for the Kiss Ask Game: Kirk/Uhura, #26 (as an apology)! I don't actually ship Kirk/Uhura so platonic is fine -- what I'm especially interested in seeing is the possible angst/aftermath of their forced kiss in Plato's Stepchildren (but you can, of course, take it any direction you want to as a writer). Have fun!
Thank you for being very very patient as I went. far overboard on this prompt! 💚 "I'll write a short thing," I said, "it won't take long at all!" Lies. Anyways, five months later... I hope you're in the mood for 3000 words of emotional hurt/comfort and Uhura-Kirk friendship!
Because this is a post-Plato's Stepchildren fic, warnings for discussion of past non-con kissing, and allusions to other past non-con. I don't think it's particularly detailed, but it is emotional, and it is the central focus of the fic, so read at your own discretion. That said, the fic is also very centered on healing and friendship, so please rest assured that it's not at all dark!
Due to its length, I am only posting the complete fic on AO3 (I know tumblr can handle the length fine; it just feels a bit silly to post the whole thing two different places), but read on below the cut for a brief preview!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Uhura didn't think she had ever been so glad to change back into her uniform before. Most days, it was a relief to finally get out of it at the end of her shift, but after her time with the Platonians, the familiar red fabric felt like a much-needed shield.
She traced her fingers along the golden lieutenant's stripes which wrapped around her wrists, far more precious in her eyes than the jewelry they had thrust upon her. She had dumped those baubles into her recycler unit the very moment she'd returned, unable to get them off her skin fast enough, and now, she was delighted to be able to do the same to the dress.
Perhaps it could have been lovely, had it not been tied to such a terrible memory.
Uhura shuddered as she gazed upon it, remembering the way her body had moved without her input, entirely helpless beneath the power of the Platonians' minds. Like a puppet tugged along by strings, she thought, forced to dance and perform for entertainment, without a single thought for comfort or humanity. She grimaced, then shoved the cloth forcefully into the recycler, eager to get it out of her sight.
Yes, she was glad to be leaving that planet behind! In the sanctuary of the Enterprise, surrounded by its quiet hum, its familiar beeps and whistles, she felt as though she could survive anything.
Even, she thought wryly, a terribly uncomfortable conversation with my captain.
In truth, she did not want to speak about the kiss — for it could only be the kiss that Kirk wanted to speak about. She had no desire to relive that forced intimacy of the moment, the wound of it still too raw in her mind. And, though guilt twisted through her chest, she found... she did not want to be alone with Kirk. She did not want to look him in the eye, and live again the fear and the shame and the humiliation of it.
But Kirk had asked to speak with her, and she, consummate professional that she was, would oblige.
The client was an older woman. Old enough to be my mother, if I remembered her, only proven by the picture she gave me of her son, close to my age. I was the only one she'd want making the statue, she said, understandable, given the quality of my work. I talked her down on the price though, as much as she would let me. I'm a true bleeding heart I suppose. Though it was hardly my first obituary. Maybe the way she asked.
After she left, I got to work immediately. I tried sketching from the photo, but my hands itched. I was ready from the start, ready to sketch in the air, and almost without thinking I was taking clay and molding it into the man's likeness. Already perfect. A model of exactly the bust the woman wanted, ready to be pulled from stone.
It wasn't him.
I tried to model it again. Then again. Again and again until the sunrise found me surrounded by perfect imitations of his face.
They were all bullshit. I'm an artist, I know what a work wants, what a work needs. That wasn't it.
I called the client and told her I couldn't do it. She tried to talk, almost apologetic, but that wasn't what I was there for. I couldn't do what she asked for, but that was because what she asked for wasn't going to be right. I needed to know how much space she had so I knew what size to make the full-body.
She couldn't pay for that, but I knew as much already. That's why she came to me in the first place. I didn't care if the price didn't change, I cared about making the statue right.
We made another meeting, sat down together, and I sketched for her. She was hesitant, at first, but her confidence grew as she watched me, no doubt assured by my craft. It needed to look like when he was alive, not something posed, sculptural, holy. We circled on his quiet moments as she told them to me- dryly joking, sitting and not-so-quietly reading. A form took shape in graphite, details almost filling themselves in. A book held open face-down on his lap, his head tilted back on the seat in afternoon slumber. Peaceful.
She told me she hoped it helped me. I started work as soon as she was out the door.
I needed the right piece of marble, to begin with. Not something pearly and pure, that wasn't right. Not something with a bold vein in it either, not a statement that would pull view. That wasn't what he was like. Just... flown through with color. Soft but not quite smooth.
The seller seemed surprised at my choice of stone to take with me. They thought I was too vain to ever work with something even a little off color. Shows what they know about art.
It wasn't difficult after that, the process flowing easily under my hands. A day just for the broad shape, more to make a silhouette. I started on the parts of his body, mits turning to hands, head turning to the idea of a face.
This part was always strange, empty space in my home starting to be filled with the shape of another person. I would be startled as I turned around corners to find it, then remember he wasn't actually there. In a day or so I would be acclimated, easier to anticipate it when the statue was no longer new. Not able to surprise me anymore.
I started roughing in the details- eyes gently closed, lips just parted in sleep, fingers curling around the cover of a book. Like he was beginning to come back to life under my fingers. I could almost feel warmth against their tips.
I worked late into the night- unfortunate, but I've never been able to deny my brain when it decided it wants to work. It made me tired, shadows shifting in the corners of my vision. I felt almost watched in the small space, and even against my own wish to work the feeling grew until I forced myself to leave.
I'd been staring at the picture, at the statue, too long- the man's face staying in my eyes as an afterimage. I walked past photos on my walls, and had to stop and look again, sure I'd seen him standing in some near me. He wasn't in them, of course, it's not like I'd ever met the man. The pictures almost seemed empty now. I shook my head, dislodging his image firmly from my mind. The curse of passion for your work.
Soon his mother came to check in on the progress, but it felt like she fussed over me more than the statue. She asked if I was sleeping, eating enough. I always eat enough, I set it to alarms. Clocks don't forget.
"Are you sure? It's just- I thought they usually took longer than this to make."
"It just seems fast, the broad shape is the easiest part. Makes it seem like I've done more than I have. And I want to get it done."
I tried to get back to work after that. It felt different though, maybe her visit had thrown me. Something in the room was wrong, a problem with the thermostat probably, and it was too easy for my mind to stutter when my skin brushed against the statue and found it warm. Whatever was wrong with the thermostat was creating a pressure in the air too, like the feeling of a presence from the nights before.
It didn't feel entirely bad, though, not after I got over it. It unnerved me, initially, but I was still working easily. As the time stretched I could settle from the worry of my mind tricking me into ignoring the daydream. It was only natural I should feel less alone as the man emerged from the stone.
I got up, eventually, to get myself water from another room. As I did so, I passed my photos hung on the walls. They were different, but I had to stare at them. What was wrong? Surely they were the same?
Then a cold trickle ran down my spine. The same as before- the man I was carving, posed into them like he'd always been there, so naturally I hadn't even noticed, and I realized the atmosphere I'd been sitting in all night was not to be as easily dismissed as I had. Lured into complacency by my desire to carve, I missed the weight slowly crushing around my lungs.
I retreated to cooler parts of the house, my mind settling as I did. There was no greater trick at play, of course not- my client must have been right, as loath as I was to admit it. I wasn't sleeping enough, clearly, spending so much time on the statue it was stuck in my brain. My desire for it to not take too much longer than the bust initially ordered pulled, but it wasn't worth this.
I didn't set an alarm for the morning, and pushed myself to bed. I could check the thermostat the next day, let sleep banish all hurt from my body. Some part of me worried, drifting off, of the emptiness my daydreams might leave behind. But I would not be mistreated in this manner. Even by my own tired brain.
The next day I let myself sleep in until the alarm for breakfast went off. I ate, I walked towards my studio, then remembered I was supposed to be resting. Boo. Lazing around is my favorite hobby, but I still like my job more. I would enjoy this though.
For the morning, at least. It was lovely taking the time to do nothing but lie on the couch, reading a play. Then lunch, and a nap, then when I woke I needed to do something. My space felt empty, a hole needing to be filled. I wandered around, trying to find anything to do that worked. Reading was too still, cooking too pointless for the time, cleaning too dull.
I almost gave up on staying in and left to let myself be drowned out by a crowd. But if I must fail I would not do so in such a way.
I drifted back to work. Perhaps it was inevitable, as only when I entered that room and had my tools back in my hand did the hole start to fade with the feeling of doing what I must. I carved.
The afternoon was thankfully cool, but as I went on I realized as the atmosphere slowly changed I'd forgotten to check the thermostat during the day. Heat radiated off the statue, and as it once again played tricks on my mind I figured I hadn't slept nearly as well as I had imagined.
I avoided working the skin, the heat easy to understand for its true cause when I was touching false folds instead of an imitation of a man. I spent a long while working his seat until I moved back to the clothes. As I worked them further from stone the form went from a rough trick to undeniable. He was almost next to me. He'd just been trapped in earth and I merely needed to finish setting him free.
The thought wouldn’t leave my mind as I tried to avoid the living parts and focus on the clothes, but there was only so much I could avoid brushing against his skin as I pulled forth the ends of his sleeves, his collar from stone.
It felt like the air was leaving the room entirely, and my blade kept faltering in my grasp. I tried to focus, but when I ran my hand over the skin I tried to sculpt it was not as smooth as it should've been. Even then, as much as I tried, I could not push myself to leave. I might emerge to rooms that felt horribly empty. I might see pictures that would push me spiraling further. I might return to find nothing but cold stone. I didn't want to be alone again.
My thoughts were too far gone from my body, and my hand slipped, blade striking the man I was holding. The sound echoed in my head as it splintered under my fingers, horrible bleached shards falling to the ground below. I stood, pushing back away from the broken bone on the floor, how could I have done that? He was barely back and I, I almost fell as I stumbled into my chair, landing against him as I did, and how could he catch me after I struck him? My chest was burning, is this how he felt when-
Moonlight shone on marble on the floor, leaching what little color it had. I hadn't noticed when it got so late.
I turned to the thing- it was, as always, lifeless. Of course it was, it had to be, to be a likeness of the man, but I had to lift my hand to his face, test the proof of his absence. I pressed it against the statue's cheek, and his eyes stared into mine, painfully blank. I wished he would blink. A terrible answer, sure, but at least a definite one. A better one. I wished I could be sure what direction the breeze over my fingers came from. I wished my hand felt cold.
I made a friend come visit me the next day.
"This seems faster than you usually finish."
"She came in expecting something that would've been done a lot faster. I want to make up time."
"Of course."
It was a lot easier working with her in the room with me. Especially with the stupid thermostat same as it was. I was using the time to get to detailing all the visible parts of the body I'd been avoiding before.
"It looks good," she said, walking around the statue. "Like- like he's here with us."
Laughable, when her presence was currently the thing distracting my mind from trying its best to think that was true.
"I had good reference," I said, gesturing towards the photo his mother had given me.
She picked it up, looking over the picture of his smiling face. Then her eyes turned back towards me, roving over the back of the statue between us.
"Is that all?" she asked.
"It shows him, doesn't it?"
Her voice took a teasing lilt, "you sure you needed even this?"
"Not any other way for me to know what his face looked like," I snorted. "I was a bit late to meet him."
She looked around my scattered sketches, all of him from different angles as I tried to get the pose down in that first meeting.
"Right," she said, voice faltering.
She walked back over to sit by me again, quieter.
"Does- does it feel different than other pieces you've worked on?"
"Why?"
"It's always hard to lose someone."
"It's not the first time I've carved a dead person. Unusual maybe."
She sighed, but I considered the sleeping face in front of me.
"Heavier though, than the other ones."
My friend followed my gaze, lingering on the resting eyes.
"He was young, wasn’t he?" she said. "Even for that line of work."
I moved down to working the hands. Cold.
"It was violent."
"Quick."
"It was violent."
She sighed. "Yeah.” Then again. “No one deserves that."
"Yes, well, that's what happens in a job like that."
I could hear my voice coming out clipped. The room felt weird without the presence of the preceding days. I didn't like how cold my work felt anymore.
"You don't-"
"What did he expect? I'm sure he did."
"You don't mean that."
"Why wouldn't I? He was supposed to be smart! He knew what he was getting into and this still happened."
The room went quiet. It felt empty.
"Will this... help?"
I was tired.
"We'll find out when she comes for it."
I didn't sleep that night. My home was only ever big enough for one, but it felt empty now, without whatever presence faulty heating gave my mind. I didn't bother pretending to try and close my eyes. I was tired of feeling like I was missing something.
I just needed to see it through. All of this had to build to something, or what? I made it to my studio and even just walking in, even after the repairs I could feel the void practically pulling someone else in.
I didn't have to look down as my hands found my tools. He was almost there. Just a small chip, the barest scrape. It felt warm against my skin. It felt soft.
I took his hand. Tried to pull him with me, but his eyes didn't open. That wasn't fair. I was done. I poured over every detail, every inch, but there was nothing I could find that needed more. He'd been here, I knew it, I felt it, and even if I didn't recognize what he wanted I had to know.
I pulled again, tapped his face, pushed his shoulders. I couldn't- all those nights I'd been chased off by whatever presence was there and I just wanted it back. What did it want from me? I did all the work, it couldn't leave me alone now. I'd felt it.
I couldn't go back to an empty house. I couldn't go look at old photos terrified of what I might find. I needed to be vindicated. I needed to be right. I'd felt someone there.
The moonlight still shone only on bones.
Of course. He was gone and this stupid thing was only driving me insane.
I didn't think, hands moving under a power barely my own. I took my chisel, took hammer- drove it into his chest and my throat tore itself up as bone splintered around my fingers. It ran red. My hands were red.
Oh. That was how you looked when you died, wasn't it? Of course it was your heart that burst, put in front of everything else, even before your stupid head. You should've known better than to die.
My hands ached. They shook, red, dripping red. My lungs hurt. My face was wet. You should've known better than to die.
The client came to pick up the finished statue the next day. She stood for a long while just looking at it, eyes scanning up and down the smooth surfaces. Eyes damp at the corners. Finally she turned to me.
"I really can't- ...thank you. It looks just like him. Thank you. I hope this wasn't too difficult for you."
"Of course not. I was the one who suggested making it bigger anyways, and I'm used to working at this size."
She sighed, eyes turning to the statue again for a moment before coming back to me.
"And your hands? Are you sure that-"
"They’re just for blisters.” I waved her concern away. “A normal hazard of the job if you overwork yourself. Fine in a week."
Her eyes narrowed, gaze following layers of cloth around my fingers and palm and padding and up around my wrist. She opened her mouth, then paused, sighing again.
"Tell me if you have trouble keeping them steady. I'll find something to help. It's the least I can do."
I agreed. I didn't foresee ever having to do so.
I stayed to make sure the statue was transported properly into her house. It felt strange to see him seated somewhere else after how long he spent with me. My house was going to feel far too empty after this. Lonely. He looked right being there though. It was where he belonged.
The client told me to visit if I wanted, likely still worried about my hands. Then I left. I thought it might hurt to walk away. It didn't really matter though. He was always already gone.
Taroumaru allowed Thoma to bring a friend to Komore Teahouse because he needs to relax. The three of them have a relaxing time together.
Basically, in this, Ayato has never stepped foot in the teahouse and doesn't even know who Taroumaru is. But Taroumaru welcomes anyone who might give him extra pets.
also idk how to exactly describe ayatos clothes but just imagine him as hot okay thanks bye
Word Count: 3083
____
Third Person
A bell chimes, swinging back and forth as the door opens. The Kamisato Clan’s best retainer and fixer steps through. The dog on the counter barks, as if he’s welcoming the blonde man.
“Hey, buddy!” Thoma sounds happy when he hears barking. Taroumaru saw Thoma in the teahouse often, as he usually served Ayaka whenever she was here. That, or the traveler. Ayato never stepped foot in here, he met people elsewhere.
Going over to the Shiba, Thoma reaches out a hand that Taroumaru gladly accepts. Thoma pets his head, the fur soft under his fingertips. The dog's eyes close when Thoma gives him a good scratch under the chin.
“I’m here ‘cause I have to clean buddy. I can’t stay and pet you all day,” Thoma sighs. He wishes he could. The dog definitely deserved it after working so hard and owning such a large teahouse. He deserved all the pets in the world.
In response, Taroumaru barks three times.
“I wish I could invite Milady here. She usually enjoys having hotpots. Or sometimes even just tea with me. The traveler could tag along, too.” That is, if he was still in Inazuma.
Thoma sits on a stool, sighing. He looks at the shiba, who lays its head on Thoma’s upper arm.
“Should I try asking Ayaka? Ohhhh, but I’d only make it sound mandatory…like something else she has to do,” Huffing, he kicks his legs out.
“Woof,” Taroumaru replies. Thoma hums, thinking as if he understood.
He smiles, “I wonder if Ayato is free. Recently, his work hasn’t been as much. Besides some polearm training and meetings, I see him more often.”
Another woof, which sounds approving as Taroumaru lifts his head. Thoma made up his mind.
“I’ll go find the young master. Asking him to hang out wouldn’t be too weird, right? We’ll just…”
Thoma paused. What would they do? They didn’t talk much unless Thoma was reminding the man to eat and go to sleep after hours of hard work.
Looking around, Thoma tries to think of a reason he’d invite Ayato out. Especially to Komore Teahouse.
Taroumaru butts Thoma in the chin, there’s a quiet whine.
“You’re a genius!” Thoma lifts his head, squishing the dog’s cheeks with both hands. Taroumaru accepts the affection.
“I’ll tell him Taroumaru, you, the greatest dog in all of Inazuma, wants double the love. He can’t say no, can he?”
Taroumaru doesn’t reply, panting and wagging his tail. Thoma gets up, nearly knocking the stool over as he rushes for the door. Ayato was most likely at the Kamisato Estate.
The walk wasn’t too long.
~~~
As Thoma walked, he sometimes grinned widely, or laughed, or hummed. He couldn’t wait for Ayato’s reply. How could someone say no to Taroumaru?
He greets one of the other housekeepers, skipping up the stairs and heading inside. The woman laughs at how chipper he seems. There’s pep in his step.
“What brings you here, Thoma? You’ve been running errands all day.”
Thoma nods his head, “A little break wouldn’t hurt, would it? Everyone else has had one so far. Even the young master. Speaking of which, where is he?”
The lady looks around, pointing down a hall, “In his chambers. He won’t talk to many, but he might allow you or Miss Ayaka.”
Thoma nods his head, heading towards the room.
Getting there, Thoma hesitated on knocking. Now that he thought about it…what if the young master just wanted to rest in peace?
“Archons, should’ve thought about that,” How could Thoma forget? Ayato had been around people all day long. He’s sure his social battery is drained by now. He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Who’s out there?” The voice is muffled through the screen door. Despite that, Thoma can hear the fatigue in the commissioner's voice. He feels so stupid.
“A-ah, just me; Thoma,” Thoma responds, “I don’t mean to disturb you, young master.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll be right out. Just- wait there,” Ayato says before going quiet. There’s the noise of shuffling and rummaging. Thoma waits, leaning against the wall while he fidgets with his fingers.
The door slides open and Thoma immediately stands straight. Ayato looks professional as always. The soft smile on his face as he meets Thoma’s eyes makes Thoma soften and forget what he came for.
His hands are hidden in the sleeves of his kimono. Ayato stands straight.
“So,” Ayato starts, tilting his head as he looks down at Thoma, “What brings you here, Thoma?”
Thoma awkwardly cleared his throat, “I was wondering if you had any free time. I’m currently free…and don’t have anything to do…” Yes, he did. He was procrastinating. Thoma’s hands actually hurt from holding a splintered broom and tiny duster for hours.
He keeps rambling, Ayato’s smile still remains as he sounds stern, “Thoma, tell me why you’ve come.”
The blonde jumps, but composes himself, “Sorry. I was wondering, Young Master, if you’d want to come to Komore Teahouse with me. If you’re free of course. I understand you’re tired from being around so many people today…”
He looks down at his feet and the polished floor as he waits. Ayato’s feet barely peek out from the bottom of the kimono. It’s a light blue colour with graceful white patterns. His hydro vision is hanging from what looks like a chain near his waist. Long, light blue hair is tied up in the most beautiful way. It’s down to the middle of his back now. One earring dangle from his right ear.
Thoma admired him for what felt like a while, but Ayato didn’t mind wasting a few seconds if it was Thoma gawking at his appearance. He did that a lot when he saw him or Ayaka dressed up. This was his everyday wear, though. Ayato didn’t know what was so impressive.
Ayato waits a minute or two before answering, “Who will be accompanying us?”
Thoma replies, “It’ll just be us two, Young Master.”
“Plus, the owner, I assume?” Ayato pulls out a fan that he had concealed. He fans himself with it.
“Yes, Taroumaru is always there,” Thoma nods, glancing up at him. Ayato’s eyes are a nice light blue. Like his hair.
“Tarou…maru? I don’t think I know anyone with this name. Is it an alias of some sorts?”
“It’s a dog, Young Master,” Ayato hears the amusement in Thoma’s voice. The knowledgeable commissioner didn’t know who the owner of Komore Teahouse was…Thoma wanted to chuckle.
Now using that fan to hide half his face, Ayato thinks about it, “Ah, I see. So, it really will be just us.”
Thoma nods his head, “Yes, Young Mas-”
“Will you be able to handle that?” He holds back a laugh as Thoma looks flustered.
“Why are you wording things like that? Stop!”
Ayato grins, “I suppose we can go alone. I trust you to defend us both if trouble comes along, yes?”
Thoma rolls his eyes. He knew Ayato wouldn’t mind fighting. He didn’t just train for a show. Thoma had yet to spar with him. If he ever got the opportunity that is. One day he’ll have the guts to ask.
They walk to the door. When they step outside, Ayato uses one hand to hide his face with a navy blue and silver fan, the other goes to Thoma’s arm.
Their arms link and Thoma froze for a second. He felt excited. Just them, and Taroumaru.
“Let’s take as long as you want, Thoma,” Ayato’s voice is soft.
~~~
Ayato had been listening to Thoma blabber about Mondstadt’s flowers for the longest time now. Not that he minded.
Currently, he talked about windwheel asters. He had already covered many others. Roses, cecilias, lamp grass, and calla lilies.
“Thoma,” Ayato cuts in. Thoma apologized for going on and on. Then, turned his head to look at Ayato.
“Yes, Young Master?”
“What flower from Mondstadt suits me?” Ayato asks, not just curious.
Thoma takes a moment to think. He studies the man’s face, despite knowing every detail of it. Thoma’s seen it many times.
“Cecilia,” Thoma smiles.
“Cecilia, you say?”
“Yes, Young Master. I think it suits you due to the color,” Thoma explains.
Ayato nods. He makes a note to have some imported from Mondstadt by next week.
“I think…what did you call it? Windwheel Aster? I think that one suits you,” Ayato replies. Thoma hums as if to ask why.
“I will not share the reason, but it suits you the most,” Ayato wanted to imagine Thoma with the flowers in his hair, petals fallen onto the shoulders of his jacket and some dancing to the ground by his feet.
Thoma nods steadily, “We’re almost there. I’ll go ahead and open the door for you.” He removes his arm from Ayato's, walking faster. Ayato smiles at the offer.
Thoma opens the door, stepping aside so the young master could enter.
“Thank you, Thoma,” Ayato says as he steps through, looking around. The place is quite nice and simple. He didn’t see anywhere to sit other than the stools, but he didn’t mind.
“Welcome, My Lord,” Thoma shuts the door, smiling brightly whenever Ayato wouldn’t see him. He was so happy to be spending time alone with Ayato.
“You can stop with the formalities, you know. I’ve known you since you were a child,” Ayato puts the fan down. He looked for this dog named Taroumaru. Where could he be?
“Ah, so…what do I call you?” the blonde asks, awkwardly.
“I have a name,” Ayato replies. “Where’s this Taroumaru you speak of?”
“Oh-! Yes, Taroumaru! He must be napping. I’ll go find him-”
“No, come. We will wait until the dog wishes to show itself,” Ayato says.
Thoma nods his head, “Let’s go find somewhere to sit. I’ll make a cup of tea, too.”
Ayato nods as Thoma leads the way to a room. There’s a table and pillows on the ground. An elegantly decorated teapot is in the center.
Thoma and Ayato sit down. Thoma crosses his legs while Ayato kneels. At least they’re comfortable.
While they wait for the tea to be made, they chat.
“How is this Taroumaru? Does he bite? Ayato mainly asks about the owner.
Thoma shakes his head, “No, but he will growl if he doesn’t like you. He knows a dangerous and untrustworthy person when he sees one. Other than that, he’s a good boy!”
“Yes, you are,”
“What?” Thoma paused.
“What?”
Thoma goes quiet, trying to process what he said. Ayato has that stupid, calm smile on his face.
“Ahem, Thoma, are you there?”
Thoma cleared his throat, nodding. He looked at the teapot. Was it warm in here?
Picking up the teapot, Thoma poured a small amount in a cup for Ayato.
For now, the retainer is silent. Ayato wants to learn more, so he doesn’t exactly care.
“Tell me about Taroumaru,”
The more Thoma explained, the more questions Ayato had.
In the end, Thoma lets out a laugh, “You ask too many questions, Ayato. Is this how you became so smart?”
The way Thoma said his name made Ayato happy. It felt more natural than hearing a title all the time. He felt warm when the laugh followed. Ayato wasn’t even sure Thoma knew he said his name.
“That is how you learn,” Ayato sips his tea and places the cup down. He can hear soft pit-pats.
“There he is, Taroumaru!” Thoma puts his cup down immediately as he sees the dog trot through the door. He barks, running over to Thoma. Then, stands on his hind legs. Thoma gave him pets on the head, down to his tail.
“This is him, Ayato,” Thoma felt weird saying his name, but it felt refreshing. Sometimes it felt like Ayato didn’t have a name.
The grin couldn’t be concealed any longer. Thoma held Taroumaru’s front paws and looked at the young master.
“He’s fluffy, how cute,” Ayato whispers, “How do I approach him?”
“Just pet him. You’ll know if he doesn’t like it,” Thoma scoots closer to Ayato, holding the shiba inu.
Ayato reaches forward, placing his hand hesitantly on the dog’s back. He pets it. The furry sensation is odd, but enjoyable. He glides his hand down, giving Taroumaru his first pet.
“See? He’s nice,” Thoma closes his eyes as he smiles. He reassures Ayato that it’s okay and reassures the shiba that Ayato is nice.
“Yes, it appears that he does enjoy my affection,” Ayato observed. He looks at Thoma, continuing to pet the chubby dog.
Then he realized. Oh, how intriguing.
They look similar.
The three share a quiet, nice, and enjoyable moment. Thoma occasionally laughs when Taroumaru butts Ayato’s hand for pets.
When the laughter dies down, Ayato turns to face Thoma and stops petting the dog when it sits down, panting.
“This is a nice moment we’re sharing, Thoma,” Ayato picks up his cup and takes a sip of the tea. It’s cold. Perfect for the warm weather.
He continues, “Tell me again, why you wanted me to come along and not anyone else?”
Thoma thinks about it. He may or may not have taken that the wrong way. Was Ayato bored? He looked entertained, though. What was wrong?
“We haven’t spent much time together, Ayato,” Thoma suddenly seems nervous, “this seemed like a perfect way to get you to relax.”
Ayato nods his head, “Ah.”
Thoma looks up, “Is there something wrong? We can go back. I-I’ll make sure we-”
“Thoma. Stop. I’m having fun.”
The housekeeper looked like he was about to faint.
“Oh…Oh! That’s what I was hoping for! I’m glad you’re having fun.”
Ayato laughs. Thoma sighs, relaxing again. The awkward tension didn’t last long.
“It’s nice hearing you laugh after so long…” The blonde whispers.
Ayato hums, finishing his tea. He could say the same to Thoma.
The silence they share is comfortable. Minutes pass and the smiles remain on their faces. Ayato thinks about his busy schedule.
“Thoma,” the man perks up after hearing his name.
“Yes, Ayato?”
“At the end of every month, I want to come here with you and you alone. We can do whatever else you think may be relaxing.”
Thoma couldn’t have smiled brighter, “Of course! Taroumaru seems to love you! I knew once you met him you wouldn’t be able to leave him!”
Ayato laughs again, nodding, “He’s cute.” They both look at Taroumaru, who is standing and wagging his tail. He’s staring at Ayato. Thoma turns his attention away for a few seconds, needing to take the empty cups away. He’ll clean them later once the two have finished spending time together. Standing up, Thoma walks away and mutters he’ll return shortly.
It’s just the young master and Taroumaru now.
“What’s that look on your face?” Ayato asks, curiously. Taroumaru was playful and hyper when he wasn’t stuck sitting on the counter greeting customers. The dog yips, stretching.
Ayato wondered what the dog was planning. He fixes his posture and continues watching the dog’s moves.
Taroumaru yips again, charging straight for Ayato with no hesitation, and without apparent reason. Ayato flinches, moving backward. As Taroumaru lands on Ayato, the commissioner’s back hits the floor with a loud thud.
“Taroumaru!” Ayato says in surprise. The dog stands proudly on him, playfully barking and bouncing.
The dog wasn’t going to bite him, it wanted to play with him.
Ayato doesn’t mind being on the floor with the dog in his arms. He can’t hold back his laughter as he attacks Taroumaru with pets and cheek squeezes. The face Taroumaru makes when he’s squeezed is hilarious.
“Young Master!” Ayato can barely hear the retainer’s voice. His face is being licked, which he doesn’t mind at all. If that’s how dogs showed affection, then he doesn’t care.
Thoma peeks his head in, seeing long hair sprawled across the dark floor. Ayato shields his face from the sun shining in through the windows, as well as the slobbery licks from the dog.
“Ayato! Are you okay?!” Thoma pulls Taroumaru off of the man, holding the dog tightly.
Ayato sits up, adjusting his clothes as well as his hair, “Yes, I’m okay. He just surprised me, that's all.”
Thoma looks at Taroumaru, getting his face licked as well, “I’m sorry he did that. Bad dog, Taroumaru!” he scolds. Taroumaru whimpers, ears flopping.
“No, Thoma. He’s a very good dog. He was showing me love. Good dog, Taroumaru,” Ayato stands up to give Taroumaru a pet on the head. His ears perk up.
“So, what were you calling me for, Thoma?” Ayato doesn’t stop petting Taroumaru, who wants to escape Thoma’s arms.
“There’s someone here to talk to you. I believe it’s private, so I don’t know for what exactly,” Ayato already looks like he’s suffering. He composes himself, the smile fades and he clears his throat. Thoma sets Taroumaru down and he trots off to bark at the guest who dares to disturb them.
He offers to fix his kimono and hair. As he does, Ayato speaks.
“I want you to accompany me, Thoma. Stay by my side as I have not brought anyone else here to keep me safe. You’re capable.” Ayato says confidently. He stands straight. Thoma combs his fingers through Ayato's hair to ensure its smoothed out the best it could’ve been.
“Of course, Ayato,” Thoma nods his head, “Shall we go?”
Ayato agrees and Thoma leads the way.
“Only around others should you address me by anything other than my name.”
“Of course, Young Master,” Thoma mumbled as he led Ayato to the door. A man stands there. He’s dressed well, but not as fancy as Ayato.
Thoma and Ayato greet the man, bowing their heads. He does, too.
“Hello, Commissioner, I was told you were headed this way and I’m glad to have found you-”
“Why have you come?” Ayato sounds exactly the opposite from seconds before. He’s harsh, though his voice barely has a tone to it.
Thoma could tell they’d be returning way before the end of the month. Three days from now, perhaps?
Either way, he could barely wait for next time. He sighs quietly.
Insert interesting AN here. It's like 2 in the morning.
Chapter 13
He finally speaks. “This isn’t going to work if you keep moving around.”
You dig your nails into your palms as he pulls another shard from your back. “I know. Still hurts.”
A pause. “I could ask Master Splinter to let you have some alcohol to numb it if you want.” His voice throughout the whole process has been incredibly soft, from since you woke up in his room until now. “The skin disinfectant is going to sting more than this.”
“I’ll drink myself to death,” you promise, half-joking in an attempt to lighten the suffocating mood. “Seeing how the past couple months have gone, I should probably just get used to pain, right?”
He pulls another piece of blood-soaked glass from your skin, placing it into a can at his side with a clink. “I really hope that doesn’t happen.” You feel him pull another portion of the skin on your back taught. “The pain thing, I mean. Not to say that I want you to drink yourself to death—”
“I get what you mean.” You try to keep an eye on him without moving your neck, not wanting to get blood on his sheets. “I’m the same way about the murdering thing.”
Silence, again.
“How’s the cockroach thing going?”
“It’s going.” He is quick if nothing else; he is already three-quarters of the way done, now at your waist. “It seemed to be working alright this morning, so it should work tonight if I’m lucky.”
You smile gently. “That’s good, then. You’re due for some good luck.”
“Of the two of us?” He leans to the side from his seat on his chair, studying your face. “I think you need it more than I do.”
You laugh. “Most teenagers boys don’t have half-naked girls on their beds because of medical reasons,” you argue. “I’d say you dealing with me is worthy of some good mojo.”
“The portal wouldn’t have been destroyed if not for you.” He leans back, pulling a particularly large piece out of your hip. “We wouldn’t even know what their ultimate plan was, what to look out for, what to expect.” He bends down, and you hear the gurgling of a liquid being poured out. “Besides,” he reasons, “it was as much my fault as yours for not thinking of the glass walls. It’s the least I could do.”
You bite down on your tongue as he starts wiping the blood off. “Shit,” you hiss, “that stings.”
A hint of excitement laces his tone. “Wanna know why?”
Your jaw relaxes as the pain subsides. “Sure,” you chuckle, strained. “Why does it hurt?”
“Well,” he starts, “this antiseptic, like most antiseptics, is comprised mainly of two compounds: ethanol, or just normal grain alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide.” He sounds like a passionate schoolteacher when he goes off about anything science-related. It is absolutely enrapturing, listening to someone so in love with their craft. “Now, ethanol activates vanilloid receptor-one, which is also activated by capsaicin, which is what makes food spicy. But the funny thing about that,” he continued, “is that, usually, the receptor is only activated by really high temperatures—the receptor is what lets you register hot things as hot.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know about medical stuff.” You wince again as he continues to clean your wounds.
“Oh, I’m just not good at applied medicine,” he chuckles nervously. “None of the serious stuff, I mean; I’d never be able to perform a proper surgery or prescribe medications without a ridiculous amount of research, but I know how to set bones and how certain chemicals react to certain receptors.”
“So, you know how it works but not how to fix it?”
“I guess so, yeah.” You hear the chair move as he gets to his feet. “I started looking into it the first night you came here, actually, since I never looked into how burns worked until…” he trails off, clears his throat. “Anyway,” he tries again, “ethanol lowers the temperature threshold to body temperature, making the cut burn. It’s also why it’s painful to drink things with a high alcohol content: your receptors register it as if you’re actually being burned.” He pushes your hair off your neck carefully. “Hydrogen peroxide acts similarly, only it activates a different receptor, known as transient receptor potential ankyrin one, and while not as much as known about it, it’s theorized that it acts similarly, resulting in you feeling pain.” Your fingernails dig into your palms again as you suck in air at the burning sensation on your neck. “But it’s important to note that antiseptics are different than disinfectants. Disinfectants are for non-organic surfaces because they contain higher concentrations of biocides than antiseptics.”
You exhale as the pain subsides. “Have you used antiseptics before now?”
“Of course.” You feel him start to place things—they feel like pads—on your back. “But I made sure to account for the differences in skin types, so unless I made a big mistake at some point, the odds of you getting chemical burns is close to zero.”
“Your confidence is very reassuring,” you grin. “By any chance, do you plan on reimbursing the cost of cutting my shirt up?”
“Nah,” he shrugs. “Was planning on having you walk out of here in the middle of fall in NYC without a shirt to make double sure you get hypothermia. As you said, we have to add to your list of injuries.”
“Of course,” you “nod’ knowingly, cracking yourself up. “No pain, no game.”
“Glad to be on the same page.” He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t have a ton of fabric to fix your shirt or jacket, so unless you have some on hand—”
Your response is immediate. “You take my shirt and fix it,” you interrupt. “If one of them is going, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be that fucking jacket.”
He blinks. Your words register after a second.
“I do not mean it in—I mean—” you immediately backpedal. “I’m not—you get what I mean, right?”
“Y-yeah. Yeah, I know what you—yeah.” He is doing absolutely nothing to help the embarrassment. “I got it; i-in hindsight, I probably should have tried taking the jacket off, but I was worried I’d cut your skin up more.”
You press your face into the mattress as you feel what you assume is tape being laid along your sides. “I appreciate it.” A pause. “I don’t actually remember what happened after the main explosion happened. What…”
No response. You feel his knee sink to the bed as he reaches over, applying the adhesive on the other side of your skin quietly.
“I don’t wanna know?”
“Probably not.” His hand presses the creases flat into the curve of your back, sighing again.
You smile nervously. “I made a fool of myself, then?”
“… I wouldn’t say that.” He applied another pad to your neck. “Just—for glass rain, you were pretty calm, I’d say.”
“For glass rain,” you highlight. “Seeing as I don’t remember it, I can’t imagine it was good.”
He removes his hands. “I honestly don’t know why what happened happened,” he admits. “Just know that the guys are probably not going to give you a hard time for it.”
“Probably?” You finally turn your head to look at him.
He shrugs, gently turning your head back. “Mikey, sadly, seems to get it more than we do, so that’s two.”
You lick your lips absentmindedly. “Hey,” you shrug, “I’ll take fifty percent.”
You feel a heavy blanket drape over your back. “I still have to get the glass out of your hair, and I don’t have anything else for you to wear, so this’ll have to do. I won’t look while you adjust it.”
Your eyes strain to check. Sure enough, you watch him turn around and face the opposing wall.
You sit up, pulling the blanket around yourself to save your modesty. “You’re good. Need me to turn around?”
“Uh, yeah.”
You lift yourself, careful of your leg as you reposition yourself to have your back to him. “Thanks for this, if I haven’t said it already.”
“It’s no problem.” Fingers part your hair, tweezers now attached to your scalp. “You should see the stupid injuries I’ve had to help my brothers with.”
“I bet,” you feel yourself grinning. “I’m surprised you guys haven’t torn each other to shreds yet.”
“There have been close calls.” You hear the clinking of the can again. “Especially after getting our hands on weapons when we did. You would not believe the number of concussions we had.”
You put your hands up for dramatic effect. “Madness.”
“You laugh,” he laughs, “but figuring out our anatomy to any degree of accuracy was hard enough. I’m convinced Mikey messed Raph up with his nunchaku when we were ten.”
You let him move your head. “This I gotta hear.”
“Oh, it isn’t a really interesting story,” Donnie clarifies. “He just accidentally hit Raph in the head too hard during training and almost caved in his skull.”
You try not to laugh. “What counts as an interesting story, then?”
“Well,” he contemplates, “there was that time with the oven.”
You turn to look at him the best you can with the limited movement he allowed. “The time with the oven?”
“Wax paper catches fire if you put it in the oven.”
You nod, turning back. “Was it you or Mikey?”
“A bit of both.” Clink. Clink. “I thought wax paper implied paper made of some sort of wax, and Mikey was trying to make decorative candles. The theory,” he continues, clearly trying to make himself not sound stupid, “was that putting it in the oven would get more consistent heat throughout the wax.”
You try to hide your amusement for his sake. “I take it that didn’t pan out.”
“It did not.” He chuckled dryly, combing his fingers through your hair to feel for glass. “Splinter was so mad, I thought we wouldn’t see tomorrow.”
Your fingers clench as his hand catches. “Not so harsh,” you breathe in pain. “You’re gonna rip my hair out.”
“Oh, sorry.” He removed his hand. “I forgot it was—that’s stupid,” he edits. “I’m not used to dealing with hair is what I meant.”
“It’s alright,” you reassure him quickly. “Just try not to tug so hard.”
“I don’t think there’s any glass left anyways, so.” You hear the chair wheel away from the bed. “That probably won’t be a problem.”
You turn around properly, adjusting the blanket over your torso. “Thank you for all your help.”
His eyes flicker downward for a second before staring directly and deliberately at your face. “You’re welcome,” he nods, not moving his eyes. “You were incredibly easy to work with.”
“You made quick work of it.” Your legs cross over another, your worn sneaker matching the color of the concrete floor. “And don’t worry about my shirt; I have to go shopping, anyways.”
He blinks. “Why?”
“Well,” you reason, “My clothes are already kinda worn, and I’ve been meaning to buy leather gloves for a while, so it would give me an excuse to go look for a good pair.”
“Leather gloves?”
You nod. “I was hashing it out with Casey, and he agreed they would look badass and cover up my hand scars.”
“You know,” he suggests, poorly feigning nonchalance, “I could make you some.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I have the know-how, and I’m pretty good with that sort of thing.”
You shake your head immediately, face heating up. “After everything you’ve done for me, I can’t let you do that.”
“Sure you can.” You can practically see the gears turning as he verbally plans it out. “I’d need measurements, of course, and finding good quality leather might be a challenge, but it would allow a lot of stylistic freedom. If you gave me a sketch of what you and Mikey worked out a sketch—”
“Dude, no.” You feel like such a girl, getting flustered over something like this. “Never mind how much unnecessary work that would take—”
“It would take me an afternoon, tops.”
“—it would be way too much trouble to find all the right materials and everything!” You shake your head more vigorously. “You have enough on your plate already.”
He pauses. “What if I could give it a practical use? Like, for self-defense or something. Would you let me then?”
You blink. “Self-defense?”
“Yeah.” You feel as though you are missing something when he hurries to clarify, “You had a knife next to you when I came to pick you up. Having something more user-friendly might—not that you can’t use a knife, but you don’t have a ton of experience with them, especially using a kitchen knife against the Foot and you get what I’m saying, right?”
You hesitate, trying to understand what he said before nodding. “I guess that makes sense,” you concede. “It would be shitty to go out like a bitch after convincing myself I deserve to live so many times. That would be kinda inconvenient.”
Despite the fact he looks like you just put a knife to your throat, he nods. “Yeah,” he confirms tentatively. “Inconvenient.”
You shift the blanket under your arms, folding it so that it would stay at your chest. “Alright,” you sigh, “You convinced me. But!” You aim to accentuate this caveat, “But, not my design. If you’re going to go through all the trouble, you design it to how you think they would look cool, so you feel good about what you’re making.”
“You trust me to not make you look bad?”
“Totally.” You smile. “Looking at the Shellraiser makes me want to vomit, but it’s not from lack of style.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Exactly what I said,” you commit.
Your statement makes him take pause, but, eventually, he seems to get what you mean. “Then… thanks,” he nods. “I should probably fix your jacket first, though. Unless you want to walk around New York in the middle of the night in a blanket.”
“I’d rather not,” you admit. “I feel like that would not be my greatest move.”
He gets up. “Are you alright to be left alone? It’s alright if you aren’t,” he clarifies, “but I’d have to shift the timetable a bit if that’s the case.”
You blink, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.” He is lying, you are sure. “Just wanted to check before I told the guys I was good to go.”
Something about that statement seems strange to you. “Wait,” you clarify, “why would you go on another mission tonight?”
He averts eye contact.
You lean forward. “How long have I been weird?”
“Not too long, I don’t think. You were out when I got there.”
You reach over, forcing him to look at you head-on. “Are you lying to me?”
He does not answer.
“Has more than a day passed?”
He shakes his head. “It’s only about seven.”
You let go, resting your face in your hands. “so, I’ve been out for, what, sixteen hours?”
“Kinda.” He fiddles with his hands nervously. “A little less, I think.”
“And how long have I been out of it?”
He takes a moment. “You were crying a lot when you woke up,” he concedes. “At about two in the afternoon. I think you cried yourself out, because when I came to check on you—I thought maybe water would help— you were out.”
“Wonderful.” You look up at him. “And was it loud?”
“Not really.” He looks as though he was being interrogated. “I wouldn’t have come, but I left something in here that I needed.” His voice is back to being soft and calm. “You were mumbling about your hands a lot. I actually tied you up,” he chuckles nervously, “because you were moving around so much and getting the shards farther into your back.”
You sigh, something in your stomach sinking. “Probably not a terrible move. Then what?”
“When you started getting normal again,” he continues, “I untied you and got you to stop moving when I started taking the glass out, and I’m guessing you remember the rest.”
You do not say anything.
He stares intently at a corner. “I know this might come off as rude,” he starts carefully, “and I don’t mean to be rude…”
“Spit it out,” you gesture. “Let’s just… what’s up?”
“I honestly do not know enough about this sort of thing to help you.” He looks back at you. “I wish I did, really, but I don’t. I don’t know how you’re wired, mentally, and it’s really not an area I can help you with.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“But I do know,” he continues, “it has to be hard, trying to find help, given the circumstances, especially after everything that’s happened.”
“Please,” you almost beg, “just get to the point.”
“I think it would be a good idea to start spending more time with Master Splinter.” He looks down at his hands. “I think, given that he knows more about this sort of thing than I do, it would be good for you.”
“So, you’re prescribing therapy?”
“I’m not saying you’re crazy—”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The silence is choking you.
“I don’t know if you have a disorder,” he sighs. “Again, not my area of expertise.” He tries to phrase what he means right, and the next few sentences come out slow and deliberate. “All I know is that the people you’ve known your whole life aren’t around anymore, and you’re having really bad nightmares, and that you freeze up when you get really scared. I don’t want you to suffer on our account.”
You stare down at your feet.
“If not because you’re worried about it,” he tries at a different angle, “would you do it as payment for the gloves? That way, it’s not a handout.”
You smile at that. “Hand out.”
It takes a second. “Pun not intended,” he sighs. “I kinda wish it was, now.”
You look up. “I’ll talk to him while you guys are gone on your mission tonight.”
“Thank you,” he breathes. “I appreciate it, really.”
You smile properly. “Hey,” you say, adjusting the blanket. “You take glass shards out of my back and I scratch yours, or something like that.”
He chuckles. “I should probably go let the guys know,” he gets to his feet. “If you want,” he offers, “you can come with.”
“I’ll take a raincheck.” You get up after him, vision blacking out for a moment as you grab the wall for support. “But I can help you grab all your stuff to move out, if you need.”
His eyes go wide. “You don’t have clothes,” he reminds you.
You almost roll your eyes at this particular concern. “Covers more than a bathing suit,” you reason. “I’ll be careful about making sure it doesn’t slip, I promise.”
“But what if it does?”
“Then they should take a picture of the only pair of tits they’ll ever see in person.” You start to hobble towards the door. “I’ve dealt with worse wardrobe malfunctions. I’ll be fine, really.”
“Your flippancy is incredibly concerning.”
You try not to laugh. You look back at him, grin. “Concerning? Me?” You bring a hand to your chest. “I’m offended, sir. Besides,” You giggle, “I need to have a chat with your brothers if that episode is today.”
--
The look on his face immediately validates your decision. “Could you run that by me again?”
You wrap an arm around his shoulders, hand traveling across the open air as if to reveal your statement. “Cockroach. Terminator.”
“Okay, I’m going to need you to give me more explanation again.”
A sharp grin spreads across your features. “Imagine this,” you explain smoothly. “A giant cockroach—“
“Hate it.”
“— that is also a cyborg—“
“Hating it more.”
“— complete with near invincibility—“
“Sounds like my worst nightmare.”
“— with saws.”
“And it is.” Raphael removes your arm from his shoulders. “I’m sold. No more of that.”
“So,” you confirm, leaning back against the wall, “what is everyone not going to do?”
“I dunno,” Mikey admits easily. “I was too busy watching the horror settle on my brother’s face.”
“I’m not horrified—” he protests.
“You are.”
“Am not!”
“Am too!”
“As a neutral bystander,” Leo pipes up, trying not to openly laugh, “yes, you are.”
You keep your eyes focused on Raphael and not the car. “Look,” you cut in, “are you gonna let him do his job or nah?”
“I’m not promi—“
“The hell you ain’t” He shot a furious look at his younger brother. “You best not breathe on Donnie before the roach is back in the car and as far away from that fuckin’ ooze as possible!”
“Reassuring,” you nod. “Good.”
“If you’re so worried about Donnie messing up,” Leo suggests, “why don’t you use the remote control? You’ve watched him work with it before, right?”
You scoff. “I’d rather chop off my hands with a dull knife than get in the death mobile.”
The other two brothers antagonize each other. “It’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t it, though?” You cross your arms, a sick feeling sinking into your stomach at the thought. “Never mind the fact the lead engineer is a teenage boy, or that it’s made of the finest trash, but it’s also a moving, mechanical vehicle driven by another— and I mean this with the utmost respect— rowdy hormonal teenager.”
“Hey,” he protests, “that’s not true.”
“Karai.”
His face heats up. “It was a mistake that I’ve already owned up to.”
You put your hands up. “Look, man,” you clarify, smiling as the crisis is thoroughly averted, “I don’t blame you. Karai isn’t exactly a dime a dozen, and we can all agree she is an extremely formidable fighter who can thoroughly kick your ass.”
Donnie is getting a run for his money with this blush. “What does— she cannot,” he stammers, “and even if she could—“
“Oh, do not even,” you tease. “We all know that her being a formidable opponent who knows every weapon in her arsenal like the back of her hand and uses them well has something to do with why you like her so much. Raph’s the same way.”
Speak of the devil. “What’d you say?”
“You have a thing for strong women who can probably kick your ass.”
He seems to consider this for a minute. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Cool. Anyways.” You turn your attention back to Leo. “The point is, as someone who is also into people who can kick my ass— literally or academically— I get the appeal. Also,” you add, grinning like a moron, “her eyeliner game is on point, which doesn’t hurt.”
He blinks. “Do you like Karai?”
“Absolutely. One hundred and ten percent.” You shrug. “She’s badass.”
“More so than Donnie?”
“Are you guys ever going to get in or are you guys just going to stand out there all night?” Donnie pokes his head out of the vehicle. “We’re losing darkness.”
'Saved by the bell.' “Point is,” you say quickly, “I don’t want in that thing. Couldn’t pay me.”
“Leo! Hurry up!”
“Comin’!” He climbs into the Shellraiser, wheels spinning as the team drove off and out of the lair.
You close your eyes.
You do not want to go to Hamato Yoshi for therapy. You will bet money it does not go well.
‘You promised, though. Might as well have, anyways. Did you promise?’
Your morals and ideologies completely clash.
‘Ninjas aren’t all rendered insane. They have to be doing something right, in theory.’
You use the wall for support, already knowing the walk home is going to suck as you limp towards the dojo.
Basically though, Fenris healing through the garden he starts in Kirkwall and letting go of unhealthy coping mechanisms bc he’s focusing on tending to his garden and making Kirkwall a home :)
Every time I mention it, that’s always the one people pick up on and I feel like that’s a sign that maybe I need to finish writing it jshshdfk
