AU: Based on the manga up til Gaston leaves Nicolas. Gaston leaves Nic at 12yo, after that Gaston did not stay in Ergastulum, and Nic somehow split up with Worick around 14yo right before the Monroe family massacre would have happened.

"C... Ca-Cap...tain."

The pitiful noise reached Gaston's ears. Rain pelted his shoulders, ringing off the fence behind him. He glanced behind him and immediately regretted doing so. Nicolas was woefully looking up at him past the soaked black hair in his eyes, against the fence like a forlorn pup. Curiosity radiated from the men around Gaston; they seemed to know it was a critical moment. If Gaston showed a glimmer of emotion, it would be perceived as weakness.

"We don't need useless ones on the team," he said, steadily. "If the Celebre poisoning has advanced this far, it's not worth taking you all the way to Ergastulum. Your time is up."

The farewell felt as monotone and practical as he felt needed, it was what he had already told himself. Nicolas moved forward as if to follow. Gaston turned and began to leave.

"... Ath... Fa-ther?"

He froze. The weight of the men's gazes were fully upon him now. There had been a passive balance around the fact of Nicolas's family tie to Gaston, it had been dismissed and treated only as an insignificant detail. Nothing more.

A crude smile marred Gaston's face as he faced Nicolas for the last time. "Don't try to act human, monster."

That day had passed four years ago. Gaston remembered it clearly as a metallic noise caught his ear. He looked around at his dark house, coffee mug in hand. Swearing under his breath, he felt along the cold floorboards until his fingers grazed a smooth edge. Straightening, he glanced at the tags in his hand. They were still slightly warmed from resting in his pants pocket, cooling rapidly in the winter air. Nicolas Brown shown on both. After he had thrown the pill bottle at Nicolas four years ago, this was the last thing in his possession that tied him to his son. They were meant as spares, he had only made two pairs for Nicolas in the twelve years he had him. Once when he was an infant, and again when he was nine. These were his old ones, attached to a short chain and bearing the teething marks of a healthy little boy. Gaston could still remember the first tooth Nicholas lost, though he had not cared to save it; he was neither a sentimental nor impractical man overall. A single pair of tags sufficed for memory.

The telephone rang across the room. Gaston slipped the tags back into his pocket, producing a soft clink, and picked it up. He cleared his throat before bringing the mug to his lips. Someone spoke with a tired voice on the other end.

"Sorry to call you up for this," the man said, "There are a couple calls about a street kid hanging around Terry's grocery store. They're saying he's carrying around a sword; he's about five foot tall, dark hair, Asian, apparently threatening. You're close, right, do you see anything?"

The coffee did not reach Gaston's mouth. Even alone in his own home, he did not show more than the faintest indication of concern. He set the mug down, absently clipping the corner of the counter with its porcelain edge. If it were anyone else he would be irritated to be called for such a trivial thing; one of his men asking purely out of laziness. If it was truly a threat, he would go. He must have tried calling others at this early hour without success. There were so few of them now- the remaining mercenaries were added only recently.

"I'm close and I'll call you back," he replied brusquely, hanging up directly after.

Gaston strode from the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the bedroom, and back to the kitchen as he finished his morning routine. Quicker movements, just by a minute or so, were all that gave away his different mood. As if to make up for his slight rush, he took his time lacing his boots by the door. Upon leaving and setting foot in the damp street, he slowly scanned his surroundings. Light rain had begun to fall. The gray and rust colored buildings looked darker with their coating of rain. Grooves of stone shone almost crimson and black, like blood. Gaston moved leisurely toward the east, in the direction of the sun. Pale light filtered through the clouds, illuminating dirtied windowpanes beyond him. Somewhere, a dog barked incessantly.

Flickering neon lights greeted him around the corner. The storefront was littered with peeling posters; advertisements and bounties. Large red font marked the biggest poster, stretching across the top of the storefront: REPORT ALL TWILIGHTS FOR RELOCATION TO ERGASTULUM. Gaston gave the banner a distasteful glance before passing the store, advancing down its dimly lit alley. Puddles shivered in the increasing rain and licked at his boots. Stale air hung in the alley, mixed with mild decay and garbage. Gaston stopped under a weak fluorescent bulb. A small body crouched beside the garbage, Gaston had almost walked by it. The boy's hair was thick, matted, and covering his eyes at the angle he held himself- hunched inward, clutching a katana to his knees. A chill breeze raised the wet hair on Gaston's neck. The boy did not shiver. His small thumb pressed against the hilt of his sword. He kept his eyes on Gaston's hands. A man's hands were his most dangerous assets in close proximity. Second only to his face, they were also the most vulnerable, and indicative of one's intentions. Gaston's left hand stayed loosely at his side. His other slowly dipped into his pocket, touching the gun hid beside it. The boy stood, unsheathing his sword.

Gaston removed his hand from his pocket with a small clink.

Nicolas paused, eyes widening. The imposing man before him held out a chain in his fist. Two silvery tags dangled from it. Nicolas pushed his bangs back with his wrist, still holding his sword. He looked up at his father's face, wearing the same black eye patch he had seen practically every day for twelve years of his life. Some sort of noise must have escaped him, a hiccup or squeak, for he felt his breath hitch in the back of his throat. Gaston raised an eyebrow and moved his hand in a beckoning gesture. Disbelief first flowed straight through Nicolas, then weakness. He wobbled forward on pained, aching limbs. Gaston held out his hand in a halting motion. Words formed on his lips, soundless to Nicolas. "Wait here."

Nicolas nodded.

He watched Gaston walk away for the second time. With every step, Nicolas expected him to look back. His head spun. How had Gaston found him? Where were the other mercenaries, why was he walking away again? Does he still want me?

Nervousness made his aches worse. He sat down clumsily. Light swam before his eyes as he grew more lightheaded. He fumbled to sheath his sword, cutting his hand as he did. Trying dearly to stay awake, he huddled against the clammy brick wall. He licked the rain off his lips in an attempt to quench his thirst. Hair and water blurred his vision again. His thin body was numb with cold at this point, dressed only in an old jacket and cargo pants. Sleeplessness gnawed away at the last of his energy. Alone, he felt his chin sink against his knees. Rough lines in the weathered fabric scratched his bruised jaw. The rain stopped, leaving an invitingly calm, serene atmosphere for Nic to slip under. His eyes closed as he had no choice but to succumb.

When Nicholas woke, he found himself swaddled in a warm bed. A clean pillow rested under his head. Confused, he sat up and scanned the room. The walls were a medium blue in the sparse sunlight, the floor a dull gray. Except for the bed, the room was only furnished with a stout dresser and round nightstand. Two orange pill containers rested on the nightstand. Nic's sword was nowhere to be seen. As he turned toward the single window in the room, a dry object brushed his arm. Upon the beige blanket laid a note, written in a familiar slanting print. Nicolas curiously read the note.

I will be back at 5:00pm.

NO OUTSIDE.

Stay.

- Captain

He turned over the note, finding more on the back: 2 white, 2 red.

Placing the note by the pills, Nicolas sat in silence. Instead of racing thoughts, he had none. He felt disconnected, unreal. Rolling vibrations traveled through the floor; some kind of machine working within the house. No concern or idea graced his mind, he hardly registered that the digital clock read 4:12 behind the pill containers. By 4:45, he managed to rouse himself enough to reach for the pills. The white ones were familiar enough: Celebre. He did not know what the red ones were for, only that they seemed to be plainer capsules. He took out two white and two of the red, as indicated on the note. Carefully, he stood. His stomach turned hungrily. The last time he had eaten was far from mind; it must have been at least three days. He was dying to soothe his burning throat. Normally he would swallow pills dry. Closing his hand on the pills, he looked back at the clock. His eyes wandered to the note again. Two white, two red, stay; stay indoors? Or stay in bed? The clock did not yet read 5:00. Nicolas looked down at the pills, sluggishly grappling with his present dilemma. In other instances, he would take his chances with confusing or incomplete orders. Correction or penalty would come swiftly enough, and he would accept it. Now, he did not know what he risked. He did not know why his father would take him back; he remembered being left behind due to his weakness. Weakness. He could not risk showing weakness again. A soft self-loathing welled inside him at the shame of having lost consciousness earlier. Certainly, he could not risk being left behind again. His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. Without meaning to, he felt his body moving toward the bedroom door.

He tensed as he saw a man advancing past the shadowy doorway.

Gaston stared back at Nicolas. A few seconds ticked by, both of them watching each other again. Though they had spent so much time together before, what had transpired in four years alienated them enough to warrant caution. From Gaston's point of view, he knew what the youth was capable of. He had encouraged it first-hand, used it on command and optimized it. Nicolas was not truly a child in Gaston's eyes. There was a semblance to himself there, evidence of the boy's parentage, yet it did not cancel the effects of Celebre. Whatever creature Nicholas was, he was his. Right now at least, Nic was closer to fainting than to fighting.

In no rush, Gaston approached. Nicolas gave that same old puppy-eyed look he managed whenever he was trying to focus through pain and exhaustion. Even in the scant light, Gaston could see the purpled skin across Nic's face, a cluster of recent bruises. Gaston glanced at the pills in his hand.

"You read the note?" he asked.

"... Y-es..."

Nic's hoarse, cracking voice grated on Gaston's ears. By the sound of it, he had not used his voice in a long time, or had much to drink. Gaston sat on the bed, now at Nic's eye level. The boy had remained rather small and stunted; perhaps with some effort, he might grow. He would be sixteen this year, a new growth spurt should arrive.

"What happened?"

Nic tried to speak, mumbling, "Nn... on.. d..."

A scowl wrinkled Gaston's brow. "Your speech is awful. I taught you better than that."

Nicholas blinked and stared back sadly. "I... sowy. I c... I do be'r. 'Ruh-miss." He pointed to the note. "'an I wri' 'ead?"

"Yeah," Gaston plucked a pen from his jacket. "Write instead."

As Nic reached for the pen, Gaston twitched his hand away. "After you clean yourself up," he said, "and swallow that," he gestured to the pills.

Nicolas gave a submissive nod. Gaston placed the pen on the nightstand and showed Nicolas to the bathroom. The rain had regained speed again, buffeting the small bathroom window. Yellow light hummed to life as Gaston flicked the switch. Nicolas recoiled as if the light pained him, bumping into Gaston. There was a small cup on the sink with which Nicholas could drink from the faucet and down his pills. Confident that the boy would not accidentally drown himself, Gaston turned and walked the short distance to the kitchen. He felt Nicolas watching him, and observed with bemusement the boy close the door. Privacy must have been something he learned only recently. Such a luxury was often not available when traveling with mercenaries, as Nic had for most of his life. Gaston wondered how long he had been on his own in the world, and how well a sense of self had developed. Sixteen years old. He could not possibly be as innocent and reserved as was before. As Gaston prepared soup, he smirked at remembering who the boy's father was. God help him if the boy was like himself. He considered himself lucky to have missed Nic's first wave of puberty. If Nicolas did not harbor an aggressive thrill to fight before, he would certainly have felt it by now. Violence was never an issue between Gaston and Nicholas, nor was rebellion. Discipline and arduous tasks kept Nicolas relatively rounded in the past. His primary concern was if the boy could survive in this world. Rogues, no matter how strong, did not survive long. He touched his eyepatch briefly. Rogue strength was indeed not as useful as it seemed.

Gaston grabbed a chair and carried a bowl back to the room Nicolas had slept in. Nic was there, folding the towel he had dried his hair with. Removing a layer of sweat, blood, and debris gave him at least the appearance of life. He retained the look of a disheveled stray with his matted hair, emaciated body, sickly complexion and old clothes. As he looked up at Gaston entering, he tugged down his jacket sleeves to his wrists. Gaston took it as nervousness and did not remark. He placed the bowl on the nightstand and sat calmly across from Nic. A pause ensued with Nicolas seeming to await instruction or interpret some cue. Gaston casually tipped his head toward the note and pen on the nightstand.

"You had something to say," he prompted.

Nodding tiredly, Nic took up the pen. He wrote in careful, heavy strokes: I can read, write, sign well.

"You will speak well." Gaston declared, firmly tapping the note with his index finger. "Write it."

Nic obediently added, I will speak well.

Satisfied, Gaston rested his leg over his knee. "Good. What are you doing in this town?"

The pen scratched against paper, slower, as if Nic were unsure of the answer. Lost.

"Alone?"

Yes.

"How long have you been alone?"

A long time.

Gaston pulled out a worn, small plastic bag from his chest pocket. Several small, chalky blocks crumbled in the bag. "What's this I found in your jacket?"

Nicolas looked relieved to see the item, yet tense when he glanced from it to Gaston. Celebre.

"And your tags?"

Nicolas circled lost, running out of room on the short scrap of paper.

Gaston rested his head against his hand, supporting his elbow on the nightstand. He was silent as he thought; something Nicolas must always feel. A tense silence was only silence to him. He likely tried to read what he could from Gaston's demeanor, a system he once knew well. To Gaston's ears, the house groaned in protest against the wind. Water sluiced over the roof with each sheet of rain. Lightning flashed somewhere far away, followed by a rumble of thunder that vibrated through the air. Nicolas shifted, probably noticing the storm only now. The pen started scratching again. Gaston glanced over to see the filled note turned toward him.

I am sorry.

"Yeah," Gaston murmured into his fist, "I'm sorry, too."

He pushed the soup toward Nicolas, standing to push the chair away. In the brief moment he had turned and faced Nicolas again, Nicolas had downed the entire contents of the bowl and nearly the spoon. Gaston gave an impressed smile. Nic seemed to almost smile back and stopped with a confused expression. Eyes darting to the note and room, he made a gesture with two hands away from his chest.

"What?" Exasperation tugged at Gaston's smile.

An instant later Nic's head dropped and he vomited onto the floor. He glanced up, horrified. Gaston grinned back, unable to contain a short laugh- he did not expect the first sign he learned to be puke.