He knows at that moment they don’t have long, but he drags himself, forcing a needle into her arm, getting ready to give her a second dose.
She stopped him with her hand. “That is the last vial, I don’t—Just humor me and take that one. I think the blood loss will kill us before the poison.”
He didn’t fight her on it, quickly taking the other dose; pricking the needle into his skin, as they both writhe; they don’t have time to argue about efficacy. He pulled himself closer to put pressure on her wound, peeling away his fresher bandages to wrap around her with stumbling fingers.
She could not believe his line of thinking, why was he trying to save her first? “Stop, you have to stop! There’s more gauze in my side pocket, wrap yourself…please.” She struggled to unzip it to give it to him, but forced through it, even though she felt like she’s going to pass out at any second.
They somehow managed to wrap each other, but there’s not much relief; it's very likely they’ll die from the half-baked first aid and toll on their bodies; but they curled up close anyway in a futile attempt to keep each other alive before losing consciousness shortly after.
In those moments while they remained able to think, Heathcliff’s mind reached the time she was stitching him up earlier. “Where are you from?” The question slips from his mouth like delirium.
Ishmael’s breathing was becoming slower, but she was still awake. “Why?”
“Want to know something-” He clinged tighter when he felt his blood dripping down his side, and his arms were losing strength. “What flowers do you like?”
“I guess…”
His forehead dipped, as if just couldn’t hear her. Her voice was faint. “Ishmael?” But it went silent on her end, and he lightly shook her. “Lass…Ishmael?”
Her eyes fluttered back open slightly, but looked so unmanageably heavy. “Sunflowers…”
Somewhere else in the night…
Don Quixote had finished her second target; there was an inexplicable dread that overcame her, but it wasn’t from her own long-felt weariness. She felt her skin prickle in anticipation; she needed to see for herself.
It was by her design that she would be near to her cohorts’ current assignment, and even if they were fine, she might as well cap off the night as their back-up.
After burning her lungs a bit to make her way down the blocks to find the correct building, she crept through via the same roof hatch that they had taken to get access to the rafters. The quietness inside hit her, inviting more dread. There was blood dripping downward from a sliced in twain corpse. She recognized the method, it must have been Ishmael. She immediately followed the line of blood to the ground floor, pausing to find the very scene of her nightmares.
Screaming flooded her mind, as her heartbeat stirred at a thunderous pace. But she drew closer, she needed to know for sure. Her hope was quickly reignited from the faintest of breaths. She cannot lose time but it may take a veritable miracle for them to survive.
“Let me save them!” Don Quixote cried out. What good was she if she let them die like this? A haunting thought screamed in the recesses of her mind as she threw around the villainous bodies and searched them. Hurry! Hurry! There must be something! If she cannot keep them alive, the only way she can keep them is to make them her—
“Nay, I shall never!” No, it must not come to pass. She cannot inflict the life of a Kindred onto them, no matter what happens! To force them to live a life that will only leave them with no other options than bloodlust was too cruel. But to lose them; she didn’t know what would be worse. She started to cry, as she tossed aside one of the fixers’ bodies. A coat pocket flipped, exposing a stash of items they carried.
Salvation for another night was found. There were two K Corp-branded stabilizing ampules. It wasn’t a cure all, but it was hope. They needed possibly three each to reach a proper condition, but it would have to do. Don Quixote’s frustrated tears turned into a relieved weeping, shakily injecting them with hopes they’d wake up soon.
In the nerve-wracking moments she had waited for them, she tightened their bandages, thankful to feel the slightest breath, hear the soft flutter of heartbeats. Her lip quivered more recalling the state she found them in; clinging close, as if they were expecting it to be the end. Bless her intuition, she didn’t want to think of what would have happened if she was delayed or didn’t come. It would have been worse, if she had been called away to another part of the City that night. She must accept this small victory for now, but management will be receiving her fury, it has been more than enough! This is completely unacceptable! Besides, what’s more expensive, training and outfitting new recruits, or allowing their experienced assassins to have a proper rest period for once? She was hoping they’d see reason, or she’ll deem them villains too, and spend every ounce of strength she possessed in dealing with them as such.
Heathcliff woke up first, he never could sleep for long. “Lass…Director?”
“Young Heathcliff!” Don Quixote knelt, making sure he didn’t overexert himself. “It is I, but do not move thyself overmuch, If needed, we will make a camp here tonight. You both need repose to muster your strength.”
“Not very safe if one of those bastards’ associates sends a clean-up crew. I think I can walk. The lass seemed to have it worse, if we can at least carry her…”
“Don’t, I’ll walk.” Ishmael’s voice spoke out, her brows knit as she forced herself to sit up. “How late is it, director?”
“Still a bit of time before the hour of Sweepers, we don’t have to rush.” Don Quixote replied. “But do not force thyselves…I can handle any crew they send.”
“We cannot just leave everything to you.” Ishmael got to her feet, frowning. “Let’s get the hell out of here before our client decides to skip out on payment. They seemed like the kind of trash to try.”
“Didn’t care for that bastard either.” Heathcliff agreed. “The concrete is also a little more bearable to sleep on back at the safehouse.”
“Do not worry about payment, the association will take care of it.” Don Quixote paused, correcting. “I will take care of it.” She made a quick sweep for more supplies, and the three of them left.
Crumbling Safe House Building
As they made it back to their temporary safe house, they hobbled up the stairs in silence.
“I swear unto both of thee.” Don Quixote spoke, resolute as she placed the food packages she pilfered from the warehouse and the pack of gum on the metal table, along with overnight capsules she found on another corpse. “Things shall improve very soon.”
They believed in her, knowing she would do whatever she could to make it true.
“No matter what missives or instructions thou may receive on the contrary. Verily, thy both shall not accept any requests for at least three days.” Don Quixote said, seeming more mature to them than usual.
Ishmael looked sheepish. “You have no complaints from me, but what about-”
“-yourself, lass?” Heathcliff finished, also concerned.
“Nay, but ‘tis something I will also consider after thy injuries heal.” Their director smiled kindly.
“At least, rest here with us tonight.” Ishmael replied, slumping against the wall. “We don’t mind having your company, at all really.”
“Find a spot for your sleeping bag and tuck in as well, alright?” Heathcliff invited.
Don Quixote was taken aback, but soon nodded gladly. “I will return posthaste, after securing my provisions!” She ran off to grab her supply pack, which was stowed in an old supply closet a couple floors down.
Heathcliff sat down on his sleeping bag while they waited for her return, glancing over to Ishmael. “Narrow squeak from death we just had…”
“A very close call, too close for comfort.” Ishmael replied, glancing away. “Uh thanks, for trying as much as you did back there.” There was something else she wanted to say, but didn’t want to upset him.
He knew she wanted to chastise him for not prioritizing himself. “Don’t mention it. But let’s talk more about it some other time, I’m knackered.” He laid back on his sleeping bag.
“Okay, but don’t pass out, we still have medicine to take, and we need more liquids to push all that out of our system. Also, we should attempt to clean up a bit.” She reminded him, though she could easily pass out as well.
“Alright.”
They both settled into an odd staring contest with each other from across the room, as they waited for their Director to return. They both looked tattered and haggard at that moment, but at least they were alive and stable.
Don Quixote settled her sleeping spot in the middle between them. She saw that they all received proper first aid, and finally; the overnight healing pills. By the time they cleaned up and settled in, a pocket flashlight was the only light source in the room. Don Quixote was using it to read one of her magazines; she always had trouble properly allowing herself to rest, but tonight was different in the fact that she nearly lost the two beside her.
“Director?” Ishmael spoke quietly, passively watching her. “Why do you like those magazines so much?”
Don Quixote lit up. “Oho, the stories of the promising young fixers across the City, of course! It hath always been in my interests to support them.”
Ishmael remembered how she was recruited to the association. Of all the offices she had drifted and floated between, that was one moment where she felt recognized for all her efforts, even though the job had mostly led to suffering since then.
The other woman was happy to discuss the subject of Fixers anytime. “Though, mayhap thee would enjoy such periodicals for the articles about new innovations across many facets of the noblest profession.”
“It feels like some of them are gimmicks rather than innovation.” Ishmael gave a half-smile, settling on her side. “Anything interesting in particular in this issue?”
“Hmm! Well, there is a spotlight article on U Corp. fixers, a new shielding technology is being developed for Great Lake activities.” She pointed to the cover story headline.
“Huh? Can I see?” Ishmael scooted closer, peeking over Don Quixote’s shoulder.
“Doth thee have an interest in U Corp., Young Ishmael?” She asked curiously. She remembered U. Corp being a mention on her resume, but never sought to bring it up.
“Uh. Yeah, I guess you can say that. But it’s a very dangerous place, The Great Lake.” She scanned the article about anything related to taboos or whales, but the article was devoid of much information other than the technical applications of the shield. In a way, she wasn’t sure what she had expected.
Heathcliff turned over in his sleeping bag, evidently feeling left out and also curious about the conversation for a while, as he scooted closer to them. “Anything from T Corp. in this issue?” He asked with a yawn.
“Aha~ yes, a popular bastion of inventions, they hast thine own article from one of their prolific workshops, ah something about an action-reverser device!” Don Quixote said excitedly, turning the pages to show him.
“Why T Corp.?” Ishmael asked.
“Uh, used to be my old stompin’ grounds.” He replied, but didn’t seem to want to take the conversation much further. “Is that what U Corp. was to you?”
“Yeah, kind of.” She replied quietly. “That's where I got my start.” She remembered him asking before.
Don Quixote, noticing a shift in the way they spoke to each other, gave a small thankful sigh. “‘Tis a wonder, how far we’ve all come.”
After flipping through the magazine further, Ishmael spoke up about something she’d been thinking long about. “Director, I think I have an idea if you are serious about helping us, but you might have to deal with some pushback.”
“Prithee, my ears hath never been more keen to listen!” She replied fervently. “Do not worry about trouble, I shall bear responsibility and conquer any obstacle.”
Heathcliff was soon the first one to pass out, missing most of the conversation. But not much longer after, they all fell asleep, in that close pile all on the floor together. The night was finally warm for once, instead of drafty and rigid. Don Quixote woke up feeling unusually rested, turning off the vibration alarm on her wrist swiftly. Regrettably, duty had called her away in the early hours to launch her plans and pleas, leaving her juniors to get more needed rest.
The two left behind had settled closer together in her absence. Eventually, Ishmael’s eyes fluttered to see Heathcliff’s head cuddled to her chest, arms wrapped around her midsection. She felt divisive things about it, but discovered she didn’t mind enough to push him off. She wouldn’t have taken him for a cuddler, and he was rather warm. Her hand even hovered over strands of his hair, recalling how he’d wake her up. Her hand fell short of touching him, as she wasn’t sure how’d she would explain that impulse.
But her heartbeat was telling on her, as his eyes soon opened as she pretended to remain asleep. Once he realized what he was hugging, he made a loud gasp, untangling himself off her, cursing under his breath. It took a great effort to resist the urge to react, so she took the moment after he made some distance to pretend to wake up.
They never speak about it, but their minds wander as they go through the routine of clearing out their provisions, to pack up and vacate the premises. Their Director left a note with the address on where to go next; a clinic that often served the association that they were already familiar with, and then another address in a different part of town.
“How long has it been since we’ve had our health checked out?” Ishmael sighed. “Months?”
“Feels like a lifetime.” Heathcliff shrugged. “Lass is keeping her promise, at least.”
“I just hope it doesn’t mean we have to play catch-up once we return to duty, but it's better than being dead.”
“Oi, enough about that, we’ll focus on that later. Let’s not spoil a good thing, yeah?”
Safe House Rooftop
The three days they were promised flew by, as they practically slept through them from being doped on various products that were shilled by the clinic to get back to ‘working order’.
The plan for them to go to the clinic first did also help Don Quixote’s case for her complaints to management as they were billed directly, even with the sparing use of K Corp. medical supplies each of them had terrible unhealed injuries that were going to hinder their work in the long run. It presented definitive evidence of how bad things actually were. Management didn’t respond with any grand remorse of course, but agreed to accept the billing for the care. The workload did not seem to be slowing down any time soon, however, but the budget was suddenly miraculously found for them to get another supply cache for the month.
And that helped, a lot. But to cover ground without re-exhausting resources, the requests accepted were only single targets, but at a competitive rate of three targets a day. The three of them ended up working apart as much as possible to catch up, and meeting at the same rendezvous point at the end of the night.
Heathcliff was on the rooftop of the building they were renting that week. They already had word from the Director that she may not return until much later, and he would assume it’s because she’s taking on extra, as usual. But she never let them be privy to much at all about her assignments unless she requested them personally to tag along.
Now, what about the other one? She usually gets back first. Heathcliff stood in silence except for the company of his own sighs. The memory of that night in the warehouse still wore on him.
Now, what building was where her mark was supposed to be again?
[ ] Company Building
Heathcliff knew he’d probably get scolded for it, as he crawled through a fifth story window. The sound of crashing was coming from the floor below. He descended the wall and kicked in the window. Not the most stealthy entrance, but things were already loud. Ishmael glanced behind, a slight quirk in her brow, but not unwelcoming. That’s a good sign?
Even in that shortest of moments was an opportunity for distraction, strands of her hair went flying as a knife went whirring past her face. Heathcliff threw himself to cover her, pulling her underneath the window ledge, behind one of the desks.
“Huh? Why are you here?” She asked, knowing they couldn’t hide for long.
“Why bother asking that?” Heathcliff knew it as well, getting ready to toss the piece of furniture as a distraction.
Ishmael threw her sword at the assailants’ prosthetic arm, cleaving straight though it. “I’ve already killed the target, this is just some idiot trying to make things hard.” She caught it by the hilt as it came looping back through the air.
Heathcliff ducked, and didn’t feel like mocking her for the job going awry. “Looks like a reason for an upcharge fee to me, once we sack ‘em.”
The assailant didn’t let up, despite the loss. They grunted and pulled up a hulking piece of machinery, akin to a cannon, letting off its charge in succession.
The two of them were forced to dodge as blades pierced through the air. “That thing shoots knives?” Heathcliff said with bewilderment.
“It’s probably some gimmick inventor, trying to sell them to a fixer group, calling themselves something like the ‘bullet blades’ or something equally predictable.” Ishmael said with disdain, thinking about Don Quixote reading about them with deference. “We just need to chop off the other arm.”
Heathcliff managed to slice it off as Ishmael distracted them, but the assailant's dislodged arm was still functional, and it was throwing a round, spiked object in their direction. Ishmael threw the desk from earlier as cover, dragging Heathcliff down below as beeping started rapidly before a raining storm of knives began to pelt through the surface, blades protruding and splintering the wood.
“A knife grenade?!” Heathcliff yelled in disbelief.
“That’s…huh.” Ishmael exhaled, not having words. She picked up her blade and rammed it through the assailant, drawing it up, bisecting them vertically into two halves of machinery and guts. She pulled the sword out and rolled her shoulder. “There, now we’re even.” She said flatly, in an attempt to appear nonchalant.
So she did notice he saved her earlier. “Wasn’t keeping score, lass.” He grinned. They gathered their swords and hustled out of the building quietly. Heathcliff turned to her. “Race you back?”
“You’re on.”
Safe House Rooftop
It was no question, and they would bicker about who got there first, but no one could provide any evidence for either’s victory. They decided today it will be considered a tie. Ishmael exhaled deeply as they lingered on the rooftop. They got through another long day.
Don Quixote sprung up suddenly, patting their backs. “Oho~my juniors are looking well.” She said with a proud and genuinely thankful expression. But herself, she was covered in blood again, though luckily most was not of her own.
“A lot better than where we were a month ago, at least.” Ishmael smiled lightly. Honestly, a bit more resources made a huge difference, but they still had a rough time ahead.
“You look like you were busy, lass.” Heathcliff mentioned. “Must’ve been a shitestorm.”
"Ah, ever so! But pay no mind to my state of dress, I remain largely unscathed. However I shall request of thee to use the bathing chamber first." Don Quixote said sheepishly, noticing she left a mark on their backs. “With haste, in fact. I shall rejoin thee anon for thy reports!”
Neither had complaints, and off she went. The remaining two hung around the rooftop, enjoying the atmosphere of the night. Shadowed, out of view from others, that's how they thrive. Both were quiet for a stretch of time, not an unusual state for them to be, but something seemed unspoken for too long.
Ishmael took action. “Hey, we never did talk about that night.” She said carefully. “The one we almost died.”
Heathcliff glanced her way, nodding. “True, a bit of a rough one wasn’t it?”
She sighed and spoke slowly. “I didn’t thank you. For trying to save me. And for tonight. I think I would’ve gotten a lot more hurt if you didn’t step in.”
Heathcliff wasn’t expecting a thanks after she said they were ‘even’ earlier, but he liked it. “Got to see a bloody knife gun of all things tonight because of it, so it would've been worth it even if you didn’t need a hand!” He chuckled, realizing how much less stressed he felt around her.
“That thing was so tacky.” She also laughed, and the look she gave him was so unusually fond. Heathcliff was someone she trusted now.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Is what he wanted to ask, but instead what came out was, “W-Wanna wrestle?”
Her expression turned to quick surprise, but not anger. Her lips went ajar, and she tried to formulate a reply. She looked more alive than usual, even with those listless eyes, as if she was relieved.
But Heathcliff was shy, and tried to jam the words back into his mouth. “Uh, hold on. I mean…”
She tucked a strand away from her face, her face was warm, but her honest mouth wasn’t as nervous. “We are better off sparring in the morning…after the Director leaves. You know, in case things get heated.”
Heathcliff flushed, telling himself he misheard. Despite the history of them being crammed in close quarters and curious hiding spaces, things felt very different in the moment. He wondered for how long he liked her. Did she like him? Maybe she meant something else?
Ishmael was put on the spot by his sudden reflective silence, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he was just shy. But why of all things would he bring up wrestling? She also caught him staring, and as he turned away, she placed a peck to his jaw, before running away inside the building. Your move, Heathcliff. But no need to hurry.
It was better to keep this low profile, after all.
We're Like A Family Here
Cross-Posting from AO3 Warnings: Sexual Content, Drinking, Swearing. We’re Like A Family Here - Kurokumo Clan Captain and Wakashu - Rated M - A few Wakashu newly transferred to the 34th branch take their Captain and Heathcliff out for drinks.
Kurokumo Offices - Thirty-Fourth Branch.
Heathcliff turned the corner to see some new recruits lollygagging in the hallway. He was usually pretty jovial to take them under his claws and show them the ropes, but something about these two seemed unworthy.
There was a raunchy look on their faces. “That tall, long-haired Wakashu from that one squad has some of the best tits anyway.”
The other lit up with recognition. “Oh I know her! She seems like the type that might like to hear that, heh.”
The other snickered. “You know, the 34th Captain also has a nice rack.”
His fellow meathead agreed. “Yeah, I wouldn't mind hanging my sword in it, haha.”
Heathcliff appeared behind them suddenly. “Oi, if you lot have a death wish just tell me directly next time, right?” His voice remained cordial, but his face said he would knock their heads off.
They jumped to see him hovering. One bowed immediately, the other falling in line. “Ah…just a joke, sir…”
The Wakashu's brow lifted. “Sir? Where was the formal demeanor minutes ago? Whose your guys’ shot-caller anyway?”
“Please don't tell our Captain!” The shorter of the two losers begged. “It's just some stupid talk, only blowing off steam!”
Heathcliff raised his sheathed blade, pointing at the guy's chin, before hitting them squarely in the gut with it. “No, you blokes don't get to have your kicks just like that. Needs some correctin’!” His target's companion also fell to his knees holding himself in pain. Heathcliff clicked his teeth. “Now use your noggins, you brats! What if either of those lasses heard you like I just did?”
“Heathcliff, why are you bullying the visiting small fry?”
“C-Captain Ishmael!” One of them squeaked out from a lack of breath.
Heathcliff bowed slightly to her in acknowledgement, and flashed a mischievous smile to the juniors. “Well lads, feel like explaining? My Captain has cut down blokes for less.”
Ishmael sighed. Whatever it was, she wasn't really interested in more paperwork or friction between other syndicates or her fellow captains. Her eyes narrowed to a grumpy scowl. “What did you dumbasses do?”
The shorter of the two stragglers threw his hands up defensively, shaking his head. “N-nothing, madam! Just chatting…entertaining ourselves while our Captain completes business on the grounds…”
Ishmael glanced between them. “And why did that catch my Wakashu's attention?”
They stiffened nervously, but struggled to speak.
“Tch. Really, don't wanna compliment the Captain to her face?” Heathcliff teased.
The Captain was growing impatient. “You have five seconds.”
They panicked, but one finally talked. “Well um-- We were just speaking about your um...” The other stragglers eyeline fell to her chest, and he fidgeted, palming at his chest subconsciously. “F-Fine attributes!”
Ishmael’s expression shifted as she caught on. She looked more stunned by the fact she had been bothered with this waste of time. She knew this current ‘look' of hers was directly inspired and lifted from the last 34th Captain, but she was never aware of a lack of respect because of it. Furthermore, she only wore it because she thought it was a way to make the transition easier for everyone. Despite her disgust, she played ignorant. “What, my tattoos?”
The young henchman was very eager to agree. “Of course! Yours look the best!”
Heathcliff smirked, “So are Wakashu Rodion’s also the best-looking tattoos?”
The other tried to recover, agreeing. “Y-Yes! She also has that little heart-looking one…it's nice.”
Ishmael knew she had her work cut out for her if this was the average new recruit under her syndicates’ command. “Interesting opinion when the irezumi design is nearly identical for everyone.”
Heathcliff then stepped in, realizing the conversation wasn't worth the clean-up he was planning. He leaned to whisper to her. “I'll just cut their tongues next time. Just some trite chin-wagging pups who better contain their randy chatter to persons who aren't their bosses.”
Ishmael already got the picture, she just placed a hand on Heathcliff's back covertly to nudge him to not continue. “You idiots don't have anything better to talk about? Save that for your bunks. Should there be a next time, I will be taking your tiny little ‘swords’ and getting your Captain involved.”
“Y-Yes Captain!’ The two juniors replied.
Heathcliff pointed to the end of the hall. “Get the hell out of here, go find something better to do or I'll snip ya myself.”
They quickly ran off, just glad to not be gored.
Ishmael sighed again. “Not our best and brightest.” She then threw a look at Heathcliff. “Don't waste my time with that kind of shit again.”
He whipped his head to make a small snicker at her. “Kind of just wanted to see how you'd react. I think you were too soft on them.”
Ishmael’s brows knitted a bit. “I don't have that much of a hair-trigger temper for killing our own if that's what you were hoping for.” She also didn't like the thought of getting her blade dirty. “It’s also a pain to explain things.”
Heathcliff scoffed. “Just thought it'd be fun to see you scold them a bit more.”
She folded her arms, holding close to her sheathed blade to her chest. “I'm not interested in playing mommy right now. This is a business, I already have a long list of things that need done with all these visitors hovering and messing shit up.”
Heathcliff had a sidelined thought she might be up for it later. “Alright then, what's next on my chore list today?”
Ishmael knew he could bring results, but she had a bad time letting go of her responsibilities unless she was in a bind. However, delegation was also part of her job. “I need you to oversee the collection operations on the west side of town. And also I need to be updated on what's going on with the Knots group and the Tepuu family. Also, if you see Hong Lu, tell him I wanna talk about his transfer under my command.”
Heathcliff stretched, yawning before speaking. “You're kinda pissing the other captains off with this underling poaching you're doing.”
“The Patriarch has already signed off on it. It's not my fault I've noticed some good workers.” Ishmael replied with a slight smirk. “We could use the help.”
“Well, then I guess they're not allowed to have that much hard feelings about it since it's all arranged.” He scratched at the back of his head, thinking. “Guess we also had the spot open since Outis randomly went missing.”
Ishmael threw a hand up to her face to touch her forehead. “Fuck. I need to keep looking into that too. I have a bad feeling about it.” She’d almost rather her former subordinate be dead than missing, at least in death there was no back-stabbing. A comforting finality, and no ambiguity to gnaw at her.
“You always thought she was pretty dodgy, yeah?” Heathcliff recalled her, but he never noticed anything amiss other than the odd fact she never got promoted to Captain, despite her model service as a Wakashu and age.
“Suspicious. Yeah.” Ishmael glanced at the hall to make sure no one else was presently. “I do think it's odd I got promoted over her, but maybe it's because she was too zealous about the opportunity.”
“Well, good thing the Patriarch seemed to know what he was doing then.” Heathcliff was glad someone in their organization did, as recent events had left things a bit questionable for a while.
Ishmael sighed. “I hope that's the case. But now we even have a new Patriarch, or at least temporarily from what I understood. It wasn't that long ago since he was a Captain, you know.”
“Hmm. Yeah.” Heathcliff saw her stress visibly. He decided not to comment on the subject anymore. “So who do you think has the best tattoos?”
Ishmael's tensing grimace loosened into annoyed eye roll. “What, do you want me to say it's you, you fucking show pony? You keep getting your back done with more.”
“And you keep letting me, it's not like I sign off on the enhancement sessions myself.” Heathcliff threw an arm around her bare shoulder. He knew it'd annoy her a bit, but no one else was around presently to care about their familiarity with each other.
She removed the arm anyway, scrutinizing herself. “Can you go get your work done already? I only came out here because I was getting a headache and needed quiet, but now it seems I am getting one either way.”
“Yeah, on it dame.”
“That’s unlike you.”
“It’s what the Wakashu always said to the last captain.”
“It’s not cool, stop it.”
“You’re so hard to please. I’ll just keep calling you Captain, then. I'll send something to help that lousy overloaded brain you got too.” He took a turn to leave, waving his hand.
She didn't mumble a ‘thank you’. “Don't forget, you're escorting me to that meeting with the Patriarch tonight, so don't die or something before then.”
He can tell she cares even though she does a piss-poor job of saying it. “Yeah, I'll be there.”
They departed for the rest of daylight.
Ishmael’s Office Afternoon
A knock on the wood frame of Ishmael’s office door made her stir. Her eyes darted up from the business protection agreement she was going over.
“What is it?” She asked impatiently.
“Hey there dame! Special delivery for ya~” Rodion replied as she carried in a tray filled with a nice pitcher of cold water with a glass, migraine relief tablets and an onigiri rice ball for a snack. “Heard from Heath that you were pounding papers pretty hard today.”
“Like most days.” Ishmael finished signing off and put down her pen to acknowledge her. “Is your business duties concluded?”
“Oh yeah! Alongside Ryōshū, our daily collection together goes pretty fast most days!” Rodion recalled, but there was a nervous look on recalling how it went.
“I have asked her to let our business owners keep most of their fingers or else it will hinder their work.” Ishmael huffed. “No sense in damaging our own investments.”
Rodion nodded with a slight deflated laugh. “Yeah, I get that. We're doing better overall, at least.” She began to pour a glass for her, carefully not spilling from the pitcher. Her eyes settled on the rice ball, which she looked at with an unfulfilled appetite.
“You can give it a test bite if you want.” Ishmael nudged the small plate her way. Not that she was worried much about her food getting tampered with.
“Oh, I did test one already…” Rodion admitted. “And a few while Ryōshū and I were making them.”
Ishmael had a mind to ask them why they were slacking off in the kitchen, but kept it to herself. She then focused on the migraine tablets, taking them and downing the cold water quickly. “Are you guys also on the night shift?”
Rodion looked sheepish. “About that, you mind if I come visit the new Patriarch tonight as well? He asked if my Captain would allow me. Kinda would be nice to revisit old times a bit, when else when would there be time, you know?”
Ishmael shrugged. “I'm not going to get in the way of a request like that.” She kind of wanted to ask why Rodion hadn't become a captain herself yet, but let the subject drop.
Rodion threw her arms around her in gratitude. “Yay! Ishy let me give you a head massage, it'll help!”
She fell for that offer once and paid dearly for it. “No. No, thank you.”
Monochromatic Backstreets Night
Heathcliff wasn’t complaining about the unexpected backup he had when he showed up to escort his Captain that evening, but he had grown a bit concerned with himself getting replaced by one of them as Ishmael had shaken up the roster quite a bit. Luckily, that did not seem the case when those three simply walked in front of them to the meeting place down the street, holding their own conversations. Ishmael said nothing to him as they made their way down, but that was not unusual.
They had lulled to a stop in front of a shady office building, and Hong Lu turned, bowing in front of Ishmael. “I wanted to say again that I am very pleased to join the 34th, Captain. I hope it pleases you as well.” He smiled politely.
“With no hard feelings to your last captain, I hope.” Ishmael nodded and bid him to relax.
Hong Lu seemed amused by the notion. “I am sure they can find another to fill my spot easily.” He despised the prior Vice Captain he had, who had received a promotion since he started. His contempt was no easy feat, either.
“Did you miss when Greg was our Captain at least?” Rodion asked as two posted Henchmen opened the doors for the small group.
“I’m glad he’s moved on to bigger things since that huge showdown.” Hong Lu said truthfully. “I'm glad we all survived.”
“Well, some of us.” Rodion sighed. “Lots of newbies now because of it.”
“The B.L. are still out there.” Ryōshū, another sought after recruit, a true wonder with her sword, spoke. “They’re probably gathering more blades too.”
Hong Lu had a thoughtful look. “I wonder if Gregor could manage to survive against that hatted swordsman again, which seemed like a miracle the first time.”
Rodion recalled a detail that made her skittish. “Can you believe he went into that battle with a hangover?”
Hong Lu remembered the event with a pitying smile. “I wonder if he still drinks as much.”
Ryōshū lit up another cigarette. “That slurring drunk routine of his was B.A.D.”
Rodion scrunched her nose from the smell and tried to decipher. “Uh…Bold and dumb?”
Ryōshū flicked away an ash in a nearby pot and shook her head. “Busted and dull.”
The Captain was listening to their conversation, a bit fascinated, but had to remain on top of their behavior. “Ryōshū. Can I ask you to not potentially set anything on fire while we’re here?” Ishmael felt awkward ordering any of these people around since they weren’t junior rookies like the most under her command. She was a bit stressed at looking unprofessional amongst the other captains that may be in attendance tonight, it was much easier for her to chop down outsiders than withstand the scrutiny of her peers, even if she found many of them pretty awful at the job themselves.
The black haired woman grunted in response and pulled a small bowl from her pocket. “Brought an ashtray, almost forgot.”
Ishmael exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That’s fine, I guess.”
Heathcliff came closer, whispering. “You take your pills today?”
Ishmael flashed a look at him for asking in present company. “Yes, I took the migraine medicine. Why?”
“Looked like you were still in pain, is all.” He replied. “Face is all grave-lookin’.”
The look on her face softened a bit. She needed to relax a little. “I’m fine, just need everyone to behave.”
Their group entered the elevator and was soon presented to the Patriarch, who sat at the end of a long table. There was a screen with a great scene of black clouds on the wall behind him. The rest of the room was nice and suitably decorated, despite it being located in a shady building in the Backstreets.
The group took up their seats on cushions, as the table was low to the ground, in a traditional style adopted by the old Patriarch a long time ago. There were no set places, as this was just a short meeting before the real one began.
“Good evening, 34th branch Captain Ishmael, and her Wakashu.” The Newbie Patriarch greeted. He was far from an entirely imposing looking man, short and a bit grizzled, but his normal eye that did not have a prosthetic was warm and tired-looking. He made a slight effort to smile, but it came off a bit unsure. This man was definitely a far cry from the previous Patriarch, but you couldn’t help but get the feeling he was doing his best, and he was pulling the group through as much as he could. “It’s been a while since I have seen some of you.”
“Yeah, I definitely miss some of those late nights.” Rodion spoke, boldly springing for a hug. “Izakayas were always fun with you, Greg!”
Gregor covertly put a hand up to his guard for them to leave her be as he awkwardly returned the hug. “Uh thanks, Rodya."
“Hmm. We should probably stick to calling Gregor ‘Patriarch’. In my family it can be seen as disrespect to not use appropriate titles in public.” Hong Lu suggested. “I used to get scolded a bit by my grandmother for that.”
“Hard to move past calling him C.D.” Ryōshū chuckled.
Gregor huffed. “I can always count on you to bring up my old drinking habits.” He gave her a bothered look, but then glanced at Ishmael. “Are you sure you want them in your branch? They’re a handful.”
She nodded. “Truthfully Patriarch, I am surprised you did not take these three for yourself. Or promoted them to Captains.” Ishmael said plainly, as he was the one to touch on the topic first. She really wanted to ask why she got quickly promoted, but there was no chance he’d know, having been thrown into this predicament.
The Patriarch smiled. “Yeah they’d make pretty good ones, you think?” His attention turned on the three she was referring to, and they looked somewhat awkward or despondent at the question.
“I suppose the subject has been broached before?” Ishmael glanced around the table, confused.
“Commitments and conditions, personal preferences.” Gregor answered. “Something you should also take into consideration with them. For now, I think it's good they are with you, as you really cleaned up some messes after your hasty ascension. Which I must apologize for. We missed out on the days before things got so desperate, I’m afraid.” He looked wistful, and the tone of the room became a bit somber.
“Well that explains why you look more like an uncle than a father.” Heathcliff spoke up suddenly, as he’d been quietly listening, but fixated on something else.
“Uh, I beg your pardon?” Gregor replied, squinting.
Heathcliff shrugged. “Because ‘Patriarch’ basically means Big Boss Papa, right?”
The room went again silent for an odd moment before Hong Lu laughed. “I was thinking something similar! When I think of a Patriarch, I tend to think of Great-Grandparents or elders.”
”Yeah Greg, at least you’re not that old. Maybe with you in charge we can see those good times you kept talking about at drinking parties.” Rodion grinned. “Let's make ‘em happen.”
Gregor had that very exhausted look in his eyes again. “Well, if anything I feel like I have definitely gotten more gray hairs since I got chosen to warm this seat. I'll…see what I can do.” He sighed wearily.
Rodion could tell he was feeling the pressure. She scooted down to the vacant spot next to him. “Oh~? Let me see those gray hairs.”
“We’re still the Thumb’s dogs no matter who sits at the top.” Ryōshū palmed at the hilt of her odachi. “F.I.D.O.”
Ishmael tried to puzzle together whatever the hell that strange acronym meant. “Follow it, do obey?”
“Close. Fall in, don’t obstruct.” Ryōshū clarified. “Was it not obvious?”
“How the hell are any of them obvious?” Heathcliff asked from beside her. “I still don’t know what her version of ‘sangria’ means.”
“It’s not wine.” Hong Lu answered with a little smile, looking innocent.
“I know that much, you muppet.” The man next to him folded his arms with irritation. Heathcliff seemed annoyed with him for some reason.
“Oh! Speaking of wine, wanna drink a bit of umeshu?” Rodion asked excitedly.
Gregor cleared his throat, clearly tempted by the suggestion. “I have to address the other Captains, so a few of you have to leave for a while. We can reconvene after my meetings for a bit after, but I am afraid you will be waiting a while.” He definitely seemed like he wanted to spend some time with familiar faces. “Ishmael, who would you like to serve as your retainer for the evening? Each Captain is permitted only one at this point or this room would become unbearably full.” He gave a sheepish smile. “It's really stuffy already with 60 or so people. And I can’t show favoritism letting more sit in.”
The four Wakashu in the room perked up to await their orders. Ishmael’s eyes settled first on the man sitting across from her. It almost surprised her how quickly she thought of him, but he was practically her shadow at this point.
Rodion and Ryōshū both got up quickly, seemingly removing themselves as options. The former waved at her friend at the head of the table. “See you later, then.” She turned to Ishmael with a polite bow. “We’ll be close by, Captain.”
“Thank you.” She replied, surprised they didn’t wait around for her to tell them what to do next.
Heathcliff flashed a look at Hong Lu, who remained seated at the table. He felt like telling him to scram because he had this covered, but it wasn’t his call.
“So, who is it?” Gregor asked, scratching at his chin passively.
“Hong Lu.” Ishmael spoke, noticing the pissed off look being thrown in her direction by her loyal companion. Luckily she didn’t torture him for long. “Can you please wait nearby with the others?”
“Oh! No worries, Captain~” Hong Lu bowed and exited the room with grace that only annoyed Heathcliff more. How could he afford to be so lofty?
At least he seemed to be the Captain’s current favored Wakashu. Then, with a calm exhale he withdrew from the table to take his place behind her. Not that it really mattered who she picked, he would accept her decision. He just thought since he was there since day one of her ascension maybe that counted for something. And he knew for a fact he knew her the best. It kind of bothered him that she would even consider that fancy guy for a moment. Maybe it was just to mess with him? He held his tongue about her desire for Hong Lu to join their squad after she saw him at work during a turf dispute. So she wanted this new pretty boy from the neighborhood over? Why did that bother him more than when she sought to acquire Rodion and Ryōshū for their branch? It had nothing to do with gender; the way Hong Lu jabbered about things and presented himself gave him an air of aristocracy that Heathcliff simply didn’t like. Why did that hatred feel kind of familiar? The situation irked him. He remembered having an annoying pair of rich neighbors that he also despised for taking something of his, but that part of his life also felt very cloudy and far away. And Ishmael wasn’t ‘his’. Not like that.
“Hong Lu has always been a bit of a mystery to me, but he’s a good guy.” Gregor commented after he left. “He was very excited to leave the 23rd’s command to work under you.”
“So I’ve heard.” Ishmael nodded. “Hopefully my demeanor as Captain doesn’t displease him either.”
Heathcliff wondered why it mattered if he was pleased at all.
The meeting commenced, all in attendance wanting the formality of it to be over with as soon as possible.
There was a looming metaphorical black cloud over this slice of society as they shared the nitty-gritty about profit margins, new contracts, transport initiatives, opposing syndicates and territory expansion. Heathcliff found his eyes drifting close despite sitting upright. It was important he listened, as this will be something that would come back to bite him somehow later.
Gregor gave a long-winded sigh and adjourned the meeting. It wasn’t hard to tell from the energy in the room that many were not happy with the choice the former Patriarch had settled them with. But they were playing along, for now. Ishmael found the business talks only reminding her about the stack of paperwork that awaited her in the coming days. Not only that, there was also the matter of pain in the ass showdowns that there were whispers of right in her part of town. Cutting endless figureheads did nothing, more gangs came in their place as the clan also grew. It was the same case for those that called themselves disciples of the Blade Lineage.
Tonight would have been an interesting night for a siege, for a turf war. But no one reported any activity. It was calm, or perhaps everyone else was using the peace to plan their own attacks. It brought a bit of an anxious atmosphere for Ishmael, who knew it was only a matter of time before shit hit the fan.
In a type of procession, each captain and retainer exited the meeting room in number order, leaving Ishmael to wait until the end with Heathcliff by her side. Finally, they were able to exit, and the night was deep underway outside. Orange and red lanterns were lit across businesses that were brave enough to be open at this hour. Or those that were mandated by their ‘protectors’.
Heathcliff hovered close behind her, wary. “Did you want to go for a few with the new recruits?”
She didn’t turn to look at him, remembering the others were supposed to be close by. “Did you?”
He sighed. She was still in boss mode for sure. “I'm fine if we stay in. Doesn't matter, since I'm sure other captains will be tryin’ to cozy up to ol’ beard. And you're not much of the type for shameless flattery.”
Ishmael thought of Outis for a brief moment but didn't answer his question.
“Oh! Captain Ishy! Come on, we know a spot a couple of streets over.” Rodion appeared with Hong Lu and Ryōshū in tow, they were at a restaurant nearby from the smell in the air.
She turned to Heathcliff. “You can head back if you want.”
His face briefly became angry, but he reeled it in with a scoff. “No way. I am down to toss back a few pints, just thought you might want some hush time for your head.” It irked him that she wasn't as standoffish with them as she was usually with everyone.
Ishmael had a Wakashu all around her on the way to the ‘place’ they had in mind. They made it inside a building Ishmael had actually recognized from visiting once before; it was a karaoke parlor. She glanced at Rodion, who seemed to lead the charge on this activity. “Karaoke?”
“It’s nicer inside! They also got a cheap drink and snack menu. You’re paying, right boss?” The taller woman looked extremely excited at the prospect.
Hong Lu chuckled at Rodion’s bold question. “I’ve only seen that line work on Gregor, usually he pays if he’s the one to invite us out, though.”
Ryōshū turned to Ishmael from her left side. “Put her in her place if she’s stepping on your toes.” She had a neutral expression, but Ishmael had a feeling she was trying to give her advice. “We’re to F.I.D.O. you too.”
Heathcliff spoke up, turning to Rodion. “Oi, don’t think it's a good idea to try to take advantage of the Captain, none of us will stop her if she yoinks a finger from ya.”
She looked sheepish. “Wait really? It’s not a serious-”
“It’s fine. I’ll pay for one round.” Ishmael said calmly. She could allow this to be a bonding session between her new employees. She kind of enjoyed that some underlings weren’t stepping over themselves with fear around her. The only notable people who acted confidently around her were Heathcliff and Outis. Truthfully, in those early days of her position takeover she found herself overwhelmed and wanting to shut herself off from everyone save for what she could not ignore. It was those two of all people that eased that burden slightly, but Heathcliff was the one who really tried prying her closed door open more than anyone. Though it was a bumpy ride to the present, he eventually came to know her the best. It was him that made her realize that this job cannot be a lonesome one. She must collaborate with those under her command if she were to get better results, which began her interest in headhunting from the other squads, leading to securing these three people.
Heathcliff elicited a little “What?” at her response, but no one seemed to notice or care.
They all headed inside for a room, and there were already two of their own Henchmen on standby at the doors. At least they were organized this much in case some fighting broke out or other day-to-day scuffles. Inside, they gathered in a decently decorated and lit room. It did not take long for Rodion to start ordering liquor and snacks. Ryōshū surprisingly started them off on a Karaoke selection, but it was a call and response song where she only elected to do the response part, forcing Hong Lu to attempt to sing a song he clearly did not know. He did pretty well, despite being slightly off-key.
Rodion’s order came soon after, and she passed a round of drinks around the table. She seemed to order a clear liquor cocktail, and after partaking it in one swig, Ishmael understood it was a highball. She palmed her glass, sipping it slowly. It was unfortunately a bit watery, but that's how most things were served in the backstreets.
“Heh. Yeah, maybe I should have stuck to beer, or vodka, but I’ve always been curious about that side of the menu. Should’ve known it’d be poor quality.” Rodion said lightly after drinking nearly half of hers already. “At least that means we can drink more.”
“Rodya.” Ishmael said slowly, the nickname feeling a bit forced. “Why is it that you’ve never become a Captain? Or any of you, for that matter? It's definitely not a lack of experience.”
Rodya finished crunching on her rice cracker and cleared her throat. “Hmm. How to put it…” Heathcliff, who had been sipping and looking over the songbook nearby, perked up to listen. Ishmael waited patiently for her to continue.
“I’ve seen what happens.” Rodya said simply. “When it comes to this job, if you're too good at it, you sometimes get picked up by The Thumb, and or become hastily promoted, like in your case and Greg’s. I kind of appreciate the line of doing enough to keep everyone fed, but not become the breadwinner, especially since things are in an uncertain kind of way nowadays. I’ll do what I have to, but I guess--I guess I just want to lie low for now. Until I can’t.” She frowned, as if she was recounting an important detail. “Can we change the subject? I promise another time, but this is harshing up the mood.”
Ishmael sighed. “Fine. But you need to know that I am not just going to allow you to slack off as much as you want. I wanted you to join me because you do a good job with the newer boys and girls. In fact, I remember you from a time in my own early days with the Syndicate.”
“Wait- really?” Rodya’s face lit up, wanting to hear more. “How?”
“But we’re changing the subject now.” Ishmael replied quickly with a smirk, noting her reaction. “As you said, another time.”
Rodya’s cheeks puffed with annoyance, but quickly agreed to drop it. “Okay, I’m just going to call you Ishy since we’re not on shift. So are we going to sing or what, Ishy?”
Ishmael looked sheepish at the idea. And a rumble of laughter came from beside her. She flashed a look at Heathcliff. “What the hell are you laughing about?”
He gave a crooked smile. “Nothin’ I think that's a cracking idea. You have a lovely crooning voice.”
However, she was confused. “Why is that funny? When did you hear me sing?”
His expression turned slightly surprised before bouncing back to a confident grin. “Guess I’m the only one that remembers the last time we were here.”
Rodion smiled. “Oho~ You two seemed close, you were rookies together?”
Ishmael grabbed her drink and finished it in silence.
Heathcliff kind of wanted her to agree, but knew why she wouldn’t. “It's just ‘cause I’m her number one errand boy.”
Ishmael placed her glass down onto the table with an ungentle thump. “Don't act like you don't want to be.”
There was an odd tension in Heathcliff’s voice as he answered with: “Well ‘course I do, Captain. I've worked like hell to get there, don't you agree?.”
Ishmael went silent, and Rodion wasn't even sure what to follow-up with as they stared at each other in an inscrutable way. She was pretty sure something was going on between them that she wasn't prepared to be in the middle of.
“Aha~They do have it.” Hong Lu spoke up, after distracting himself by looking through the Karaoke menu. “Madame Captain, would you like to sing with me?”
“Oi- You-” Heathcliff muttered, but didn't have a reason to stop him.
Ishmael decided to indulge him since he seemed to have a plan. “Uh...sure. Which one?”
Hong Lu grinned, but it came off a bit forced. “It's a song I used to sing with my little sister.”
Ishmael was learning all sorts of things tonight. “Um, alright, what's it called?” Hong Lu rattled off a title that sounded innocent enough, though Ishmael quickly had second thoughts. “Is that from something?”
That affable man already submitted the song to show up on the screen before she could back out. “I think you'll get it just fine, the lyrics should be translated.”
The song was definitely something that belonged to a very old TV show or movie, and Ishmael awkwardly got through it, only terribly off probably a third of the time, but there were some rather unexpected key changes. But her flubs didn't really matter, as Ryōshū shook a tambourine loudly as participation and the other two were loudly struggling to sing along during the chorus, despite no one but Hong Lu being familiar with it.
“You know. I'm discovering we all grew up with different music.” Rodion said sheepishly. She turned to Heathcliff. “What did you two sing last time you were here?”
“Hell, probably some song we could both scream.” He replied. “We were kind of bashing heads with each other at the time.”
“We were ordered to drink together.” Ishmael recalled. “I remember now, he was a Wakashu from our branch that also went missing around the same time as our former Captain. ”
“Yang was his name.” He also remembered training under him for a short period of time. “A pretty tough bloke.”
“So did it improve your relationship?” Hong Lu asked, now seated next to Heathcliff.
The other man felt weirdly shy to give him an answer. “Uh…well I mean, isn’t it obvious now?” Though truthfully that night was a tipping point in their relationship, it was still a ton of work on his end to get into her good graces. “A bevvy after some battles tends to smooth tiffs just fine.”
Hong Lu’s mercurial expression didn’t fade, but he did have a slight cloudy look in his eyes. “Ah really? I’ve had many drinks with my former Hosa, and yet I have never felt closer to them.”
“Sometimes a prick is just that.” Heathcliff sympathized, he was warming up to this chap now that the perfect veneer seemed to be chipping away. “Grew up with a prat whose mug I was never glad to see, ‘cause he always had some sort of problem with me.”
“Ah~That’s exactly how it feels.” Hong Lu nodded slowly. He tapped his fingers on the song menu and lit up. “Oh~Wanna sing with me, Heathcliff?”
“Er…are we gonna sing another kid’s tune from your home district?” He replied with a slight fluster, unsure how to shut that idea down without hurting his feelings. “‘Cause that's not really my style.”
“You can choose!” Hong Lu beamed. “I am curious about ‘your style’ now.” The two men chattered about different songs, trying to find another common link.
Ishmael found herself smiling a little as she sipped her drink, another round had been ordered, this time it was beer. Ryōshū scooted in the booth on the other side of Rodya, carefully repositioning her odachi. She chugged the beer with only a small amount of enthusiasm before lighting up another cigarette.
The Captain leaned to address her, always curious about her habit of carrying two swords but only fighting with one. “Do you mind if I ask you about that odachi you always have?”
“N.T.Y. Not right now.” Ryōshū replied with obvious disdain. “I’d rather go work the night shift patrol.”
Ishmael sighed, figuring to leave it be for now. “Okay, but is it related to the reason that you haven’t become a captain yet?”
“Exactly the questions I wanted to avoid.” Ryōshū exhaled a puff of smoke. “I understand the hierarchy, but you aren’t on that level yet.”
Ishmael was simply baffled by her not even pretending to respect her. “Huh. How blunt. You talked to your other captains like this too?”
“Worst. Trust me.” Rodya sighed. “Shu-shu has always had a bit of special camaraderie…”
Ryōshū flashed her an annoyed look. “That N.N. needs to die.” She turned to the Captain and smirked. “Let’s just see how long this all lasts for a while, and I’ll tell you whatever I know.”
Ishmael squinted and shrugged. “Guess I’ll find out eventually, then.”
“Get on my good side by sending me on some interesting tasks. I’m V.G. at handling punishments.”
Ishmael was almost endeared by her shameless request. “So we shall see.”
Heathcliff made the table shake as he placed his hand down on the song menu. “Oh! Yeah, that one! My old boss Matteo used to sing this at a pub we frequented. Just follow my lead, mate.”
“Alright, I can do that.” Hong Lu was just along for the ride.
The instrumental was mostly raucous strings, it was indeed a very pub-dweller kind of song, as Heathcliff took the lead, his vocals boisterous and grand, encouraging Hong Lu to join in on the chorus, which he did in a very confident but still slightly lost way. Rodion clapped to the beat and also lent her voice to the chorus, and by the end even Ishmael was singing along. They all got on pretty swimmingly after that, but once a couple of hours and a few more rounds passed, she worried about a hangover and the stack of paperwork that would be waiting for her tomorrow.
Rodion was the first to vocally call it, however, stating she had ‘another thing to get to’, but everyone knew she wanted to spend time with someone else who just finally finished his own engagements. The others agreed they probably should get some rest before the next battle broke out.
Ishmael stayed to pay the tab and Heathcliff waited for her. “Ready to head back?” He asked, placing his last empty pint down on the ledge of the table.
“Yeah, I think that's enough of this place for tonight.”
Outside, it was quiet as it approached the precarious hours better spent inside.
Heathcliff was leading her back to the shady business building that served as their home. “I must confess I wanted to fuck off early in the night. But I realized I was being a git.” Under the passing streetlamp she could see his smile, it was not the manic battle-ready sneer he had often, but a true soft grin. “That lot is pretty fun. Glad we went out.”
“Thought you always enjoyed partying with the newbies.” She said lightly. “You’re good at that, handling them.”
“I was also a bit nosy about what you would get up to.” He said plainly, his shoulders shrugging. Luckily the monochrome darkness of the night didn’t give his slight fluster away.
Ishmael’s hands were gripping her blade, but she shifted to place a hand on his shoulder. “Heathcliff I…I really appreciate you.”
He paused walking for a moment to glance at her. “Oh, are ya drunk?” There was a sudden rustle and clatter that stole their attention. “One second, Captain.”
Heathcliff peered into an unlit alleyway, where an outline struggled to hide. He followed after, pulling the person up with his hand, dragging him underneath the streetlight. “Ah you’re in one of those little Syndicates that's moving in our turf. Where’d your bigwigs get the scratch to dress you all up like a ponce?”
The nervous man was dressed in a fine three-piece tailored suit, he struggled trying to fish a pistol from his coat, but Heathcliff threw him to the ground and pinned his arm under his foot. “Wait - how! Help!”
“Probably tracking down where we’re staying. Those dumbasses just grow bolder in their attempts despite the lack of manpower.” Ishmael motioned for Heathcliff to silence him. “Poor kid saddled with this kind of job.”
The young man was silenced. Heathcliff twisted off a flower decoration from the corpse’s lapel before handing it to her. It was a small artificial white carnation, which Ishmael accepted, but had no idea what to do with it. He sighed, some blood got on his pants. “Do we need to take his head?”
“No, let his boss find him like this, he is not high enough in rank to go that far. I’d rather you take his belt or shoes, we could give it to one of our new kids.” She replied.
After, to cover their bases they went into the adjacent alley to track down the young man’s coworker who was trying to flee. Enemy syndicates almost always send at least two when trying to gather information. With a second belt and a pair of shoes scored, they finally headed back inside.
“We don’t have time for the bathhouse, just grab a shower in my room.” Ishmael yawned out. “It’s late.”
Heathcliff didn’t complain, he was hoping to end up there.
Ishmael’s Office Late Night
Ishmael barely dried her hair before becoming engrossed in another stack of papers that she found waiting for the next day.
Heathcliff emerged from behind her desk chair and swiveled her away from it. “Can’t wait until morning, can it?”
“Technically it is morning, this is part of today’s stack.” She clarified, capping her pen. “Be careful, You almost made me mark all over that, which means I would have had to start over.”
“Well it's time to wind down, don’t you think?”
“Go get some sleep if you really want to.” She replied, reaching for her pen again. “I am almost done.”
Ah, this song and dance. He decided to pick her up from the chair completely, nudging a set of Shoji doors open with his elbow to enter her sleeping quarters and threw her onto the bed while she rag-dolled from the surprise.
“Heathcliff.” She sighed, smoothing her long hair away so it wouldn’t tug as he laid her down. “This is my bed.”
He sat on the edge. “Of course, it is bigger.”
She sat up a bit, facing him. “Are you staying the night?”
He looked her over, lifting a brow. “Do you not want me to?”
She sunk back down onto the bed, patting the place next to her. “No. Stay, just don’t let anyone see you leave in the morning.”
Heathcliff was fine with that condition, as he turned off a lamp and then threw the covers over them. There was an innocent attempt to sleep for about five minutes, but soon he settled against her, and she could tell he was still plenty awake because he was fondling her.
“Uh--hey.” Ishmael replied neutrally. She didn't dislike it, but had a hard time following up. She was bad at flirting. “Having -ah- fun with my ‘fine attributes’?”
“Yeah. At least those bastards from earlier weren’t blind.” His voice sounded a bit strangled. “Fuck, how am I this hard already?”
“Getting you off in the shower wasn’t enough?” She teased, hoping he didn’t think she was rejecting him.
But he wasn't deterred, as his hands came around her waist, cradling and squeezing her breasts. He pulled at the belt of the silky sleeping robe she threw on, pleasantly surprised to find nothing else underneath it. She moaned, unable to keep up her unbothered act as he began to massage between her thighs.
“You’re so narking. We could have been fucking by now if you just told me you were down for it.” His voice was crude, but somehow sweet when he leaned over to give her a long kiss on the lips, which she met with matched fervor. It was moments until he broke away from her, turning on the side table lamp to go fishing for a condom. Once it had been secured, he pushed away the blankets, which caused her to shiver a bit in their absence. He kicked off his clothes within seconds after.
“I'm getting a bit-” The next word was cold, but his warm tongue and hands distracted her for minutes, her hand caressing his hair as she gasped and bit her lip. “Heathcliff, d-don't over do it, the walls are thin - Ah!” He was getting very good at working her up.
Her thighs began to shake, and he soon peered up from lapping her to the brink, wiping his mouth. “As you were saying?”
“That part of you isn’t even tattooed.” Her voice came out whinier than expected. “I’m supposed to follow-up with that now?”
“Pfft.” He laughed. “No need, you gave me a nice gobbie in the shower, love.”
“Ugh. I hate when you call it that.” She wrinkled her nose. “At least call it a blow job or something.”
“You get bent outta shape about everything, no wonder you get headaches all the time.” He picked up the condom, tearing it open to wrap his package. “Now just shut your gob and let me do the rest of the work.”
“Well fuck you, I’m not just going to lay there.” Ishmael pushed him down onto the bed to correct him. “And don’t tell me to shut up, I’ll take your tongue.”
“You just had it.” Heathcliff snarked. “You hate letting someone else take the lead, huh?” He sighed, but a smirk formed. “Let me know when you’re ready to bend.”
“Watch your ‘gob’ or I will kick your naked ass out again.”
He remembered the afternoon tryst where he pissed her off by getting something in her hair. “That was a walk of shame to remember.”
She positioned herself on top, straddling to show him, but realized too late this might have been his trap all along. Luckily, she didn't care.
Heathcliff quickly became distracted from riling her up, groaning from the building sensations of her mounting him. Those hips of hers were powerful, rocking him into a frenzied haze. Not wanting to give in completely, he managed to regain his senses enough to grab them and roll them over. He tossed her onto all fours, which she reluctantly stayed in position, too turned on to stop his ego-stroking this time. He gave her a light smack on the ass with his shaft before taking her from behind. “Alright, feel free to bite something if it's too much.”
“You dumbass, I’m-” Ishmael’s statement turned to mush as she soon began whimpering from his relentless thrusting. Their augmented bodies gave them fearsome stamina, but certain parts were still sensitive. Heathcliff leaned over her shoulder, turning her chin towards him so he could stifle her with a kiss, an act that made his heart race the most. The pretense of any sort of rivalry between them quickly fell away, and they soon slipped into a more tender position, embraced like the lovers that neither of them dared to acknowledge that they were. Even after they were both spent, they went right back to being intertwined.
Heathcliff broke their kiss because he began to chuckle.
“What?” Ishmael asked lightly.
“It’s late, I’m gettin’ loopy.” He leaned back onto his pillow, turning on his side to face her. “But I can’t believe I was jealous of that Hong Lu chap.”
She sighed. “I was also wondering what that was all about.”
“I thought he reminded me of someone I grew up with, but I was way off.” He yawned a bit. “They both have little sisters, though.”
“He told me earlier I reminded him of her.” Ishmael recalled. “Did this person you grew up with take your favorite toy or something?”
He pouted. “So you knew I was bothered about being replaced.”
“Why should I replace you?” She smiled a bit. “If I had any need to, it could have been one of the ladies instead.”
“Something about those two didn’t bother me as much, they were acting dodgy when you were asking questions.” Heathcliff replied. “Both seem harder to get close to.”
“They should be good coworkers, at least. I don't get the same feeling as I had with Outis.” She agreed. “I kind of wished it was her we found in the alley tonight so we could lay that mystery to rest.”
He groaned. “You're bloody obsessed with it, and I don't think you're crazy for thinking any which way about it love, but people tend to go missin’ quite a lot for any reason in the backstreets. Hell, we're responsible for a lot of it. I don't feel like ponderin’ it before I sleep. ”
Ishmael made a ‘hmm’ and simply replied with “Point taken.” She adjusted her duvet so it was distributed more equally between them. But she wasn't able to just pass out quite yet. A change of subject was needed to ease her mind. “What was your favorite toy, by the way?” She was curious, they only shared limited information about their past, but it was a question that wasn’t easy for her to answer either.
“I didn’t play with too much stuff as a kid, though I did play outside quite a bit.” Heathcliff paused, only fuzz came up. “It had to have been something important. I’m knackered though, I’m coming up empty.”
She peered at the clock on her nightstand, and felt him turn and snuggle in. Her bed suddenly felt really cozy. “Yeah, it is 4am, let's sleep…”
He scared her a bit by suddenly jolting up in bed. “W-what?” She asked, but he just leaned in to peck her lips.
“Goodnight. Just kick me if I snore too loud.”
“Uh, I will. Goodnight.”
Morning
Ishmael was very lucky, she got about five hours of sleep, which was considered a good night for her. But with her not being up in the early hours, her usual routine was jumbled a bit. She had stacks of paper waiting in the tray box mounted outside of her door, and a line of henchmen to address when she appeared in the hall.
“Good morning, Captain.” Heathcliff bowed and greeted her in his most business-like tone of voice. The line of Wakashu and henchmen followed suit, including Rodion, Ryōshū and Hong Lu.
Ishmael asked them to rise, and she quickly shuffled through the stack of papers, scanning down the written agenda message sent to her from the top. She regarded the news quickly, reformulating her daily schedule as everyone waited silently. “Heathcliff, Rodion. Visit our business owners for payment collection in the West. Hong Lu, Ryōshū, take care of the east. Tonight, we’ll take care of North and South as a family. We may have a few visitors to entertain.” She half-smiled, there was an order of extermination for two groups encroaching on their territory in those directions. The fact she had something other than paperwork to work on instilled a bit of morale she didn’t usually have. She turned to the remaining henchmen. “Boys and Girls, split up and assist them. Finish by 2pm, and I’ll let you guys have a long lunch break.” They cheered excitedly, both excited about the upcoming battle and more time to eat.
The squads formed quickly and set out. There was a bit of a popularity contest that took place, as most of the underlings wanted to work with Heathcliff.
“Oi! Some of you gotta scoot along. You can swap on the next job, alright?” It sounded like him scolding a group of kids. He wasn’t a terrible influence on them, at least, as they settled it quickly.
Ishmael banished away a soft thought that was forming and quickly went back inside her office. She cannot get confused; this was a business, a dangerous way of life, and she cannot hope for things to be any different. Every day she had to live with the reality that the last time she talked to someone was the last time, and she had already lived that way for so long. Which is why after she joined the Kurokumo Clan she put up walls and acted aloof. Even if things now were more organized since the early days, half the time she still felt like she was floundering, lost. There would be a day she would part ways with the Syndicate completely, as she had unfinished business with her past that cannot be left unaddressed. After that, if there was in fact an after, well…
The soft thought returned. She sighed, slumping in her chair. “Stop it. I already have enough to deal with.” She also already had mouths to feed, and obligations she probably won’t miss. And enough enemies with enough friends that will always be in the way for a lifetime. Why was she even entertaining the logistics of a future that could never happen? Ishmael took a deep breath, trying to wipe away the thought. Time passed, and she continued with her work, but realized she read the same legalese passage four times without retaining a damn thing. The sound of tapping her pen on her desk with annoyance brought her to pause. “Ugh.”
Though it was hard, she managed to get some work done after pacing around the room a bit. After entering the zone and finishing quite a bit of the stack, she heard a knock on the door.
”Room service~” It was Rodion’s voice.
“Come in.” She replied, tapping the stack of papers so they neatly aligned and placed them in the ‘done’ pile.
Rodion and Heathcliff entered, the former carrying a tray with her with some tea and a snack. Ishmael couldn’t help with a noticeable amount of blood on Heathcliff. “Hey, what did I tell you about messing up my floor?”
“Eh, it's pretty dried.” He replied casually. “I’ll make this quick.”
“You already finished the collection?” She glanced at a clock that read just a bit after 1pm. “That was fast.”
Heathcliff threw down the stack of money they pilfered onto her desk and grinned. “There wasn't much drama today.”
Rodion laughed awkwardly. “Well, after you kill one shop owner’s interfering brother, the rest of the block kind of gets the message quickly.”
Ishmael did some quick accounting. “Good work.” She placed the bundle into a desk drawer with a lock, and placed some money on her desk. “Take the rest for a meal.”
“Ooh~we can get some skewers!” Rodion lit up. “And a lot of them!”
Heathcliff rolled his shoulders, casually resting his dirty blade on one.“Sounds ace to me, take the lads and lasses, and I’ll catch up, gotta chat with the Captain about something and clean up.”
Rodion threw him a look that said ‘Sure you do’ but didn’t wait around. She stopped only for a second to shout after she had started into the hallway. “Alright! Do you want beef or chicken?”
“Both!” He yelled back.
Once they were in the clear he came around her desk, leaning towards her. “I won’t get blood on you, c‘mere.”
“I don’t care about blood getting on me, the floors are just a pain to clean. Also, what happened to you ‘making this quick’?” Ishmael said softly, rising from her seat to meet him. “If ‘love’ slips out of your mouth even once in front of them I may have to kill you right there.”
He knew she was bluffing. “I’m not that dense, love.”
The office door opened suddenly.
“W.B.” Ryōshū said unceremoniously. “It was also boring.”
“Yeah, we’re back already!” Hong Lu also greeted. “We saw Rodya on the way up and thought it’d be okay to come in~Eh?”
Heathcliff froze in place for a moment before stepping away from Ishmael. “N-Nope Captain, I don’t see anything wrong with your eye!”
What a pathetic excuse, but she went along with it. “Damn, are you sure? It keeps twitching.”
“Oh, should I take a look?” Hong Lu asked innocently, lifting Ishmael’s chin with his hand to make an assessment while Heathcliff’s vendetta against him quietly reignited in the background. He stared for a few awkward moments and released her. “I don’t see anything in it, but you do look a bit tired. Oh, and you have pretty nice skin for being sleep-deprived!”
Meanwhile, Ryōshū said 'Nice blood' to Heathcliff nonchalantly. “At least someone got to do something interesting.” He shrugged in response.
Ishmael blinked a few times. “Uh thanks, Hong Lu.” His jade eye peering at her like that deeply bothered her for some reason, but he seemed to honestly want to help.
“Of course, Captain! I have some eye drops I can bring for you if you’d like.” He said politely.
Ryōshū placed the slab of cash onto the table, catching their attention. “D.W. Your eye can twitch from a lack of sleep too. Take an N.A.P.”
“A what?” Ishmael lifted a brow, trying to decipher.
“Necessary Afternoon Pause.” Ryōshū explained.
“Just say nap, dammit!” Heathcliff yelled, but turned to their boss. “You probably should though, gonna be a late one tonight, innit?”
“I’ll think about it.” Ishmael replied, wondering why they’d care today when she functioned like this nearly every day. “My tea is growing cold, and I still have a few forms to sign. Take this and get some food with your underlings.” She shelled out more money, and handed it to Hong Lu, but Ryōshū nabbed it from him.
“Wanna get some noodles?” She asked.
”Okay~” He agreed, amiable to the thought of some street food. “See you at the evening assembly, Captain and Heathcliff.” They exited together after that.
Which left the other two alone again. Heathcliff was actually flustered. “I really should get goin’. I’ll stop doing that kind of faff during work time so no need to give me the third degree-”
But Ishmael pulled him from the collar to kiss him. “There. Can you stop distracting me now?” She was a bit fussed still, but let him go.
He grinned, delighted. “Yeah, I’m all sorted. Nice an’ recharged. Get some rest.” He was content and left her office quickly.
Unfortunately for her, those soft thoughts were back in full force. But maybe it wasn’t so bad if he had them too. For now, she’ll simply have to survive long enough to find out what comes ‘after’. Her goals haven’t changed, but what’s life without a few detours?
She exhaled. “Back to work.”
Nearby Businesses Afternoon
Heathcliff quickly cleaned up and threw on a different set of clothes. It was almost a waste, as tonight he’d probably end up in blood anyway. Ah well, no need to get the locals in any more of a tizzy, there are already a bunch of gangsters eating at their shops, giving them trouble.
“How is the Captain, sir?” One of the juniors asked once the Wakashu approached to sit down at their table. “I wanted to thank her for the new shoes, my old ones were starting to fall apart.”
“Oh, I wanted to thank her for my new belt too.” Another one spoke.
“Providing for the family is what a Captain does, you mups just focus on slicin’ and dicin’ enemy Syndicates and protecting our clients.” Heathcliff replied proudly, biting off a piece of meat from an unattended skewer. “Come on, eat up! Got a long night ahead of us.”
The underlings responded with favorable agreement, content to get their fill.
“You know Heath, maybe someday you'll make a great ‘Big Boss Papa”. Rodya teased.
“Haah. Hell no, folks like the Captain should be on top. She notices things I’d never think about.” He rebuffed the idea. “Besides, I like our family as it is.”
“I can see that.” Rodya laughed. “I think the Captain does too.”
“Huh?” Heathcliff paused, considering. “What makes you say that?”
“Ah, just a hunch.” She replied, waving it off. “So, you gonna eat that?”
Hands On
Cross-Posting from AO3
Warnings: Dubious Dynamics, Heavy Sexual Content, Violence. Rated M - Heathcliff is left alone with the Captain while the crew resupplies.
The Pequod was docked for resupply, and as was custom, one of the crew members stayed behind to keep the vessel intact from Pirates with no good ideas. That crew member was usually the ship's main harpooner due to circumstances involving the Middle. The Syndicate had ‘brothers and sisters’ that roamed and prowled nearly every habitable port on the expanse of the Great Lake. Heathcliff, however, was not alone during this time, the ship’s Captain also elected to stay behind, not in the mood to deal with the tedium of shipping fulfillment and shopping.
The affable First Mate dutifully brought over papers for her to once over and scrawl her final signatures for the exports and the restocking supply orders. The crew then set off under his temporary command, carrying loads of cargo cases and boxes filled with mermaid goods. After helping with the off loading, Heathcliff ducked down to the door that led to the crew cabins. Even getting spotted from far away posed significant risk for him.
The Captain watched her crew march off into the shipping yard with binoculars for a few minutes before concluding she was fine with how things were moving. Yi Sang had yet to fail her on these types of chores. She was keen to get it over with, Her gaze shifted to her favored harpooner, who she tracked down to his usual spot. He straightened up rigidly on hearing the soft thump of her prosthetic leg as she peeked into the stairway.
“How about we have some tea?” She thumbed towards the direction of her cabin, the opposite end of the vessel, underneath the quarterdeck. His lips parted as if to speak, but he had no reason, nor found it particularly desirable, to reject her offer, other than the general unease at the prospect of being seen. He followed after her, and she bid him to take a seat in a chair at her desk. His eyes glanced upon the walls, filled with images of whales -- drawings, some of which were her own, some torn pages from various sources, many with X’s scratched into them. It's a distorted timeline of the work they’ve done, and the work ahead.
She pours him a short glass of a brownish-red liquid, ‘tea’ as she’d call it. It burns a bit when he takes a sip, but he knew what he was getting into when accepted her order to follow her here. The burn fades to smooth, and he lets out a sigh after a swig of it. She throws back her own mouthful of the liquid and lets the silence of the room wash over them. He continues to down the drink mindfully, both knowing she would have to be the one to talk first if she expected him to converse.
The smell of sea salt in the air clings to their skin, he notes as she leans down to pick the bottle back up and pour him more. She caps the bottle after topping them both off, putting it in one of the desk drawers. “Did you plan on spending the afternoon mutilating yourself again?” She speaks indelicately.
“No.” He answers truthfully; he planned on sleeping, but he doesn’t tell her that.
“Would it be rather displeasing if I asked you to be my company for a bit?” She asks, a hand under her chin, while her elbow is propped on the chair frame, hovering.
“Whatever Captain wants.” He says passively, calmly. Dutifully.
“And what does Heathcliff want?” She clicks her tongue, with a small laugh to herself. “For this afternoon, of course.”
His brow furrowed, he doesn’t like it when she acts like she cares about his burdens, but he’s not upset at the offer. “Company is…good.”
“Leave whenever you want, don’t let your Captain cut into your carving time.” She sits down on her wooden bunk relaxedly, shrugging her shoulders. “Though I wish you’d try driftwood as your medium instead sometime.”
“...right.” He murmurs. They’d discussed it before, and while he has no interest in disappointing her, he will never bend on his reasoning for his scarring. Without it, the line of his self-hatred will snap into something unmanageable. The reason he needed a certain sense of self-worth was alluding him as the voyage spanned on. His love, who he sought to return to, made his head feel full of static. He changes the subject. “Which one next…?” He points to the messy web of Whale drawings on her wall.
Her eyes, usually retaining a nearly lusterless appearance, light up at the question “Ah, I am so delighted you asked!” She grins with manic glee, “But we must remain mindful of taboos. Let’s wait until the rest of the crew comes back, I will tell you all once we’ve set sail.” She says, but her hand then traces a drawing of a void-like eye, above her mattress, that Heathcliff is unable to decipher from all the others. It doesn’t matter, he will pierce it like all the others, no matter the nightmares he may contract from the lightest brush of its flesh. An experience equally applicable to the hunter in front of him, but to a different, palatable sense. He’s suddenly even more aware that they’re alone on the vessel for the time being. And of sea salt.
She finds him staring at her, no stranger to the admiration of her crew. Her presence is spoken to have a bewitching quality from her charismatic speeches. Her unflappable confidence and stirring devotion to felling whales had attracted those lost souls somehow to the hellscape of the waves, as equally the promise of eventual riches. “What can I do for you?” She smirks, bringing him back to the present.
“Whatever Captain wants…” He says again, watching her remove her gloves carefully. The sharp point of her prosthetic leg scrapes as she drags herself up from the bed and comes before him. She looks a mix of perturbed and intrigued as her knee comes between his legs. Of course, a blunt approach works best with him. She places a hand under his chin, and he instantly angles it upward to her. His eyes have the usual beleaguered intensity, but a fleck of noticeable interest flashes as he stares forward.
Her hand leaves his chin, reaching out to his skin, the other lifts and touches on his hair, petting, stroking. She caresses him, tracing over scars. His skin grows hot, his eyes become half-lidded. Her heart beats with fascination. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
He doesn’t and knows he won’t, and soon they cross lines.
---
They kiss only once. It is a slow, deliberate one, that feels like a contract for things to come. The preamble, a signing of an agreement to the use of each other’s bodies for a limited time. In the same very way, it is a gag order. Neither of them wants to speak of this. The after-taste of the ‘tea’ is still detectable on their tongues as they break away, and the necessary clothes are soon shed and crumpled on the floor. To do anything less straightforward, that would hint at a romantic passion that neither of them possessed, nor could with their singular goals in consideration.
Heathcliff feels a bit vulnerable without his ropes, she peels and unties each one deftly as if she was binding a mermaid in reverse. She rewards him with an embrace against her soft exposed skin, remaining only in her unbuttoned white shirt and skivvies. Her hair now sweeps around him, entangling him as different types of aquatic creatures come to mind, some more nightmarish than others. But the thought slips away from him as his eyes pan down to a metallic sound. She removed the prosthetic leg earlier only to put it back on. His brow creases a bit.
“For balance.” She whispers harshly, in a way that hushes him from making anything more out of it. It’s not as if he doesn’t trust his Captain, he is more uncomfortable that she does not trust him. But it’s nothing to judge against her, he has no desire to have a mind to think otherwise. He waits for her to pull them down to the wooden bunk, his weight settling around her like he’s a human shield.
She stares at him for a few moments, but she quickly proves she is not waiting long. Wasting no more time, her hand dips down to brush the fabric of her skivvies out of the way. She begins her self titillation right under his gaze. She’s loud and unabashed when a moan spills from her lips, the salacious sounds drive him to palm at his belt buckle, and pull down the barrier of fabric that was left between them. Knowing the order of things, Heathcliff kneels onto the cabin floor exposed and at full attention. His Captain then allows him to pay his respects by tasting her first, his head soon in the middle of the arch of her legs. She feels the weight of beaded braids against her inner thighs, the light friction of his hair and skin in combination with his tongue plunging into her with a precision that leaves her gasping. She pulls herself up on her elbows, breathing hard, and after minutes tells him it’s enough. "Come here.” She commands. “Let me reward you.” She gets up off the mattress to kneel, her hands find their way downward again, as she begins her own oral exploration. It's obvious to him that she kind of hates it, but for the Captain’s own pride, he lets her complete her chosen mission. But also because it makes him groan and shudder, which also ultimately feeds her self-satisfaction. He has thought of how these acts are in many ways more personal than a kiss, but he never tells her. Boundaries had to be made somewhere.
The moment he thrusts himself inside her feels equally surreal. It’s always an internal dilemma. It's definitely a betrayal to something, as something in his mind flogs him for the transgression. She feels him freeze above her. “Shh. Stop thinking too hard. You’ll only hurt yourself.” She says, moving her hips. He groans, he knows it's half encouragement, half jab. “Let’s switch places if you’re not feeling up to it.” There is a sigh and a mock tone in her voice, the twitched brow betrays her impatience. He’s never failed an order before, and his lingering guilt becomes overridden with his desire to prove himself. He grabs her, and takes back control of tides.
All it takes is a little pleased sound to escape her lips. The lightning and judgment in his mind dissipates, quiets to an unnoticeable hum. He’s able to throw himself as his reason nearly melts from the flows of sensations before him. The pleasure becomes more as it sinks into borderline pain, it is not from pure exertion, he can swear he feels a tear in the corner of his eye. He ignores it, drives into her more wildly, it's harsh and numbing but in that abandonment of restraint, it becomes so satisfying for the both of them.
The closest he had felt to a fraction of this thrill in his recent days was his frenzied piercing of Whale flesh from successful hunts. Both feelings came as a result of her beckoning. It'd make him feel a little disturbed to make the correlation. But he couldn’t deny that being in her grasp has led to things that can only be described as enjoyable. His faith in Ishmael was unshakable, she has and will see him through the darkest of times.
He hears his Captain cry out from beneath him, and he begins to pull back, in fear of actually hurting her, lucidity suddenly screeching back, but she claws a hand into his thigh and bids him to continue. No, she nearly begs. The desperate tone is so foreign to him, that he lulls to an almost gentle rocking. Her nails are digging into his thigh and her voice becomes harsher. “Fuck me more.” She commands, but it sounds just as pleading. “If you’re gonna stop again, just get the hell out of here.”
The sight makes him feel energized, and only a bleary sliver of his loyal mind thinks to leave her there unsatisfied. He has no will to act upon the lurking shame he had earlier. There is no other recourse for this sudden jolting energy than to answer her call, just as he always will. But not toothlessly, he will do the most to make her tremble more.
His loyalty and faith is not free of resentment. She is a marvelous witch of a woman capable of sacrificing him at a moment’s notice should he lose his usefulness, should his harpoon grow dull. He knows his fate from the inescapable, haunting cries of mermaids down in the hull. He complies to her begging by answering her with the very cruelty she craves. A firm grip flips her onto her stomach, positioning away her prosthetic leg as she tries to regain herself, the sharp end scraping on the cabin floor as she is pulled into position. She is shoved lovelessly back down onto her bunk, as his teeth scrape along her shoulder and neck. Her back arches. “Ah, there’s my dear Harpooner.” She mewls, content with his sudden backbone.
He cuts her off from incessant chiding as he takes her again from behind, not allowing her a reprieve or a breath of rest. To keep her from doing anything else other sobbing drives his pace, quickening to a hateful tempo. He can tell whichever remarks she had were bitten down, choked through gasps and moans. He tries again to avoid thinking about mermaids as she contorts and wails beneath him. And it's exactly what she wants from him; to scrape a layer of reality away. The years of psychological terror she's endured in the pursuit of the eldritch beasts, all the emotions locked away in her mind under a veneer of enthralling confidence begin slipping out, as she nearly weeps from the crashing waves between them. She wants to scream out, but to admit fear ruins the meticulous illusion that makes her so disarming.
He catches his breath as he becomes dangerously close to spilling out, breath hotly gracing her skin as he’s slumping over her shoulder. His malicious compliance backfires; she is smiling, so much so that she nearly laughs with a nervous quality, her voice is slightly strained. “Right, enough of that. I'd like to be able to walk the deck without losing balance.”
He grunts in response, steadying himself. “Make up your mind.” His reply comes out gruffly as he pulls himself out of her, unable to restrain himself from coming on the spot. He catches his breath, and nearly admires the mess he made of her, as her hair strewn to one side, the sheen of slick and sweat evident between her thighs. The sea salt smell from earlier completely engulfed the room. He doesn’t want the fuzzy feeling to leave his head so soon.
“Don’t you think I get tired of dictating everything for you?” She replies playfully. After wrestling with her hair, she turns herself on the bunk, onto her back. Strands of her hair wreath around her naked body as she adjusts to get more comfortable. She sits up, her foot finding the floorboards. “Right now, what I want is for you to do what you want.”
He looks blankly in return, sighing.
“Come on, what's your heart’s desire?” She prods.
He’s been asked a similar question before. He pauses, unsure what she means to do with the information, unsure of what he would even want to do with such an implicit offer. Furthermore, he had just thrown himself at her, he had just released, what more could he desire from this arrangement? There are thoughts on the dredges of his mind; his eyes darted down to her exposed neck. Subconsciously, he knows what he deeply desires to do to her isn't kind.
The corner of her mouth twitches, which doesn't go unnoticed. But he never moves an inch. She sighs, reaching for her pipe, only to decide at the last moment to leave it in place. “If we're done here you can always leave.” She sits up, carefully moving her leg so she won't pierce the surface of the bunk. “But I wouldn't mind if you wanted to engage in some afterglow.”
The warmth is indeed enticing. He hovers over her once more, the bunk creaking with his weight as she makes room. Ishmael invites him into her embrace, stroking his hair with one hand and his back with another. It feels nice, as expected. He knows this temporary comfort, and wretchedly yearns for it. She was no stranger to this aftercare, these trysts between them were far from a new development. Truthfully, he knew it was in the realm of possibility after she invited him to her quarters. She holds the man like he is her favorite and most treasured teddy bear, cuddling up to him, squeezing.The pressure against his fresher marks make him wince a bit. “I see, you like it better if you tell yourself that every communication from me is a command, aye?” Her voice was oddly sweet. “Do you really think I cannot afford my Dear Harpooner a hug that he definitely needs?”
He feels polarizing about her comment. He is at his wits’ end with her mockery twisted affection. “That is…not what I need.” Heathcliff utters, and pulls away momentarily. She begins to separate herself as his hands slip up further, finding her neck, surprising himself. She freezes in place, her expression quickly turns from a pitying smile to fervent giddiness. Her fearless nature demands extremes, but her acceptance of his sudden violence downright frightens him. He wanted her to throw him out. “Oh?” She says, like a challenge. Would she coo at him so enthusiastically if his hands began squeezing down on her windpipe? A disturbingly excited feeling invades in a frantic sweep over him. He shudders and immediately pulls himself off of her again; but the effects are apparent and lasting to them both. He is physically restored.
“Ah, you stopped.” She whispers, the pleased smile on her face grating him as she looks up at him, a look that echoes his inner thoughts: she knew he couldn’t cross that line. Her hand raises to palm his erection from below. “Did it feel that good?”
His face is suddenly full of dread as he realizes he fell hard into that pointless violent fantasy, but nothing changes in his eyes. He grits his teeth, dually frustrated. Even that irked rage shortly fades into a fatigued acceptance. She is right to mock him; even if he actually squeezed the life out of her, it was no absolution and no relief. His senses were returned, and they couldn’t bear the thought of murdering the one who fished him out from the rocky, icy depths of being an aimless fugitive. Harming the shepherdess of this lost flock was only an act to game his taste for his own oblivion. Ultimately, she isn't the cause of where he is. He has no place to return to anymore, not as he is now. Not until this voyage truly ended. This woman, this crew was the only family that valued him now. The Middle desired only recompense. How could he even think about doing that to his dear Captain, the one who will bring him to end, the one who gave him reason to toil forth? She was direction, the only person that successfully replaced that empty feeling he had, whether it was good or bad.
Her sunset hair glows lightly in the cracks of natural light through the ajar door they left open in case someone drew too close. She sat up onto her elbows, cupping his chin again with her hand. “I will always have a place for you, my dear harpooner.” She looks like a perfect, loving mess. He starts to not care if she’s genuine about it.
But instead he grimaces, ending her placating gesture. “Voyage must end…” He says, like a mantra in a whisper. He must remember. But his memory was disorienting and fuzzy, but once again he couldn't quite recall who he wanted so desperately to return to. All he knew is that very hope was the only thing sustaining him on the perilous days ahead. When things will be all right in the end. Her fingers again traced one of his scars and the fog of his brain faded, replaced by sunlit ephemeral warmth. Perhaps, not the only thing sustaining him.
He let her act out their game of affection a bit more, and he willingly played his part. ---
The First Mate, Yi Sang’s usual pattern of knocking on the door, broke them out of the dozing they had slipped in. “Captain, we've returned from the restocking and shipments.”
“Alright.” Ishmael’s voice floated through the exposed crack that was only widened as Yi Sang peeked into the cabin, the only change of expression was the slight bewilderment in his eyes. “Apologies, I will allow you a bit more repose.”
The Captain sat up in her bunk, lighting her pipe as the Harpooner threw back on the rest of his gear like a rumbling cloud about the room. “All is well, Yi Sang. I'll oversee the haul in a moment.” She combed her bangs out of her face with her free hand, exhaling a puff of smoke.
“Thank you, Captain.” Her door was shut promptly, without another word.
Heathcliff throws on his heavy boots, straightens his vest, before picking up an end of the rope left on the floor. Ishmael watches him with a dull stare. There’s nothing to be said out loud about it. “How about you take the evening off?” She instead says, as she puts on the rest of her clothes languidly, knowing the crew will wait as long as it takes. “Rest yourself properly.”
He doesn't know what to make of the offer. Special treatment feels strange between them. But what else could be made of what they had just done? He was afraid to wonder, shutting everything from his mind. That time has ended. He rested enough in this place, he was overdue to leave. “No, I'll work on the shipment. Get done faster.”
“With you there, certainly.” She yawned out, stretching. She placed down her pipe to finish buttoning her shirt. “Suit yourself, then, but don’t misjudge the trials that soon lay ahead of us.”
He doesn't ponder or worry about what that means. He knows he can only rely on this rope or sink. Not only that, but he knows that they'll pull through, he has to for this voyage to someday end. And it will, he knows. He believes.
All thanks to her.
Missing Piece
Cross-Posting from AO3
[A gothic romance, directly inspired by Wuthering Heights, as well as the WH/Edgar identities. I promise to do a better job than Emerald Fennell.] Warnings: Sexual Content, Melodrama, Suicidal Ideation and (Minor) Character Death.
Summary: On the day of the Wolf’s Banquet, he announces something that stops all their hearts: he now legally owns that damnably grand mansion. It turns out, he is looking for something precious he had lost there. One shrewd butler volunteers to help him. Can she stop him from ending their truce and killing them all?
Mirror
Ashes and dust made of all. Vengeance was served. Revenge exacted.
But at the very end, nothing; no one returns.
He is still left feeling empty and cold.
The Wolf’s Banquet
The Wolf returned with his undead party in attendance just as promised. But he didn’t just send them forward to senselessly slaughter as expected; instead, at the top of the hill, in the park in front of the house, he requested a ‘word’ with the Heir of The Edgar Family.
Gregor immediately condemned the idea as a trap, commanding his own forces to set upon him. But, as an example, a few butlers were torn to shreds as examples before him.
“Their fates lay upon your actions! Now, come with no fangs bared and I will not bare mine!” Heathcliff repeats his desire for the Heir to speak with him.
Ryōshū then steps in to interfere, but she is knocked down with a throw of the chained coffin from his back; she had misjudged his brute strength. He kneels over her, holding her down with the coffin. “How rash! I am doing this for your sudden impudence. Put down your cutlery for a few moments, the audience I request from your Master is for your benefit as well!”
Gregor, feeling pressured to come to his Head Butler’s aid, now comes forth. Ryōshū slips away quickly as the coffin is lifted, hovering close to the heir. He is livid at the shameless request. “You ask too much of this house, you threatened death too often to ask civility from us now! You’ve taken my dear sister and my arm, from all accounts, I owe you nothing, Wolf! Nothing but a blade to be driven through your heart!”
Heathcliff remains unfazed, only throwing an incredulous look at part of the accusation. “Your sister keeps the company of backstreets gamblers and bruisers by choice! What befalls her has little to do with me. I have met with her once, but I have never held any manner of heart for that chirpy strumpet.”
The heir continues to seethe. “She never returned here, she disappeared in the night! I found her little dog hanging by its leash on the stairwell! And now you have told me you’ve sold her for gambling debts?!”
“Will you really continue to waste time by making false conclusions? She chose to abscond with an unluckier bloke than myself that night. I don’t know or care what came of her next, but she was free to leave as she pleased.” Heathcliff dismissed the notion, ignoring the gap of his memory of why he even entertained an evening with this man’s sister. “And I am a self-made man with no debts, as you’ll soon discover!”
“Isabella, c-could she be alive?” Gregor’s voice hitches, coughing. He tries to recover quickly, but the trauma he sustained from her disappearance didn’t help his already delicate constitution. Ishmael, another butler, comes to Gregor’s side to assist him, but he puts a hand up for her to halt. She backs off, but doesn't spare her worry. It's understood that he needs to face the Wolf as he is right now.
Heathcliff’s face has remained rather grimaced until this moment, where it hints at something guileful. “Highly possible, but not guaranteed. It’s not my fault if you never went looking or if she doesn’t want to be found. Ah, though I did happen to play one game with her recently enough.” He lifts his hand and a butler dressed in a brown uniform and monocle comes, in a trancelike state, to place a document in his hands. “You see this? She signed something for me after I won a hand. Go on, take a look.”
Gregor nods for Ishmael to approach and take the document from the entranced woman, whom she recognized as the Head Butler of Wuthering Heights, Outis. She gasps involuntarily by looking into her glassy eyes a moment too long. She concludes that The Wolf has overtaken their allies, seeing swaths of brown uniforms in his rotting army. The butler takes the paper and brings it dutifully to her Master, flicking her eyes on the contents. Her stomach drops, if she understood that brief glance correctly.
Gregor’s eyes immediately widen and he coughs so hard he may spit blood. “What is the meaning of this? What is this farce!” He is in disbelief, the shock immediately takes a toll on his body. “This is the deed to this very manor…S-Signed by Isabella...It can’t be…”
“Yes, you got the family businesses, but she got the house in the asset division following the funeral!” Heathcliff said matter-of-factly. “So kind of her to let you play lord while she played in the streets.”
A choir of whispers broke out, and even the most loyal of Edgar Butlers began to murmur fearfully. Many of their contracts, spanning generations, were bound to the Manor, not Gregor himself. The few that are become even more scared. “This can’t be real!” One of them cries out. “Another one of the Wolf’s games!”
Gregor looks as if he’s ready to faint on the spot, but remains as strong as he could, scanning the document for any signs of forgery. But it was his sister’s handwriting, and their family seal. He pulls out his pocket watch, and the verification chip embedded into the document even reads legitimately. He hyperventilates, which causes him to choke on his saliva and begin coughing uncontrollably, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to spit out the upheaval of blood in his mouth. “No. No…I will never let you have my family home!” He draws his saber, and before anyone else can interfere, he plunges forward to pierce the interloper's heart.
“As expected, you are taking this news rather poorly! Seems I also win this round of hide and seek!” Heathcliff grabs his greatsword to redirect, predicting him to resort quickly to attacking him again. “Now don't be a sore loser and die on me so soon! You don’t look so hale, perhaps you should just lay down, Mr. Edgar.”
Gregor can only scream as he holds the next clash with all his might, but he sees himself reflected in that great blade that Heathcliff uses to knocks him backward. He is unable to make an attempt to recover as a heavy boot punts his gut. More blood comes expelled from the internal pain. The same maid, Ishmael catches his body from crumpling to the ground. Heathcliff notices the look in her eyes, glaring at him with burning contempt.
Ryōshū steps in again. “Enough. I orchestrated the Wolf Hunt, direct your lashing out at me!”
Heathcliff glowers at her. “Do you see me cutting down any of your fellow butlers? None of my ranks have even moved an inch! Had I not called for your pause to discuss this matter of business?”
“Someone find Isabella, someone find her please.” Gregor says deliriously, panicking as his body shuts down on him. “Isabella!”
“Master, we can’t find Lady Isabella.” Ishmael whispers. It hurts her to witness this again. They've been all over the backstreets looking since she went missing. He's been like this before, with episodes occurring since her disappearance.
He is sweating, and coughing more blood, just from a look Ishmael knows the man had plunged into another dangerous bout of illness. She tries to keep him standing, but knows he is soon going to collapse. “Master Gregor, please try to-” It is too late, the rest of the house start to openly worry, and even more fearful sobbing can be heard among them.
Ryōshū turns to them and yells at them to shut up. “Don’t disgrace our Master by being such cowards! I will S.Y.N.C myself if I hear another blubber!”
Heathcliff knows it’d be all too easy to take them all out, but that's not what he decided he was here for. “Well seeing your Master is currently indisposed, let us finish these talks.”
But Ryōshū does not back down, her knives are quickly bared again, and many of the butlers take it as cue to launch an attack.
Heathcliff looks above to the sky as they close in. “How tiring. It's raining again…”
Days pass.
The majority of the butlers somehow are left alive after that last-ditch effort. Once Ryōshū was incapacitated, many of the butlers lost the will to continue the fight. They were able to take out much of the undead horde, but it doesn’t mean much when there’s still a surplus of the dead for The Wolf to raise.
The Wolf was now ‘technically’ their Master. But their former Master was still alive, though bedridden and in a medically induced coma. The Wolf must have been ridiculing them, at their incompetence to kill him. The humiliation does a huge hit to morale.
Heathcliff doesn't care much to assuage their feelings, but he didn’t interfere when they tended to their injured, nor did he raise their fallen comrades for more corpse fodder.
He mentions offhandedly he will in fact leave them alone once he is ‘satisfied’ with his revenge. But until then, he intends to keep them in suspense. One of the first actual requests he lays onto them is for someone to give him a formal tour of the estate.
Ryōshū’s voice remains firm against the man that, by all points counted, won. “I am still the H.B .of the estate, Heathcliff. No matter who legally owns it.”
His shoulders rumble with an amused laugh. “Ha. Yes, you are. Unless… I dismiss you.” But the bizarre merriment from his face quickly leaves, as he returns to the stony manner he’s conducted the rest of their conversations with. “But as I said, it must be anyone but you.”
“Tch. When I raised you…never did I--”
He towers over her as her battered body is confined to a chair. “Consider those ties long severed. I don’t need a big sister figure to half-heartedly tell me to stop sulking in the corner. To force me to accept the ‘difference’ I was born into after facing daily condemnation for existing.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but he cuts her off. “Now don’t you worry dear old Ryōshū, I know you had your own survival to think of. And that's exactly how you’ll remain in this manor. Even though I know you wished to leave my childhood home and myself so desperately, that's why you were only able to get as far as the next house.”
“Y.B.” She nearly throws herself up from the wheelchair she is temporarily bound to, anger seeping off her in sweat, her staff surrounding her, worried about her bandages. “How dare you accuse me of abandoning you!”
“Don’t feel bad, you’re not the only one.” Heathcliff replied coarsely. “Enough of this shoddy reminiscing. Now tell me, which of your little maids or butlers can be spared to give me a tour of the house?”
The gallery of the manor’s employees remain silent, the entire surviving lot from the siege are frozen with dread and fear. Ishmael’s fist grips strongly, shaking as she is unwilling for any one of them to be sent to the Wolf’s Den. As always, she forces all the unwanted jobs on herself. She doesn't want to stay stagnant as her home becomes overrun. The Wolf himself is growing impatient, and she only becomes more willful as his eye lands on her.
“Lady Ryōshū. I will.” Ishmael volunteers, curtsying at a low angle. There are beads of sweat on her forehead. “I will guide the New Master around the manor.” Calling him ‘Master’ feels like acid on her tongue.
Ryōshū flashes her a look filled with uncertainty, she’s upset that one of her most diligent staff was sticking her neck out like this. But she also knew if she sent someone more unqualified, Heathcliff may actually slaughter them all from the irritation. She knew she could trust Ishmael to do her job well. She still hates the idea, as she speaks through gritted teeth. “Fine. D.N.D.”
Ishmael heard it plenty of times to know what those three letters stood for; Do not die.
Heathcliff looks bored at the exchange but nods at her. “Very well, let’s go then.”
Rows of her coworkers stiffly part for them to pass swiftly through the room, eyes wide with horrified stares, as if watching a human sacrifice take place. Many hope she will survive, though the majority are just glad it's not them.
Ishmael shows him around the main hall first, only speaking to denote the rooms and the features. It is a bland, straight-to-the-point, perfectly-in-order type of performance from her. The boring business-only persona slips as he starts up the stairs instead of following her to the east wing like she planned. “No, wait-”
He doesn't, and continues on each stair without any intention of turning around. She follows after them, reaching out and grabbing his arm forcefully, and as she does it, she realizes too late that she had defied the natural order of her position. “Please stop, it's just bedrooms up there.”
He doesn't pause. “You are all rather committed to that sickly Master of yours.” He comments aloud, as they make it to the top. “If looks could kill…”
She throws him another one, there is no lack of trying when it comes to killing him with her mind. She wonders if she could afford a moment to distract him long enough to slit his throat.
“Is that why you decided to put yourself on the chopping block? To get close enough to use your silly little cutlery on me?” He doesn't know why he feels so talkative suddenly, but there is nothing to lose when he knows everyone in that house detests him but has no choice but to tolerate his presence.
“You read my mind.” She admits dryly. “But seriously, Master Heathcliff, there's nothing-”
“I don't like that.” He interjects. “Do not call me Master, just Heathcliff is fine.”
What? You were the one who stormed in and demanded we recognize you as the owner of the place. She thinks. “As you wish.” She says quickly. He has started to open doors, and her worry rises.
“I recognized you immediately because you have no light in your eyes.” He says, walking inside a boring guest room to give it a once over, just to walk out. “And that trailing long orange hair, of course.”
“I must have made an impression.” She says, unimpressed. She has heard about her “Dead fish eyes’ once before, from someone she can never reach again. “You would be the expert on dull eyes.”
Heathcliff finds her rude retort almost funny; it's basically true, but he actually doesn’t like looking the dead in the eye much. He throws another glance at her, she is easy to read; she keeps staring ahead at a particular door.
“I will leave your precious Master alive for now.” He says with heavy disdain. “So you may refrain from becoming hysterical each time I approach closer.” He opens the door to a guest bedroom, and rifles through drawers somewhat aimlessly. “Though his own body may have a say in that more than me.”
“Hysterical?” She scowls. “Of course you would make me nervous, you ripped an arm from him, and so much else! You've ruined his life!”
“He must be an incredible leash holder to inspire such passion.” He twists a flower out of its arrangement. “Is he your lover?” He smirks. Rich men can afford to live so selfishly.
“Haah.” She sighs. “Are you only going to say things you know will piss me off?” Such indignation, there's been no other reason for him to make such a conclusion. Her feelings for that man are pure admiration and care, or so she thinks. Though she owes him no explanation, she launches into one, picking up the whole vase and placing it away, “If you must know, absolutely not! I am a professional, not a damn wannabe mistress!” Her case rattles on her back as she stomps. “The Master saved my life-”
He interrupts her. “Allow me a guess, he picked you off the backstreets and gave you purpose and a family?” Heathcliff’s voice rumbles in her head despite his low tone. “A common story around these parts, the rich playing at being benefactors to the misfortunate. I know it very well! They only interact with backstreet dwellers to surround themselves with enough laborers and punching bags willing to lay their lives and work themselves to the bone.”
She stares with hatred, and while he makes a valid point; it doesn’t apply much to the Edgar household. It is clear her employment is a huge point of pride. “Is this generalization the reason why you've set out to take everything from him?!”
“You're a bold one to ask.” He looks amused at her anger, but scarily so. “He is not so kind, and took something precious from me, that's all the reason I need.” He brushes even further past her, looking back. “Oi, there’s that look again. Don’t burn yourself out.” His hand lifted to point directly to her eyes.
She finds it very shallow of a reason, which makes him seem all the more deranged. She says nothing, though she has a mind enough to swat his hand. She assumes this ‘something precious’ is what he is looking for as they go room to room. She's left fuming in the background, trying to counteract each mess. By the third room he’s ransacked, she pauses to ask, “Well what is this ‘something precious’?”
He doesn’t answer, instead stopping by the window curtains, a vague memory from his childhood plays from a game of hide and seek. But who he was looking for always remains obfuscated; he feels like screaming out as his hand clenches down on the fabric. He rips the curtains down, the entire metal rod and drapery. He drops it to the floor in a clatter.
Ishmael watches this, but doesn’t understand it, he was only acting like a schoolyard bully just moments ago, what snapped? Perhaps he is just as much as the madman the Wolf had been talked up to be. She intervenes, worried about the further destruction he’d wrought. “Heathcliff!” His proper name still feels so odd to say. “Please, sir, It’d be much easier for me to assist you if I knew exactly what you’re looking for!”
He swings to face her. “You do not know the great restraint I place upon myself, from destroying everything that man has touched!” He yells, but it does nothing to help him. “You are lucky I didn't raze this place to ashes and be done with it!”
“But I do know, having seen what you’ve done to the people of your own home!” Ishmael yells recklessly in return, recalling the glassy countenance of Outis. She wants to ask if he intends to do the same to all of them, but she finally thinks about her lack of self restraint, her throat feeling the effects of use. She wonders if any of her usual decorum is salvageable, as she calms her voice. “Please just tell me what you’re looking for so that we can unclench your jaw and fist.” She knows she’s being too blunt, but she knows their interactions will never be normal, as they hold too much hatred for each other to play polite. It isn't in her personality to be cowed by someone so despicable. But her lack of self-restraint still feels like a failure on her part.
His stormy temper subdues for the moment. He makes an observation. “You address me like a fire you’re simply trying to put out, much like your Mistress.”
Her face expresses a caught look; it is true.
He is smirking again. “Do not be regretful about your behavior now, I cannot be surprised that you see me as a challenge to overcome. Though I had expected you to force yourself more with shallow pleasantries."
Of course, how else can she treat a blood-lusting interloper whose claws may come down on her neck at a moment’s notice? “If you have such self-awareness, why do you put me through this challenge without even a hint to lessen the burden?”
He knows he is asking the impossible. “I will know when I find it.” He says, knowing it sounds like madness, his brow softens somewhat; he looks younger somehow as genuine worry seems to appear, perhaps it's because his eye looks a little less darkened. “If it is here.”
Ishmael recalls seeing this look, early in her time as an employee of the estate. She recalls the man visiting them, often turned away in spite. But still he kept coming back to the gates, even in the rain. Who did he keep trying to visit? What link did this man have to the estate? A companion? “Didn’t you love—” She realizes the question is absurd, but the faintest silhouette of someone comes to mind. She is somehow quickly sure it's not Miss Isabella, whom he had seemingly lost in the backstreets by his own admission. Ishmael can feel him staring intensely at her as she says it, but she never finishes the thought.
She pauses as they turn back into the hallway, at the top of the stairs there is a grand portrait of Gregor, but it seems so empty, as if there was another portrait that also belonged there. The Master also had a companion, she vaguely reminisces. But who was it? She sighs. “Forgive me, it's nonsense. Doesn't this wall look weirdly bare?”
His gaze shifted darkly at the wall, the intensity from before quickly returned. She knows something! It’s a divisive feeling, and he wants to smash something again, anything to calm himself. He clutches the banister of the grand staircase, nearly crushing the wood beneath. He takes a deep exhale, but his brain only greets him with sharp fog in response. “It does.” He agrees, it truly does. But it doesn’t go amiss that she clearly has insight on events he had to mentally torture himself to dismiss as cruel illusions. He looks desperate. “You…remember someone?”
She is taken aback from the vulnerable look in his eyes. She had eschewed the passing thoughts as much as she could before; to steel herself. But the truth was now apparent, the Wolf really did love someone. But what of it? He was still terrorizing her home, and his presence hovering over her neck was actively grinding her nerves. She leads him down the stairs, only glad he didn’t storm into her Master’s room. “I-I don’t know.”
The fact she doesn't completely deny it is an admission in itself. A strange thing happens; he laughs. “She doesn’t know!” He exclaims, but the sudden glee sounds equally like pain. He will accept that; he is not the only one who has seen shadowed memories! He feels vindication from that confirmation. He had been suffocating for as long as he could recall, dismissing the fog in his brain for lies, for daydreams. He is, for the first time in his recent memory, elated. He expresses as much as he blithely marches down the stairway, holding his hand to her to take, a sign of his intentions. “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction, lass.”
Ishmael is not swayed out of her hatred by his sudden uplifted mood, nor the piqued interest in her. She accepts his hand only due to her rigid code of propriety, shocked when it clamps around hers. “Call me Ishmael.” She finally says, like it's a rite of passage she must endure.
He makes nothing of her odd phrasing, but soon relinquishes his grip. But even after he lets go she feels like she’s been marked by him. Her hand tingles with a shiver as her mind wanders to the chains on the oddly-shaped coffin he carried. There is a connection, somehow. The burdening object was presently laid in the foyer along with his great sword when he made his claim of peace. She entirely doubts he needs either to lay waste to them. Her eyes sink to the ground, as she turns to continue the tour into the East Wing.
“Ishmael.” His voice is low again. “I believe you can help me find what I’ve lost. If it's actually…missing.”
It's so cryptic, but she doesn’t bother to ask more. She simply nods, accepting the responsibility, as if she has any other choice. She has bought time somehow, but the threat of her failure looms. She swallows the lump in her throat. “It may take at least a few days to thoroughly look, the estate is very large.”
“I am prepared for that.” He replies, releasing her from his grip. For now.
More days pass…
The other servants look upon Ishmael differently. Before, she did always command a level of respect with her hardworking nature. Even so, some regarded her worst attribute as her lack of faith in anyone else to reach her standards, often opting to do many things herself. They supposed now that flaw was also now their saving grace. Her way of not only surviving, but handling the Wolf’s constant presence was met equally with admiration and fear. No one else save for Lady Ryōshū would have lasted this long.
Ishmael’s scheme was hitting a corner. They had completed the search of the entire house, and now she has asked for them to make time to search the grounds. She is no closer to understanding what precious item he is hoping will materialize. She starts to make more connections from his odd behavior, doubting the ‘precious thing’ to be a physical object at all. He is trying to restore his own memories, is what she concludes, especially after she had helped him uncover several realizations throughout the days, of things he does remember: he remembers creaking footsteps sneaking up to the attic he once lived in, he remembers the clattering sound of dropped tools. He remembers laughs and pinches on his arm. He remembers long hair; he remembers it whipping in the wind, while running up and down the moors. None of these things sound particularly romantic to her, except for maybe the wind.
And for what he specifically remembers about the estate: he remembers the howls of hounds and the gnashing sound they made, he remembers a scream that followed; those fleeting days of joy abruptly ended the first time he came to this house. He recalls the misery he felt every time he left it since then. She feels a sliver of sympathy in these half-recollections that haunt him. She knows what it is like to harbor thoughts that drive you to madness. The picture of his hatred has become clearer. But to Ishmael, it still remains unsatisfying as reasoning for his former homicidal plans.
But it deeply bothers her that the more they interact, the Wolf seems ever more like a battered child clinging to the past, than the walking death imagery that was hammered into her. She fears she is too accepting of the dissonance. He is a deeply troubled man; his mind seems to lack any certain form of clarity; his mood the first couple days were a tornado cocktail of despair and maniacal mirth. She remembers the dread leaving her utterly exhausted. By the third day, he seemed to steady himself. He became disturbingly approachable, even. Due to their improved rapport they were able to have what she considered a breakthrough in the library. She found a book on riddles while he was busy pulling things off the shelves:
The book was unlike most of the collection. The household kept many informative and varied works, but the subjects were mostly for educational purposes. The book looked well-worn and read, in contrast to the meticulous ‘good as new’ nature the others were kept in. Gregor nor Isabella never showed such a profound interest in riddles. A familiar one came suddenly to her mind, and she recited it, “The more you take away from me, the bigger I get. What am I?”
Heathcliff looked up, shoving the book in his hand back in its place; he actually knew this one. “A hole.” He went silent in thought, before sighing. “Someone else used to ask me riddles.”
She touched the cover of the book, feeling a fuzziness in the back of her head. “I think someone used to ask me too. Do you know any others?”
Heathcliff went quiet again, and looked away for a moment, but seemed to finally recall one. “Who makes it, has no need of it. Whoever buys it, has no use for it. Who uses it can neither see nor feel it. What is it?”
“Oh.” She frowned, immediately arriving at the answer, glancing away. “A coffin.”
He nodded ever so slightly to confirm her answer. “You didn’t like that one?” He asked based on her reaction, but she didn’t elaborate. He hovered closer to the chair she had taken up. “Do you fear dying that much, even though it is inevitable?”
“Is this another riddle? Obviously! I’m human, last I checked.” Ishmael sighed, her eyes flickered for a second, as she fought back memories of her own. “There are worse fates than death. Even worse than what you’re capable of.”
He scowled. “You seem very certain about that, lass.”
She returned his derision.“I’ve seen things that very few would envy. Your corpses eventually turn to unusable dust, much like what I would clean from forgotten crevices on a window sill. But I know you’ve never dealt with unspeakable laws, know what a resonance tuning fork is, or witnessed humans become-” She stopped herself, quickly disinterested in recounting it. “Ah, forget this-”
But his attention was absolutely captured, he took up a chair. “Humans become what?”
She somehow convinced him to change the topic then. The important thing is they reconfirmed his memory wasn’t the only one that suffered from ‘holes’.They ended up talking about death again. She doesn’t care much about that subject either.
Heathcliff slammed shut another book. He wasn’t reading it, just observing the morbid illustrations, which were not at all shocking for him; but he enjoyed the dramatic sound. “What do you think of this damnable curse of mine?”
Ishmael got up from her chair, swiping the book from him. “You’ll break the spines, which decreases the value.” She doesn’t prod for him to continue, too focused on making sure Gregor’s collection of medical volumes survive intact. She found him before her again suddenly, his brow twitching. He was upset. “What is it?” She asked, thinking it's the wrong question.
Surprisingly, the man sighed; disappointed and clearly sulking. “I said…what do you think of this damnable curse of mine?” It doesn’t feel the same the second time he says it.
“Your…” She doesn’t have a better word for it. “Necromancy? Uh, are there side effects, like does it affect your own lifespan at all?”
The very question leaves him pondering. She is almost insufferably practical. Truthfully, he has no idea, even after peering into the mirrors of himself. The wretched glass had shown him limited possibilities. But perhaps he merely dreamt those too. Unsatisfied, he decided to drop the subject. “Let’s end our search here for today.”
“I think it's awful. But it does seem a bit thrilling.” She knows how she'd use it.
“Yeah it is awful, but that thrill wears quickly off.” He replies morosely.
In those days, Ishmael begins to see that his will to live is just as frangible as his abstaining from destroying them. She never thought she would learn to spend time with him without constantly holding her breath. Figuratively, he was a man lost in the dark. In her voyage days she had confronted the dark as well, nearly losing herself if it weren’t for a dear lifeline of someone she loved and eventually lost. She knows the Wolf’s missing person was like that for him.
Etiquette
On this particular day, her eyes now settle on his back; on that ragged and stitched coat. His appearance is of someone who hasn’t known comfort in a long time. She absolutely hated it, and his unkempt scarf and hair. She knows he probably doesn't socialize with the living enough to care much about his appearance. In a way, she thinks that is a failing on his household. He probably has never felt enough pride in it. She wonders if she can provide him with a new set of clothes, but quickly feels it's an overstep. He would look strange dressed like a landlord.
But, would it be so bad if she showed him a bit of the decency required to serve their guests well? She’s never seen the man even take time to eat in her presence, nor knows what becomes of him when he leaves for the night.
He notices her looking at him with a strangely sympathetic gaze as he turns back around. “What is it?”
She changes back to an aloof expression, not wanting to offend him. “Would you like to break for a meal, Heathcliff?” She half expects him to boom his voice at her for making presumptions, but she is surprised when she detects a disarmed look from him instead.
“Fine, I’ll go.” He says mildly, heading back inside for the main kitchen.
When they enter, the staff there stares with bewilderment, but quickly scrambles to assemble a plate to foist him off. Ishmael harshly gestures for them to stop, flashing a disdainful look for their impertinent and more importantly, unrequested haste. She wishes she could scream at them for treating him so obviously like an obstacle, but she remembers when he called her out for doing the same. She was ashamed of that. It was terrible service that went directly against their code of conduct, foe or not.
“Would you like to eat in one of the dining rooms, Heathcliff?” Ishmael asks politely. A nearby servant named Jenny cannot control her expression at the personal tone when she gasps, scandalized by the familiarity between them.
Heathcliff glances at his companion and begins to back out of the room lethargically, as if she was dragging him around. “If you’d like.”
“If…you’d like?” Jenny repeats to Ishmael’s ear, who promptly ignores it.
She then does a courtesy bow to the staff, issuing an order: “Please bring the meal to the blue room in the west hall.” She gives them a final look, especially to Jenny. “Keep it simple, don’t do anything stupid, please.”
But Jenny’s loud mouth fires off before she leaves earshot. “Doesn’t anyone else find that insane?!”
The blue room was well-named and well-lit; in an otherwise monochromatic home that was traditional and basically mandatory in the manors of the Nest, this room was a stunning change of pace. However, the novelty soon fades once you understand that the room was much like all the other finely appointed ones, just all blue.
She stands near the head of the table, waiting for him to take a seat. She then notices he is still wearing that outerwear inside, so she insists he shed his coat and scarf before sitting, leaving him in a long-sleeved button up shirt and thick belted vest. He looks unusually more approachable this way, but it bothers her that she thinks so.
“Do you always wear this many layers everywhere?” Ishmael asks him, but quickly realizes this might be all he owns.
“It gets cold here.” He replies plainly. She almost feels bad for him, but she also wants to tell him he smells of rain constantly. Rain and rust.
It's even worse that she's getting used to it, but she was once also used to the smell of fish and whale oil. She shrugs off the thought as soon enough, a procession of items from the kitchen are carried in, and a napkin and setting with pointedly placed cutlery are placed in front of him. He grabs one of the knives, it is polished so well that he uses it as a mirror for his good eye to view Ishmael standing behind him. He cranes his neck to look at her directly. “Are you not going to sit with me? It’s a bore eating alone.”
“I don’t believe it's considered proper since you rank above me, I will eat later.” She explains.
He doesn’t like her use of the word ‘rank’.“Nothing about me is proper, now sit.” He turns to one of the butlers bringing in cutlery. “Oi, get her settled too.” He kicks out a chair next to him with his foot. “C’mon, Ishmael, Sit.”
She heeds him and carefully joins him at the table. But she feels a bit startled. She remembers this being someone else’s seat, and Gregor would sit where Heathcliff was. Lady Isabella used to be on the other side of him. She fights the urge to grimace, for those ruined days. She tried to fix her face, or her present company will notice. He does, but doesn’t call her out.
A place-setting is quickly established in front of her. One of her co-workers timidly places two small basins of warm water mixed with natural oils and herbs, along with two hand towels. The basins give off a pleasant citrus-basil smell.
Heathcliff peels off his gloves, understanding its purpose; hand refreshing. Ishmael supposes she should not be surprised he already knows this custom, having grown up in a manor too. But it reminds her of when she first learned of it after joining the house.
Water lightly splashes out of his basin, which causes her to look at his hands; they are noticeably rough and worked, marked all over with scars. They remind her of someone else her heart quietly held, her face again becoming somber. Ishmael then takes off her own gloves, and notices his eye settled on her. She dips her hand into her bowl; the mixture should have been a touch warmer. She mentally notes to bring the feedback to her fellow servants later. There was an opportunity almost, with a nearby coworker, but Ishmael nearly jumps as Heathcliff grabs her hand suddenly, kneading it, feeling it. He does it only for a few seconds, releasing it after coming to an observation. “You have very rough calluses.” His voice seems astonished.
“L-Likewise.” Her heart is pounding from shock, she avoids looking at any other eyes about the room. This has to be moved on from. “Not what you expected?” She then recovers, soon drying her hands on a towel. The same servant removes the basins and towels, and soon more feet come shuffling down the hall, with the first course. There is an alarming amount of whispers, but Ishmael turns her attention back to their guest.
“I expect it's something to do with your secret past that you keep mum about.” Heathcliff replies, unusually garrulous.“Am I bang on?”
“I thought you had me all figured out. Some backstreets wanderer taken in by a rich family, remember?” She finds the surrounding atmosphere is changing. “Though, calluses can fade. I am just as diligent as a scrubber as anyone else here.” It’s a lie, she’s definitely in a league of her own.
“I have figured something else about you, as well.” His brow resumes back into its usual creased look. “But I will tell you after we finish this meal.”
Her head tilted, curious on what he had to say. But Ishmael gets a clenched feeling in her stomach as bowls finally meet the table for the first course. She turns to another Butler before they leave. “Can you please just bring the rest out soon? I requested this to be simple.” The others nod diligently, but it doesn’t escape her notice that the two that had just entered pile up to also whisper again on their way out.
Heathcliff stares down at the soup, sniffing it. It is a meat-based broth from what he can gather. It also has a strong smell of onion. There’s something else he can’t place. His hand goes down to lift a spoon. “Is this the right one?”
Ishmael leans slightly, to look. “Yes, actually. The smaller one is for dessert.”
She finds herself flushing when he touches her cheek suddenly, not used to physical touch. It makes her very anxious. Many things made her anxious. “Uh- what-” But it fully frightens her when his hand moves from her cheek to grip at her jaw.
“I’d like you to taste it for me.” He says, blowing on the steaming portion of his soup he picked up on his spoon.
She feels a strange inexplicable tingle that is short-lived; he doesn’t allow her choice in the matter, as he shoves it quickly into her mouth.
Ishmael sputters, equally from his harsh shoving and the burning liquid. She indiscreetly spits out the portion onto her napkin, the staining is unusual, the smell even more so, she looks up in disgust once she realizes, but her throat also burns, she quickly reaches for her water glass, but Heathcliff plucks it away.
“No, no. Don’t wash it down yet-” It's completely predictable to him, the whole situation. She starts gasping, her eyes start to roll back. It burns, it hurts! Her mind is screaming.
“Hold on, lass!” He quickly fishes a bottle of something from his pockets, a tablet of sorts, and forces her to ingest it. “Swallow, it's charcoal, it’ll stop you from absorbing any more poison.” He has been wise on stocking such pills since childhood, it was one thing to thank his former caretaker for, as she had hosted many banquets with officials that often ended with poisonings. He then hands her the water glass back. She immediately takes it, swallowing it down and drinking the water so swiftly, then taking his water glass too, drinking enough that it feels like she may vomit. Some relief comes soon to her throat, but it's nothing to quell her sudden liquid-hot anger.
She promptly grabs Heathcliff’s bowl and storms out of her seat, she marches down the hall to the kitchen.
Jenny, with a cocky smile and holding a ladle, greets her. “Here she comes! Did it work-”
Ishmael throws the bowlful of soup directly at her face. Jenny screeches and writhes as she begins screaming about her eyes. Ishmael is still furious. “Stop laying there and wash them out!” The rest of the staff on kitchen duty peer from their stations, a couple of them hoist Jenny under the sink, spraying her down.
“Told you it was a stupid plan!” One of them harshly tells her.
Jenny’s eyes stings as she continues screaming: “Well, what is your plan, Ishmael!? Why is he still here?! Are you trying to domesticate him?!”
Ishmael seethes, but she had already punished her. “What you just pulled is not acceptable! It is not your place to make such decisions! Heathcliff’s service is mine to oversee! I told you not to do anything but prepare a simple meal, next time do your fucking job! ”
“You mean that damn WOLF?” Jenny’s eyes and skin look terrible; red and pink and burnt with irritation when she finally comes up from the nozzle. “You didn’t answer me, Ishmael! What are you going to do about him?”
Someone knew a fight was bound to break out, as another Butler comes with Lady Ryōshū to quickly end it. She enters the kitchen, scowling. Her arm was wrapped in a cast and her head was still bandaged, healing was going slow as she elected to not touch the limited supply of ampoules. The houses’ funds were temporarily frozen until Gregor woke up. It was an entire mess she was presently dealing with since the takeover. But even in her battered state, Ryōshū bends over to pick up the discarded bowl from the floor, which was miraculously still intact. She sniffs it and sighs. “Which one of you idiots put poison on the menu?”
Jenny begins to scream, wagging a finger at Ishmael. "Look what she did to me! Look what she did!”
“Looks bad, Jenny.” Ryōshū acknowledges. “Did you do it?”
Jenny crazily rants more. “She let the Wolf sit in the Blue Room! Are we really letting him take over our home? She has been with him for days and has made no attempts to kill him!”
Ryōshū lifts an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Ishmael turned and curtsied to her superior. “Mistress, I-”
She was cut off with a hand wave. The Head Butler loathes this petty situation. “Allow me to explain something to you all. Ishmael has the right of it, P.N, and you might survive another day. Do not initiate any O.M. unless instructed.”
“Play nice, no offensive measures.” A younger butler repeated for the sake of clarity.
Jenny was not convinced. “It’s cowardly, Mistress! How is this interloper any different? Just because you knew him once?!” She fell to her knees, inconsolable. “Look at what he did to the Master! We’re hostages as long as he holds that deed! We cannot just wait this out, why isn’t anyone else doing anything! We are all going to die just waiting for him to strike!” She begins to clutch at her face. “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE-“
The head maid pulls her back up to her feet with one hand. “S.Y.B.A.U. I don’t need such weak-minded idiots in our ranks. Your actions led to one of our own getting poisoned, but did you account for that?” She turns. “Ishmael, go puke already. You look like shit.”
Jenny becomes a bit pale herself. “Who switched the b-bowls…She was poisoned all this time?”
Ryōshū dispatches another butler to get medicine for both women.
Ishmael nods after receiving her command to leave, she had been battling nausea this entire ordeal. She ducks quickly out of the kitchen for the nearest restroom, passing Heathcliff in the doorway, with his arms folded, listening in against the wall.
Ishmael miraculously makes it; but vomits so much that she even chokes up bile, it's so painful and disgusting that she forcibly weeps with her head down in the porcelain sink, trying to wash up. Strangely enough, even despite her pitiful state, she knows for a fact that it is still not yet one of the worst days of her life.
She exits, and Heathcliff is no longer there in the corridor. Whatever he meant to tell her after eating is now forfeit; she wandered the halls and grounds for the span of two hours and couldn't find a trace of him. She is disturbed by the fact that she finds herself rather disappointed by this.
The thought of him touching her earlier resurfaces, and she looks down at her gloved hand, lightly sweeping it on the edge of her face, recalling his scarred hands. She notices an odd flutter in her core; she concludes she must still be a bit sick.
Night falls, and with the medicine she insists she is fit to return to duty. After she finally finishes her routine chores and sweeping for the day, she cleans up to get ready for bed. Ishmael is one of the few staff members bestowed with a small guest room of her own, complete with a large window in the west wing of the house, facing a courtyard. She had been given it fair and square with her own efforts, as Ryōshū is the one who decides the room assignments. Her room brings her much pride, since those who have better room assignments are usually almost always shortlisted for internal promotions. But she wonders how much of that matters now.
Her head hits her pillow and she almost immediately falls asleep. But her eyes flutter open as she hears some rustling at her window. She quickly turns on her lamp and grabs a knife from her nightstand. “Who is there?” Her voice is a harsh whisper. The curtains of her window are softly opaque, but she notices the familiar outline in the moonlight. She gets up and throws the curtains open to fully see none other than Heathcliff standing there. She opens the window a bit more, but not enough to let him in. “Well this is unsettling.” She chides him, but doesn't deny her nerves. “What are you doing?”
He even seems slightly abashed. “Checking on you.”
Ishmael wonders if she's allowed to feel touched. It can't be right that they were that close. She does her best to ignore whatever glad feeling she has and remembers other details. “As you can see, the poison you forced down my mouth didn’t finish the job.” She scolds him. “You could have told me you thought the soup was tainted, I would have sent it back and made you a meal myself-”
He sighs, it sounds desperate to her, his face is even pitiable. “But why? What could you possibly owe me?”
Ishmael slowly blinks, dumbfounded. “Did you really feel guilty about it?”
“Perhaps.” Heathcliff turns away from the window. “I don’t know...” He knows it's worse that he enjoyed it, but he was not glad at the prospect of losing his new daily companion. He even tells her this. “I would be very irritated if you died like that. I just wanted to prove a point.”
“Point taken.” It really bothers her more that she is not off-put by his honesty, implying a level to their relationship that she was equally terrified to admit she was enjoying. Her mind had been preoccupied a lot with the state of it. “Well I’m alive, for now. You really didn’t need to return to Thrushcross Grange just for that.”
He sighs again, like this newfound vulnerability is quickly exhausting him. “I have yet to actually leave the property today.”
“But I looked for you!” The statement leaves her mouth before she could put it back and change it to something less wanting. Her cheeks flush again. “I just wanted you to answer for making me drink that, and I looked everywhere, you were gone.”
Heathcliff palms at his scarf, tugging it looser, as if he’s choked by it. It makes him look apologetic as he lifts up around his face for a moment before letting it fall. “I am…very good at hide and seek.” He finally says in a low voice.
Ishmael doesn’t understand why the way he phrased that flustered her so much. “Ah, so you’ve been stalking me, that must be how you found my room.”
“You don’t remember the tour you gave me?” He replies.
It doesn't answer the question of how he knew this room was hers, she didn't make it clear. She is ready to cut off the conversation by closing her window, but his stomach involuntarily groans. It’s so incredibly mundane, but it makes her throw her window open to bring him inside. “Ugh. I still owe you a meal. Stay here for a moment.”
She sneaks into the main kitchen, knowing that through the schedule the night shift team are all in the servants’ kitchen. She is able to get some premade lunch boxes from the quick service fridge. They are filled with cut meats, cheese and prepared vegetables. She even grabs some bread along with it, as well as a corked bottle of ultra-filtered water. It had to be better than whatever he had been surviving on.
By the time she returns he is sitting on the floor, reading her journal near the lamp on her bedside table. “Has anyone ever told you that you over-describe things? Especially fish.”
She snatches the worn-out journal from him, shoving her bounty to him. “Eat.”
He opens the contents, pulling out a piece of cheese. He eats quickly, with only the motive to keep his body sustained, showing very little enjoyment in it. He shoves most of the food into his pockets for later, clearing his throat. “So. You were a sailor.”
The question reminds him of an old conversation she had with Gregor long ago, but she pushes the memory away, as the company of the present would never approve; or vice versa. She nods slowly. “Yeah. But I don’t feel like going into it much.”
“Well, it explains that look on your face.” He recounts, carefully opening the bottle to slake his thirst, taking a long swig before wiping his mouth with his hand. “The very thing I was thinking in that blue room too.”
“And what is that?” She asks, sitting down on her bed, her eyes trail to his scarf and tattered coat again, she begins tugging at the scarf. She would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a changed atmosphere around them. “Take this off if you’re going to be sitting against my clean bed.”
His head turns, but his patched eye still makes it impossible to see her well, surprisingly, he complies, moving his body forward to begin shaking it off. Once it is removed, he lays it on the floor next to him. They share a moment where they look at each other for a few seconds far too long.
It hits her that there's definitely an air of change between them when she begins to think about his comfort again. She finds herself joining him on the floor, sitting with her knees to her chest. This in itself was entirely a bit improper; as she wore just a cotton nightgown issued by the manor. At least it covered her to her lower shins, thick enough for the cold stormy nights. She nudges him with her elbow to continue.
Heathcliff is able to turn and look at her better now, but he finds himself rigidly trying to keep his eyes on her face. He seems to swallow a lump in his throat before finally speaking again. “What I was going to say was that you’re paddling so hard to keep your head above the surface.”
Her eyes narrow, half-lidded. “So you believe I am drowning?”
“Not quite. You have the look of a woman who knows she may never make it to shore.” His voice seems a bit softer.
She could not argue with that. It was now her time to lay down her observations. She stares at mouth. “Says the man who threatened to kill this entire house nearly a week ago. What are your intentions now, if not that apocalyptic banquet? Are you enjoying having a house full of hostages?” It comes out exactly as harsh as she means it. Maybe she wants a rise out of him. She moves her legs out in front of her, scooting to better confront him.
Her intimidation is quite something, all hunched over him like a yowling cat. Her eyes are far from lifeless at that moment, but he can clearly see her struggling, wanting a response. He notices the falling sleeve, exposing her shoulder that she makes no attempts to fix. He leans in, speaking with a deliberate teasing tone. “I will never have a satisfying answer for you. It will never be my intention to release anyone in this house from torment.”
“Your presence does bring torment,” She admits, her breath hitching as he grows closer. She doesn’t stop the way she’s hovering as well. “But can you find any other use for that anger of yours? Does the heat of fires you create ever keep you warm?”
“Never. I don’t think it ever will.” His lips are almost pressed against her ear. Heat is also swimming to his head, as he shifts her weight and pulls her fully on top of him. “But I wonder what fires I can make here.”
She goes silent, her eyes fluttering closed as she leans in to kiss him. He impatiently deepens it, it is very rough, nearly overwhelming. But it doesn’t stop them from trying several more times. Her fluttery feeling from before is in full force, as she began rocking her hips against the mound of his pants. He even groans and bucks his hips into the friction, only stopping before he hits over his limit.
As she catches her breath, she wonders how she got swept up in all of this, but he doesn’t afford her much more time to think thoroughly. He bites a glove off with his teeth, shoving his hand up the gathered skirt of her nightgown. He soon finds his mark, the slick and heat guiding him to her core. Heathcliff is not a proper man by any means, but he does believe in ladies first as he prods into her.
One of those scarred and roughened hands she admired earlier was definitely between her thighs now. She gasps, latching her arms around him tightly. “N-not so rough!”
Heathcliff restrains himself, letting her guide his hand better. She gasps in a particular way and he takes back control, doing his utmost to unwind the tension in her body, as she spasms favorably in his hands. She elicits a gratified sigh as slumps limply onto his shoulder. He finds himself thinking that her eyelashes and freckles are so alluring. He also admires the way she bites her lip when trying to stifle her voice. These sights, touches, and tastes are so new and liberating, as he doesn’t recall if he ever got this far before. He has never been interested much in torrid meetings or flings. There is that unfulfilled ghost of devotion from his past. His unhappy memory forces him to confront that does remember the Edgar girl, and how she threw herself at him, how he soon abandoned her; but to recall such things only ruins his mood. This constant misery reminds him it's his only match. He doesn’t deserve this lovely distraction, not a moment of reprieve. He doesn’t deserve anything other than his empty rage. He cannot keep avoiding this truth of his existence.
Heathcliff presses himself against Ishmael tightly, nuzzling into her shoulder as her arms wrap around his back. He knows the warmth cannot last, he has to end it before it is ripped away from him. His voice shakes. “How much longer are you going to allow a beast to stay in your room?”
She sits up, coming down from her wiped slate feeling. There is an uncertainty that begins to fill her head as the question is spoken. “Stop that. You are a man, human as anyone else.”
Heathcliff crudely pushes her off him, grabbing his belongings so he can see himself out. “No, tell yourself I was a beast, that you were frightened, anything that makes you hate me.” He doesn’t allow her much room to retort. “If you cannot bring yourself to do that, then think of who you are betraying.”
He ducks out of her window and disappears into the night.
Awake
The next morning, Ishmael rises early. She takes an early bath, forcing herself to forget. ‘It was a dream’ she repeats every single time the thoughts come to mind. It was a dream and nothing else. A dream, in the way her subconscious thoughts were twisted into form. It was a dream, despite her barely sleeping at all. She must bury all those thoughts as a fleeting experience; she is awake now.
Ishmael throws herself into work. She will have plenty of time to prepare Gregor’s morning tea, which has done nothing but go cold and undrunk since he became bedridden. She still prepares it diligently; just in case. A part of her mind weakly wanders to the bottle left in her room. Something is seriously wrong with her. She takes a pause, recalling Jenny’s words from the day before. Her stomach, which was still recovering, turns uncomfortably.
Those parting words are rehashed in her head countlessly; think of who she was betraying.
Reaching the door to the kitchen, Ishmael quietly slips in, turning on just one light. She begins grabbing a kettle and basket to fill. She then reaches up for a frying pan, but freezes in place when she sees a shoe brush against her arm. From above, suspending from the ceiling pot rack, a body hangs lifelessly with an apron twisted around the neck. It was Jenny.
Ishmael emotionlessly fills the kettle and puts it on the stove to boil. She exits the kitchen and calmly asks someone still awake on nightshift to remove her. The once quiet kitchen fills with her coworkers, a mix of reactions ranging from annoyed by the mess to disappointment. This is unfortunately not a unique incident. There are a few sad words, but ultimately; everyone is tired. Death is so constant in their lives, even in this profession that was once considered a safer and more respectable form of living. It’s not long until a furnace is lit. That is the fate that is expected of anyone who dies on the property. Jenny’s ashes will be mailed to her next of kin, if she is fortunate to have any.
Ishmael refuses to react. She doesn’t want to think what that poor girl was feeling since she last saw her. But dread sets in when her mind turns to Gregor's accusation about the Wolf hanging Miss Isabella’s dog. An angry tear slides down her cheek. She is so disgusted. She swipes it away with her white glove and forces herself to focus. That is right, the Wolf. There is no longer a man. She doesn’t want to look past the myth anymore.
Ishmael soon finishes bringing up the tea to Gregor’s room, and he manages to stir a bit. His eyes are half-open, struggling to stay that way from the medication he is dosed with. “Did they... find Isabella?” He struggles to ask.
Ishmael puts down the tray to come to his bedside, swiping a hair from his eyes. She knows lying won’t help him. “Not yet.”
“Oh.” He swallows, his mouth is dry. “They didn’t.” He breathes out, and his eyes start to flutter close. He coughs, and that's all the strength sapped from him for the present.
“Master Gregor, please, we need you awake!” Ishmael shouts, lightly nudging him.
Ryōshū bursts into the room quickly. “He was awake?” She instructs the medical team to stop medicating him so heavily for a while now that he is stable. Her patience and sanity is wearing thin, even if she is wearing the pressure well. They need to discuss a lot of important matters that are starting to become unmanageable. “It's come to this, foolish Master. I have to force you.”
“Won’t the shock of the Wolf’s presence here make his health worse?” Ishmael asks, recalling her thoughts from that morning. Guilt was consuming her. Even though her original intentions were to distract him from harming anyone, she herself became distracted. Even if Gregor had wronged him somehow, or so he so viciously believed. She wanted him out of her head.
“Don’t ask me things you know the answer to.” Ryōshū’s voice has a hard edge to it. “If only I was able to kill him before all of this...I should take an ampoule and try again.” She glances at Ishmael. “I hate to ask you to, but play house with him a bit longer.”
“Huh, play house?” It makes her flesh crawl that her superior would know about that entanglement. It is the last thing she needs, to be marked and ostracized. “I-Is that what you really think I am doing?”
Ryōshū doesn’t seem to be taking the accusation as seriously. “I.D.C. Lure him naked into a bathtub and then strangle him with your hair, do whatever it takes at this point.”
“Please stop making these tasteless jokes.” Ishmael balls her fists into her apron. “That's not an order, is it?” She would sooner be strangled by her own hair than get close to him again.
Ryōshū assumes she’s just disgusted by the idea. “O.C.N.” Her brave face faltered. “Did something happen? You seem less focused than usual.”
“I just didn’t sleep well.” It is somewhat the truth.
Ryoshu doesn’t push it, but looks unconvinced. “I need to know you're prepared to use your cutlery, no matter how tough the meat is.”
She avoids more suspicion. “I am definitely prepared.” Ishmael even nods, but she doesn't know how confident she sounds about it.
Her mistress sighs. “I am not sure I can do it myself. That's why I lost that day that he called this insane truce.” She starts out of Gregor’s room, away from the other butlers. They stand out in the corridor, and she shuts the door lightly. “I cared so much about that boy, but I know I never did enough. I wish I could be the one to kill him, but I've already failed.” Her teeth grits on the word ‘failed’. Ishmael thinks back to that comment he made about abandonment, she must have taken that very personally.
Ishmael takes the utmost pride in her job, and she has never failed a request. But she has no idea how she will surmount this.
The Cloche
She dreams the Wolf’s head in her arms, under a cloche. She places it on a table in front of the gallery of her peers.“Revenge is served.” She’d announce.
But when she lifts the cloche, The Wolf’s head laughs back at her, baring his teeth. “You know I’d sooner devour you.”
Pallid
But nothing moves so quickly.
Heathcliff doesn't show back up at the house. But luckily in his absence, Gregor has woken up. The estate somehow returns to a gentle semblance of normalcy, despite the feeling of a sword still hanging above their heads.
Ishmael brings Gregor his morning tea, it's so obvious he’s in constant pain, cradling his arm, sitting on the mattress in his bedclothes. He looks stunned and battered, but makes a conscious effort to drink it, even though it sloshes in an unavoidable shake in his hand.
Ishmael uses a serviette to clean the amount that dribbles down his chin
He waves her off, holding up a napkin from his lap. “It’s okay, I can do this much.”
But she is unable to hold back her somber face, it breaks her heart to see the person she had expended so much effort to keep safe completely become a broken shell. But the fact remains that it is only the Wolf’s will that any of them are still alive at all. Heathcliff. Will he ever leave her thoughts? She recalls their first conversation, and the top of the stairs. What if her Master had noticed that same gap? “Master, I am very sorry to ask, but do you recall another portrait at the top of the grand staircase?”
He coughs up more of his tea, wiping it from his mouth and beard feebly. “I am very sorry Ishmael, I beg your pardon?”
Ishmael asks him again, with an unsure tone. Gregor’s entire body shakes as he looks at her with a confused and shocked stare, “D-Did he put you up to this?” His terrified voice is ice to her veins. “Are you one of his shadows sent to mock me?”
Ishmael is quickly horrified by what she unleashed. “Master, this isn’t a nightmare. I just want to help you! Please-”
“Nightmare or not, each moment I am reminded of his existence, I am dying!” He claws feebly at the length of her apron, desperate tears flow down his cheeks. “Enough of this torment, kill me and be over with it! This procession is much too slow, this game of hide and seek overdue for an end!”
“I’m so sorry, I am so sorry for what I have done!” She pleads like she’s begging forgiveness for all of her sins. She wipes his tears away with her serviette, and tries to steady him. He feels so light and brittle in her hands. “I just wanted to understand something.” She replies, her eyes also welling up. She almost said ‘both sides’ but how can she ever be on any other side but his? How could she have looked at someone else?
Gregor's waking nightmare continues, but he is losing strength in his movement. His eyes bulging, his voice wild, “And if the origin of this waking torment is that very missing portrait you seek, to confirm its memory surely claims my responsibility! That he is correct in his taunt, that this pain is deserved! If my existence is to pay penance for this rift, then he can take my head, take my heart, take it! May he choke and die as he swallows it all!”
Other servants enter the room, picking up on the commotion. They have medicine ready in hand, to sedate him again. “Please leave!” One of them shouts. “Whatever you are doing, you are agitating him!”
The door is nearly shut on her apron as Ishmael is thrown out of the room. In this, she feels she has been put into her place. She sinks to her knees, remembering the old cries of mermaids from times long past. She will perhaps remember this day as one of the worst of her life. Despite having seen the void directly in the shape of a whale’s eye, she would rather see that monstrous sight a hundredfold than witness another person she loves break down and lose themselves. The cruel cycle of sickness reminds her so much of palidification. She fidgets uncomfortably at resurfaced memories. While it feels like a lifetime ago, the woe in her heart is evergreen. Her duty and devotion to her Master and position had begun to fill the surrounding gashes and cracks it endured, but now such notions only break it further. She does not know how much longer it can hold out before the grief snuffs her.
“You’re paddling so hard to keep your head above the surface.” Damn his voice in her head.
“Yes, this game of hide and seek is overdue for an end.” It was time for her to confront these stifling feelings. To cross the dark woods and seek the Wolf.
Hide and Seek
Thunder crashes, rain pours. It is the same as before. Nothing soothes, nothing shields him from it. He’s imagined a hand holding an umbrella for him many times, but he is no closer to fully realizing the spectre until the image turns into that maid, every time.
These events were never in any mirrors he observed, that mysterious looking glass he found in a room upstairs. He has conferred with himself before. He remembers the ends. Ashes and dust made of all. But the most pertinent thing he had discovered is what happens after. Corpses sprinkled through the moors was not only boring and bleak; it was lonely. He has long since broken that mirror. Total isolation is now his punishment.
When he had plans for taking both estates, he had hoped to slow down his path of revenge, savor it, use the cards in his hands like pawns. But when he had his homecoming at Wuthering Heights, things quickly became out of hand. Hindley, that prat. He was still Hindley in all the ways he used to be, just filthier and drunker. It was a ton of work for him to track down and painstakingly trade hands until he won Wuthering Heights’ deed. Even when presented with this reality, the belligerent man could not accept it. Hindley was the first to die. After that blood was on his hands, the rest of the manor set in motion to attack. He had no choice but to kill them all. Their deaths rang hollow as he came to expect. He had higher hopes on the next part; obtaining that damnably grand manor on the hill. It had easily fallen into his lap. But after the day of his takeover, he had grown such reservations about it. It would have been even easier than his childhood home to destroy. But the missing piece was linked. What if there was something, anything that was left behind? He found himself delaying. And when he became entangled with her, Ishmael.
Heathcliff wanted to sink his teeth into her and tear her apart. He equally wanted to put light into her listless eyes. Break her, mend her. Make her bear his shame, his longing. Make her pay for making him feel something other than rage. The curse, that void in his soul, if it desires for him to pay retribution for one night of warmth, then he will pledge his suffering to it eternal. But to that missing thing, he blames it for his desire of warmth to begin with. Why did you leave him this way?
It is bone chillingly cold inside this old mansion. It feels like it's been empty for a countless amount of days. He hears the dead whispering from the halls to the rafters, as the long-deceased cling to its foundation. He knows the creaks and the bends, the sound of gales and lightning strikes laying its fury on its ancient structure. The monotonous pattern only breaks when he hears the front door open, possibly blown open by the storm. He stares up at the ceiling on that old cot, with no desire to move, he doesn’t know if he has the strength. The cacophony in his head was just starting to make sense. The noise soon dies as silence.
Then it begins: someone has lit a fire, he knows because heat begins to rise. It had to be the fireplace in that corner room that he remembers sitting by as a child, no other corner was capable of this heat. Footsteps start creaking up the stairs. His heart, so long after being broken, begins to beat with trepidation. Yes, he can nearly imagine her now, finally coming home at last.
“Found you, Heathcliff. Now come downstairs.”
A breath escapes him, it's not- its not death, yet. That voice brings him just enough strength, he is found. His balance is unsteady, falls halfway down the stairs, crashing down to meet her. His body is so sore, but he drags himself up, limping.
She is stoking the fireplace when he finds her, but her long hair is hidden by the hood of a long cloak. He wastes no time to peel it down, those lashes and freckles greeting him. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, because the sight of him made her eyes water.
She has come here to carve him. But Ishmael immediately falters: he is utterly formidable to look at. This is more of an ambling shadow than a man, and certainly no wolf. He looks closer to the rotting corpses she had stepped over in the yard, he is as gaunt and cold to the touch. It is hard to believe this is the man that almost destroyed them all.
He gives her a kiss, it is off-kilter because he is shaking so much. Ishmael lets him kiss her, but only places a kiss on his knuckle in return. She needs time.They say absolutely nothing else that night, because she then takes him to the sofa to sit with her, and soothes him to sleep by playing with his hair. He expects to never wake, but then she wakes him to eat the next day. Days pass this way.
They play house, delaying the end. Ishmael knows the end has to come, and so does he. But not yet. For now, she feeds him what she can find in the kitchen pantry, and lets him sleep in her arms. Eventually, he regains part of himself as they stay on that first floor, primarily in that one room, as if the fireplace is the only place that is safe.
Once his health improves, a dalliance begins. Just like fervid daydreams, he devours her on a stack of blankets in front of the fireplace. He wants to carve the memory of her shuddering below, as much as her riding waves above him. He confirms it is worth the price of hell, doubly so when she begins to ravish him. His soul is lit as she scrapes her teeth down his neck and collarbone, covering the trail with planted kisses. Her way of loving is also thorough and diligent. But when they meet the ending of these moments, he awaits his retribution. Every moment feels like his least meal.
The ceiling may fall on them at any moment, he is certain this amount of contentment cannot continue in this accursed place. He is slow to accept, but never uncertain that she may be the one to end him, his personal harbinger. Perhaps this is her way of slowly torturing him.
They are again entangled together on the floor, he places his head on the crook of her shoulder after pushing her long hair out of the way. “Thank you. I feel…warm.”
“Because you are warm.” Ishmael replies simply, sitting up to look at him with an implacable gaze. She is not harsh, her voice is soft. “Heathcliff, I have something to show you, but we have to leave this house.”
He knows; without the servants to keep it in order, the manor has begun to decay and fall apart. But to leave, they have to pass the threshold, which means he'll be facing the rain again. But of all things, she hands him an umbrella, and something feels light inside him.
She nudges her hand against his shoulder as she leads him up to a hill with a tree, where a lonesome, unmarked grave sits. “It was a thought I had. There's that hole in our memories, yet no one knows who this grave belongs to.”
His umbrella shakes. “I’ve already dug this place up.” He admits, sighing. “Nothing was inside.”
“It makes you wonder why.” Ishmael nods sadly, patting his arm. “Just pretend they are still here. Tell them everything you’ve been thinking. How much you miss them, what you wish was different.” She stares at the grave, wincing her eyes, “It's the type of talk I wish I had.” She means it for the past and the present.
She steps back as Heathcliff kneels before the ground. It's hard for him to begin at first. He mutters lightly, twisting at the long wet grass. But something breaks, and he begins recapping until it turns into bitter declarations. He tells it of his tortured days, his haunting half-memories, the years of freezing rain. He tells his sins, his anger, how much he hates them, how much he must love them for driving him to fall into madness. He hopes they’ll forgive them for thinking of someone else. He hopes they weren’t lonely like him all this time, wherever they may be. When he finally quiets, he feels cold steel against his neck. He lifts his chin to make it easier for her.
Ishmael's hand pauses, she closes her eyes briefly, letting the rain hit her face; in an odd way she is the only thing that is shielding him from the brunt of it. It's so freezing cold, but she only feels a calm, peaceful feeling as she quietly drops her blade. She shares with him that final feeling of strangled peace. Her closure is no closure at all. She’s allowing herself to take a half-measure.
The sky crackles, bathing everything in a muddled white light before a hurling lightning bolt to the grave, driving straight through the material of Heathcliff’s slumped umbrella next to his foot, and soon recoiling into their bodies, jolts surging through as both of them as they fall, hitting the ground.
After
Gregor stares out at the window everyday after Ishmael never returns home. His health is forcibly stable, but the lack of nightmares do not heal him overnight. His only consolation of his dear employee's disappearance, is that the deed to Thrushcross Grange miraculously turned up wrapped in a cloak by the front gate. He blames himself for her fate, unable to stop the events in the first place. The only thing he can do is send people to search for her, but his hopes are grim, as he witnessed Wuthering Heights burning down from afar.
Ryōshū similarly sighs with a hint of remorse, whatever she had done to accomplish her impossible task, she hoped she didn't lose herself in the process. Even if it's foolish, she hopes Ishmael is alive somewhere. She does not allow herself the same comfort for Heathcliff, though, despite never finding bodies for either of them. It was better for many if he was thought to be dead.
One day, there is a commotion downstairs as one of the other servants calls for her. “Lady Ryōshū! There's a strange and dirty woman claiming to be Miss Isabella at the door.”
She sighs, though she would never gamble on the odds, she would be receptive to another impossible event.
Years Pass
A man with short dark brown hair and a prosthetic eye shows up to a fixer office with a ginger-haired woman in tow. He carries a large sword, she wields daggers. They're extremely overqualified for these newbie positions, but that is what a lack of background paperwork gets you.
They've had to rebuild their lives backward from shattered pieces. Maybe one day they will put those mirrors back together again, but perhaps they will remain askew. They can learn to live with the pieces missing, if thierselves are lost too.
Empty portrait, full gaze.
YouTube link.
What day is it?
Winter uniform doodles
Same feeling.
A Minor Delusion for a scene from the last Walpurgisnight.
Okay, recently I had 78 and 87 subscribers on Telegram, and I said that people could ask me to draw anything they wanted So yeah - I still have those words from Certian Sinclair in my head. - Huh? - He said that we all split up in the future and, as I understand it, didn't see each other much after that.
- I have no problem with us all going our separate ways after the contract ended. It's just that we lost contact, that Certain Sinclair was happy to spend his last moments with “us”...
- I don't want us to lose contact either. - With all of you. - So let's try not to let that happen
In this very 2010s animation project of mine, I made a little short visual fanfic for Kurokumo Ishmael and Heathcliff.
"Shh! Be quiet, back up already..."
He's not the one sleeping for once.
I just thought that them losing a bet and ending up having to sing a duet at New Year's Karaoke would be fun. Really taking it in stride, by choosing this song... The rest of the sinners are just along for the ride.
(That Ish is my terrible singing voice, I am sorry. I made these models, but these particular outfits were edited from finds that I purchased from BOOTH. Heath's voice is the original artist, just edited.)
First drawing of 2026 is a meme redraw we're off to a #great start
I don’t think he’ll make it to any other house tonight.
