FIC: DOGS - prompt request fulfilled
Title: Distressing Damsel
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: PG
Pairing: Badou/Naoto
Disclaimer: These dogs are not my dogs. I ate a hot dog recently but I find that in no way an infringement.
Feedback: Always brilliant.
Notes: For the prompt request of "Badou/Naoto; damsel in distress" from the wonderful slothfulsamoyed who must honestly be a saint for all the patience she has had with my REALLY, HONESTLY, IT'S ALMOST DONE! ridiculousness. THANK YOU I'M SORRY ETC ETC I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.
Cross-posted at dogs_manga and bulletsxcarnage.
The church is a place of earnest quietude, something Naoto cherishes [she’s heard too much screaming and noise for her few years].
Today, she helps Nill wipe clean the dusty stained glass windows. Up on a ladder she does not quite trust, her damp rag moves across the shards of colour with grace, each stroke uniform and measured. Below her, Nill’s rag loops and scrabbles in random directions, little explosions of cleanliness for every carefully scoured row Naoto completes.
The blonde girl seems content in her work, yet her gaze is repeatedly drawn towards the heavy wood and iron doors of the cathedral. With her hawk’s eye view, Naoto watches as the girl’s pigtails accidentally flick against the dirty windows a third time, leaving a few perfectly drawn [flawlessly cut] lines in the dust. She sighs, feeling very much out of her element.
Although she is loathe to break the wonderful silence the tall architecture enforces, she knows her right from her wrong as clearly as steel from toilet paper.
“Nill,” she says quietly, and the girl jumps a little, her shoulder knocking into the ladder, jarring it. Naoto’s mouth thins awkwardly, and she waits a few seconds to be sure she is not going to be sent toppling to the ground. The ladder’s swaying calms, and she finishes her segment of window and climbs down [not overly quickly, she makes quite sure]. “Would you, ah, like to hear a story?”
The girl’s wing flare out in interest, her wide blue eyes inquisitive, excited [Naoto knows her own eyes have none of this light, but does not allow herself to mourn this].The swordswoman sits demurely on the ladder [third rung from the bottom, not very far to fall], and Nill kneels quietly on the stones after pulling at a drooping stocking.
It is now Naoto realizes she’s never told anyone a story before. It had simply seemed the right thing to say to a lonely child. Her mind races a bit as she recognizes her mistake, but she makes a graceful save. “What kind of story would you like to hear?”
Nill barely hesitates before cupping her hands on her head, thumbs to thumbs and fingers to fingers, like a crown. She smiles brightly, repeating the motion.
“A story about kings?” asks Naoto. The girl shakes her head, pauses to think, and then strokes her own hair as if she’s brushing it. She turns her expression slightly off to the side, looking almost picturesquely lovelorn, and making some industrial efforts to heave her non-existent bosom. Naoto makes a mental note to confiscate any reading material not suitable for young children, and nods in understanding.
“A story about a princess,” she amends, and Nill drops her pantomime and claps happily, wings all aflutter. Naoto takes a deep breath, getting her thoughts in order before she speaks [for there is all the time in the world for those seeking revenge]. She tries to recall snippets of old fables, of soft voices before bedtime. But she doesn’t know any princess stories, and she doesn’t know what it’s like to be a little girl [she sometimes suspects she does not know how to be a big girl, either].
Possessing nothing of then, she works with the now.
“Once upon a time,” she begins, because even those who have nothing know that there is always a beginning, “there was a beautiful princess with long, flowing hair.” Images flash in her mind, and the corners of her mouth twitch in a barely noticeable smile. “Red hair. And it wasn’t always clean, or brushed, or completely free of ash, but it was beautiful hair nevertheless.”
Naoto smoothes the skirt of her dress, schooling her expression into matter-of-factness once again. “The princess was locked away in a high tower, guarded by a ring of toxic smog. Perhaps a dragon had left it in its place, after it had gone away. Left by even the dragon that had imprisoned her, the princess was …very lonely. She’d been waiting very long to be rescued, but no one seemed to be able to.” Nill’s face shows sincere grief at the princess’ plight, though Naoto does not rush the story [because the prick of the unhappiness is the backbone to every tale].
“One day a knight came to the kingdom,” she goes on. “He was seeking …his fortune. He carried a blade that would defeat any foe he came against. And it would one day cut down her most hated enemy.” She pauses, coughing a little. “His, that is. Ah. Where was I?”
Nill dutifully mimes a knight riding a horse, her thin little arm extended like a sword. Naoto nods. “Of course. The knight hears of the princess’ dilemma, and rides his horse to the tower to save her.”
The younger girl’s excitement is palpable. Naoto allows herself another small smile. “At the base of the tower, he calls up to the princess.” She pauses, realizing dialogue is not exactly her forte. “Ah. He calls up… ‘Hello.’” Her nose wrinkles just slightly. “The princess has been locked in her tower quite a long while, and didn’t have much social courtesy to begin with, so she likely snaps something rude about it being about time. The knight responds that if he’s got to hear obnoxious whining, he won’t bother rescuing the stupid, irritating princess at all.”
There’s an awkward silence. The younger girl’s face is scrunched up in confusion. Naoto coughs once more.
“Despite initial squabbles,” she recovers, “the knight decides to rescue the princess, because she is a product of her isolated environment and can’t be blamed for being an idiot.” She hesitates, an image of red hair and smoke twining in her mind distractingly. “The princess lets down her long hair for the young adventurer to climb, but the knight is pragmatic, and takes the stairs instead.”
The heavy doors of the church groan open, and both girls look up. The Bishop’s cane taps along the stone as he strides in [staccato, suitably cryptic like Morse code]. Stuffed under one arm is the holy book, and held with extreme care in his other hand is a cardboard box tied with a pink string, a heady pastry scent wafting from it.
Canting his head, an enigmatic smile lit onto the blonde’s face. “Ah. Those windows needed a good scrubbing. God bless you beautiful young ladies, and God bless industrial strength ammonia, hm?” He wrinkles his nose. “Not the form of it you would be interested in, Badou.”
From the very last pew in the cathedral, there comes a exceptionally guilty creeeak.
Naoto’s expression, in turn, becomes so flat it’s nearly invisible.
“Nill,” trills the blonde, commandeering the small girl by the shoulders with his free hand [but he needn’t, really- it’s all too obvious that the church’s angel leans to the Bishop like a flower to the sun that exists only in their heads]. “I’ve gotten some of those éclairs you so enjoyed the other week. You must have worked up quite the appetite trying to resurrect this chapel.” He looks at Naoto [and not for the first time, she wonders how keen his hearing is; enough to pick up on her breaths, her heartbeats, her thoughts?] and adds, “you’re welcome to join us, there’s quite enough.”
It’s more of an awkward jerktwitch of her jaw than anything resembling a nod, and she follows the two into a small but homey backroom [it’s not escaping, she tries to tell herself sternly, though the protest is weaker than the virtue of the city].
It comes as no surprise that the quietly brewed tea and fresh éclairs are as enjoyable as the company. With dead eyes hidden behind dark lenses, the Bishop entertains the two with his stories of those he instilled the holiness into today, Nill beaming attentively over her teacup. The dainty way the girl eats [all fingertips and small, delicate bites], usually makes the swordswoman smile but today, now, it just reminds her of a mouth that can’t stop talking long enough to chew and-
-she’s already risen to her feet, resolute, when she hears the scrape of wood on stone and a mumbled curse.
She leaves the impromptu tea party with something like relief [suddenly feeling it too civil, too routine for someone who’s seen more cups of blood than crushed tea leaves] and her shoes are quick across the weathered rocks of the chapel floor. Rounding the pews, she expects to see a too-skinny, half-irritated half-listless looking young man, but finds only a crooked stack of hymnals with their pages falling out.
When he clears his throat [an awkward, sandpapery cough], her gaze is drawn not across the other pews, but upwards.
“Hello,” she finds herself saying as she steps closer, and sitting high up on the top-most step of the ladder, Badou’s lips twitch, quirk crookedly. His cigarette smoke is curling around his face, half obscuring the freckles, the sea-glass green eye.
“About fuckin’ time,” he mumbles in reply, shifting a little. The ladder wobbles worryingly, sways and shudders, and his arms flail out in a panic. “Oh holy shitting shit-”
The small laugh that comes from Naoto surprises both of them. Badou clutches his seat with white knuckles, and something like anxiety passes over his face, tinged at the edges with a tangible apprehension [a breath withdrawn but not released]. She looks up at him steadily, and even with all the pollution surrounding him, what stands out most is the tangletumble of bright red-orange hair.
Settling the ladder with a sudden, solid foot [weighty, but for once not because of the heavy task she carries], Naoto begins to climb.
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: PG
Pairing: Badou/Naoto
Disclaimer: These dogs are not my dogs. I ate a hot dog recently but I find that in no way an infringement.
Feedback: Always brilliant.
Notes: For the prompt request of "Badou/Naoto; damsel in distress" from the wonderful slothfulsamoyed who must honestly be a saint for all the patience she has had with my REALLY, HONESTLY, IT'S ALMOST DONE! ridiculousness. THANK YOU I'M SORRY ETC ETC I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.
Cross-posted at dogs_manga and bulletsxcarnage.
The church is a place of earnest quietude, something Naoto cherishes [she’s heard too much screaming and noise for her few years].
Today, she helps Nill wipe clean the dusty stained glass windows. Up on a ladder she does not quite trust, her damp rag moves across the shards of colour with grace, each stroke uniform and measured. Below her, Nill’s rag loops and scrabbles in random directions, little explosions of cleanliness for every carefully scoured row Naoto completes.
The blonde girl seems content in her work, yet her gaze is repeatedly drawn towards the heavy wood and iron doors of the cathedral. With her hawk’s eye view, Naoto watches as the girl’s pigtails accidentally flick against the dirty windows a third time, leaving a few perfectly drawn [flawlessly cut] lines in the dust. She sighs, feeling very much out of her element.
Although she is loathe to break the wonderful silence the tall architecture enforces, she knows her right from her wrong as clearly as steel from toilet paper.
“Nill,” she says quietly, and the girl jumps a little, her shoulder knocking into the ladder, jarring it. Naoto’s mouth thins awkwardly, and she waits a few seconds to be sure she is not going to be sent toppling to the ground. The ladder’s swaying calms, and she finishes her segment of window and climbs down [not overly quickly, she makes quite sure]. “Would you, ah, like to hear a story?”
The girl’s wing flare out in interest, her wide blue eyes inquisitive, excited [Naoto knows her own eyes have none of this light, but does not allow herself to mourn this].The swordswoman sits demurely on the ladder [third rung from the bottom, not very far to fall], and Nill kneels quietly on the stones after pulling at a drooping stocking.
It is now Naoto realizes she’s never told anyone a story before. It had simply seemed the right thing to say to a lonely child. Her mind races a bit as she recognizes her mistake, but she makes a graceful save. “What kind of story would you like to hear?”
Nill barely hesitates before cupping her hands on her head, thumbs to thumbs and fingers to fingers, like a crown. She smiles brightly, repeating the motion.
“A story about kings?” asks Naoto. The girl shakes her head, pauses to think, and then strokes her own hair as if she’s brushing it. She turns her expression slightly off to the side, looking almost picturesquely lovelorn, and making some industrial efforts to heave her non-existent bosom. Naoto makes a mental note to confiscate any reading material not suitable for young children, and nods in understanding.
“A story about a princess,” she amends, and Nill drops her pantomime and claps happily, wings all aflutter. Naoto takes a deep breath, getting her thoughts in order before she speaks [for there is all the time in the world for those seeking revenge]. She tries to recall snippets of old fables, of soft voices before bedtime. But she doesn’t know any princess stories, and she doesn’t know what it’s like to be a little girl [she sometimes suspects she does not know how to be a big girl, either].
Possessing nothing of then, she works with the now.
“Once upon a time,” she begins, because even those who have nothing know that there is always a beginning, “there was a beautiful princess with long, flowing hair.” Images flash in her mind, and the corners of her mouth twitch in a barely noticeable smile. “Red hair. And it wasn’t always clean, or brushed, or completely free of ash, but it was beautiful hair nevertheless.”
Naoto smoothes the skirt of her dress, schooling her expression into matter-of-factness once again. “The princess was locked away in a high tower, guarded by a ring of toxic smog. Perhaps a dragon had left it in its place, after it had gone away. Left by even the dragon that had imprisoned her, the princess was …very lonely. She’d been waiting very long to be rescued, but no one seemed to be able to.” Nill’s face shows sincere grief at the princess’ plight, though Naoto does not rush the story [because the prick of the unhappiness is the backbone to every tale].
“One day a knight came to the kingdom,” she goes on. “He was seeking …his fortune. He carried a blade that would defeat any foe he came against. And it would one day cut down her most hated enemy.” She pauses, coughing a little. “His, that is. Ah. Where was I?”
Nill dutifully mimes a knight riding a horse, her thin little arm extended like a sword. Naoto nods. “Of course. The knight hears of the princess’ dilemma, and rides his horse to the tower to save her.”
The younger girl’s excitement is palpable. Naoto allows herself another small smile. “At the base of the tower, he calls up to the princess.” She pauses, realizing dialogue is not exactly her forte. “Ah. He calls up… ‘Hello.’” Her nose wrinkles just slightly. “The princess has been locked in her tower quite a long while, and didn’t have much social courtesy to begin with, so she likely snaps something rude about it being about time. The knight responds that if he’s got to hear obnoxious whining, he won’t bother rescuing the stupid, irritating princess at all.”
There’s an awkward silence. The younger girl’s face is scrunched up in confusion. Naoto coughs once more.
“Despite initial squabbles,” she recovers, “the knight decides to rescue the princess, because she is a product of her isolated environment and can’t be blamed for being an idiot.” She hesitates, an image of red hair and smoke twining in her mind distractingly. “The princess lets down her long hair for the young adventurer to climb, but the knight is pragmatic, and takes the stairs instead.”
The heavy doors of the church groan open, and both girls look up. The Bishop’s cane taps along the stone as he strides in [staccato, suitably cryptic like Morse code]. Stuffed under one arm is the holy book, and held with extreme care in his other hand is a cardboard box tied with a pink string, a heady pastry scent wafting from it.
Canting his head, an enigmatic smile lit onto the blonde’s face. “Ah. Those windows needed a good scrubbing. God bless you beautiful young ladies, and God bless industrial strength ammonia, hm?” He wrinkles his nose. “Not the form of it you would be interested in, Badou.”
From the very last pew in the cathedral, there comes a exceptionally guilty creeeak.
Naoto’s expression, in turn, becomes so flat it’s nearly invisible.
“Nill,” trills the blonde, commandeering the small girl by the shoulders with his free hand [but he needn’t, really- it’s all too obvious that the church’s angel leans to the Bishop like a flower to the sun that exists only in their heads]. “I’ve gotten some of those éclairs you so enjoyed the other week. You must have worked up quite the appetite trying to resurrect this chapel.” He looks at Naoto [and not for the first time, she wonders how keen his hearing is; enough to pick up on her breaths, her heartbeats, her thoughts?] and adds, “you’re welcome to join us, there’s quite enough.”
It’s more of an awkward jerktwitch of her jaw than anything resembling a nod, and she follows the two into a small but homey backroom [it’s not escaping, she tries to tell herself sternly, though the protest is weaker than the virtue of the city].
It comes as no surprise that the quietly brewed tea and fresh éclairs are as enjoyable as the company. With dead eyes hidden behind dark lenses, the Bishop entertains the two with his stories of those he instilled the holiness into today, Nill beaming attentively over her teacup. The dainty way the girl eats [all fingertips and small, delicate bites], usually makes the swordswoman smile but today, now, it just reminds her of a mouth that can’t stop talking long enough to chew and-
-she’s already risen to her feet, resolute, when she hears the scrape of wood on stone and a mumbled curse.
She leaves the impromptu tea party with something like relief [suddenly feeling it too civil, too routine for someone who’s seen more cups of blood than crushed tea leaves] and her shoes are quick across the weathered rocks of the chapel floor. Rounding the pews, she expects to see a too-skinny, half-irritated half-listless looking young man, but finds only a crooked stack of hymnals with their pages falling out.
When he clears his throat [an awkward, sandpapery cough], her gaze is drawn not across the other pews, but upwards.
“Hello,” she finds herself saying as she steps closer, and sitting high up on the top-most step of the ladder, Badou’s lips twitch, quirk crookedly. His cigarette smoke is curling around his face, half obscuring the freckles, the sea-glass green eye.
“About fuckin’ time,” he mumbles in reply, shifting a little. The ladder wobbles worryingly, sways and shudders, and his arms flail out in a panic. “Oh holy shitting shit-”
The small laugh that comes from Naoto surprises both of them. Badou clutches his seat with white knuckles, and something like anxiety passes over his face, tinged at the edges with a tangible apprehension [a breath withdrawn but not released]. She looks up at him steadily, and even with all the pollution surrounding him, what stands out most is the tangletumble of bright red-orange hair.
Settling the ladder with a sudden, solid foot [weighty, but for once not because of the heavy task she carries], Naoto begins to climb.