A/N: Written for the prompt "bleeding" on tumblr. This is marked "Jackrabbit-ish, can be read as gen" and that's true, I guess. Really snuggly gen.

The title comes from the somewhat apocryphal phrase "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb", which has been popularized recently by Cracked even if there's no real proof that it's the original meaning of "blood is thicker than water". Still. It's a nice thought.

I almost named this "Blood Will Have Blood, They Say", but Macbeth's way too hardcore for this lil piece of fluff.

A long, long time ago, pooka had been social creatures. They were scattered across their world in clans, and clans had families, had mates. A crowded warren was a happy one, and solitude was a rare and somewhat unnerving treat. There were all sorts of ways that pooka bonded with one another, and those bonds were reestablished every day. It wasn't unusual for an unmated pooka to be called on to babysit the clan's kits, watching them as they chased each other through the vales, and singing them to sleep once they were tuckered out. Being held as a kit as they slept, their clanmates petting downy ears and crooning a lullaby, was one of the first ways pooka bonded with their clans. The most popular, though, was grooming. Pooka had thick, luxurious fur that was difficult to keep groomed all on its own, but that was why they had mates and brothers and sisters and parents. Beyond just the practical appeal, it was calming. There was something soothing about claws gently picking through fur and a rough tongue putting things to right. It was intimate. It was bonding.

Thousands of years had passed since then, since the days when warrens were noisy, and Aster had found workarounds. There were long-handled brushes, and there were washtubs. He was limber enough; he could usually reach the trouble spots without too much cursing. Usually he set about his grooming with an economical brusqueness, but there were days when he lingered. Sometimes he ran claws over his own shoulders and tried to remember what it had felt like a long, long time ago. But that feeling, that sweet, intimate safety, eluded him. He simply couldn't recall it, not anymore. The only pooka in all the worlds was no longer a social creature.

Now, though, now there were long, delicate fingers carding through his fur. They sank in deep enough that he could feel them cool and trembling against his skin. He huffed out a sigh. Jack wasn't going to do much good if he kept shaking like that. "You all right back there, Frost?"

"I'm fine," he responded, but there was a tightness to his voice, a quiet fury that told Aster that he was anything but.

"Jack," he said, voice low.

Those fingers tightened in his fur, balling up almost into fists, and Aster did his best not to wince. "You didn't have to do that!"

Aster didn't disrespect them both by asking him what he meant. He'd thought about that moment a lot over the last few hours. What had he been thinking, stepping in front of Jack like that? The Guardians had had the battle well in hand; it was just Pitch being a right tosser again. Jack probably could have blocked the attack, if he'd seen it. But he hadn't seen it, and the others were too far away, and Aster was right there. Truthfully, he hadn't been thinking of much of anything. He'd just seen the sand, streaked through with lightning and sharp as glass, and he'd moved. His paws had gone around Jack's upper arms like they'd belonged there, and when he curled around that thin frame, it felt right. Even the blinding pain between his shoulder blades and the panicked fury on Jack's face couldn't change that.

Aster thought about that, thought about the way his body had moved before he'd given it permission to. The way that his own safety had meant so little compared to Jack's. "Didn't I?"

Jack made a rough noise behind him. "Of course you didn't, you stupid rabbit! Don't you think I can handle myself?" he asked, and his voice shook with something that Aster couldn't quite identify. It was like hurt, almost, like fear. It was raw, as if Jack had been the one wounded.

But he hadn't. He was safe and whole and unmarked. And that was enough. "Oh, you can handle yourself in a brawl, to be sure. But Pitch fights dirty. He knew you weren't looking," Aster said, and closed his eyes against the memory. He wished that Jack wasn't so tense, that he would take his hands from bloody fur and antiseptic and maybe stroke down his ears instead. Then he snorted, banishing the idiotic thought from his mind. He wasn't a kit getting his first tonguebath from a pretty doe.

"So what?" Jack hissed, "So what if he did hit me? I've taken hits before. There's no reason you should've gotten hurt instead."

"Couldn't help it," Aster said, a half-grunt against the pain. "It's the Guardian in me." And then, when Jack went quiet and slack behind him, he added, "And you didn't have to come here, either."

Jack sucked in a breath so sharp that Aster could feel it breeze through his fur. "Didn't I?"

Aster hummed. It was a cop-out answer, he knew.

Once Pitch had been dispatched for what felt like the hundredth piddling time, all Aster had wanted to do was head back to his den and lick his wounds in peace. But Jack had been there beside him, fingers white-knuckled where they gripped his forearm, words haltingly stumbling over words as he asked if he could help. And so help him, he'd said yes.

It felt odd to have someone in his space after so long. His warren was quiet. His den was empty. That was the way it had been for centuries. But now there someone else, a waspish little snow sprite, invading his space. He'd crept into his den with something like uncertainty, but he'd taken the bandages from Aster's cupboard like someone who knew how to use them. But before they could be applied, the wound had to be cleaned.

"I'm not complaining, mind. I may be flexible but even I'd have a rough time getting back there," he said conversationally. "Even with muscles intact."

They'd grow back. They always did. Pooka were sturdy; he'd been able to take a lot of damage even before he'd been able to shepherd Life through his warren. Now a few damaged tendons were only a mild setback, albeit a painful one.

"You idiot," Jack said again, but his fingers were gentle as he dabbed away at Aster's back with a wet cloth.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before," Aster said. He would have shrugged, but that didn't seem like it was going to be in the cards for a few days yet.

Jack went quiet again as he worked, a stony silence that Aster wasn't sure he could break. Jack had made great progress for someone unused to pooka anatomy. He'd gotten a few sections already bandaged, and even now, at the very end, his hands were sure. Aster wasn't sure he wanted to know how Jack had gotten so good at this.

Instead of contemplating that, he let his mind wander and go fuzzy as gentle hands ran through his fur, wrapped up his wounds, kept his insides on the inside. He'd had to sit down for this, perched awkwardly on a low stool while Jack stood behind him. It was the only way that Jack had been able to reach the wounds. As odd as the position felt, though, he was glad to be sitting. He felt exhausted all the sudden, sleepy and soothed and drowsy on top of the stress of a busy day. His fur was being stroked, rucked up, pressed flat, and it quieted him, the echoes of a half-remembered past clouding his thoughts and making his breaths go even and steady.

Jack had finished now, he registered dimly, but he hadn't moved his hands from where they rested on his shoulders. He heard Jack's voice saying something, but it was as if it was filtering through deep water. He made a noise in response.

Clearly that wasn't enough, though, because Jack was circling around the chair, coming to the front so he could peer at his face. "Are you okay, Bunny?" he asked again, and this time Aster could hear the worry in his voice.

"Fine, mate," Aster said, tipping forward to rest his head against Jack's chest.

"Okay," Jack breathed, "You're not okay. Should I—should I go get North?"

"Pfft. Not that old ratbag," Aster murmured. "Do my ears next?"

"What?" He felt Jack leaning forward, running his fingers over his ears. "I don't see anything wrong up here..."

"Nothing's wrong," Aster agreed, and he felt a purr start up beneath his breastbone.

Jack froze, and Aster made a bereft little noise. "Bunny, what's happening?" he asked, voice carefully blank.

"It's just—" Grooming. Aster jerked his head up and back, hissing as the movement irritated his shoulders. Stupid. Jack was right, he was absolutely stupid. "It's nothing."

"Seriously?" Jack asked, eyebrows nearing his hairline. "That's what you're going with?"

"No, it's just..."

Jack gave him an expectant look, and so Aster forced through the humiliation rising up in him like bile. "It's just been a long time. Since I was touched. Like that."

"Like what?" And then Jack's eyes widened and he took a step back. "This isn't some weird sexual thing, is it?"

"No! Bloody hell, Jack."

"So what is it?" Jack pressed.

"It's a... shit." Aster gingerly brought a paw up so he could wipe it down over his face. "It's a pooka thing. For a moment there, it felt almost like grooming."

Jack made a face. "Like a dog?"

"No, not like a— Just forget it, Jack." Aster looked away then, glad that pooka didn't blush like humans did. He had a feeling he'd definitely be doing it if he didn't have so much fur.

Jack was nothing if not perceptive, though, and that brief moment of weakness was enough to make him latch on anew. "No, come on. Tell me," he said. Then, hesitantly, "You looked... I don't know, you looked really happy."

Conflicting emotions rose up in him, nostalgia and embarrassment and a sort of longing that he immediately forced down without pity. Aster's lips twitched. "Pooka groom each others' fur. It feels nice." When Jack gave him an unimpressed look, he added, "It's... intimate. You only do it with other members of your clan."

"So, what, this is like some kind of weird pack thing?" Jack asked, rocking lightly on his heels.

"I told you, you bloody gumby, we're not dogs," Aster responded, rolling his eyes. "We have clans, not packs. We had villages, and families lived together."

Mother, brothers, mates. Aster closed his eyes again. Jack was none of those. He wasn't family, and he wasn't clan, and he certainly wasn't his mate.

When Jack's voice came again, it was much closer. "But that was a long time ago." It had also gone soft and thoughtful, and the sound of it made shivers run down Aster's spine.

"A long, long time ago," Aster agreed, and he tried to keep some of the grief from his voice. Jack was the Guardian of Joy, not melancholy.

"Hmm." The touch, when it came, was tentative. It was just the slightest pressure of fingers against his temple, and Aster couldn't help but lean into it. It had been so long.

The fingers grew bolder, questing further. Cool fingertips brushed against the soft fur at the base of his ears and then further back, down over the crown of his head to his neck. He could hear Jack's steady breaths moving behind him once again, and just like before, Jack raked his fingers through Aster's fur. He scratched and he petted and he rearranged, skipping Aster's shoulders entirely so he could run cold hands down his sides and back up again.

Finally, finally, after Aster had gone unsteady and boneless, unsure for once what was happening between them, Jack stopped. His fingertips teased at the very edge of Aster's bandages, and once more they were trembling. "Is that what you think of me, Bunny? Am I part of your clan?"

"No," Aster murmured, voice gone thick like molasses. "Clan is blood. I'll never have that again."

The noise Jack made then was harsh, derisive. "Blood. Like there hasn't been enough of that today."

Blood spilled and blood gathered. Blood shared. Was it enough? Bunny tilted his head foward, letting it flop down to his chest.

Jack sighed and worked his hands upward, stroking through thick fur and ghosting down lax ears. "We're here for you, Bunny. You know that."

Bunny huffed a little, drowsily. The miracle of the matter was that it was true. The Guardians had come together of late, talking and joking and protecting one another from the dark and from the loneliness inside it.

And then there was Jack. Jack, who was smiles and laughter and fun, who irritated the living hell out of him, who fit in his arms just right, who was combing through his fur like no one had in centuries. Who now, after decades of squabbling, he could no more imagine losing than the air he breathed.

He abruptly turned where he sat, making Jack squawk in surprise. But when Aster pulled him into his arms and buried his nose into the crook of his neck, Jack went willingly. He returned the embrace carefully.

Aster breathed him in for a moment, the scent of him, cold air just barely starting to mingle with warm fur, and then he sighed. "I don't rightly know what you are to me, Jack," he mumbled, lips against skin. "But you're important."

He could feel Jack release the breath he'd been holding, shaky and quiet. Then, "Yeah. You too, 'Roo. So don't go getting yourself hurt again, okay?"

"No promises," Aster replied automatically. His life had never been a simple one.

Jack pulled away and fixed him with an uncharacteristically serious look. "Then promise me this. Next time, work with me, okay? Don't just dive in and sacrifice your hide because you think I can't take it."

Aster frowned. That really wasn't the most apt description of what had happened. Still. "Fair enough," he admitted.

"Good," Jack said. He reached out again to run his fingers along the thick fur at Aster's collar. "Because I kind of like your hide just the way it is."

Aster blinked, then looked a little more closely. Jack's cheeks were going ever so slightly lavender. "Oh? Is that right?"

Yes, Jack's pale skin was definitely darkening. "It's soft. And I like it a lot better without the blood."

Aster could feel himself going half-lidded, and he blinked once or twice to try and restore himself to rights. "Yeah?" He paused, considering. Jack wasn't clan, and he wasn't family. But who knew what maybe, just maybe he could be? "You know, I suspect I'll have a hard time grooming myself until I'm all healed up."

Jack swallowed, eyes bright, and then he grinned. "Good thing you've got me, then, right?"

"Yeah," Aster replied, drawing Jack close once more. "It's a right good thing."

Jack nuzzled into the silky fur just below his ears. "You know, though," he murmured, lips ghosting against his ear, "I draw the line at licking you."

As Aster choked on his own laugh, he felt Jack's lips curve up into that cheeky smile, the one that always invited him to laugh right along with him. And if Aster was being truly honest with himself, it was that right there, that smile that had him jumping into the line of fire in the first place.

He snickered and let his own claws trail down Jack's silly, furless side. "We'll figure something out."