Escargon had only wanted Meta to do his job for once. So he'd gone to the man's room to badger him into completing his patrol. Following the fall of Nightmare, Sword and Blade had set off on a journey of their own, leaving Meta as the only remaining knight in the castle. The man had proven less and less obedient to the king's orders over time, and his open defiance was irritating and yet somehow admirable to Escargon. Dedede had been even more of a royal pain in the ass lately, having decided to throw an extended temper tantrum over the loss of his favored source of mayhem, and Escargon was getting fed up. Unfortunately, he lacked the strength Meta could use to back up his consistent defiance, so he was relegated to taking the king's abuse on a daily basis.
He knocked on the knight's door and waited for a response. When none came, he tried the handle, and to his surprise it turned. He cracked the door open, peeking in cautiously.
"Sir Meta Knight, it is time for your patrol," Escargon called out. Still no response, so he entered, shutting the door behind him by reflex. He spotted the man seated on the floor at the foot of his bed, and Escargon prepared to berate him as he approached. Escargon froze as he accidently kicked a bottle, causing Meta to turn towards him.
"…Escargon?" he asked, slurring his words heavily. Escargon started a little as he realized that the man's signature helm was missing. Two large scars ran across Meta's face, but it did little to detract from how cute he was. Escargon would have guessed that the man would have a grizzled, rough face, but instead he had a delicate and youthful one. There were blush-like marks just like Kirby's on his cheeks, and he had short indigo hair that stuck out at odd angles. Meta's ears were long and pointed, and his sclera were a golden color, giving him an unearthly appearance.
"Are you drinking on the job?" Escargon accused. Meta blinked and looked at the numerous empty bottles scattered around him, and at the half empty one in his hand. He then looked back up at Escargon with a flat expression.
"Obviously," he said, taking another swig of liquor. Escargon squinted at him.
"You aren't supposed to be doing that. You do know this, right?" he pointed out. Meta gave him an unamused expression.
"Of course I do," he slurred, carefully considering the half empty bottle in his hand. Meta then proceeded to chug the remaining liquid before tossing the now empty bottle aside. The crashing of breaking glass accompanied his next words. "I just don't give a shit."
"You do realize I can fire you, right? Boot you right out of the castle?" Escargon quipped, kneeling to the other man's eye-level.
"Do it then, pussy," Meta hissed, jabbing a finger at Escargon. Or it would have been at Escargon if it weren't for his impaired depth perception. Instead, he pointed at the wall behind the man.
"Nova above, listen to yourself! You sound like an idiot!" Escargon scolded, taken aback at the usually formal knight's behavior.
"So do you and you're sober!" Meta snapped, before cackling loudly. He then scanned the area around him for more booze and deflated a little when he found nothing but empty bottles. Escargon wanted desperately to leave, but his doctor instincts told him that it would be irresponsible to leave someone this drunk alone. It wouldn't do to have one of the most fearsome warriors in the galaxy choke on his own vomit and die.
"How often do you get up to this?" Escargon sniffed, moving a few bottles so he could sit across from the man.
"I don't drink much, I'm not an alcoholic or anything," Meta huffed, looking straight back at Escargon. His pale white irises made his serpentine pupils stand out starkly, making his gaze that much more intense. Escargon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Then why are you utterly smashed at the moment?" he asked. Meta seemed to grow somber at the question, and he leaned back against his bed.
"Anniversary," he mumbled, looking at the floor. Escargon winced a little at the man's expression. It was completely despondent, and even with the haze of alcohol he could tell that Meta's eyes had gone dull.
"I'm guessing it's not a wedding anniversary," Escargon said flatly, though he immediately regretted it as he was fixed in an unamused stare. Even when completely wasted, Meta could still manage to be intimidating.
"No it isn't asshole," he hissed. Escargon considered moving away from possible death by enraged knight, but Meta soon calmed himself and became listless again. He fidgeted with one of the bottles, his expression melancholic. "I miss him…" Meta muttered, drawing in on himself a little. Even Escargon's withered heart broke a little at the sight of the usually proud man quietly breaking down like this.
"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. I'm just here to make sure you don't choke on your own vomit or something," Escargon said, tapping his fingers on his leg.
"He's been gone 458 years as of today," Meta said, a sudden clarity to his voice. Escargon looked away awkwardly, moving to rub uncomfortably at his arms. The timeline also boggled him a little. Just how old was Meta, and more importantly, what was Meta? He decided to question the man about this at a later date considering the state he was in.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Escargon said. Meta rubbed at his face, scowling deeply.
"It's not fair. We won, we beat that miserable shitsack, and they're all still dead. It just seems like a py, uh, a pyr…"
"Pyrrhic victory?" Escargon supplied. Meta pointed at him with an excited epression.
"Yes!," he said, momentarily brightening. The burst of energy quickly deserted him, and he slumped over again, lowering his arm. "You know, the GSA never knew that Kirby was gonna land here," Meta muttered, breaking the brief silence that had fallen.
"Wait, why'd they send you here then? Aren't you high ranked or something?" Escargon questioned. At least, he assumed a moderately high rank would be needed to take on two apprentices.
"I'm a general. And they didn't send me here for any kind of strategy," Meta scoffed.
"Why would they send a general here? It's a pretty backwater planet, and his majesty didn't order very many demonbeasts before Kirby arrived…" Escargon mused, only half addressing Meta. Meta shrugged, throwing his hands up.
"What can I say? I was a liability," he said, adding a few more syllables to "liability" than there should be. Escargon frowned.
"A liability?"
"I wasn't in the best state after, you know, literally everyone I knew and loved was killed. But it didn't matter to the Grand General," Meta said, spitting at the mention of the title, "I had to pretend everything was fine, I was supposed to lie to my troops that it wasn't a fucking suicide mission. Nova, I'm still pretending, aren't I? Acting like the GSA was ever anything more than an army…"
"Why wasn't the Grand General there for the final fight?! We nearly died!" Escargon hissed.
"As the leader of the GSA his survival is a priority. Fucking bastard forgot where he came from," Meta spat, his eyes blazing red. He snatched a bottle and smashed it, causing Escargon to shield himself from the flying glass. "Did you know that the bastard sent my medal for the whole thing in the mail? He's too embarrassed to have me there for a ceremony, I'll bet. I'll pluck his fucking wings if I get the chance."
"Bad blood between you two?" Escargon asked, his voice trembling a little. Meta was certainly frightening when angered.
"Well, when you don't let someone grieve, they do crazy things. Especially when they make you lead the stupid fucking ceremony for the funeral, and make you tell his family all this stupid shit about how he was serving a cause and how brave he was for dying for something so great," Meta said, spitting out the last word. "I couldn't take it anymore, so I told them what really happened out there. How he was possessed and how I was sent to slaughter him."
"That's…terrible," Escargon murmured, lost for words. He'd never really considered the fact that Meta was a bona-fide war veteran before, or the trauma and grief he must carry. Losing everyone you knew wasn't something Escargon could truly wrap his head around, and he had no clue as to how he should offer sympathy.
"I broke down I think. I don't remember precisely what happened, but I know they called me hysterical and unhinged. Or did they call me shell-shocked? Fuck if I know, maybe I was. They sent me here cause they didn't want to deal with me, and they sent my apprentices along in case I tried offing myself," Meta hissed, his eyes glittering a little in the low light. They had faded into a dull, steely blue.
"You aren't suicidal, are you?" Escargon asked hurriedly, genuinely concerned.
"Not now, no. But, I've…uh…" Meta trailed off, swallowing thickly before shaking his head. "No, I'm not."
"Look, maybe you should talk to someone-"
"AND WHAT THE FUCK WOULD THAT DO?! BRING THEM BACK?!" Meta snarled, trying to stand but falling against the bed. He let out a choking noise, pressing his hands over his face and digging his clawed fingers into his skin.
"N-no, it won't bring them back b-but repressing this stuff can't b-be healthy!" Escargon stammered, somewhat terrified by the outburst. Something dripped from Meta's chin, and Escargon realized with a start that he was crying.
"I just want to see them again. I just want them back," he wept, clutching at his face. Blood was welling up around his claws as they dug in further. "It isn't fair. It isn't fair that they died."
"Stop clawing yourself, you're drawing blood!" Escargon squawked, grabbing Meta's wrists and tugging at them. Meta resisted for a few moments before allowing Escargon to pull his hands away from his face. His eyes were a dull gray, and tears were still dripping down his face. A few of the deeper scratch marks had small amounts of blood slowly oozing from them.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, totally listless.
"It's your face, don't apologize to me," Escargon huffed. Meta sniffed and hung his head lower, making Escargon regret his harsh tone. "Look, don't worry about it. Where do you keep bandages?" he amended, releasing Meta's wrists. He put one hand over the other, fidgeting. The movement prominently displayed the black claws tipping each of the man's fingers, and Escargon again found himself idly wonder what species Meta was. He quickly stored those thoughts away for a later date.
"Bathroom sink," Meta said, touching one of the shallow cuts and examining the blood left on his fingers. Escargon made a face as he licked it off.
"I'll be right back," he said, standing, "And, uh, don't do that again please." Escargon made his way to the bathroom and opened the cabinet below the sink. An extensive collection of first aid supplies were crammed into the space, and Escargon quickly retrieved disinfectant wipes and a box of bandaids. He returned to Meta, happy to finally utilize his skills as a doctor after so many years even if it was just bandaging a few small cuts. He sat in front of the man, closer this time. Meta was in the same position as when he left him, and he had a small amount of blood smeared over his palm.
"I didn't lick it, since it offended you so much," Meta sniffed, using his clean hand to wipe at a few lingering tears.
"It's unsanitary. Lean forward for me," Escargon said, tearing open one of the disinfectant packages. He reached out and gently cleaned away the blood that had seeped down Meta's face, working his way up to the cuts. He then grabbed a second wipe and cleaned the other side of the man's face, carefully avoiding Meta's scars as much as he could.
He had a much better look at Meta's face from this angle, and he scrutinized him as he worked. The two scars were obviously the result of a truly grievous wound, and he noted that one eye drooped just a little lower than the other, indicating some form of nerve damage. The scars were messy and jagged and had no signs of ever receiving medical attention. Escargon mentally noted that he should approach the man when he was sober and teach him some proper scar care.
"It's my blood," Meta pointed out. Escargon sighed and set aside the second used wipe, reaching for the box of bandaids and rooting through it for the proper size.
"It's disgusting to watch, alright?" he said, grabbing a few standard-sized bandaids and tearing open the paper wrappings.
"Whatever," Meta huffed. Escargon only gave him an unimpressed look as he peeled the backing off one of the bandages. He reached out and pushed Meta's hair away from one of the cuts, firmly pressing the bandaid into place. The light tan color stood out starkly against Meta's deep brown skin. The other two cuts were bandaged in short order, and Escargon swept the discarded wrappings aside and into a neat pile.
"There, now you won't bleed everywhere," he said. Meta touched one of the bandages experimentally, feeling the rough outer material under his fingers. He then frowned, wondering what exactly he was expecting.
"Thanks," he mumbled. Escargon stood and gestured behind Meta.
"Now that that's over with, let's get you in bed so you can sleep this off," he said.
"Can't walk right now. Lift me," Meta said, managing to sound commanding despite his inebriation.
"Look, I'm not really that strong of a guy-"
"I'm light, don't worry." Escargon gave Meta an irritated glare, but bent down to lift him regardless, slipping an arm under his knees and around his back. He then steeled himself and lifted.
"See, I told you-" he was cut off as he easily lifted the man. Escargon blinked, astonished at how light he was. Meta was tiny, sure, but he was pure muscle. Surely, he must weigh more than this?
"No, I told you," Meta said smugly.
"Do you eat?" Escargon squawked, carrying the man to the side of the bed and setting him on the center. Meta then spent several minutes wriggling his way under the covers, which was admittedly endearing to watch. He then rolled onto his side to look at Escargon.
"My species is light. I eat plenty," he grumbled.
"Right, well, if you are settled I believe you are in a state where you can take care of yourself now…" Escargon said, turning to leave. A hand around his wrist stopped him/.
"Don't leave." Meta's eyes were intense and pleading, and they glowed brightly in the gloom. Escargon turned back towards him.
"What? Why?" he asked. Meta released his wrist and averted his gaze, and Escargon mentally cursed him for managing to look cute whilst doing so.
"I don't want to be alone," he mumbled, his words so quiet that Escargon barely heard them. He squinted at Meta.
"I'm not sharing a bed with you, especially drunk you," he said flatly. Meta's eyes narrowed, tinging red.
"I wasn't asking you to, asshole," he snapped before taking a breath and continuing, "Just, until I pass out…" Escargon sighed. It stood to reason that he'd want company in such an emotionally vulnerable state, but the king would surely have his head if he dawdled here any longer…
"Alright," he said, moving to sit with his back leaning against the bed. That greedy jerk could wait while he comforted a drunk veteran.
"Thank you," Meta murmured, almost at a whisper. Minutes passed until Meta's breathing slowed, and Escargon turned to check if he was asleep. Meta was sleeping soundly, though he'd surely be nursing a wicked hangover in the morning. Escargon stood silently and looked over the man one last time. He seemed so much smaller like this, and so much more vulnerable. Escargon sighed and walked to the door, turning the lock so that it would properly secure the room as he left.
"Sleep well," he muttered to himself, walking through the door and shutting it gently behind him. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then went off to face the kings wrath.
(This turned into an unrelenting angst fest, oops. Anyway, this is a rewrite of the old Drunken Knights and there will be two more installments after this one that are a little more light hearted! There are also a lot of headcanons here so don't assume it's all canon or anything. I hope you enjoyed!)