Ezekiel—Biscuit, southeastern coyote
Jacob—Sugar, American badger
Jacob calls his dæmon Sugar. Logically, Ezekiel knows that can't be her real name, surely, but a part of him is kind of on the fence about that. Americans are weird people, and hillbillies are a different kind of weird all on their own. Maybe his family's like those Puritan families that named their kids after virtues and vices back in the day. Not that he has a lot of room to judge, either—not when his sisters are named Mercy, Charity, and Honor. Not to mention he's called his own dæmon Biscuit since they were young, even though that's not her actual name. So maybe it's just a nickname.
"You could always ask if you wanna know," Biscuit says one day, resting her pointy muzzle on his thigh and nudging his arm until he starts scratching her ears.
"How about no?" People do not talk to dæmons that aren't theirs. Most people don't even know other dæmons names except for their own. He doesn't know the name of Jenkins' dæmon, or Baird's. He knows Sugar's name only because Jacob is one of those individuals who constantly talk to their dæmons, just like Ezekiel. Some people, like Jenkins and Baird, don't. "Why don't you ask her?"
"Because that would be too easy for you," she laughs back and slips away from him, belly-crawling under the table until she comes up behind Sugar, dozing next to Jacob's feet. The badger startles awake when Biscuit nips at her tail, turning to chase after her with a low growl. Ezekiel groans softly. He wishes she wouldn't do that. As fun as it is to antagonize the cowboy, having Biscuit play about with his dæmon is coming a little too close to the 'flirting' line. Not that Jacob is hard to look at, but Ezekiel knows the rules: don't screw the crew. Business and pleasure should not always mix.
Jacob glares across the table at Ezekiel, and he ducks his head quickly to avoid the historian's gaze.
Ezekiel hates his job. No, really. He does.
Because if it wasn't for this fucking job, then he would never have been given the task of stealing some magical black diamond that he'd never even heard of before (which is a warning all on its own), and he never would've been tracked down by some black market artifact dealer and his goon squad, and he definitely never would've been sitting in an old shipping warehouse in the arse-end of nowhere with his dæmon in a cage ten feet away from him, with one guard pointing a gun at his head, and another guard pointing a gun at hers, waiting for Baird to call them so they could agree on a trade.
Biscuit tries not to whine, but he knows she's hurting. Hell, so is he. They're right on the edge of pulling on their link, and he can feel the discomfort everywhere in his body. It doesn't outright hurt yet, though; it's definitely not comfortable, either, like feeling a cramp start to form before it fully hits.
His mobile rings. Ezekiel exhales softly in relief. The thug who took it off him answers it, and there's a brief exchange in what he's pretty sure is Bulgarian, and then he holds the mobile out to Ezekiel. "Thanks very much, wanker," he mutters under his breath, rewarded with a narrow-eyed glare. He holds the mobile to his ear. "Okay, so this job did not go exactly to plan, Colonel," he says, trying for jovial and missing just a hair.
Except it's not Eve on the other end of the call. It's Jacob. Why the hell would the cowboy call him instead of Eve, who probably has experience with the whole hostage-negotiation thing? "Jones, you alright?" he asks immediately, his voice low and surprisingly gentle.
He hastily shakes off the surprise and tries to play it cool before any of the testosterone-for-brains thugs could get suspicious. "Yeah, I'm fine. They want the stone, the kookaburra's diamond."
"Kamadeva's diamond," Jacob corrects, sounding like himself again for a second.
Ezekiel rolls his eyes hard enough to give himself a headache, grateful to know that some things just don't change. "Whatever the fuck it is, they want the damn rock back."
"Jones."
"What?"
"Do you trust me?"
"What?" Ezekiel repeats, this time in confusion.
"Do you trust me?" Jacob repeats patiently.
"I...yes."
"Good. Then do me a favour and don't...move."
He sees Biscuit's ears prick up before an arrow hisses past his face, so close he can feel the breeze, and the thug standing next to him collapses, his dæmon vanishing in a swirl of glittering Dust, the arrow that'd pierced her clattering to the floor. The other guard turns with a startled curse just as Sugar comes exploding out of the shadows behind a stack of crates, lunging up, closing her powerful jaws around the Rottweiler dæmon's throat, and wrenching. Just like that, the dæmon is gone, too, and the guard collapses like the other one did, a marionette with strings cut, one hand reflexively reaching out.
"You still there, Jones?"
"Yeah, I'm here," he sputters, clutching the mobile so tightly he has to make his hand relax before he starts getting a cramp.
"Will you pick up the arrows you find? I don't want to lose them. Sugar knows the way out, follow her. She brought your lockpicks, too. I'll see you in a minute." The mobile clicks 'call ended' before Ezekiel has a chance to answer. He turns and picks up the arrow a little hesitantly, then swears softly. The arrow is made of birch wood, fletched with the grey feathers of a goose and tipped not with steel but razor sharp flint, still glittering faintly with golden Dust. Witch-bolts, people liked to call them. How the in the good fuck Jacob got a hold of a witch's arrows, he has no idea, but he understands why Jacob wouldn't want to lose any. He looks up with a start when Sugar drops his backup kit in front of him.
He snatches up the kit and crawls over to Biscuit's cage. It's a simple padlock, child's play, but he still fumbles twice before he pops it open. He hasn't seen someone get killed right in front of him like that before. Not right in front of him. The moment he gets the cage open, Biscuit tumbles into his arms, warm and alive and real, and he buries his face in the thicker fur around her neck. "How are you so far from Jacob?" Biscuit asks. Ezekiel blinks a few times, realising for the first time that Jacob really isn't there. And yet Sugar is. She shows no sign of being in pain or even being somewhat bothered to be away from her person, standing there calmly.
"Magic," Sugar replies. "C'mon, we gotta go."
He follows her through the labyrinth of stacked crates and cargo containers; Biscuit trots so close next to him that her paws sometimes step on his toes. The place had been crawling in guards before, and now it's almost entirely empty. They find three more dead guards, each with another arrow lying in the dirt beside them. Ezekiel picks them up as he finds them. "Through here," Sugar instructs, then crawls underneath the wall of the warehouse where she's clawed out a deep divot in the packed earth. Biscuit wriggles through easily, but both dæmons have to dig a little to make enough room for Ezekiel.
As he pulls himself up, he hears a truck engine rumbling just before a set of headlights rounds the corner, coming towards them. His heart drops, but when the truck stops in front of them, Jacob sticks his head out the window. "There you are," he sighs. "Christ, Jones, get your ass moving, huh? Let's get the hell out of here."
"Ain't gotta tell me twice, mate." He scrambles around to the passenger side, opening the backseat so Sugar and Biscuit can jump in before hopping into the front. The doors are still closing when Jacob shifts it in gear and pulls away from the warehouse. "Where's the diamond?"
"In the Library where it belongs. There's a door waiting for us in town," Jacob answers. "Baird and Cassie are probably looking for us by now."
Ezekiel blinks at him. "You mean you came by yourself?"
"Yep."
"Are you fucking insane? They could've killed you."
Jacob, damn him, looks almost amused. "I'm not exactly made of glass, Jones. Got you out just fine, anyways. You got my arrows, by the way?"
"Yes," he replies tersely, the four wooden shafts resting across his lap.
"Thank you. You mind puttin' 'em back, then?" Jacob tilts his head towards the backseat.
Ezekiel glances back and swears quietly. Propped on the seat is a longbow made of polished white yew, engraved all over with curious symbols, and sitting next to it is a leather quiver full of witch-bolts, the grey fletching appearing almost silvery in the passing moonlight. He leans over the console and manages to slip the arrows into the quiver without accidentally breaking one or dropping them, then sits back in his seat. "Where did you even get that thing?" he asks. "Witches don't just hand out their stuff, mate, trust me, I know." He knows about a dozen different dealers that would give a medium to large body part for a true witch's bow and bolts, except that the only people who owned them were the witches themselves. And stealing from them was never a good idea. He'd never even tried it.
Jacob tightens his grip on the steering wheel; he's even wearing one of those archery half-glove things and a bracer on his wrist. His knuckles are scraped raw and bloody, like he's been working a heavy bag for too long. Or knocking someone's teeth out. "Same place I learned how to be away from Sugar," he replies at last.
That's an entirely different set of questions there, and Ezekiel's only coming up with one answer. "The witches? How do you know a witch?" he asks, baffled; he can't imagine some immortal woman coming down to Oklahoma of all places for a bit of R & R.
The silence is so long that Ezekiel thinks that Jacob's just not going to answer him at all, but finally, the cowboy sighs and murmurs so very softly, "My mother gave it to me. She made it."
Oh. Oh. Well. Ezekiel looks out the window for a moment, watching the dark landscape blur past. That...explains so very much. No wonder Jacob's never mentioned his mother before. He feels like he ought to say something, but for the first time in his life, he has no idea what to say. As he racks his mind, Biscuit puts both forepaws on the console and leans forward, resting her pointy muzzle right on Jacob's shoulder.
Ezekiel's barely aware of Jacob suddenly pulling the truck over to the side of the dirt road. He's too busy gasping, his hands braced on the dash in front of him. It's both the most unnatural and natural thing in the world, to have Jacob Stone touch his dæmon. Heat. That's what Jacob feels like. Like fire caged up in a human body, a bonfire of passion and brilliance and emotion, a newborn star all heated energy and creation. He feels coarse fur on his arm, so alike to Biscuit and yet not, and looks down as Sugar crawls into his lap, covering his thighs in a warm, heavy, badger blanket; he buries his hands in all that warm fur like he's wanted to for a long time now and distantly hears Jacob groan. He wonders if the historian can feel his hands, running all over his back. Maybe he could.
Suddenly there's a hand buried in his hair, pulling him around into a kiss. At first it's all teeth and noses, but then Ezekiel gets his hand on a stubbled jaw, guiding them to an angle that works, and then it's just good. When they break apart to breathe again, Ezekiel leans his forehead against Jacob's, smirking a little. "I think we're doing this a bit backwards," he murmurs hoarsely. "Don't people date before they get around to the touching?" Which isn't exactly true. Even couples that've been married for twenty years might not ever touch each other's dæmons. It's a different kind of intimacy.
Jacob hums low in his throat, almost like a soft growl. "We'll fix that," he replies. His lips brush across Ezekiel's once before pulling away. "Baird and Cassandra are waiting." But if they weren't, Ezekiel has the distinct feeling the cowboy would've dragged him into the backseat right then and there. He sits back reluctantly, straightening the seatbelt that's digging into his shoulder; Jacob shifts gears and pulls back out onto the road. Neither of them say another word...but Sugar's still curled up in Ezekiel's lap, and Biscuit's got her head resting on the console where Jacob can stroke her ears.
Eve is not happy with Jacob. Not one little bit. They both have to sit through her angry ranting because she's not happy with Ezekiel either, running off by himself when he knows damn well he should've asked for backup before stealing the diamond in the first place. He feels like a boy being told off by a schoolmarm, but worse because Eve's a lot scarier than that. Finally, she tells them both to go away before she starts boxing their ears and goes to the training room to punch out some of her aggression. Cassandra doesn't say a word the whole time, and he thinks she might suspect more than a rescue transpired between them. When they leave the Annex, Jacob offers to drive him home, if he wants. Ezekiel agrees; he's always wanted to see the cowboy's place.
"Y'know, you and I should probably stick together," Ezekiel murmurs drowsily into Jacob's chest afterwards, lying sprawled on his side next to the man, draped halfway atop him on the stupidly comfortable bed; their dæmons are curled up together in a snug ball of fur on the bench at the foot of the bed.
"Oh?" Jacob hums the question, dragging his fingers through Ezekiel's hair slowly, stroking down his neck to his shoulders before starting over at the crown of his head.
He nods, throwing his arm over the other man's waist and curling more securely into his side. "Mm-hm. For survival."
"Of course." Jacob's quiet for a moment then adds, "Sesheta. That's her real name. Sesheta. I've called her Sugar since we were kids."
"Sesheta." Ezekiel rolls the name on his tongue curiously and likes the way it sounds. "That sounds nice. Her name's Bellegere."
"Bellegere." Jacob lays his bandaged hand over the one Ezekiel has resting on his chest, lacing their fingers together. "That's nice, too."