#(v.) skellig.

[ex-mercenary]

   “Without any warning given, she begins to scratch that favourite spot of his, just below the ears. While many foes failed in their feat to make the Black Swordsman surrender, Casca had the answer. And this knowledge made her Guts' most dangerous enemy.” - @bladeofthehawk

   She knows Guts is mad at her. Casca gives too much attention to that stupid pet fish of hers---attention that should be his. She knows he’s mad, but she also sees through a ruse only a child could ever naively think might work. He’s been sitting in the same sun-beaten spot for most of the afternoon, his occasional glare her only contact from him since breakfast. It’s second nature of Casca to just ignore his stubborn pouting whenever it concerned Fillet but Casca wasn’t seeing any fun in playing dumb this time, and her smiling can’t be stopped.

   Guts knows she’s planning something when she draws near, but is too busy pretending to be grumpy to call her out on it. When she finally strikes, however .  .  . it feels good. It’s an itch Guts didn't know needed scratching. He’s in trouble. He’s sure it’s her influence, making his eye slowly close and his head lean back on her for a just a little bit more. It’s her influence that brings a low rumble to his chest, confessing to her it’s what he’s wanted all along. Damn her.

          “I missed you today.” Apparently, he’s finally deemed her worthy of his words.

                         “And whose fault is that, Guts?” she rose a teasing brow.

                                                               “The fish.”

                                           Casca groans. “You’re such a dork.” 

   She can’t help enjoying these little tantrums, and keeps him tamed with another affectionate scratch beneath the ears. Resting his head back on her lap, Guts grins up at her. Damn him.

[ex-mercenary]

Thursday had been timid since the moment he had arrived to skellig with his sister. And in those months that passed, with the help of his new family, he was working on breaking out of his shell. There came a point in time where he couldn't help himself in how he saw Guts and Casca.. like another set of parents for him and his sister. He approached quietly one day, taking his seat besides the old dog, and gently tugged at his cloak. "Mr..Guts? Could.. would you mind if I called you papa..?"

   Among the island inhabitants—both native and otherwise—it isn’t exactly a secret that Guts and Casca have started to become like surrogates to many. Some human, but most not. 

   Guts had originally come up here to spend some time alone, but a half-pint’s company couldn’t be so bad. Thursday’s a rather timid kid anyway, so perhaps he too seeks some time away. That kind of thinking is what takes Guts by surprise all the more when unlike the others, Thursday asks him outright. It takes a moment for the swordsman’s silent stare to break away from the boy. The name papa is still quite a heavy burden for him to adopt, but it isn’t exactly wrong at this point, is it? A minute passes, and the blank slate of Guts’ features relaxes into a half-smile beneath the collar of his cloak. Ah, whatever. Anything is better than Mr. Guts.

              Indeed, this island has softened him more than he likes to admit.

   “Well, if you did, I guess I could let it slide once or twice.” It rolled off the tongue nicely. A massive hand reaches out to cover the top of the boy’s scruffy head in an affectionate pat.

              “Keep it between us for now though, eh?”