Hello all! Thank you for taking the time and energy to click on this story. That alone makes you a winner in my book.

okay so i just recently finished watching this show and HOLY SHIZ i am obsessed it is SO SO SO SO good and the relationship between Barnaby and Kotetsu is like the best thing ever so i needed to write about them

-SPOILER ALERT-

My favorite scene in the whole show was when Kotetsu was 'dying' and Barnaby was yelling at him, telling him he couldn't die. At one point he said something along the lines of, "You can't die! I've been learning how to make fried rice because it's your favorite!" And my heart about exploded. And then this baby was born.

-SPOILERS END-

Enjoy this short one-shot about the daily struggles of a little bunny, and about the beautiful relationship blossoming between said bunny and a tiger.

-cue cheesy music-

-cue cheesy smile-

Don't forget to leave a review when you're done to let me know what you think! :D

Bunny's Hardest Challenge

Okay. Best option is to hit the Internet for something this big. It'll take a lot of research, but I have to do this.

I rush home. I'm on my way before Kotetsu is even out of his suit. I need to get back as soon as possible. I walk the path back to my apartment building, cleaning my glasses and trying to ignore the looks people are giving me. Good looks, of course. People know who I am. I smile back at them, wave, but keep walking. I don't have any time to stop. I've been itching all day to get home, put on some music, light a few candles, and get down to business. There's something very, very important I have to do, and I have to do it fast. But it's a really beautiful day out and the sunset is kind of romantic, a day with no crime and only a few interviews—which is good. I have my work cut out for me tonight.

My phone starts ringing while I walk home. It's Kotetsu. I should've expected him to call.

"Hello?" I say.

"Hey, Bunny! Where'd ya run off to so fast?"

"Nowhere, just home."

"Home? But it's not even seven o'clock."

"I'm aware."

"Don't ya wanna get a coffee or something?"

"I'd love to, but maybe tomorrow. I'm a little busy tonight, okay?"

"Busy? With what?"

"N-nothing."

"Oh, I get it."

"Get what?"

"You have a date tonight, don't you?"

"What?" I scream into the phone. The last thing I want is Kotetsu spreading rumors like that about me. "N-no, I don't have a date!"

"Aw, is poor little Bunny nervous? Don't worry about it. Hey, want some manly advice?"

"It's not a date!" I repeat. "And if it were, I wouldn't need your advice."

"Ouch."

"Listen, I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow, Kotetsu."

"Uh, all right then. See ya tomorrow."

I put my phone away and keep walking. It's just like Kotetsu to jump to stupid conclusions like that, out of nowhere. I stick my hands in my pockets and look up at the faded, starry sky while I walk. Sometimes I forget how beautiful it looks when I'm thinking about so many other things. Like that old man always making things difficult for me. But I'm smiling. Of course I'm smiling. Kotetsu has a way of doing that—making me smile, I mean. I smile as I walk and I think, a bad habit of mine, probably. I think about everything. I think about how happy I am. Happier than I've ever been in my life. The cool air of the night washes over me and I just keep smiling, keep wondering why I've never been so happy before.

Finally I'm at my apartment. I enter the code and walk inside, and everything is just as I left it. The flower painting—which I handpicked from a rather prestigious art gallery a few years back—covers an entire wall, pink and yellow and blue. My huge TV covers the opposite wall, with my favorite chair and my laptop (and the robot toy my parents gave me, of course) on the table. I flip on the lights, take off my leather jacket, hang it pristinely in my closet, and slump down in that chair. It hasn't even been a long day. I'm not very tired. But I need to rest for a few moments, to prepare myself for the long night that is to come. I reach for the robot toy and run my hands along its edges. The same edges that my parents had crafted so meticulously, for the pure purpose of seeing me smile. I squeeze my fingers tightly around it for a few moments. Maybe if I do that long ago I'll just forget that they're gone.

I sit up and flip open my laptop. The first thing I see is the Ouroboros sign. I forgot to close the window last time. I flinch, grit my teeth, close the window. Sometimes I wish I could just forget about that sign and everything that has to do with it, but I know I never will. That sign is ingrained in my head forever more, to flash in my nightmares and each time I'm lonely and lost. Even though I've done it—we've done it, me and Kotetsu—and we've killed Jake and I am sincerely happy...I still lose sleep over that sign. Every night. Every goddamn night.

But now is not the time to be thinking about that. I have other things I need to be doing. I take off my glasses and decide to deal with my slightly blurred vision. The glasses are giving me a headache, even though I can't see two feet in front of me without them. I run my hand through my hair and lean my cheek on my arm, typing on the keyboard with the other. I have a lot of research to do. I type in the first thing that comes to mind, the best starting point, I decide after a few minutes of deliberation. I type, how to cook really good fried rice.

Hours.

Hours and hours and hours staring at that computer screen.

None of these websites are good enough!

I pound the desk with my fist, my eyes bloodshot and my muscles tense. My head actually hurts from staring at the screen for so long. I glance apprehensively at my watch. I'm kind of nervous to see what time it is.

"Damn it, nine o'clock?" I scream. "It's already been two hours and I haven't even found a recipe!"

I stand up and start pacing, hands behind my head and face turned toward the ceiling. I mean, sure, there are a lot of websites with recipes on how to make fried rice. But it doesn't seem like any of them are good enough. Damn, I should have asked Kotetsu what his favorite kind is...shrimp, I think. That's what he gave me the other day. Okay, so I have to find a recipe for fried rice with shrimp. It can't be that hard, can it? But all these recipes seem too...mediocre. If I'm going to make fried rice for Kotetsu, I have to make the best fried rice he's ever had. I refuse to be mediocre, even if it's just fried rice.

It's a little bit embarrassing to admit, but I never learned how to make fried rice. What is wrong with me? I am twenty-five years old, damn it. I can cook beef stroganoff, cabbage rolls, filet mignon, bread-crusted salmon, the best spaghetti and meatballs anyone will ever taste ever, a mean sweet potato casserole...so why can't I figure out how to make stupid fried rice? I glance over at the computer again. It's sitting there mocking me, with about a hundred different windows open, each showcasing a different shrimp fried rice recipe. I guess there's only one thing for me to do in this scenario.

All right, Barnaby. You have to do this strategically. Look at these recipes and figure out the best aspect of each—if you combine them, your fried rice is bound to be the best...right?

I sit back down and pull out a notebook. More frantically than I would like to admit, I begin scribbling down the ingredients that I'll need, taken from all the different recipes. My robot toy is sitting there and I can almost hear it laughing at me. I bet Kotetsu would be laughing at me, too. But I can't let worries of jest deter me. Cooking the best fried rice in the world is imperative at this point. I've decided. It has to happen.

I step into my boots, put my jacket back on, and grab the piece of paper with the list of ingredients. There's a 24-hour grocery store on the end of the street, and I head straight there. It's dark out by now, and Sternbild is beginning to get busy. But I stare straight ahead, hands in my pockets, knowing that I have a goal in mind I have to reach. Inside the grocery store, I fill my cart like a madman, crossing ingredients off my list and rushing to the next aisle.

Until I turn a corner and run into the one person I did not want to run into.

"Bunny! Hey, hey, pal!"

"K-Kotetsu!"

He puts his arm around my shoulder and pats my back, the way he does when he's trying to be overly friendly. I take a deep breath and try not to roll my eyes, because I know he gets annoyed when I do that. Even if he doesn't say so.

"Didn't expect to see you here so late," he grins. "Whatcha doin'? I thought you said you were busy?"

"I...I am."

"What're ya grocery shopping for?" he says, scratching his bearded chin. What a weird beard.

"Why does anybody grocery shop?" I snap. "For food."

"Oh, uh, right."

"I'm kind of in a hurry, so—"

"I get it!" he cries. Everybody in the entire aisle turns to look at us.

"Keep it down, will you?"

"You're gonna cook dinner for your date! Is that it? I'm right, aren't I? Of course I am. You romantic dog, you."

"I told you, Kotetsu, it's not a date."

"Aw, come on, Bunny, no need to hide it from me!" He stands up taller and smiles that cheesy smile of his. "This is perfectly normal. You're a guy, after all, and guys have needs, and—"

"Oh god, would you shut up already?"

"My little bunny, growing up," he says, wiping a fake tear. "Well, I'll let you go, then. Don't wanna keep the pretty lady waiting!"

"Uh...okay."

He turns and keeps walking down the aisle, sticking up his fingers and flashing me a wink before turning the corner. I let out the breath I had been holding, and notice that the ingredients in his cart are almost exactly the same as mine (except for a giant jar of mayonnaise). For fried rice, of course. It's the only thing he knows how to cook. He told me once that he never bothered to learn anything else because he loves it so much.

That's when I decided I have to learn how to make it.

When he told me that it's his favorite.

Before I begin my cooking endeavors, I light some incense and scented candles. To calm my nerves. Then I pour myself some rose wine and put on a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. If I don't have everything set up correctly, I will just be a mess. I get out my pots and pans, put on my apron, make sure my glasses are clean, spread out the ingredients on the table and, humming to the music, begin to read through the recipes on my computer.

The first time I try it, I end up activating the smoke alarm and the entire building is evacuated.

Nice going, Barnaby. That's just great.

The second time I try it, I forget to devein the shrimp.

Oh god, what is wrong with me?

The third time I try it, I add so much ginger that I can't even swallow a single bite.

By this time, I've gone through the piano concerto at least five times, I'm starting to feel tipsy from all the rose wine, and I can feel the bags underneath my eyes. I check the clock. It's two o'clock in the morning. Way past my bedtime of 10:30 sharp. My hair is going to be a mess tomorrow, that's for sure. Frustrated and a little bit drunk, I throw my ingredients back into the fridge, manage to slip out of my apron, change the Rachmaninoff to some Chopin (change of pace, you know?), and drop down into my chair again. When I close my eyes, I can see shrimp and grains of rice floating around. And I can hear Kotetsu laughing in my mind.

Way to go, Bunny! You can't even make fried rice! HA HA.

"I'll figure it out," I mumble to myself. I turn to my side and shut my eyes tight, curling up into a ball. "Even if it takes days, weeks, months, I'll learn how to cook the best fried rice out there."

I begin to drift off into my drunken slumber, with a vague regret about the fact that I will most definitely wake up with a headache.

I'll learn how to make fried rice for you, Kotetsu. And one of these days, I'll cook it for you, just like you cooked it for me. And we can eat it together, and you can say, with your mouth full, "Wow, Bunny, where'd you learn how to make such great fried rice?" And then I'll say, "Oh, it's nothing special." Even though I know it is really special, because the only reason I learned how to cook it is for you.

"Damn you, fried rice," I hiss, just before drifting off. "I will master you yet. You can't evade Barnaby Brooks Jr. forever."

And then I'm asleep, the scent of shrimp wafting through the air.