back to the basics

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

Pip is a man of instincts honed like the edge of a blade, freshly sharpened [but it doesn’t ache for blood until it kills 100 men, or so the legends say—but he is no legend and he aches for nothing but rest for his weary feet] and ready at a single breath amiss.

He doesn’t bolt up so much as jump two feet off the mattress, ratty braid in his mouth at the sound of a raspy little voice in the dark that croons, “Soon.” No inflection, nothing behind it but shadow and the flash of red that isn’t the familiar crimson splatter—

“Holy shit,” Pip hisses to himself at the sight of his charge? Ward? Standing at the side of his bed, unblinking and unbroken gaze on him. The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t speak again, just stands like an incredibly creepy statue. The merc inhales sharply, ready to let him have it, but some thoughts occur to him in a certain order.

Firstly, Badou’s asleep. Secondly, it’s time to put the safety back on his pistol. And most importantly how the hell did he pick the lock while sleepwalking.

[it’s almost, almost, almost remnant of other shadows who slink along the darkness as if you can’t differentiate between them, like they’re shadow themselves, masked and dead eyed, blades that don’t hunger for blood, don’t hunger for anything, don’t feel anymore than the hunt, branded into their marrow, nerve endings razed and dull

If not for the hunt

The jokes about the kid being a secretly trained assassin aren’t funny now]

He does not look forward to the kiddyporn jokes in the morning, nor the uncomfortable jab Badou’s shoulders shape, tucked up to protect himself from reaching hands. He’s dealt with enough nightly episodes to know to keep a wide berth of the boy, anticipating the next moments.

Badou says nothing, just stands there. They are attuned to each other’s breath, movement, in that moment more than any other battlefield, any crush of seconds before the crescendo. When you’re [scared, horrified, not sure if he’s going to get a knife that he doesn’t see in his kidney] high on the adrenaline somehow it’s harder to stay awake. All those signals fired to the brain and your eyelids still dip dangerously low, low, until they close.

The sun’s just beginning to spackle pink through the clouds, through the half drawn blinds when Pip awakens again. He’s careful, slow to move, quick to crack his eye open. The room is settled in a comfortable silence, the normal creaks of an inn out in the middle of nowhere. The merc eases himself up, feet sliding from beneath the covers—but they’re pinned?

Flopped across his bed is his kid, the soft mutterings of a peaceful sleep in huffed breaths, one arm tucked beneath a not so delicate cheek. Pip sighs with all the relief of survivors from a storm, palm over his single eye.

Badou doesn’t even stir when he’s carried back to his room, deposited in bed and tucked in like the brat he
isn’t anymore. Never seemed the type to have tolerated being tucked in as a kid, actually. He still is a kid, this he can’t ever, ever forget.

After a few more hours of sleep he emerges, bleary eyed, one hand tucked into unbuckled khakis to scratch at a persistently itchy ass, saunters into the tiny kitchenette they’ve been allotted for their needs. The tinier staff has already cleared out from the breakfast and brunch rush and probably sit somewhere in the office with change to count. His geese are scattered about, the ones not still sleeping, that is, in various disarray and sleep mused pillow-creases across their faces.

The kid is strangely a morning person when they’re in places like this. Pip isn’t sure if it’s something as boring as peace that brings it about or the relaxed pace of routine. [at least Pip knows he sleeps] But he’s bushy tailed and bright eyed at what’s definitely a prep table not meant to seat anyone aside from a disgruntled fry cook, a book in hand and head down.

Plodding to the fridge, the merc grabs the half empty milk jug, a bowl with someone’s leftover cereal, and helps himself to the of the boxes of plucky and colorful cereals. He’s quiet, crunching on his cereal and half attuned to the conversations and jibbing around him. Nothing seems to be amiss, not even an extra bag beneath his kid’s eye. If Badou doesn’t notice the scrutiny Pip hasn’t been training him enough.

Finally, half under his breath but enough to carry to the boy, he asks, “You sleep alright?”

Badou does that squinty thing where his eye just barely closes, crinkles around the corners like he’s trying to figure you out. Mostly he’s confused. “Yeah? Lotvall farted so loud I heard it from the other room and thought we were being bombed, but that’s the usual.”

“Hey, that wasn’t me! I’d admit something that profound…”

Pip can also see the word ‘why’ form on his lips, ready to be pushed out by that stupid troublesome tongue, when he nods to himself. “Good. This’ll be the last day you’ll get to sleep like a baby cause tomorrow we’re heading into enemy territory. Don’t get too comfortable or we’ll leave you to one of these little grannies—ready to pinch your cheeks.”

He levels a wink at the boy. “And I don’t mean your face.”

Pip has 2.1 seconds to plug a finger in his ear before the answering screech rings out. “You’re not leaving me here with anyone’s granny! If you wanna stay and have a normal life, marry some old bag and take her money after taking her wrinkly ass, be my guest!”

Yup, just a normal day.

[“You got coffee before you put on pants? Dude I can see your pubes, they’re all patchy…”
“My priorities are in order. Also stop lookin’, perv!”]

[“I thought Rhonda told you not to drink anymore?”
“This is flour.”]

He nearly ends up swimming in his cereal.

A normal average day.