CHAPTER 65: WINTER WOLVES
ME: Guess who's back in Canada!?
BRICK: *sarcastically* Woo.
BLOSSOM: Don't mind him, Kuku. What else did you want to update us on?
ME: Well, I've been all over the place. I went from Paris to Rome and then we joined a tour group, which took us to so many attractions I've lost count! I've been to Venice, Pisa, and Turin—that last place is the place I was in before going back to Paris by train. So I'm in France right now, but I'll be flying back real soon.
Also school is starting real soon too so I've been freaking out about that gah. But two of my lovely friends have been helping me out! They're absolute baes.
BRICK: Oh my God, don't use that fucking word.
ME: What? "Bae"?
BRICK: Yes. That one. That one that is filled with teenage stupidity.
ME: *laughs* Yeah, I know it's dumb, which is why I use it.
BUTTERCUP: Anything about Italy you want to mention?
ME: It was fun but tiring as all heck haha. Italy's is scorching hot right now. I wonder how Deth Jackson Sr and Jr even handle the weather there in the summer?
DJ: You tell me; you're the author of this story!
ME: Right. *laughs* Well, speaking of which, I own nothing but this story and my own OC's! Now please read and leave a review~!
Chapter 65: Winter Wolves
Damon watched Ross from afar. The boy wasn't trying to escape like he'd expected; he was sitting there, with a blanket wrapped around him, reading through his father's journal. Perhaps he knew he couldn't escape.
Well, that makes things a bit easier. Damon smiled and turned back to the kettle in front of him. When it screamed and jumped, signalling that the tea was finished brewing, he glanced back at Ross again. The boy had started, staring back at him. When he looked back down, Damon returned to the kettle, pouring tea into two cups.
He carried both cups to Ross on a tray, and set them down in front of the boy. "Perhaps not as fancy as you are used to," he began, "but it's definitely a classic: Earl Gray."
Ross stared at the cups. "One of Dad's favourites," he whispered.
When the boy didn't move, Damon nudged a platter toward him. "Here are some cookies. I call them...'blood cookies'."
"Why? Because you dipped them in your victims' blood?"
He laughed, but when he looked at the boy again, he realized that he actually wanted to know. "Well...don't you worry about that. Just enjoy the cookies."
Ross reached out and bit into one. "They're good," he murmured, half-surprised.
"I've always been a pretty good cook and baker," Damon replied proudly.
Ross nodded as he chewed. "Do you have any other tricks up your sleeve? Anything else you want to tell me?"
"I like hunting." He drew his hands over the coffee table in front of him, imagining it was a gun. "It's...fun."
Ross shuddered underneath his covers. "What do you even do for fun, nowadays, besides hunting? This cabin is pretty old, and you've been hiding out here for years. What do you do in here?"
Damon tilted his head to the side, thinking. He did a lot of watching and waiting, nowadays. But Ross already knew that. What else do I do for fun? he wondered. He couldn't think of anything. "I just...hang around," he finally concluded.
"That sounds pretty boring," the boy responded, blowing on his tea as he attempted to pick it up. "Don't you get lonely?"
A flash of another time entered Damon's mind's eye, and he clamped his actual eyes shut. There was his brother, years ago, smiling at him as he held up some birthday cake... "Perhaps," he responded softly.
The two of them were silent for awhile, sipping at their tea. There wasn't a lot to talk about, Damon knew. He and Ross lived in two entirely different worlds. While the boy was enjoying the comforts of fine living, Damon had grown accustomed to hiding. He wondered if he was envious of the boy; of how he still had his entire life in front of him, how he had friends, how he had smooth skin that was clear of any scars.
Damon touched his face, feeling the burn scars he'd had for so long now. A fresh wave of anger coursed through him, and he gripped the cup so hard it shattered in his hands. As the remnants of his tea dribbled down his fingers, along with blood from the glass shards of the cup, he stared.
Ross' nose twitched at the smell of blood, and he drew back, away from the man. "Damon?" he questioned, feeling a little sick. "What's wrong?"
"Do you like it?" he asked in way of response.
"Like what?" the boy asked, still confused.
"Do you like blood?" Damon lifted his bleeding hand and showed the boy the red that was pooling from his cuts. "Do you like seeing, smelling, and even tasting it?"
Ross crinkled his nose as he drew the covers over his head. "Don't," he whispered, almost pleadingly. "Just don't."
He set his hand down again. "I do."
"Why? Why are you doing this? What's come over you, Damon?" He closed his eyes, wanting to erase the red from his vision.
The man looked up from his hand, looking the boy square in the eye. "I remembered," he explained in a hushed voice, "that there is something else I like to do."
"And what's that?" Ross asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Damon smiled, picking the shards out of his skin and laying it out in front of him. He created a circle with the broken pieces of the cup, before placing a dollop of blood in the centre. He gestured at his creation. "I like watching them bleed."
Christie set foot outside of the mansion and looked back. It stood far above her, glowing and shimmering. She'd lived in it for so long, she had memorized almost every aspect of the house. She could close her eyes and imagine the giant double doors in front, the smooth white walls, the columns that held up the roof, the stairs leading to the doors, and the statues... She also imagined what it would be like to leave and never return, and realized that it hurt too much to think about.
So instead, she marched on and didn't look back again.
She was wearing the hoodie Blaster had given her. It made her feel warm and safe—like she was protected. She knew it wasn't much, but she could imagine it as such. It may not have been armour, but it was definitely amour.
Determination had set itself in her veins, steadfast and sure, even though fear lay just beneath the surface, ready to break through the ice and drag her down. Afraid that it would drag her down back into the manor, she began to run. Her destination was Damon's cabin, and she wanted to make it there before dark. Before any other soldier had a chance to go.
Meanwhile, from far above, Raymond was standing at the window of his room, pacing back and forth as a thousand worries clouded his mind. He looked down out the window by chance, and saw the willowy, white and yellow shape of someone moving through the flowers. He froze, wondering why the shape was so familiar, and he felt a shudder course through his spine.
Perhaps ghosts really do exist, he thought quietly.
Below, Christie was still picking up speed as she made her way through the greenery surrounding her. Memories were flashing in her mind, reminding her of other times—reminding her that this memory might be her last. They were distracting, but they were beautiful, crystallizing like snowflakes all around her.
She shivered, drawing the jacket closer around herself. And as she ran, she began to fly.
She tried not to think about Damon; about how much she hated him, and definitely not about how much she was scared of him. Whatever happened from here on out, Christie knew she had to be prepared. And fearing Damon was the last thing that would make her feel ready.
By the time she reached the area surrounding the man's cabin, her feet were sore and her limbs were burning. She found a place she could rest, and roosted herself there. She wanted to watch for Damon before she confronted him. She told herself it had nothing to do with being afraid, and everything to do with being ready...
Soon, however, she was lulled into sleep, with the sun beating down on her from above. Her sleep was filled with more snowflakes, more memories, and more visions. Vix appeared, smiling at her cockily. Dream him reached out and took her hand, pointing at the snowflakes around them. "Isn't it pretty, Christie?" he asked, his voice echoing. She couldn't really hear him, as if they were underwater. "It's beautiful." He said something else, something about how there was another beautiful thing he saw, but she couldn't hear.
Besides pretty, it was also bright. Blinding, almost. She squinted against the light and tried to ask him where they were.
Vix just shook his head and smiled. "Watch your step," he told her, and that was when she realized she was falling.
Her skirt ballooned around her, and she could see stars falling alongside her. But Vix was nowhere to be seen. Somewhere below, a wolf howled and Christie closed her eyes, preparing for impact.
It never came.
When she opened her eyes, gasping for air, she realized she was on the ground now, and a fuzzy shape was standing above her. She squinted against the sunlight and her mouth dropped open. "Vix!?" she gasped, scrambling upwards.
The boy peering at her had red hair and green eyes. He was dressed in a red t-shirt and thin blue jacket, with white pants. This was unusual within itself, because Vix hardly ever dressed so casually. Yet, there was no mistaking the vibrant green eyes and flaming red hair, pulled back into a neat ponytail for once. He looked...rather attractive, actually.
"Speaking," he said, and she drew her attention back to the present, where he was actually talking to her and saying words, and where it didn't sound like there was water all around them. He reached out and pulled her to her feet. She nearly stumbled into his arms.
"I'm so glad to see you—" she began, but he pulled away.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice dull and his eyes duller.
Surprised, she stared at him. Was he still mad at her? "I came here looking for you—"
"It's not safe here. You should go." He glanced away, not meeting her eyes.
She froze. "What? Why?" She turned to look at him, but he still wasn't looking at her. "Vix, I come all this way to find you and you're just going to tell me to leave?"
He grimaced, which only made her more upset, because it made it seem like he didn't even want to deal with her. "I never asked for you to find me."
She gaped at him, wondering why he was acting so cold. Had he really not gotten over their last conversation yet? "You said you'd be happy for me," she cried. "You said you wouldn't mind."
He finally met her gaze, looking almost incredulous, as if she were the insane one. "What are you going on about?" His tone was growing harsh. "Jesus Christ, just shut the hell up and go."
Christie swallowed. "No. Tell me why first. Why did you disappear?"
He hesitated, and a small part of her was glad he was finally starting to care again. Maybe she'd gotten through to him. Maybe he'd finally come back. Maybe—
But then he said, "You're really annoying."
"Why are you acting like this?" she asked, struggling to understand as her hopes fell apart.
He gazed back at her, steadfast and unflinching. "Because the last thing I wanted was to be found."
"So...you don't want to come back?" she whispered.
"No."
"And—And you left of your own free will?"
He didn't reply.
"Vix..." She stepped forward. "Answer me"—she paused, swallowing—"please. Or is Damon telling you to do this? He's responsible, isn't he? He wants you to act like you hate me to—"
He sighed. "Jeez, you're really desperate." He frowned at her. "That's none of your business. Why should I tell you anything, anyway?"
"Because we're friends." She reached out to touch his arm. "And maybe..." She hesitated. "Maybe you wanted to be more?" When he stared at her, she continued on hurriedly: "I wanted to know if you actually have feelings for me. Maybe that's what drove you away, and if it is, then I'm really sorry—"
"Wow," he said incredulously, "you really are a fool."
Christie froze. "What...?"
"I said, you really are a fool." Hearing the words again was like a slap. She hadn't actually wanted to hear them again; just to have confirmation that that was really what he'd said, and that she wasn't imagining the Vix in front of her. "You're so arrogant and thickheaded you think I left because I have feelings for you?" The way he said "you" made her shudder—it was filled with so much spite and disgust, she was afraid it was filled with hatred too.
"I-I didn't mean it that way—"
"Let me ask you one thing." He glared at her, angry now, even though she didn't understand why. "Why are you such a bitch?"
And that's when Christie snapped. "Maybe—Maybe because I'm actually worried about you!" she screamed. "Did you ever think about that!? Did you ever think about how scared I might've been when you disappeared!? Why didn't you ever consider that? Why are you such a dick!?" She was so angry, she wished there was a better equivalent to the word "bitch". But mostly, she was afraid that what he'd said about her was true, and that it was really what he thought of her—maybe even what everyone thought of her. Losing steam, she stopped yelling and began sobbing, tears streaming down her face. "Why are you acting like this?"
"Like what?" he responded coldly.
"Like you hate me!" she cried.
"What made you think I ever liked you at all?"
The words formed a sharp icicle that pierced through her heart. She could feel everything falling apart. "Because I thought we were friends."
"No, we're not." He met her eyes, and she was struck by how cold the colour green could be. "In fact, I do hate you. I never want to see you again. Get out of my fucking sight, and never come back," he spat. "You're not fucking welcome here."
It was all splintering apart. She curled back, appalled, feeling like he'd just stabbed her. "No..." she whispered. "You're just saying that—"
"Didn't you hear me? I don't want to see you ever again. Now run. Run as far away from here as you can, and never fucking come back." He grabbed her wrist and twisted so hard she was afraid he'd break it.
"Vix..." She tried to touch his face, or his shoulder, or his arm—anything to calm him down.
But instead, he slapped her.
Falling to the ground, Christie stared, wide-eyed, at the grass. When she finally looked up, he was glaring down at her with so much hatred, she felt herself hating her too.
"I fucking hate you, you little bitch. Now go already. Get out of my fucking sight, or I'll have to kill you."
The world around her shattered.
She got up, almost stumbling, before she gathered herself and screamed at him, "Fine! I hate you too, you little cunt!" Then she turned around so he wouldn't see her cry, and she ran—she ran as far away as she could, because the scary thing was, she almost believed him when he said he'd have to kill her.
He watched her go. He looked away when he couldn't see her bright yellow jacket anymore and sighed, feeling the hatred pull away like puppet strings being detached from one's skin.
Damon materialized behind him. "There," he cooed smoothly, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders, causing him to shudder. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"
He just closed his eyes and counted down from ten.
Meanwhile, Christie ran until her legs gave out and she couldn't run anymore. Panting, she looked up and realized that she'd run not back home, but to the house of the Rowdyruff Boys. Of Blaster.
Drawing herself up, she stumbled to the door and knocked.
"Coming!" a voice sounded, and she waited as the door clicked open and a boy wearing nothing but a pair of jeans opened the door. He had brown eyes and brown hair, but she didn't remember anyone in the Rowdyruff Boys with brown eyes. He gasped when he saw her and quickly scrambled backwards. "Christie...?"
She stared at him.
He swallowed almost nervously. "What are you doing here...?"
"Where's Blaster?" she mumbled.
"I'll get him for you, but about what you're doing here—"
"Your eyes," she said tiredly, wondering why they were so familiar. She recognized him now; he was Braker. But for some reason, the brown eyes and hair combo reminded her of someone else...someone she'd seen recently. "They're not brown, are they?"
"No, they're contacts." Braker awkwardly looked away. "For a cosplay." He coughed. "I'll go get Blaster."
She watched him go and waited, leaning against the doorframe to keep from falling over.
Soon, a yellow streak burst into the room like bright sunshine, and Blaster Jojo appeared before her. "Christie," he cried, "what's wrong?"
She stood up, but her legs wobbled and gave way. He was quick to catch her as she fell. When she was nestled safely in his arms, she gripped his sleeves and finally let herself burst, like a broken dam that couldn't contain the flood.
"Shhh," he whispered, rocking her back and forth. "It's alright. I'm here for you." He curled around her, warm and protective, like the sun. He wiped her tears away, smoothing down her hair. She melted like caramel in his arms. "It's okay now. It's okay."
As he cradled her back and forth, Christie felt herself finally beginning to calm down. She stopped crying as much, and she whispered, "Thank you."
He relaxed, and he pulled away just slightly to look at her. He tucked a few strands of her soft, blond hair behind her ear and asked gently, "So what's wrong, Christie?"
He was so tender, she never wanted to let go. She turned her head into his chest, mumbling out, "It's Vix."
He froze, turning rigid as every muscle of his body went taut. His grip around her tightened protectively. "What's wrong? What about Vix?"
So she told him. She told him about how he'd vanished, and how she'd gone to look for him, and she told him everything about what had transpired between them. Everything, except the part where she'd tried to ask him if he had feelings for her. She didn't want Blaster to think she was a fool like Vix did. By the time she'd finished, she was crying again. "He hurt me," she whispered. "He hurt me even though we were friends. I considered him one, and I really thought...I really thought he did too."
"Oh, Christie." His bright yellow gaze had turned stormy, and just as she'd been surprised by how ice-cold the colour green could be on Vix, she was surprised how gray the colour yellow could be. "I'm so sorry." He leaned forward and kissed her tears away, before saying over and over again, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..."
Her arms tightened around his body. "It's not your fault," she said into his chest, quietly and broken. "I'm sorry too."
He touched her cheek, gentle and soft, causing her to flinch. He was resting his hand where Vix had hit her, but his touch was kind and not violent, like his had been. "You don't deserve to be hurt like this," he told her, running the hand from her eyes and cheek to her neck and down, down, down... "You don't deserve this pain at all."
She shivered against him; his touch was so warm and tender, and yet it felt like electricity tingling all over her body. She placed her hand over his, helping him trace it over her skin. He glanced at her in surprise, and she whispered quietly, "Do I deserve you?"
"Yes," he murmured back. He hesitated, before kissing her forehead softly and pulling away. "As long as you want me."
"I do." The kiss had been so gentle, it left her with longing. She was glad he was there for her, able to comfort her and make her feel warm and loved when it felt like the world had turned against her, cold and frozen. The ice from her skin was thawing, and it finally felt like spring might come. Perhaps, just perhaps, the hurt she'd received could be washed away along with the melted ice. "I want you."
So she leaned forward and kissed him.
And somewhere from far away, in Blaster's room, his phone was vibrating as someone called it, again and again.
There was a text too, that said, "'Meet me in the school textiles classroom. There's something I want to show you. Please.'"
The calls and texts were from Banana, but there was no one there to answer it.
She felt like a zombie. Sighing, she got out of her seat and glanced down at the mess at her feet. She'd nudged it aside with her foot while talking to someone via screen. It was the pink dress she'd worn the night before.
She looked at the screen before her, where Brick's face had been, and thought of how it had looked like he'd been struggling throughout the conversation. The guilt came without delay, as expected.
Blossom Utonium wasn't one to doubt herself. But here she was, finding doubts to confront whenever she turned a corner or even walked a step.
She got up and ran a hand through her long, pumpkin-orange hair, before twisting it into a bun and pulling on a thin pink jacket. Then she flew outside, wanting some fresh air.
"Professor!" she called. "I'll be back shortly!"
"Okay! Stay safe! Be back before 7:00!" he responded from his lab. "Love you, sweetie!"
"Love you!" She flew outside, her pink streak following as she thought, At least you still do, Dad.
Blossom flew to the park before landing at the lake. She sat down, watching as ducks and swans swam about. A kid was there with his mother, feeding the mallard ducks. Blossom wished she could be so carefree.
A few minutes passed, where she sat in silence. Then a voice asked, "What are you doing here?"
She looked up, startled. The person who'd spoken had vibrant green eyes and flaming red hair, pulled back in a neat ponytail. There was no mistaking it. "Vincent!" she gasped.
"Speaking," he responded cheerfully, fixing his glasses. He sat down beside her.
"What are you doing here?" she questioned.
"Hey, I asked you first," he replied with a smile.
"Oh, I just wanted some fresh air." She poked at the dirt with the toe of her shoe. "I needed to think."
"Me too," he answered.
She made a face. "That's not a real answer."
"Neither was yours." He nudged her playfully. "You gave me the most cliché, common, vague answer in the world."
"It's true though," she replied, smiling. "I did need air to think."
"And I need air to breathe." He turned to her, suddenly serious. "What's the real reason you came out here?"
She glanced down at her pink slip-on shoes, and picked up a pebble from the dirt. She threw it into the water and it skipped; once, twice. "Have you ever hurt someone and couldn't shake off the guilt?"
His eyes glazed over and he turned away to look out over the lake. "Yes," he confirmed, "I have."
She glanced at him in surprise. "Well, that's why I'm out here."
He sighed. "Me too." Seemingly trying to shake off the sudden pain, he shook his head and smiled again. "But let's not delve into that, even if you don't think that's a real answer," he joked, referencing their earlier exchange. He pulled off his blue jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "Here...in case you get cold. We don't want you getting sick."
She drew her knees in closer to her chest, gripping the jacket as if it were a lifeline. "Thanks."
"No problem."
They sat in silence for awhile, with Vincent skipping stones as Blossom sat, thinking. Then he glanced at his watch.
"It's almost 7:00. Shouldn't you be getting home?" he asked.
"You're right," she agreed, quickly standing up. She passed him his jacket. "Thanks, Vincent."
"No problem." He smiled at her and took the jacket as he stood up, putting it back on. "Anything for you."
Blossom glanced down, embarrassed, before gasping. "Oh no! There's grass stains all over your pants. I'm really sorry."
"Hey, it's not your fault. It's my own fault for wearing white." He dusted himself off, rubbing some of the green until it was a little less vibrant. "Come on, let's get you home."
He held out his hand, and Blossom hesitated. She knew she really shouldn't be taking it, but she told herself there was nothing wrong with enjoying a friend's company. So she took his hand and allowed herself to be led, away from the lake, and deeper into the woods.
Darkai sat on his bed, trying to wrap bandages around his wounds. He wished Bunny was there to help him, like she always was. But this time, he was by himself, and his phone was dead.
A knock sounded and the dark-haired teen looked up. "Come in," he said gruffly.
The door opened and in stepped Raymond, Damon's twin brother. Darkai froze, watching the man with mild distrust. It wasn't entirely because he was related to Damon—no, Darkai just didn't trust anyone he met immediately. He didn't know Raymond that well—he still didn't know the man's strengths, weaknesses, or interests. And that meant Raymond was still a mystery—and mysteries could be dangerous.
"Please relax; I won't hurt you," the man told him gently, holding his hands up. "I just want to help."
Darkai leaned forward so that his bandaged arm would be less visible from view. "And why would you want to help me?" he asked, the question sounding like a statement.
"Because I want you to trust me as much as I want you to genuinely feel better," Raymond told him truthfully. "So I want to help you."
Darkai looked up, surprised. He had been expecting an answer like "I want to help everyone", or some other response that felt like it was made up of bullshit as much as it was a truth. But he could appreciate honesty, so he went still and replied, "Then you better do it fast."
Taking that as his cue, Raymond walked over and began looking his body over. "Where did these wounds come from?" he questioned.
He grunted in response. "I don't trust you that much yet," he told him bluntly.
Raymond drew back, but wasn't deterred. He set to work quietly, fixing the boy up with expertise. Even though he didn't have the soft, gentle healing powers of Bunny, Darkai had to admit that he did feel a lot better by the time Raymond was finished.
"There, all set," the man told him. "Now as long as you don't reopen any of these wounds, you'll be alright."
Darkai flexed his arm. "Thanks."
"Remember to stay off it for awhile," the man reminded him, before pausing. "To stay off everything for awhile."
"I'm not sure that's a price I can pay." He hopped off of his bed. "I've been 'staying off everything' for too long now."
"You don't have to go into action right away. I'll put a word in with Danes for you—"
"Danes trusts you?" Darkai looked at him.
Raymond flinched slightly under the boy's gaze. "He trusts me enough," he confirmed.
"And who else trusts you?"
"Christie, Ross, and Vix most of all, but I think I've been doing alright with most everyone. Like Sidney."
"Sidney likes everyone. He doesn't count."
Raymond looked at him in surprise. The words were blunt, but a ghost of a smile was on Darkai's face—almost as if the boy had made a joke.
Now Darkai was turned away, busying himself with cleaning up the supplies lying around him. "Anyway, speaking of Ross and Vix..."
"Ah...right." The older man rubbed his arm. "You've already heard about them, haven't you?"
Darkai nodded. "Michael told me." He looked up. "Where do you think they went?"
He hesitated. "Do you want the likely theory, or the one I'd like to believe?"
"Both."
Raymond took a deep breath. "They're most likely captured by Damon—my brother—but I'd like to think they're together, and safe, at least."
Darkai admired Raymond for daring to openly associate himself with Damon after all that the man had done to tarnish their family name. "I'd like to believe that too," he said quietly.
They said nothing for awhile, but then Raymond nodded at Darkai's phone, where it lay recharging. "I-I saw your phone briefly when I came in. You'd just gotten a new text. You have a lot of messages from Bunny Utonium."
Darkai flinched, his tough exterior cracking just slightly. Bunny. My moonbeam. "I am well aware of that."
"Your phone's no longer dead, so you might want to message her back."
He was well aware of that too, but he kept silent. He hadn't messaged her back even after he'd gotten the chance because he didn't know what to say. Because maybe he was afraid to.
"Darkai, do you have anything you'd like to talk about? I don't mean to sound arrogant, but I'd be happy to give you advice."
He looked at the man incredulously. This man, who'd come into the house offering to heal Maggie and Chris as long as he had shelter; this man, who'd revealed himself and saved Danes from Damon; this man, who'd helped his friends countless times; this man, who was judged and even hated by many, still tried his best to appease to everyone no matter what.
Darkai could admire that.
So he said, "Alright. Let's talk." He sat back down on the edge of his black bed. "We'll start at the very beginning..."
By the time he'd finished summarizing, five minutes had passed and his voice felt over-exercised. Darkai barely ever talked that much. He was surprised that he was opening up to Raymond, of all people.
Raymond was quiet for a little bit.
"Well?" the boy prompted.
"Well, now I think more than ever you really should answer her text," he informed him. "She's not going to stop until you do."
"I know that." He glanced away. "But what do I say?"
Raymond glanced at where the black phone was sitting, vibrating sometimes even as they talked. "Tell her the truth."
Darkai closed his eyes. "Wow, thanks. Great advice."
"No, that's not all. I won't tell you what exactly to write, but I can tell you how you can respond, at least."
He raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."
"Well, the worst thing a guy can probably do is brush off a girl's worry for you. So be sure to reassure her you're okay, and address the situation at hand."
"Bunny thinks I don't want to be her boyfriend anymore," Darkai said flatly.
"Clear it up then. Explain your intentions; prove that you love her—be sure to remind her that she's amazing. At least let her know it was a misunderstanding." Raymond smiled faintly. "Once, when I was dating a girl named Sylvie, she got super worried about me and I made the mistake of brushing it off. She ended up being mad at me for two weeks, and it drove me up the wall."
Darkai stared at him. "Sylvie...?" he repeated blankly.
Raymond blinked, blanching, before his face turned bright red and he quickly said, "I'm sorry, I meant Sylvia. I used to call her Sylvie for short, but she has no relation to the girl of my brother's affections."
"Well... They do say twins tend to be super similar to the point of doing similar things over their lifetime, some more so than others. It can even affect their dating styles," Darkai murmured.
Raymond ducked his head. "Anyway, about Bunny... I can tell you two really care for each other. All you really have to do is talk it out."
"But what do I tell her about my fight and the war?" he asked flatly, making it sound like a statement. "I want to protect her from that."
"I understand. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell a little white lie there, if you'd really prefer to," Raymond sighed. "Tell her you were trying to handle a skirmish that got out of hand, perhaps."
"Perhaps," he agreed. He paused, turning to look at the man—really look at him. He did look a lot like his brother, but he definitely didn't act like him. Raymond's brown hair and brown eyes would remind anyone of Damon if they knew him, and vice versa. But Raymond was obviously a lot more stable and kind than his twin. "Thank you."
The man glanced at him in surprise, before smiling. "You're welcome."
"Tell me, Raymond... What was Damon like when you were young?"
He froze.
"I'd like to know," continued Darkai in a calm, unwavering voice. "I opened up to you, and I believe it is now your turn."
Raymond swallowed, looking away. "If I told you he was a good brother, would you believe me?"
"I would if you could look me in the eye and say it."
So the man turned back around and gazed into Darkai's eyes, his voice only shaking just slightly when he replied, "He was a good brother."
"Alright." Darkai smiled the faintest of smiles. "I believe you."
Raymond relaxed. "He was a good brother," he repeated in a murmur. "He was a good brother."
Darkai wondered if the man was alright. Had Damon's sudden turn to insanity really been such a hard blow for his brother? "Are you okay?" he asked cautiously.
Raymond stopped his repetitive murmuring and looked at him. He lowered his head and replied, "I'm sorry. I'm okay."
"Damon's reveal must've really been a shock to you, huh?"
He hesitated briefly, which Darkai took note of. "Yes, but...in a way, I've always known."
"How so? I thought he was a good brother."
"He was. It was after Danes took Vix from him. I'd just recently found his house, and had wanted to talk to him; let him know who I was and how I was. But when I got there, I could see smoke and I just...I knew something wasn't right. So I went inside and well...I ended up hiding in a closet in his room while he walked around, sounding as if he'd gone mad."
"You knew, and you never reported him?" Darkai responded.
"I didn't know who any of you were," Raymond replied desperately. "And I was too stunned to believe that my dear little brother had gone psycho."
Darkai paused. "Isn't he your older brother?"
Raymond froze, before recovering and nodding. "Yes, he is. I'm just used to viewing him as my little brother now, because things are so...different."
"Hmm." Darkai glanced at the man, whose head was lowered. "So what did you do while Damon was preparing for war?"
"I left. I didn't want to believe my brother had changed like that. I went as far away as I could for as long as I could, but I did research. I looked through my brother's past and tried to piece together the puzzle of what had happened. Eventually I learned enough to know about you guys, and that's around when I came back. I arrived around the time Maggie and Chris had disappeared, and I went to investigate. When they were recovered, I came offering my services in return for shelter, and that's how it's been up till now."
"Too bad you had to run away," he remarked calmly. "Maybe things would've gone a lot differently if you'd stayed."
Raymond closed his eyes. "Everyone is a coward every once in awhile," he agreed.
Feeling sorry for him, Darkai shifted the topic again: "Is there anything else I can learn about young Damon?"
He glanced down, before adding quietly, "He was often nervous and always did his best to be kind; he wanted to please everyone, especially our father. He was always more of a pacifist though, so he had trouble training sometimes. But he tried his best."
"How times have changed," Darkai snorted.
"Yes... They really have." Raymond's eyes had a longing, blank look to them now, with him staring off into the distance.
Darkai stood up, deciding that letting the man reminisce and clear his mind on his own was a good idea. "Thank you, Raymond."
He snapped back to attention, his head jerking upwards. He managed to smile. "It was my pleasure. Best of luck, Darkai." He got up and made his way out the door. "I hope things work out for you."
The boy watched him go. When the door had shut behind him, he whispered, "Me too." Then he turned his phone on and prepared to reply to Bunny's texts and calls.
With his father being pretty much denied any new missions, and he himself having already completed his own missions, Deth Jackson Jr was basically a free man. And when one thought of freedom, one usually thought of relief, rest and relaxation, rejoicing. And DJ would've felt that way, had it not been for one eensy, teensy, tiny little problem:
He was very, very bored.
For once in his entire lifetime, DJ actually kind of wished he could get another mission just so he could have something to do. Michael and Christie were off to who knows where, doing who knows what. DJ wished his friend Michael was around, but he was probably flirting, and he felt a pang for his own girlfriend.
Bliss. Beautiful, funny, clever, blissful Bliss.
DJ closed his eyes and remembered when she'd yelled at him in the rain on his porch, accusing him of hiding too much. He remembered her later finally answering his messages and telling him he had ten days to give her a secret. Ten days. And three of them had already gone by, so he only had seven now—exactly one week.
He flopped down on his bed in Michael's mansion, which was a lot more fancy and detailed than his own room in his own expensive home. The secret thing had been on his mind, but it'd recently been pushed to the back of his mind now that Ross and Vix were missing.
But what if that's the secret I tell her? Will it be meaningful enough? he wondered. I want to tell her something that won't give too much away, but will also satisfy her... DJ sighed. Trying to find a secret to tell his girlfriend that actually meant something was rather difficult. Secrets were secrets for a reason, after all.
A knock sounded on his door and he dug his face into his pillow before calling, "Come in." It opened and he paused, listening. The shoes on the hardwood floor clearly indicated that it was his father approaching, and not one of DJ's friends. "Hey, Papa."
"Ciao," the man responded cheerfully, sitting down beside him. "Danes is a real thorn in the side sometimes. He won't send me on any other missions."
"I wonder why," DJ responded dryly, although his lips twitched slightly in a smile.
"Don't be sarcastic with me, young man. I feel like Danesy is in the wrong here, all things considered. I'm one of his best soldiers and he's going to force me to stay inside!"
"Oh please, Papa. You're not nearly as glorious as you think you are." He flopped back over and smiled at his dad. "And stop calling him that. It's really stupid."
"What, 'Danesy'?" his father laughed. "I called him that three years ago and he didn't take kindly to it, but he didn't seem to hate it entirely either. So I'm going to stick to it. Would you rather have me call him Sunshine or Pumpkin, or something else equally ridiculous and likely to get me killed?"
"I'd rather you just not do embarrassing things in general," he responded.
"Oh, you. Where do you think you get your smart, flirtatiously funny genes from?" Deth Jackson Sr grinned and tickled his son's stomach. "From me, of course!"
"Papa, please!" his son gasped, laughing. "Stop itttttt!"
"And why should I? You used to love that," his dad replied, smiling.
"No, I didn't! Who enjoys being tickled?" DJ curled up, sitting upwards. "Jeez, you need to grow up." Despite that, he was grinning.
"Alright, alright. What's really wrong?" His dad smiled and leaned forward. "I'm not your dad for nothing, son."
DJ's face fell. "Nothing," he replied quickly. "Nothing's wrong."
"DJ," Deth Sr said sternly, which his son always admired him for, since it wasn't always easy making the name "DJ" sound stern. "I don't believe that for a second. Now tell me what's really going on."
"What do you care? You're old and wouldn't understand." He buried his face in his pillow. "How long has it been since you had a serious relationship, anyway?"
"DJ, please. Is this about your girlfriend? You're only a teenager; serious relationships are barely a thing for you yet—"
"How would you know! You've always been a playboy. Just because you were never serious about a relationship doesn't mean I can't be!"
His father paused, suddenly quiet. "There was your mother."
DJ looked up. He knew stories about his mother. He would hear about how beautiful she was, and how much his father had loved her.
"I remember once, I lied to her about a battle that really did a number on me in order to 'protect' her. We were maybe around 18-ish at the time. I told her I'd gotten it from sports, and after trying to explain it to her while she asked a bunch of questions, she just grabbed my face and said, 'Don't ever lie to me about this kind of thing ever again. What happened?' I tried to keep up the facade, but she wasn't buying it. So she told me that if I wouldn't say anything, she'd figure it out herself. I brushed it off, but she was serious. I didn't see her for three weeks after that."
"What? What was she doing?" asked DJ, intrigued by a story he'd never heard before.
"She was doing detective work. She tracked down the guy who beat me up and when he confronted her and even tried to get onto her, she beat the daylights out of him. When she finally came back and I demanded to know where she'd been, she wouldn't tell me at first, to get back at me for lying to her. So I asked around, and Tyrone confirmed for me that my girlfriend had just beaten down an infamous gang leader. I was so shocked, I later confronted her about it, but she just interrupted me by grabbing my face and tracing a hand down my cheek, saying, 'Don't ever doubt my abilities and play me for a fool again.' When I tried to object again, she gave me a kiss of starbursts that I've never managed to recreate without her since."
A faint smile passed over Deth Sr's face at the memory. "That was when I knew she was a keeper."
"She sounds like a keeper," he agreed.
Deth Sr smiled. "Moral of the story is, when your girlfriend is worried about you, don't brush her off or lie. She probably has her ways of finding out the truth."
DJ thought of Bliss' arrangement with him for him to exchange a secret and felt his stomach flop. "What do you do if your girlfriend is really curious but she's not part of the war? How do you keep her in and out at the same time?"
"That's up to you, son. I trust you to make good decisions; ones that won't negatively impact our situation or your relationship. If you think Bliss Utonium is a keeper, then go for it. I won't condemn such actions."
"I do think she might be a keeper," he murmured back.
"How many times has she proven herself?" Deth Sr grinned. "Your mother was very good at that."
"Wow." DJ leaned forward, resting his hands on his cheeks, his elbows on his pillow as he sat cross-legged. "How come I didn't know about that particular story?"
"Well, I did find out she was a keeper in more ways than one," his father laughed. "I still remember proposing to her."
"Were you nervous?"
"A little, but for the most part I thought she was bound to say yes." He grinned. "After all, she'd proven she was a keeper so many times already, and so had I."
"I'm surprised you ever settled down. That you chose to have me, given how busy your schedule is," DJ commented quietly.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," vowed Deth Sr, grabbing his son by the shoulder and giving him an affectionate noogie. "Besides, look at how far you've come, piccolo morte! I'm very proud of you."
Surprised, DJ gazed up at his father. "You are?"
"Of course, ma piccolo morte. Look at you—you're doing well in school, you've found yourself a good girlfriend, you take part in so many clubs and lessons and activities after class, and you're so talented. What father wouldn't be proud of you?"
DJ smiled. "Thanks, Papa."
"No problem." He smiled back. "I'm proud of you; I really am. Always remember that."
"I will," he promised. Then he grinned and added, "Now, don't you have some business to be getting to?"
"Ahh, well, I wouldn't say so. I'm basically home-free," his father sighed. Even as an adult man, DJ knew his father was like him—he didn't mind sitting still as much as his son did, but he sure as heck needed something to do. "Although...perhaps there is some business I could attend to in Italy, even if it'll have to be from here. An old friend has recently come back, one who might need a bit of a talking to." His father smiled ominously. "One who might need to be silenced."
"Papa! You're always feeding into the rumours that you're a mafia boss," DJ laughed.
"Hey, they're not exactly wrong, now are they?" he chuckled back. He got up and started walking off, but he paused in the door and said, "I hope things work out for you, ma piccolo morte."
Deth Jr smiled. "Me too, Papa—me too."
As the door shut, DJ sighed and turned to his black phone. He turned it on and typed in a number.
She picked up pretty quick this time. "What's up?"
"Bliss, I want to talk to you. Care to meet me at Michael's house?"
She was silent for only a heartbeat before saying, "Sure." Then she hung up before DJ could say anything else.
He sighed, mildly frustrated at his girlfriend's behaviour, before making his way downstairs. Servants bustled about, all looking pretty frazzled, carrying sheets and food. Michael's mansion had basically become a hotel for all the guests, and DJ knew from experience some of them could be rather snobbish.
One of the guests stepped out of her room, fluffing her hair. "Humph! I asked for a rose-red ribbon for my hair, not a ruby-red. How far off can you get!?"
DJ groaned inwardly, slowing to a stop. "Hi, Patricia," he muttered.
Her brown eyes lit up and she walked over to him, smiling flirtatiously. "Hello, my little honeysuckle!" She kissed his cheek. "Long time no see. I was wondering where you've been!"
Avoiding you, he thought to himself. DJ was no stranger to spoiled, bratty kids his age who acted entitled and snobbish. He was also no stranger to shallow people like Patricia, and was definitely no stranger to people who insisted on flirting with him and his friends. Patricia Evanhart was two years older than DJ, taller, and would probably have been the dream girl of many teenagers, had she not been so pretentious and spoiled. Her curly reddish-brown hair fell smoothly past her shoulders, and her legs were long and model-like. Today she was dressed in an expensive designer red coat and black skirt.
"Sierra and Senna were gushing over Sidney again, and he was babysitting his little sisters Sarah and Sally, so I ended up ditching the two of them to look around," Patricia was babbling. "When I got from the foyer to my room, I felt a little hot"—here she seductively took off her coat to show off a revealing top—"and wanted a rose-red ribbon to tie my hair up, but they got me the wrong colour!"
"Pat, your room is literally right beside the staircase, which comes up from the foyer," DJ said flatly. He was glad this wasn't a party of the richest people, or he'd be very frustrated. This was a party of important members of Danes' little "empire", even if they weren't soldiers, so not all of them were entitled rich people—although they did take up a big number of the group.
"I know, but it's still so tiring!" she whined.
"Maybe if you didn't wear heels the height of the Eiffel Tower," he began, but she interrupted by squeezing closer to him.
"Oh come on, DJ, you're being no fun! Let's go back to my room and enjoy ourselves—"
He yanked his arm out of her grasp. "No thanks, I have someone I need to talk to."
"Who's more important than me?" she demanded, grabbing ahold of his arm again. Her breast was pushing up against his arm rather uncomfortably, and he really wanted her to let go.
He opened his mouth to answer and mention Bliss, but the reply she got instead was someone clearing their throat from behind. Both of them spun around, and DJ felt himself melt in embarrassment and shame when he saw that the person who'd coughed was none other than Bliss herself.
"Who are you?" asked Patricia, crinkling her nose.
"This boy's girlfriend," she shot back, slowly flying up into the air, "and the Powerpuff Girl Bliss Utonium."
"Who?" Patricia had probably heard of them before, DJ knew, but he wouldn't be surprised if she was empty-headed enough to pretend not to have to piss Bliss off, or to have really actually forgotten—both being pretty shallow things to do.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Bliss' eyes glowed red. "Let me rephrase that: I am going to be your worst nightmare if you don't let go of my boyfriend's arm."
Patricia quickly let go and jumped back. "Well, whatever! DJ can do what he wants when he wants. I'll see you later, honeysuckle!" She made her way back to her room, where a nervous maid approached with another red ribbon.
DJ turned to Bliss. "Thanks—"
"So what did you want to talk about?" she asked flatly, turning away. "It better be important."
Startled at her cold attitude, he hurried after her as she began floating away. "It is," he promised. "I finally have a secret to tell you."
"Oh?" She turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
He hesitated only briefly before saying, "Ross has gone missing."
"I know."
"I know it's a bit of a shock—wait, what?"
"I said, I know." She faced him, landing on the floor. "I'm really sorry about it too. He's a good kid, and I hope he's alright. But DJ...I already know that one."
"How?" he asked, dazed.
"I have some inside sources." She began floating off again.
"Who?" he demanded, suddenly panicked as he scrambled after her. "It's not Braker, is it? If it is, I swear I'll—"
"You'll what?" She spun around and glowered at him. "You're not hurting Braker, because it's not him. How could it be him, anyway?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if he's taken to spying on us," DJ muttered back. "But if it isn't him, then I'd really like to know who told you."
"I happened to overhear Sydney talking about it while she was out, okay? Why does it matter how I learned about it? You were already going to tell me."
"Yeah, but that was me and my decision! If someone bad had told you, then it would've really compromised our situation!" he cried.
"What, someone like Braker?" she shot back.
"No." He hesitated. "I mean, kind of."
"Braker isn't a bad guy, you know that, right?"
"He's not like us!"
"Oh, this again? Your prejudice against us super-humans?"
"No, not that!" he exclaimed. "It's—It's—"
"It's what?" She looked him in the eye, clearly now upset. "You've accepted me, so I don't understand why the Rowdyruffs have to get such a hard time from you! They're good people, and Braker's one of my best friends. Why can't you just leave him alone?"
DJ didn't mention how he was secretly relieved to hear that she thought of him as a best friend. "Maybe if he left us alone first—"
"DJ, please! Enough with your elementary fighting," she interrupted. "What are you, five?"
"Since when did you become Braker's guardian angel?" he asked defensively.
"I'm not," Bliss retorted. "I've just realized that I haven't been a great friend to him for awhile. Maybe if you realized the same—"
"We're not even friends," he said flatly.
"Then change that!"
"You can't force someone to be your friend!"
"And you can't force someone to be your girlfriend either!" She sat down on a cushioned seat, looking away. "Don't think I don't notice you flirting with other girls."
"Bliss—"
"I don't mind—mostly. But right there—were you serious? Her boob was literally right in your face and you weren't even fighting back."
"I tried to! I was going to mention you, but then you actually showed up"—he paused awkwardly—"thanks for that, by the way."
She didn't reply.
"Bliss, what's wrong?" he asked cautiously, approaching her and sitting down beside her.
"Everything!" she burst out. "Why can't you act less like a playboy sometimes?"
"What...?" He froze. Is that what she thinks of me?
"Don't get me wrong. You are charming, and I really do like you. But you flirt with other girls and you've been mean to Braker and his brothers and you try to act like everything between us is fine—as if I'm just the insane one—"
"Bliss, no! It's not like that at all—"
"—And I'm honestly getting kind of sick of it," she sniffed, rubbing her eyes. "Let's not forget your secretiveness too."
"I-I didn't know you thought of me that way," he finally said.
She suddenly deflated, as if she'd run out of power. "I don't," she said quietly. "I'm sorry about that."
"Oh, Bliss—no, I'm sorry. I've been so caught up in the idea that I can be the ideal boyfriend by protecting you, but I've been barely talking to you about the stuff that's been going on and really just been pushing you away. You have a right to be mad at me; I really have been acting like things are still normal." He paused, remembering his dad's story. "You've proven yourself to be a keeper so many times now, and I've just been proving myself to be a jerk."
"DJ, no... I didn't mean it like that."
"Bliss, I promise I'll have a secret ready for you no sooner than seven days. And it's going to be a good one," he told her, holding her hands. "I swear."
She stared at him, before managing to smile slightly. "Okay, DJ. It better be a good one."
"It will," he promised. "I'll change for you too—"
Bliss gently pried her hands away. "You're not a bad boyfriend," she began, "and I really do like you. And when I say that, I do mean I like you. You don't need to give yourself a complete makeover just for me. You're a good guy, DJ." She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek, before pulling back and adding, "Although...there is one thing you could fix that would make me over the moon."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Try to get to know Braker. He's a chill guy, and I think you two would get along if only you'd stop being at each other's throats."
DJ stared at her blankly. "Bliss..."
"At least try," she interrupted. "Anyway, I have to go. I'll see you later." She got up and flew out the door, leaving behind an orange streak and the scent of the fresh fruit.
As his hair blew in the wind from her speedy exit, he sighed and closed his eyes. I promised you a good secret, but which one? And how am I even supposed to get started on Braker? Dammit, Bliss—I like you a lot, but you sure make some difficult demands sometimes. But maybe that's why I love you so... He sighed and made his way back to his room, not sure whether to feel happier or more sad after this new development.
Butch stopped on the stretch of grass in front of Damon's cabin and waited. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do; he could head in or just stay hidden, but neither choice sounded very appealing. His mind still hadn't gotten over the argument between him and Buttercup, although he kept trying to tell himself to forget about it. There were more important matters at hand, after all.
After ten minutes, the door to the cabin swung open and out came Damon, dressed in a green cloak. He was carrying a basket of herbs that Butch didn't know. The man paused. "Hello, Butch."
"Damon." The green Ruff floated a little closer before stopping, suspicion crackling underneath his skin.
"How are you?" The man smiled. "What have you been up to?"
"You first," Butch replied evenly.
"Alright." Damon's grin twisted into something a little more sinister. "I've been attending to my guests."
He frowned at the mention of "guests". "And who are they?" he asked carefully, trying to keep his voice casual.
"Oh, I've had many. Sidney and DJ came by, and even Michael and Darkai... There was even Sydney, among others."
Butch wondered who the "others" were. "Well, it's been awhile since we've seen each other. Consider myself another guest."
"You know what I do with guests, don't you?" asked Damon.
He paused. "Nooo—"
"I try to kill them." He grinned and held up a gun, firing a few bullets.
Butch dodged by flying into the air. "What the hell, Damon!?" he yelled.
"Oops, sorry." He put the gun away. "I missed."
"What's your fucking problem!?"
"My problem is immense loneliness. If I finish you off though, I could keep you by my side forever."
"Yeah, as a corpse!"
"No, I'd have your spirit to keep me company!" Damon smirked. "You'd haunt me, wouldn't you?"
Calming down, Butch slowly drifted back to the ground, secretly fearing this man he no longer recognized. He still remembered Damon years ago, kind and smiling. "What happened to you, Damon?" he questioned tentatively. "What's gotten into you?"
"A lot has happened since those years, Butch. For one, I lost almost everything. Three times." Damon sat down on an old tree stump. "The time for sanity has long passed."
"So do you enjoy it? Do you enjoy being insane?"
"If I am not insane, then what am I?"
Butch shuddered. "You'd still be the Damon we used to know."
"He's gone. Dead." The reply came sharp and immediate, like a knife thrown at Butch's head. The man met the boy's gaze, eyes just as sharp and menacing—and so sure. "He died years ago when he lost Vix in that fire."
"Damon..." The green Ruff felt vaguely sick. He couldn't believe it, yet it seemed true. The Damon he remembered really was dead. So he took a deep breath and said, "Let me ask you a question: did you take Vix?"
"Did I take him?" Damon glanced back at the cabin, as if the answers were written on its walls. "No, I didn't."
"And what about Ross?"
The man fell silent.
"Damon—"
As if his name were a trigger, the man began to laugh.
Butch staggered backwards, startled by this new development. Why is he doing that? he wondered incredulously. There was no rhyme or reason to it—and perhaps, that was what true insanity was.
When the laughter finally ceased, Damon grinned and rocked forward. "Do I have Ross? Now that is the question." He glanced at the cabin. "Would you like to come in, Butch? See for yourself if I have the boy?"
Butch hesitated, before saying, "Yes—I would like that." So he followed the man back into the cabin, trying to ignore the goosebumps crawling on his arms.
It still smelled musty and old, and it even still held hints of the scent of burnt wood. Butch closed his eyes. He didn't think the stench of the smoke would ever fully go away, as long as there were people who remembered it happened. It hadn't changed much since his last visit; the damaged plates were gone, and new ones were in its place. Butch marvelled at the fact that Damon still went out—still went shopping, all things considered. How had I never noticed him? he wondered.
"Would you like some tea?" Damon gestured at the tray on the table, where one teacup had been placed. When Butch took a glance, he noticed that the cup was old; it had tea already poured into it. But that wasn't what surprised him—it was the second cup, which had been smashed into pieces and arranged in a circle. A dried, old spot of blood sat in the centre of the circle.
"What's this?" asked Butch.
"A story." Damon began busying himself with getting two new cups. "It was also my old cup."
"Then what about the other cup, the one that's not broken?"
He paused. "My guest's."
"Which one?" Butch asked softly.
"My most recent one." Damon didn't elaborate further, instead focusing on making the tea. "I'm making Earl Gray," he explained.
"Nice." Butch didn't mention that he had no idea what Earl Gray tasted like. He sat down and began playing around with the empty cup that wasn't broken. He sniffed it, and his eyes widened. He quickly put it back down when Damon turned around.
"I haven't really cleaned up since the last time I saw you," he was saying, sitting down across from Butch. "But then again, I wasn't really expecting so many visitors either."
"Heh. Well, you know how it is: everyone's shocked you're still alive. You're a bit of a celebrity now." Butch smirked weakly, halfheartedly.
"True." Damon picked up the cup the green Ruff had been playing with moments before. "I wonder how many fans I have."
Not a lot. Out loud, Butch changed the subject: "What have you been up to, these past few years? Do you get lonely?"
"Yes." Damon's eyes slid toward a shadow of the room, where Butch could see blinking lights. "I do a lot of watching and waiting now."
Following the man's gaze, Butch shuddered. "Who or what do you watch and wait for?"
"There's a lot to see. I don't have anything particular in mind." Damon traced his hand around the circle made from a broken teacup. "I guess I just wait for things to change."
"What else do you like to do?"
"I'm having déjà-vu right now," Damon said briefly. He smiled and pointed at the drop of dry blood. "I like watching them bleed."
Butch closed his eyes just as the kettle screamed.
It wasn't the only one.
Damon attended to it, pouring the hot water out into two new teacups. "How do you like your tea?"
"With sugars and milk, please." Butch didn't know a lot about tea, but he did know it wasn't really his thing.
"Alright." He slid the cup towards his companion. "Here you are."
While waiting for it to cool, Butch asked, "About Ross and Vix, would you mind giving me a hint about whether or not they're here?"
He didn't reply right away, instead sipping on tea.
"Damon?" prompted Butch.
Finally, he nudged the floor with the toe of his shoe. "Do you ever wonder how many bodies are buried underground? All around the world?"
Butch shuddered, frowning despite himself. "No, not really." He glanced at the bookcase-door that he knew led into a secret study. His hands itched to grab it, but he wasn't sure if Damon knew he knew where it was. Grabbing ahold of it in front of him might not be a good idea. But, Butch's mind argued, what if Ross is hidden behind that door?
"It's a lovely bookshelf," Damon noted, probably noticing Butch's staring, "isn't it?"
"Yes." He stared a little more, still trying to debate on opening it, before turning back to face the man. "It is."
They were silent for a little bit, where Butch tried to decide what he wanted to do. Finally, he noticed his tea, which had cooled, and took a sip. "You know..." he began slowly. "I don't know a lot about tea or other herbal things. Anything in your garden you're willing to give up? I'd like to give them as a gift; I'm sure Him or one of my brothers would appreciate it."
Damon brightened. "I've just brought in lots of thyme. I can give you some. There's also some others out back; I'll go take a look for you."
"Thank you," Butch said, relieved.
Damon got up, humming, and made his way out the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind him, Butch dived for the bookshelf-door and shoved it open. He peered inside.
It was dark, kind of musty, and very dim. He squinted, trying to make out a shape of a boy or something. He couldn't find one.
Heart hammering, Butch quickly walked inside and checked the bed. It was empty. There was no one hiding behind shelves or in closets or in dark corners. There was no one in the bathroom. No one in the kitchen, no one in the family room, and no one anywhere he looked.
He didn't know if that made him more terrified or more relieved. He didn't want to find Ross' body, or Ross tied up and gagged somewhere, but he did want to find Ross.
Butch paused at the corner of the room where Damon's monitors were hidden and he watched, shivering at the idea that Damon could see so much without people knowing.
There was Danes, pacing back and forth in his office. Ross' room, empty and bleak. Vix's room, also empty. The teenagers gathered in the foyer, talking quietly. He saw DJ talking urgently with—he paused, surprised—is that Bliss?And there was Michael and—Cassandra? he wondered incredulously. What is she doing with him?
Watching them worry and be sad was making Butch feel kind of sick. When Bliss kissed DJ on the cheek, talking quietly to him, before leaving, Butch decided he was done invading others' privacy and made his way back to the bookshelf-door.
And just then, Damon's voice sounded: "Do you see what my mind's eye sees?" he asked.
Butch froze. He didn't know if Damon was just spouting nonsense again, or if he meant that he knew Butch was watching his monitors or that he'd gone behind the secret door. Scrambling, the green Rowdyruff Boy hurried to close the bookshelf-door. As Damon entered the cabin, Butch was standing in front of the door, hands behind his back, still holding onto the book that held it together.
"So," Damon began, walking inside with a basket of herbs—he was beaming, Butch noted, "did you find what you were looking for?"
Butch looked back at the door before letting it go and moving away from it. "No," he said truthfully, "I didn't."
"Ah, well! I found what I was looking for," Damon said cheerfully, handing the basket over. "Here are a lot of herbs for you to try out."
Where are you, Ross? Butch wondered. He tried to think of all the possibilities, and one of them, the one where Damon had disposed of Ross' dead body, made his skin crawl and made him want to throw up.
"You best be going now," Damon told him, "before you do anything else you might regret."
The Ruff stared at him, wide-eyed, wondering if Damon really knew what he'd done. Butch knew he had superpowers and that he could take this man. But this man was terrifyingly insane and unstable, and also quite strong. Butch knew the damage he could do—mentally and physically, and some of it wouldn't even have been his intention. The knowledge that he would have to fight this deranged man who claimed to be a man he'd known and dearly respected in the past, was already quite damaging within itself.
Still feeling nauseous, Butch thanked Damon and flew out the door. He flew until he was far, far away from that mad man, and until the only sign of him ever being there was his fading forest-green streak.
Butch hit the ground running, not sure where he was running to. He ran until he crashed into someone, and all the contents of the basket came flying out, falling through the air like raindrops on a rainy day.
He sat up and held his head, groaning. When he opened his eyes, he froze from shock.
The person across from him was Buttercup.
"Ow," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "What the hell happened?"
Time seemed to slow as the two met eyes, sitting on the gravel, hands and knees lightly scraped as their invulnerability protected them. The herbs flurrying around them was a weird sight, but they became blurry splashes of green on gray in the corner of Butch's eyes as they focused on his counterpart.
"Butch...?" Buttercup asked, and the world spun faster again.
The herbs hit the ground and Butch hit the air, scrambling to collect all the scattered greens from the dirt. "Buttercup," he responded, trying to sound casual.
"What the hell is this?" she demanded.
He grimaced, stuffing the herbs back into the basket Damon had given him.
"I've been out here, tired as fuck, looking for Ross for the past couple of hours, and you're picking flowers?" she demanded in disbelief.
Butch froze again, but not because of shock this time. He froze because his temper was flaring, and before he could control himself and fly away without paying her any attention, he spun around and snapped, "If you're so fucking tired, then stop fucking looking for him! I'm pretty sure your search is pointless anyway!"
Her eyes darkened as he paused, realizing what he'd just said.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, and as if on cue, she began to yell.
"What the fuck was that!? Are you saying that looking for Ross is pointless? That you don't give any shits so much that you think I should stop looking too!?"
"That is not what I meant!" he protested.
"Then what was that? You quite literally said 'stop looking' and that it was 'pointless', you know!"
"I know what I said!" he snapped back. "But that's seriously not what I meant! I was just irritated, okay? I didn't think about it before I said it."
"Just like usually," she muttered.
Growling as his temper burst into flames once again, he retorted, "I only said your search was pointless, you idiot—I have been looking for him, you know. That's the whole reason I have all these damn 'flowers', as you so brilliantly called them. I was interviewing a suspect."
"What suspect? Someone you think kidnapped Ross and killed him?" she responded incredulously.
Yes. "That's not important," he grunted.
"Yes, it is! If you're fucking serious about this, then I think I deserve to know too!"
"Why? Because you're fucking in love with him or some shit?"
"And so what if I am! What's so wrong about that?"
For the third time that conversation, Butch froze. And this time, it was because there was something squirming around inside of him that made him angry and uncomfortable. Buttercup was glaring back at him, face flushed red. Finally, he told her coldly and calmly, "If you are, then that's your problem." He spun around and prepared to blast off.
"Butch, wait!" She grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, the two of them crashing into each other, their limbs tangling. As they rolled around in the gravel, Butch found himself on top of her. Panting, her face flushed red, she demanded, "Why do you have to be such an asshole? Just tell me what you know—he's my friend too."
He'd been staring at her, marvelling at the colour of spring grass in her eyes and the pink of her cheeks, and how she didn't look half-bad in this lighting. But as soon as she said those words, he snapped. "Your friend," he began coldly, "or your crush?"
Buttercup's eyes widened and then narrowed, and she shoved him off of him. "Butch," she yelled loudly, "you are a fucking asshole!"
"Anything else you want to add? Something new?" he growled back.
"I fucking hate you, you uncaring jerk!" she screamed. "And I bet if Ross were here with me, he'd hate you too! Because it's clear you don't give two shits about him even when he's in danger!"
The world froze with him this time. He'd never realized how cold his body could feel, like it was crystallizing. He couldn't move. He didn't even bother to stop his counterpart as she flew into the air and disappeared with an angry green streak. He stayed there, unmoving and cold—he stayed even when the world thawed, because he was still thawing.
He wasn't sure what words had pierced him the most, as they'd all been icy enough to probably freeze him either way. Maybe his feelings were iced over too—he couldn't tell what he was feeling. Regret? Disappointment? Anguish? Loneliness? Like he was a fucking screw-up who couldn't do anything right?
Butch stood until his feet throbbed from how numb they'd become. He took a tentative step forward, like he was stepping onto thin ice—which felt pointless to him anyway, because he'd already shattered the thin ice with a sledgehammer and was already falling through the frigid waters.
He didn't think he blamed Buttercup for claiming she hated him, no matter how much she'd meant the words. After all, he'd been the one saying all the shit that would've pissed anyone off. Because of that, he wouldn't have been surprised if Ross had been there and gone after Buttercup, claiming that he did indeed also hate Butch. He told himself he had no one to blame but himself, for only saying the angry words on the surface, and for not saying the words deep in the corners of his mind.
One corner of his mind, a quiet part of him, was whispering, But I don't hate Ross. That part of him paused, before finally whispering the end of his thought: And I don't hate you.
When he sat down, he felt the entire world settle on his shoulders. He was aching, even though he really hadn't gone anywhere besides Damon's cabin that day. But every muscle still ached, especially his heart, whenever he thought back to that hurt look in those baby-blue eyes...
"Sidney...?"
Blinking them open, he turned to see his sister sitting down beside him. "What's wrong?" he asked, surprised that she was initiating conversation with him. She'd been so angry earlier during the day—but, Sidney mused, maybe she wasn't angry, but scared. He knew how she felt about Ross, or at least, the history between them. She was just as devastated by the news as the rest of them, if not more so.
"Oh, what? Do you think I won't start a conversation with you unless something's wrong?" she responded.
Sidney flinched. "No, I just—"
She sighed. "Never mind. It's true that something's wrong, but it's not just me who's affected by this, now is it?"
"No," he agreed quietly, "it's not."
"Ross is gone," she stated. "Disappeared. Vanished without a trace."
"And Vix."
She snorted but didn't dismiss him. "Yes, well—we know where they most likely ended up."
He nodded, not sure where the conversation was going. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?" he asked gently.
Sydney paused, staring at her feet. "You really don't think I'd talk to you normally, do you?"
"It's not that! I'm just worried about you, that's all," he exclaimed softly, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.
She sighed, burying her face in her hands. "Danes has terminated my missions until further notice."
Her brother furrowed his brow, shocked by the news. "What...?" He hadn't expected Danes to turn down anyone who wanted a mission, given their current situation—and Sydney's passion about finding Ross would surely help. "Why?"
"I challenged his decisions and didn't back off even when he tried to shut me down. I couldn't help it!" she cried. "He's wasting so much time."
"I can understand why he's playing it so slow." Sidney glanced away, the guilty feeling returning, coming after the fear he felt when he thought about confronting Damon. "It's really dangerous; he doesn't want to take any chances or risk anything. Damon's powerful, and we're not likely going to be able to defeat him," he mumbled.
"Sidney—"
"I know," he cried weakly, dragging down the toque on his head, "I'm being a coward. I'm sorry, but I can't help it!" Tears were springing to his eyes. "I can't do this. I'm so, so afraid."
"Siddy..." she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. She was using a nickname she hardly ever used; one that Bubbles would use so often.
And that just made him burst into tears even more.
Startled, she cried out, "Sidney, are you okay?"
"I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this," he whimpered, digging his nails into the toque and his hair. "I'm so cowardly, Sydney, and it's not just about Damon. It's about everything else—Bubbles too—and I'm just so—so lost..." He was crying hard, unable to keep it all in. Sidney had grown up in a society like all the other boys; boys who were taught from a young age to be strong and were expected to never cry. But he was so much more sensitive than many other boys, and at the very least, his parents understood and didn't mind.
The only problem was, he hated how weak he'd become. Where other girls and parents and even guys saw a sweet, sensitive boy, Sidney always saw himself as a coward; a failure. He was everything a "man" shouldn't be: frail health-wise and emotion-wise.
He was so, so weak.
The tears kept coming, like rivulets running from his eyes, a waterfall pouring down his cheek. "I-I'm sorry—I'm so, so sorry; I'm being s-such a weakling," he blubbered, barely able to speak.
"Shhh," she told him. "It's okay. I'm scared too, y'know."
When he looked up at her blearily through his tears, she wasn't looking at him. Instead, her gaze was trained elsewhere. "You are?" he murmured.
She took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm really afraid. Sidney... What if Ross is dead?"
He closed his eyes. "Then everything would fall apart," he whispered.
"I'd kill him," she continued. "I'd kill Damon if that ever happens." Her voice was shaking now, and he could hear the tears in her voice too, even though it was just barely there. His sister was so much better at hiding it—but she couldn't fool him. She couldn't fool another crier. They were twins, after all, and no matter how different they were, they still had a lot in common.
"You don't have to," he told her softly.
"Yes I do." She buried her face in her hands again, voice breaking. "Otherwise I'd die myself."
"You know... You should talk to Ross." When she looked at him in disbelief, he quickly added, "I meant after all this. After he comes back." He didn't say the "if", in fear of jinxing the chances of Ross ever coming back.
Sydney stared at him, before looking away. "I can't. I couldn't. He wouldn't want to talk to me anyway."
"Ross isn't like that. He'd forgive you"—he hesitated—"i-if you think you need to be forgiven, I mean."
Unbeknownst to him, his sister was flashing back to all the times Ross had told her not to talk to him, that if she wasn't sure of her feelings, she shouldn't do so because it would only destroy them. And the thing was, she still didn't know her feelings. "He wouldn't—not yet," she replied sadly.
"Sydney, it's been years. You have to face him," he told her directly, his tone steady and firm. It was the most bold he'd been in a long time, and he was surprised it was with his more commanding sister.
She looked just as surprised and taken aback by his words. "I can't—" she tried to say again, voice cracking. "I—"
"Sydney." He sounded so sure, it made him feel like he knew what he was talking about; that the advice he gave could be solid and helpful. "You have to talk to him."
A tear ran down her cheek as she finally whispered, "You've grown up."
He glanced away. "We're the same."
"No... You're willing to face your issues. I'm not. I'm still running."
"I'm running too. I-I can't stop running from Bubbles."
"Then..." She paused, staring at her feet.
He glanced at her, waiting for her to continue. "Sydney?" he prompted.
"Then how's about we do it together?" When he stared at her, she continued, "I mean, if you confront your situation with Bubbles, then I'll do the same with Ross—and vice versa."
He hesitated, unsure if he could do it. It was one thing to tell someone else to stop running, but it was another entirely to do so yourself.
"Sidney, please," she added pleadingly. "I can't do this alone."
Finally, he took a deep and shaky breath, before saying, "Okay."
Sydney sank back in her seat. "Thank God," she whispered. "I won't have to do this alone." She looked at him. "Thank you."
He nodded, but couldn't reply around the lump in his throat. He didn't tell her about how scared he was, or how much he already regretted agreeing to doing so—because in just as many ways that he was afraid, he was also proud. He wanted to do this, even if he was scared, and he wanted to do it even more so for his sister, who was just as scared—if not more so.
Sydney smiled faintly. "We might as well resolve this mess. After all, Sophia is about to come back, and we can't let her see us like this. And while we're fixing that, we'll find Ross. And we will bring him back." Maybe she was just trying to tell herself that too, but he let himself believe it.
Sidney nodded in reply. He thought back to his old friend, and he knew his sister was right. They couldn't be moping around, all depressed, when she came. The arrival of Sophia would be like the signal of a new season; of winter ending and spring beginning for them. But they couldn't sit back and wait for it to happen—they needed to make it happen. It was the sign that they needed to turn over a new leaf.
"Alright, Sydney," he said, taking a deep breath, "let's do this."
ME: Was that enough of a doozy for you guys?
BLASTER: . . .
VIX: What the hell, Kuku! What was that all about with me and Christie!?
ME: Aww, did you not want to hurt her? *smirks* Well, too bad.
VIX: You are a terrible human being.
ME: Yeah; I kind of hated myself after writing that. But hey...I guess you could say you weren't being yourself when you did that, eyyy?
VIX: That's not even a joke, nor is it funny.
ME: It's funny to me, because I know what it means.
VIX: ...Well then.
ME: Anyway, there we go! A new chapter. What do you guys think is gonna happen from here on out? *winks* Stay tuned to find out!
BLASTER: Leave a review... I guess...
ME: And see you all soon! Real soon, actually, since travelling means I do a lot of writing when I don't have wifi. Anyway, be sure to let me know what you thought!