> You’re still getting used to this stupid key and lock system. Why does every single apartment have to have its own set of locks? Why not just kindly ask a striped roar-beast to kindly guard your home while you’re away instead? Seems a lot more practical, to you, anyway.
> The door finally gives and you step inside, one, two steps, reaching up to hang your apron on the coat hooks beside the front entrance. “Anyone awake? I know it’s kinda--”
> Pause.
> You turn and look a little closer. That’s a smudge of... teal on the wall?
> Panic.
> Your bloodpusher skips a beat and you can feel the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Eyes wide and wary, you quietly slip your keys into your pocket and take a few steps further. The hell is going on? Did somebody break in? No, lock and door frame were in tact-- could’ve come in the window, where’s Red? Where’s Riddles-- Did they already dispatch the intruder-- Did they go somewhere else--?
> You’re having a hard time focusing on any one single train of thought as adrenaline floods your thinkpan, putting an obnoxious buzz in the back of your head. You take a few more steps, peek down the hall. There’s a tiny drop of teal on the floor, headed to the bathroom. You ball your fists; you’ll clock that son of a bitch into the next millenia.
> You’re winding up the punch, shoulders hunched and fists poised. Whoever did this will be receiving the full brunt of your wrath in the next four seconds. Another silent step, and you hear a sniffle. Two more, and a muttered “ow”. One more and--
> You rear back to throw the punch, fury broiling in your eyes, you’ll make them pay, make them regret ever fucking stepping foot into your--
> Pause.
> Red examines herself in the mirror, oblivious for the most part. The better half of one of her horns is missing, and there’s a massive lump on the side of her head. Teal is smudged under her nose and down the side of her face; you think you see tears on her cheeks, but her eyes aren’t red.
> Panic.
> Your fury melts into an instantaneous sense of dreadful, overwhelming worry. Shaking fists fall loose into trembling hands and you abruptly reach out and pull her into a desperate, trembling hug. You’re not even sure she’d noticed you yet, not that it mattered, gods above what could have happened--
“Red. Oh, god. Red, what happened, who did...” Your voice waivers as you struggle to keep it in check. You can’t help but feel like you should have come home early. You really, really should have.
> Very excitedly sit and wait for Passus. You cannot wait to see the inside of her palace, you’re sure its lovely and full of art and extravagant dresses and maybe even flowers! Flowers would be so lovely.
> You fly with a nervous twitch in your wings. The wind seems a bit testier than usual, eager to push at your sides or nudge at your back. You nearly crash into the topmost branches of a nearby tree, hurriedly straightening yourself out a flying a little higher. You’ve got to get a grip, you know you can fly better than that, but you just can’t seem to ease your nerves. Possibilities are racing through your thinkpan– what if she dismissed me and leaves, act likes I never existed, what if she won’t even–
> No. Stop. Hypothetical will only get you more worked up. You hang your head and fly higher, faster, willing yourself not to think about ‘what if’s. What ifs didn’t matter. Whatever she chooses to do is beyond you, now.
> Once you arrive you take to your hammock almost immediately, sitting in the skin of canvas and letting your wings droop behind you. This anxiety might actually double-kill you before she arrives. A small, rectangular box rests in your hands, along with a letter taped to the front. In silence, you wait; in fear, you shudder.
> Please don’t hate me, you think to yourself. Please.
The smell of eggs and something sugary wakes you from your slumber, filling one half of the castle with delicious, mouth watering scents. You rouse yourself slowly, taking care not to disturb the sleeping Passus who lay curled up beside you; as soon as you're certain she's comfortable and cozy, you press a kiss to her forehead before silently shuffling out of the block, carefully closing the door behind you.
You meander down the winding corridors, trying to jog your groggy memory long enough to remember the exact location of the food preparation block. Your foggy memory is enough to guide you there, and you silently drift into Riddles' kitchen, letting your drowsy senses be briefly overwhelmed by the scents and sounds of a hearty breakfast.
He's working tirelessly at the stovetop, tossing things this way and that as he handles a good three or four skillets and pans at once. A small collection of spices rests at his left on the counter; to his right, a small recipe book. He's so painfully cute.
"Even1n', R1ddz." You're holding yourself back from flinging your arms around his neck as you did Passus, but just barely. You would feel pretty terrible if you accidentally knocked over one of his cooking creations, though, so you restrain yourself just the same. "What've you got there for breakfast?"
You lightly dust off the wooden rack with your hands, carefully placing the lance amongst its brothers and sisters. They made for a rather decent collection now, and you had finally decided that yes, the display stand was a good decision. The one you'd crafted with Mindfang's horn rested at the top in a sturdy glass case, the front of it hinged with a lock so that you could retrieve it at a moment's notice; of all the weapons you'd owned and lost, this one was probably your favorite.
You're quick to tear off your burned leather jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto your sleeping platform behind you. The shirt swiftly follows, and you go to unbutton your jeans when you realise your feet were still occupying your shoes. After a solid minute of kicking and struggling, you tug the damned things off and cast them aside, eager to change into some cleaner clothes. Your hair was a lovely catastrophe and you likely needed an ablution, but a crisp t-shirt and some skinnies would have to do for now.
The rest is a bit of an adrenaline blurred smear of excitement and worry; there was no telling what condition Passus would be in, especially considering your sudden and extended absence, so you'd already come to terms with taking the blame for anything harmful that could have befallen her. You've a package tucked against your chest as you fly from treehive to castle, zipping through an open window and down the corridor. You clip a couple of corners and catch a doorway or two, but none of it is enough to slow you down--in fact, you cut the corner so hard you slam right into her closed door.
With a bit of a grimace and a wrinkled nose, you jostle the handle and nearly fling it open, so desperate to see
"Passus."
Your arms are around her neck in seconds. Pain? What pain? You've already forgotten your run in with the door. All that matters in the here and now is in your arms, and you won't be letting go any time soon.
> You nearly slam into the front doors, shaky hands gripping the handles and flinging them open. Where were they? Was Red here, was she okay, was--
"... Red.."
> You nearly crumple in the doorway when you see her there, perched upon Riddles' throne so casually with a book in hand. She wasn't visibly hurt, you didn't see any blood, she seemed fine and she... She was here? You blink, momentarily perplexed, but your relief is quick to overcome you. She was here, and she was safe. A broad, weary smile spreads across your face and you run to her, not bothering to shut the doors behind you. You owed her a hug. A lot of them.
