"Shit," he hissed once she pulled another length of gut. His skin felt tight, like someone was yanking on the studs lining his eyebrow. More than once, dots danced across his vision, and he refused to blink them away; her hands were shaking enough, and he didn't want to risk being jabbed in the eyeball. And so when his eyes would water, he'd squint and count his breaths.
Worse still, his particular viewpoint was a disappointment. Hardly any curves filled out the triangles of her brassiere. Yet his eyes would flicker back at the drooped opening of her button-up, for there was nothing better to look at.
"Shit!" he snarled; she was tying the ends of the gut, now. The lengths of the straps around his wrists were pulled taut, and his knuckles strained against his gloves. "Could ya make 'em any tighter?" By steel, his blood was drumming in his veins.
She paused, her mouth twisted in thought. He braced himself for another bite of the needle. Instead, he was rewarded with her quiet, "I'm sorry."
And then she dripped more of his whisky on the finished suture. Her shoulders hunched from his snarls, and she edged away from him. Realizing that her hands were still shaking, she rubbed them together to calm her nervous energy. Her chains clinked together. "I'm sorry," she murmured again. "Should I wrap it again?"
"How should I know?" he spat. He exhaled after noticing she ducked her chin into her collarbone. She looked like a turtle trying to hide in its shell—a blue, tiny Viathan turtle. "Probably," he grumbled once the percussion ensemble in his skull took a rest.
"Okay," she squeaked. She wrapped a new yard of gauze around his forehead and scooted back a safe distance once she finished. He was testing the straps again, tugging with one arm and then trying the other.
"'Nother one of your precautions?" he asked. His head lolled onto his shoulder; the room was spinning again.
"Yes," she said. Miss McGarden stared at her hands, not knowing what else to do. A blush creeped up her neck; he was muttering swears beneath his breath while trying to undo her handiwork, and she'd never known that such colorful profanities existed. "You should probably rest," she blurted at last.
"Yeah? Close my eyes so you can tighten 'em more?" he asked.
"Your eyes are closed," she said.
He started—Black Steel and his armies, his skull was screaming—and the room came whooshing back into vision. Steel, iron, copper, aluminum—why did it have to be spinning! "Watchin' me, are you?" he asked. "Huh. Thought that was your style."
"My—you—" She slammed her hands in the sand and raised her chin, not that he'd have to even move his neck to remain looking into her eyes. "I could have left you. I could still leave you."
Oh, his smirk was infuriating, and his next words set her blood boiling. "You don't have the guts for that, shortstuff."
She looked away from him and blinked in an effort to school her expression. Mavis, she could feel her anger swim up into her irises. His pleased chuckle was the last straw; she stood, abruptly, and dusted her khakis off. Picking her way through the sand, she walked around the pillar.
And left him.
He blinked and forced his head to the side, as far as he could, and called out, "O-oi!" She did not respond. He shouted again. "Librarian!" He strained his head against the pillar, feeling like his vertebrae were rusted like the old forges Karma hosted. His scalp pinched, and he gasped.
His skull was full of a lightheaded fog. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he tried to root himself to his surroundings. The sounds of his breathing, the water, the crackle of the braziers—he squinted: the sight of his tied hands. Mister Redfox tugged and yanked on his bindings until they squeezed his wrists and halted the bloodflow to his hands.
The bathhouses were so big and vast, and he was just one person. The braziers flickered.
"Researcher, actually," he heard her mumble from beyond the pillar. An ounce of clarity returned to him, enough for him to fully open his eyes. He felt like ice had been injected into his brain, if that was possible—surely, the syringe wouldn't be wide enough? Tilting his head and ignoring the pounding in his skull, he frowned at the sound of water splashing. Oh by steel, frowning was not a good idea; the action tugged at his piercings and stitches.
"What are you doin'?" By rusted metal, despite his stitches, his frown deepened.
"Washing," came her clipped answer.
"Washing what?"
"Mister Redfox," he heard her huff, "I am taking advantage of the fact that we are in the bathhouses, and that there is a steady stream of water here. I am taking a bath."
"A bath?"
"Yes," she said. "It's what people do when they're sweaty, dirty, been-urinated-on, tired, sandy—"
"You're takin' a bath," he growled, "while I'm sittin' here losing all feeling in my hands? Coulda untied me, at least, while you enjoy your little bubble bath."
The water splashed suddenly—violently—and he guessed she'd just smacked her hands against the surface. The thought of her throwing a tantrum in her makeshift tub cracked a smirk across his mouth. He leaned his head back against the pillar and tried to make himself comfortable. His next thought was too good to keep to himself, and with a smug grin, he said, "Guess it's true what they say about Viathans and their spas."
Something wet landed against his thigh. The soggy bundle of cloth was stained red. His bindings offered enough slack for him to hold the soaked cotton and look it over. "Oi! You hurt? Are you bleeding?" For a brief moment, the world tilted until he leaned his head back against the pillar.
Her voice was sweet—too sweet, like the overpriced candy vendors sold at fairs. "Just my uterus," she chirped.
It took a moment for him to comprehend her words, and when he did, he couldn't fling the cloth away fast enough. He heard a triumphant giggle from behind his pillar. "Viathan wench," he grumbled. "There's soap in my duffel. Too bad; if you untied me, I woulda given it to you."
"If I untied you," she started, her voice having lost its bite. There was a lengthy pause, and he did everything he could not to look at the red blotch her absorbent cloth left on his khakis. She spoke as if she was reciting a passage from a dirge, and not one of her precious tomes. No, if she'd been reading from a tome detailing Ferroc, her voice would have been pitched with awe and wonder. "If I untied you, you might hit me again."
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. Soft splashes punctuated the silence stretching between them. Squirming, he stared at his duffel, at all of the knots and twists she'd put into his belt to attach it to his waist. "Nah," he said. He grinned, then. "Not gonna hit you when Jose ain't here to see it." His arms were bound, yes, but his legs were a different story. His grin widening, he pulled his knees to his chest.
"You mean when you don't have to fake your loyalty," she said with a tone that was too knowing, too coy for his liking.
"Watch it," he growled. "Walkin' on ice." There: now he could reach his duffel. He bumbled through the outer flaps until he came across the wrapped bar of soap.
"You mean I'm onto something," she said.
"Stick to researching Karma, chatterbox. I'm gettin' tired of hearing your theories."
"Oh?" she challenged. He'd be damned, but his scowl worsened. "Well, I'm tired of you, Mister Redfox! All you've done so far is drag me from worse to worst." The water splashed. "I have questions, Mister Redfox."
"And I don't gotta answer 'em."
"My mouth is bleeding, Mister Redfox. I'm black and blue all over, I'm so skinny I can see my ribs and hips, my feet are blistered and cut, my hair was ripped out, and—"
"And you're ramblin' again," he interrupted when she finally took a breath. "You wouldn't be talkin' like this if I was untied."
"Of course not!" she shrieked. He scowled from hearing her pant and splash through the water. "If you were untied, I'd have another bruise!"
He listened to her huff, pant, and smack the water. She was an angry Viathan turtle, now, and he wasn't too partial to her snapping bite. "Tch," he grunted. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the bar of soap flying over his shoulder. Her gasp accompanied the plop! it made in the water.
"W-what is this?" he heard her ask.
"It's soap, loudmouth. What else you think it is?" The room was tilting again, or maybe he'd slumped on his side. His eyes drooped closed.
"I don't understand," she quietly said.
He wanted his reply to be smart and smug to the point the room reeked of his satisfaction—to spit the smarmy venom she'd snapped at him before. Instead, his voice came out slurred. "It's what people use when they stink like you, chatterbox." She said something in turn, but it was as if his ears had closed with his eyes.
His neck and shoulders jostled this way and that. He managed to peep his eyes open, and there was that tiny blue Viathan turtle, gripping him and shaking him this way and that. Steel and iron, that felt awful, and he was sure that his head would split open. Or roll off his shoulders. Maybe that would be good, his addled brain mused: if he let out a bit of blood, maybe he'd alleviate the pressure knocking around in his skull. Yes, that made sense to him.
"Mister Redfox—!"
He couldn't blink, he realized, because she had his eyelid peeled back. Grumbling something, probably to tell her to get her little Viathan hands off of him, he tried again to close his eyes.
"Do not fall asleep—!"
She was soaking wet, her khakis drenched and her blouse transparent in some areas. Without all that dirt on her face, he absently noted, he could see all the blue and purple blossoms on her jaw, her mouth, her brow. The light from the braziers danced and flickered across her cheeks. Scabs dotted her lips and chin. She looked better with the dirt on; that way, all those blossoms were hidden.
He'd have told her that her hair looked like soggy seaweed, if his brain still had a connection to his vocal cords. It was a good jab—Viathans and their precious water, and all that.
Her small librarian—researcher—hands shook his shoulders again. He needed to ground himself, to tether himself to the room. Yet every time she shook him and pleaded for him to stay awake, the ties to his conscious state of mind loosened; he floated just a bit further away. His eyes crossed, and he focused on her face, on the tip of her button nose. Ferroc and Viath, everything was melting in a dizzy, boggy goop.
Eyes slipping down, his brain buzzed one more thought before his tethers snapped and he was flung into his dreamworld: her blouse, stained transparent from the water over her bust, still did not hide anything worth peeking at.
Miss McGarden scrambled to catch him before he toppled over onto his side. He was a very heavy man, she knew this, and all of his limp weight tested her arms. Still pleading with him not to fall asleep, she righted him against the pillar and shook him by the vest.
His eyes did not open.
"Wake up, Mister Redfox!" The grips on his revolvers jostled against her hands. She blinked, realizing she hadn't disarmed him before, and that his firearms were still in reach of his hands, even if he was tied.
He had every opportunity to—
Gasping, she yanked his twin revolvers out and tossed them in the sand as if they'd bite her. She hunched her shoulders and rubbed her arms, though the room was far from cold. A cry strangled itself from her throat, and she ducked her head into her collarbone.
She did not know what to do.
Forcing her shrieks into even gasps, she looked up at Mister Redfox. He hadn't moved an inch, he was pale like the dead, and his chest rose and fell in shallow crests and troughs. Her own breathing wasn't reliable; she'd quake and tremble after halfway filling her lungs with the scorching air. She grasped her hands to keep them from shaking. He would not wake up, no matter how hard she shook him. Miss McGarden was no doctor, but she knew he had a concussion, and sleeping…
Dismally, she wondered if he'd want to be buried or cremated. Her curiosity shoving her further down that rabbit hole, she pondered if she even had the strength to bury him. She didn't have it in her to set another person, living or dead, afire and watch them become nothing but ash.
The snakes would be happy, at least.
And then a jolt stabbed through her throat as if his revolvers had barked and spat their bullets at her. Nodding, she stared at her unconscious company, trying to find something—anything—to anchor herself to that room and not lose herself to the panicked spiral inside of her head.
One thing at a time.
She sucked in a breath and held it until her lungs burned. Yes. There would be no thoughts of burials, no ideas of cremations, and no nightmares about snakes feasting away at his corpse, routing holes throughout his body to carve their own systems and functions—
No.
A dull ache set behind her eyes, and she narrowed her brows. No. None of that until he wasn't as he was right now: alive.
She would keep her vigil, like the ancient sentinels who had so carefully and systematically guarded the borders of Ferroc, until he awoke.
The world colored itself back to Gajeel in drips and drops of reds, browns, and oranges. He blinked, and the colors bled together. By Karma, it was as if he was looking into a pile of mud—as if he was drowning in mud. Blinking felt like ice water was being poured into his eyeballs, but every blink and flutter cleared away the mud, until he was left with the dizzy bathhouse.
Panting, he tried to uncross his eyes. Everything was doubled—the pillars, the braziers, the arches, all of it. The sound of rushing water was loud in his ears. Swallowing, he braced himself when his neck could no longer support his head. His cheek brushed against his shoulder, and his panting became labored gulps of air. His tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Peeking through his fluttering eyelids, he arched a brow—a horrible mistake on his part—after seeing the trick his eyes were playing on him: there were two librarians, researchers, now, instead of one. They were curled into a ball a safe distance away from him, most likely another precaution, and dozing. Their brows were pulled together, as if there was a nagging pounding there. Hell, he'd ought to know; his own skull felt like it had a knife sticking out of it.
His world was colored black, and after several moments, he came to the conclusion that he'd closed his eyes again. Peeling them open, he breathed in relief when the two researchers merged into one. He snorted, the action jostling his poor noggin, but he could not help to grunt at the sight. Of course the typical Viathan would make herself comfortable and catch some Z's while he was struggling to put his head on right, if his head was even on at all. Maybe it had fallen off his neck and landed in the sand somewhere by his hip. That would explain why the room was still tilting.
Gajeel was about to let his body do what was best for him, but that would have to be put on hold. A rattle filled the air, and one of Karma's devils was sliding through the sand. He shouted for the stupid girl to open her damn eyes! But all that came out of his mouth was a croak. His heart galloped and threatened to burst through his ribcage, and red began dotting his vision. Gajeel's eyes may have been toying with him before, however he did not care. Trick or no, he needed his revolver. Now.
His guns were not on him anymore. The straps binding his wrists allowed him enough slack to pat and grip his vest. They weren't there, and he needed them. Croaking out a swear from the devil slithering closer and from his forehead igniting in pain, he whipped his head side to side. His guns were in the sand, he saw. If this was another one of the idiot researcher's damned precautions, he'd have to start enforcing his own rules. He tried to reach for the closer of the pair. His arm hadn't fully extended before those damn straps tugged on him. The straps gave just a bit, the beginnings of a tear spreading where he pulled them taut against the pillar, but it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough.
Gnashing his teeth together, he twisted his hips, kicked his legs out, and tried to hook the toe of his boot around the trigger guard. Risky, but she hadn't given him many options. Slouching down along the pillar, he growled and bared his teeth. He still had several inches before reaching his gun, and his hips were not made to bend at this angle. Gajeel thrashed and yanked on the straps. He had slack, just not enough—
Kicking through the sand so that he was once again sitting up, he bent one arm around the pillar as far as it could go, and then tugged the slack with his other arm. He swiveled and scooched his way around the pillar. Had the devil not been so close, he'd have smirked in victory and boasted that her little plan wasn't entirely as foolproof as she thought it was. But the devil was close.
Now, stretching his leg out, he toed his revolver and kicked it closer until he could reach the grip with his hands.
Viathans, history would recount, were proud of their culture, yet they were a modest folk, preferring their research, waterworks, and philosophy over warfare. A Viathan's strengths were her wit, curiosity, and emotional intellect. Textbooks would describe Old Viath as a place for the scholar, for the lover, the poet, and the scientist. The northern land, pictured green and blue with life on any modern map of Desierto, was indeed home to a fine civilization.
However, like the water they so dearly worshipped, Viathans were known for their emotions to trickle throughout their veins or swallow them whole in a raging tide—or, in Miss McGarden's case, for her emotional fatigue to welcome in a pounding migraine fit to bursting her skull.
And so it was that her vigil was premature at best. Had she been a descendant of Ferroc, no doubt her eyes would have been peeled until the scorching air sizzled them to prunes in their sockets.
She never did like prunes.
When she squinted her eyes open, she was welcomed back to the bathhouse by a pinch between her brow that threatened to explode into another horrible migraine if she moved her head too suddenly or the wrong way—like a leaky dam ready to burst. The second thing she noticed was the sand stuck to her chin, cheek, and tongue. She flapped her lips and spat.
The third thing she noticed was the business end of Mister Redfox's revolver pointed at her head. Her eyes widened until the room became blurry and all she could focus on was his eyes. There was fury in them, a dark satisfaction swimming in his red irises. He'd take pleasure in this, she realized. She couldn't find her voice, didn't know where it went, and all she could find was fear lodging in her throat. Miss McGarden knew for certain now that the snakes would be happy.
His revolver barked, the sound enough to pierce through the shackles seizing her brain. Gasping, she was rewarded with the taste of copper filling her mouth. Sticky clumps splattered on her forehead. She shrieked and sprang to her feet, holding her head and wailing. Just as quickly, she fell back to her knees and buried her forehead in the sand. "Stop it, stop it!" she screamed. Her fingers tugged at her blue Viathan hair.
Her shoulders jumped at the sound of a thud. She lifted her head to find that Mister Redfox had lowered his revolver. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed closed, and sweat dripped to the collar of his button-down. Then he regarded her with one eye, watching as she searched her person for the bullet entry like a madwoman.
"Lucky," he wheezed. She paused and gawked at him as if he'd pull the trigger again. "Yer… lucky," he repeated. He nodded to where she had been sleeping, and with seconds of hesitance on her part, she followed his gaze.
What was left of the rattlesnake was everything besides its head. Her mouth must have fallen to her knees. She looked back and forth between the snake carcass and Mister Redfox, who was panting and struggling to even squint at her. "Lucky," she murmured, subconsciously, beneath her breath.
And then she noticed that his gun was still in his hand. She grasped her chest to keep her heart from escaping. "Give me your gun," she said quietly.
He frowned, hissing, and croaked, "No."
"Give me your gun, Mister Redfox."
"No," he said again. He flashed his eyes open and, after running his dry tongue over his cracked lips, did his best to snarl, "Ain't gonna give you a damned thing, lady, 'cept maybe another scare or two. Take my guns away again, and next time I'll let the snake bite you. Rattlesnakes are poisonous, yeah? Well I ain't goin' by poison." He sank against the pillar and rested his head on his shoulder. Oh steel, it felt like his brain had just sloshed around inside of his skull.
Enough clarity returned to his sloshing brain after hearing the sound of the hammer on his revolver being cocked with a click! That wasn't right, either—his revolver was in his hand; he hadn't thumbed the hammer.
"I said give me the gun, Mister Redfox."
This time, he was staring down the barrel of his gun. The Viathan wench had snatched his other revolver, and she stood, legs spread apart, both hands wrapped around the grip panels, sighting him down. Her form was good, he appraised, even if her legs shook like a newly born deer's.
So the Viathan researcher knew how to use a gun.
Slowly, he righted himself, ignoring her stuttered demand for him to drop his gun. He smirked. A drop of sweat slid down his nose. "So? Got it in ya, shortstuff?" There it was: the voice of Jose's pet, all dark timbre and criminal promises.
She wetted her lips and straightened her posture. "Drop it." He raised his gun, and she followed the movement with the muzzle of his stolen revolver. Her chains rattled. "Fi'nnek haskara, I said drop it!"
He cocked his gun and, using his knee as a prop due to his binds, aimed it at her head. "Wanna see who's faster?" he drawled in a rumble that permeated her to the marrow.
"I-I mean it," she yelped. Her voice had risen an octave. "So help me, Mister Redfox, I mean it!" She stood her ground, her finger twitching over the trigger, and did not look away from those horrible red eyes. "Give me," she growled, "your gun."
"Tch. Not gonna happen, lady." He released the hammer, the minuscule action warranting Miss McGarden to jerk her revolver in anger. She barked a surprising I am warning you, Mister Redfox!, and he arched a brow at the bite to her voice. This little turtle knew how to snap. He smirked; he enjoyed testing her, to see determination war with her morality in those big eyes. Her bravado, he could see through, but her resolution was refreshing.
He could respect that, in time.
Raising his hands, slowly, for she took a daring step closer, he pointed the barrel of his gun at the ceiling. "Not gonna happen," he said again. And then, playing his cards right, he slid his gun back into the holster on his vest. "Ain't giving you this one. That one, though," he said, nodding at the revolver shaking in her grasp, "is yours."
The unspoken for now echoed about in the room. There was danger in his eyes, a deadly promise that one way or the other, he'd have his gun back. And she may not be on the safe side of it, either.
"Next snake that slithers past you," Gajeel scowled, "shoot it yerself."
Miss McGarden swallowed and lowered the gun a fraction. "I suppose that's fair," she said after clearing her throat.
He flashed his canines and tilted his head. "And yer pronunciation is horse shit. It's hashkar'ra, not haskara." That fire reigned ruler in her big eyes, and she raised her gun once more, then lowered it. "Careful," he chided, crossing his arms. "Ain't you Viathans all about peace? Don't go gettin' your ancestors' panties in a knot, darlin'."
She gasped, then, realizing what she had done—what she had almost done. Swallowing a breath, she released the hammer and slipped the revolver in the waist of her khakis. Her chains rattled. "You would know, wouldn't you, Mister Redfox?" Yes, that was good. Toe the line of his precious privacy to keep him from noticing her weakness, yes. That was good.
He clicked his tongue in a mockery scolding. "Watch yourself, shortstack. Keep pokin' me, and I'll bite." Gajeel made to show his teeth, but then he coughed and choked. If possible, his mouth decided to dry even further. He gagged out a croak, and then turned his head hoping that his hair would hide the color he felt creeping up his neck. That wasn't a good idea, for his brain sloshed to the other side of his skull. Fi'nn!
He heard the sand shift. She had edged closer to him. "A-are you thirsty?" she asked. The hesitance was thick in her voice. She may as well have blurted out that she did not trust him and did not want to give him water. But Viathans were generous with their precious water, and she did not have it in her to deny a parched man a drink.
Gajeel snorted and rolled his eyes. "Nah, I'm right-tight dandy."
"You don't have your canteen?"
"It's empty," he said. "Somebody decided to chuck it at me." He had refilled and guzzled down his canteen after she had so rudely declined the water, but she didn't need to know that. Biting her lip, she skirted around him, her chains clinking together, and knelt beside the running water. "Takin' another dip?" he sneered after hearing her splash something in the water. She returned to him a moment later, holding a soggy bundle of cloth.
"Here," she said, kneeling down next to him. He scrutinized the bundle. His mouth turned down at a corner. There were red flecks in the cloth that he was wary of, and— "It's my bandana," she said. "Don't worry, Mister Redfox: that other cloth is back where it belongs."
He did not need that image in his sloshing brain.
"Just be quiet, Mister Redfox," she said with another bite to her voice. He wanted to point out that he hadn't said a word. She held the cloth to his mouth, and with a sigh, he tilted his head back. She squeezed the cloth, and he caught the drops. The water tasted awful, like sweat, dirt, and blood—hopefully the chit was telling the truth and it wasn't that type of blood. He had to remind himself that he had swallowed piss for this waif of a girl, and with that thought in mind, he decided there were worse things to taste.
Still. He ought to have forced her to eat that pissy hunk of bread when he had the chance. Maybe then the little fool would—
Gajeel raised a brow, following her blouse down to the revolver tucked at her waist. It was within reach; all he had to do was grab it. The stupid girl. This was too easy.
Gajeel Redfox did not like easy.
Smirking, he would let her have her little Viathan victory. He swallowed the last of the water and smacked his lips. She frowned at him, and scooted away when he reached up to wipe his mouth on his glove. The damned straps didn't even let him touch his own face. Huffing, he rubbed his mouth against his shoulder.
"How is your head?" she asked once she noticed he was staring at her.
"You're watchin' me," he murmured.
Oh, indeed, she watched those hands, watched every move they made. Every time they would brush over his vest, her fingers would slip to her revolver, and her lungs would choke the air out of her body. And when his hands would fall back to the sand sans a gun, she would find it in her to suck in a tiny breath.
"No, I'm not."
"Huh."
"Does it still hurt?" she quickly asked, gesturing to her own forehead.
"Hurt?" he smirked. "Getting punched hurts, sweetheart. You know what that feels like, don't you? This is agony, is what."
"You should rest," she said. She stood over the snake carcass and turned it over so that it was belly-up. At least, she thought it was belly-up, what with its head being blown clear off. "But don't fall asleep. You can't fall asleep."
"Yeah?" he grunted. "Just sit while you waltz around here, doing—" He bit his tongue. She had a knife in her hand, no doubt stolen from his duffel, and was slicing a slit in the snake. "The hell are you doin'?"
"Ever eat snake before, Mister Redfox?" He clicked his tongue and scoffed. Nodding, she continued with a clipped tone, "You only have so much jerky, Mister Redfox. I'd rather not eat all of it before we have to." She widened the slit a bit.
"Don't think you can eat all of it yourself, halfpint," he snickered. She forcefully yanked open the skin on either side of the slit, and he pursed his lips. "You sure know what you're doin' over there," he commented.
She didn't answer him, just continued pulling the skin off of the snake. Her face was pale in this light, even though she ripped open the snakeskin as if she was peeling an orange. The skin caught on the rattle, and with a swift tug, she took the skin and the rattle off of the carcass. He was both fascinated and feeling a bit green about the gills.
And maybe a tad delighted to see the snake meet such a fate.
"Sure you can eat it if it's poisonous?" he asked.
"Venomous," she corrected. He rolled his eyes. "Its head is gone, and I plan on cooking it. So yes, I can eat it if it's venomous."
He had a list of words he'd have liked to call her. Oh, did he have some slurs on the tip of his tongue. Gajeel chose to just do as she said and rest while watching her prepare her snake filet. The damned broad had fetched her torch, turned it so the wick-end wasn't facing the snake, and then—
Steel, copper, aluminum, iron, silver, gold—she'd shimmied the torch through the cavity left from the gunshot until the length of the torch was just flesh. Bones snapped and organs squelched. Curling a lip, he shook his head. She shuffled over to the braziers, and then began roasting her snake-on-a-stick.
Oh, did he have a story for his partner.
"Doesn't smell too good," he called out. His voice rang in his ears, and he winced. She ignored him yet again. Fine. He'd just have to wait until she came toddling back over. She couldn't ignore him if he was three feet in front of her. When she was done grilling her snake, she sat more than three feet away from him, and he scowled.
The meat was charred in some places, perhaps as another precaution. One thing he knew for sure was that Miss Researcher over there needed lessons in the culinary arts. He'd be damned if he ever gave them to her.
"That looks gross," he said. She didn't stop chewing. The meat was mostly bone. She'd take a bite, and then have to pluck small, medium, pointy bones out of her mouth. "Taste like chicken?"
Well, damn him, but she ignored him. Muttering, he sank against his pillar and stared at his duffel.
Her voice startled him. "You should eat something," she finally said. He smirked. Now he was the one going to ignore her.
…she did not press the issue.
"We should move," she said instead. "Out of the bathhouse."
"Givin' me orders?" he rumbled.
She glared at him and said, "No, Mister Redfox, I am merely stating a mutual interest of ours. I don't think you want to die down here, and I sure as all that is holy do not want to kick the bucket before I convince the museum that Karma exists. That Ferroc exists."
"That all you want?" he growled. "To claim something that ain't yours? Lady, it exists and has existed for thousands of years, much longer than your little museum. You got no right trying to put Karma in an exhibit."
"Is that what the problem is?" She crawled closer to him and pointed an accusatory snake-on-a-stick at him. "You think that history should just stay down here infested with roaches and snakes? That people shouldn't know about their history?"
He snorted and crossed his arms, trying to ignore the snake hovering just beneath his chin. "The only people who have any right to know about Karma are the descendants. You should know that, lady. Look what happened to Viath. It's a tourist trap now. Spas, shitty food, bubblebaths. Think that should be done to Karma?"
"No," she huffed. "Economic reasons and historical reasons are two different—"
"Yet they go hand in hand," he barked. He leaned as much as he could against the straps. He felt a bit of leeway, and the sound of fabric tearing was music to his ears, regardless if her stick now dug into his collarbone. "Think Karma deserves to be a place with a bunch of parents tugging around their brats, keepin' em from climbing up the pillars? All starin' and pointin' and acting like they own the goddamned place?"
"Is that what you think will happen?" she growled.
"Yes!" He strained against the straps. Her stick was leaving a mark in his neck.
"Well, I don't think it deserves to be raided and plundered like it's for the taking! You, Mister Redfox," she spat, throwing aside the torch and placing her palms on either side of his face, "are a hypocrite! Ferroc is part of Desierto's history. By Mavis, Oro used to be a hub for merchants when it was still part of Ferroc! You're a thief, Mister Redfox—a scoundrel, a criminal—and you've no right to decide what happens to Ferroc when you—"
The straps snapped. Every muscle in his body was taut and pressing against his skin. He dove forward, a snarl raging from his lips and those horrible lines twisting his face, and held her down: one arm across her chest, the other hand yanking on her Viathan hair to trap her in his furious gaze. His duffel, still attached at his waist, dug into her middle. She hadn't time to so much as gasp. She lay there, his Viathan prisoner, gaping at him and trying to suck in a breath he would not allow.
"I told you," he spat, bringing his face centimeters from hers, "to shut your mouth, you fi'nnek achig. Varla en'nek hashkar'ra peta't!" He pressed harder on her sternum, earning a croak from her. "I have every right to decide what happens, you damn broad." From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand going to her revolver. Her legs kicked out, disrupting the sand. "You can research Karma all you want, beg your little museum to believe ya, make up your own stories about Black Steel, but Karma ain't yours."
Instead of the gun, her tiny hands pawed at his chest. He did not budge. Her pallor matched her hair color. He yanked on that Viathan hair. "No one's gonna find you down here, lady. Hell, we don't even know where here is. So if you know what's best fer ya, you'll quit flapping your gums 'fore I rip out your tongue." His arm released her chest. She gulped down air, but was choking again when he grabbed her jaw and dug his thumb and forefinger beneath her ears, forcing her mouth open. The scent of something foul tickled his nose and made him scowl. "I'll cut it out, and I'll toss it in your precious water. Got it?"
Her head jerked back and forth, and he assumed that was a nod. Snarling, he pushed himself off of her and climbed to his feet. His legs were shaking, and he hobbled over to the pillar for support. Leaning his forehead against the broken column, he panted and wiped his face, hearing her gasps and gulps and sobs. Idly, he fumbled with the buckles on his duffel.
"Get some sleep," he muttered, staring at the rushing water. It had gotten louder. "We'll leave when you wake up."
Miss McGarden lay there in the piss-soaked sand, clutching her throat and scarfing down air as if it were fodder. Her eyes rolled beneath their lids. Her chains rattled. Her fingers traced where the new blossoms on her body would bloom. Despite her runny nose, her heaving chest and spooked eyes, the corner of her mouth quirked.
She had felt it. What was once safely hidden by his shemagh, oval-like and metal, was now safely wrapped around his thigh. Her smile widened into a toothy grin; her tongue darted out to poke at her upper lip.
That haskara had hidden Karma's most precious metal beneath his worthless jewels.
A/N: 10/24/16: So, I got a message from a reader who had no shame telling me how I should write my story and that "Gajeel and Levy should have kissed by now." Lol wut. Let me say this LOUD AND CLEAR for those of you who want a quick romance to read: LOOK ELSEWHERE. And don't tell me how to write MY story :) because then you look like a little you know what, and your message goes right to the garbage bin :) Don't like? Don't read :)
Hey, everyone! I am back and writing; thank you all for your kind words and understanding :) They mean a great deal to me. Thank you!
So, a couple of updates and fun facts about me before I reply to reviews. I'm a Penn Stater (University Park!), so campus is CRAZY because we beat Ohio yesterday. I don't really understand football, but I can join in on the pride and the hype and celebrating. WE ARE! (sorry XD) Also, if you have a concussion, it is OKAY to go to sleep. Just have someone watch over you and wake you up periodically to make sure you're all still there and are aware of your surroundings. IF YOU ARE NOT ALL THERE AND ARE NOT OKAY, hopefully the other person watching you will take you to the hospital ASAP. The reason why Levy is adamant Gajeel stays awake is because during their time period, it was believed that you should not go to sleep if you have a concussion. Theirs is an outdated belief.
Aaaand time to answer some reviews:
Painting Dandelions: Thank you; what you said is very poetic and art in itself. :) I am touched by your support and understanding, and I am humbled that you consider my writing to be art. Thank you!
JadeOccelot: Yes, let the bonding begin AFTER they sort out their differences XD let's keep in mind that Levy is still afraid of him; she obviously hasn't watched Fairy Tail, teehee. And :( I'm sorry for your loss. If you need someone to vent to, or just want to talk about it, I'm a PM away.
MundaneAshuri: I think what's sexy about it is the trust Gajeel has of letting someone tie him up. Like, he's ridiculously strong and can probably break through being tied up, but given the right context... Well, trust is sexy, to put it simply. Ehhh, I'll stop XD
Guest 1 (sorry for numbering!): Thank you so much! I'm glad you can picture everything so well :) Thanks for staying for the ride!
levyredfoxx3: Thank you! I try to be brilliant! And yeah, they're both probably mighty ripe. Eeeeewww.
Weezel474: I mean, yeah Levy is attractive. At the moment? Ehhh, she's kinda um... not at her best. BUT ONE DAY!
Andrea: Oh, thank you! That means a lot :) And oh my god, thank you for reading! I'm so thrilled that everyone likes what I'm writing. Usually Gajevy stories are fluffy. There will be fluffy in this story, juuuust as soon as we pass all the spikes, hurtles, gaps, craters... yeah. XD
Mewhee89: Thank you, thank you! :) And yes, she definitely deserved that soak! Hope you enjoyed this chapter too :)
Winter: Lol I started writing this the evening before a very important exam, heehee. Thanks for taking the time to read! :)
Guest 2 (sorry for numbering!): Thank you, that means a lot to me :) And hey, he is a heterosexual man! It's natural ;)
pinklotusflower22: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter too!
Starrystar: Thank you so much!
Shadowwolf1997: heehee, how can you almost hear something? Ah, I'm just teasing you :) Thanks for reading!
DragoonHearted: Oh, you and me both! Brendan Fraser has such a masculine sarcastic vibe about him. He isn't a pretty boy like how Brad Pitt was years ago (sorry to all Pitt lovers; I'm just not very attracted to men who are "pretty"). And thanks so much! I'm glad I've got you thinking about different possibilities. And about Gajeel having more of a face than being a beast, that's exactly what I was going for. I'm so relieved that it worked XD By all means, if you feel comfortable with it, please share your theories. I'd love to give you hints or nudge you along the right path, if you would like that. If not, I totally understand. Thanks again!
reader LM: Oh my goodness, I had to read this a few times to digest all of it. I don't know if you're going to even see this reply, but man, I wish you hadn't reviewed as a guest; I could PM you then! I'm touched that you find me inspiring. I don't think I ever inspired anyone before. I want to say thank you, but I also feel torn. I want you to do what you want to do in life. I want you to be happy. I don't want to be an inspiration to you; I want you to feel at peace with yourself, if that makes sense. I don't want to act like what I'm doing is a piece of cake, or that it isn't something to comment on, but sometimes, I don't please my parents, either. In fact, it feels more often than not, I disappoint them. So many relatives and friends of my family are doing so much cooler things than I am (they're accepted into Harvard, they're working at bulge brackets, they're doing this that and the other thing), and I'm here just doing my thing: I go to class, I do my homework, study, and cook dinner. Might have a beer here and there with a couple of friends. I love writing, I like finance. I'm going to use finance to become a writer and, hopefully, have my work made into a television series. Will it happen? I don't know. Is it a big dream? Yeah, it's a really, really big dream, and I'm just one small person. Urg, my point is that we are all given different cards in life, we all have different things that make us happy that may not make sense to our parents. But it makes sense to us, which is important. I can't tell you how to find ambition. I can't tell you how to make you happy. Only you can do that. It sounds like you enjoy traveling and experiencing different cultures. It sounds like that trip to Asia did you good. I would say explore that! Find out what about that trip changed you so much, and keep following that. If finance wasn't for you, then okay. I won't say it isn't a big deal; you need to be able to support yourself, yeah. But a degree in finance isn't just an opportunity to get a finance job. You can get any job in business with that degree. And if you don't like business anymore, try something more cultural, more community-based. You can even try the Peace Corps. Again, I can't tell you what to do. I can thank you and cheer you on and pray that you find happiness. I don't think you're the type of person who likes being told what to do (who does, really?) But I think you're the type of person who can survive, which is what you've been doing. You can survive, and not all of us can do that. So, good for you, that is fantastic and amazing!
