[Wild Roses] after the wars
Title: sailor knots
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Kickback and Aodh
Prompt: 31A "smoke"
Word Count: 744
Notes: Kickback hangs out at larathia's.
(in chronological terms, this is after the wars by a reasonable length of time; sparks is where Aodh winds up in this city, stranger is where Kickback starts keeping an eye on him, and this is sometime after cufflinks.)
One of these nights, the Red Triangle was going to lose enough of their idiot kids that they'd have to do something about it. Might even be tonight, the way the five on the street were acting. They hadn't run into anyone yet, still joking about what they'd do when they did, entirely unaware of the shadow following them on the rooftops.
They did eventually find someone, and their watcher heaved a silent sigh as he crouched down, swapped guns for one more appropriate.
The little redheaded stranger'd said he wasn't going out of his way to find trouble, but he sure wasn't avoiding it. When a punk wearing triangles appeared at the mouth of the alley he'd been walking down, demanded all his money, all the stranger did was stare for a second, then bark a laugh as he rolled a cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other.
Most of the rest of the miniature gang rolled in, then, tried to box the stranger back into the wall of the alley. When the stranger didn't retreat, one of the gang tried to shove him, got an arm broken in at least two places in a blur of motion.
"Fuck off," the stranger said, spat his cigarette deliberately onto the broken arm.
Which was when the idiot in the shadows tried to shoot the stranger. 'Tried' being the operative word, because the bullet stopped three feet from the stranger in a burst of combusted air, a weird swirl of something that looked like fire or a mess of furry tails behind the stranger as he turned towards the guy.
The stranger--the fox, he mentally corrected, because he could kind of see the shadow of the tails, now--got there first, slapping the barrel of the gun up with one hand and getting right up in the now-terrified guy's face. The other gang members scattered, yelling, and the watcher delicately dropped the loudest, most of his attention on the one-sided conversation in the alley.
"Roll me for my cash? Whatever--we trade a few punches, you fuck off, 's all good. Pick a fight? Okay. But this? No." The fox punched the guy in the face, hard enough bones crunched, grabbed the gun again as it fell from a nerveless hand, then looked up, right at the watcher.
"Y' want this," he shook the gun, somehow making it look like a kid's toy as he did, "or can I tie it in a sailor knot?"
The watcher blinked. "They're goin' to start calling you possessed," he replied, looking at the gun with an assessing eye.
"They can call me the Devil if it makes them feel better, but I do not want someone taking another potshot at my back. You done?"
"Yeah." Better to melt the damn thing down for its metal than try to fix it to actually shoot straight. He was mildly surprised it hadn't backfired on its user.
The fox put both hands on the barrel, stretched the gun out longer and thinner with a yanking motion, the metal glowing briefly red, then tied a half-hitch, dropped it on the ground by the former owner's body. "You stalkin' me?"
"Why do you ask?" he dropped down onto the street, stood up straight, resettling the shotgun on his back as he did.
"You're always around, when I look up," the fox replied. "I'd've asked if y'were planning to shoot me, but at this point I doubt it."
He chuckled softly, holstered the gun he'd had in his off hand, so the fox could see his empty hand.
The fox was damn near bouncing on his toes, then did, hopping high enough be level with his eyes for a second.
"Should I call you Rancher?" the fox inquired, flicking a hand at the hat, half-grinning. "Beanpole?"
"You can call me Daisy if you think I'll answer to it," he replied, amused, feeling a curl of smoky interest rise in his belly. This close, the fox smelled of fire, not just from the cigarettes.
The fox laughed, his teeth a white flash in the dark. "I think I'd rather use Strider, if it's all the same to you."
Under the cover of his hat, he raised an eyebrow, and the fox grinned up like he'd seen it anyway. "Long story, but Strider kept order, kinda on the quiet. Liked to smoke."
"Whatever makes you happy, kid," he said, and the fox started laughing again.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Kickback and Aodh
Prompt: 31A "smoke"
Word Count: 744
Notes: Kickback hangs out at larathia's.
(in chronological terms, this is after the wars by a reasonable length of time; sparks is where Aodh winds up in this city, stranger is where Kickback starts keeping an eye on him, and this is sometime after cufflinks.)
One of these nights, the Red Triangle was going to lose enough of their idiot kids that they'd have to do something about it. Might even be tonight, the way the five on the street were acting. They hadn't run into anyone yet, still joking about what they'd do when they did, entirely unaware of the shadow following them on the rooftops.
They did eventually find someone, and their watcher heaved a silent sigh as he crouched down, swapped guns for one more appropriate.
The little redheaded stranger'd said he wasn't going out of his way to find trouble, but he sure wasn't avoiding it. When a punk wearing triangles appeared at the mouth of the alley he'd been walking down, demanded all his money, all the stranger did was stare for a second, then bark a laugh as he rolled a cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other.
Most of the rest of the miniature gang rolled in, then, tried to box the stranger back into the wall of the alley. When the stranger didn't retreat, one of the gang tried to shove him, got an arm broken in at least two places in a blur of motion.
"Fuck off," the stranger said, spat his cigarette deliberately onto the broken arm.
Which was when the idiot in the shadows tried to shoot the stranger. 'Tried' being the operative word, because the bullet stopped three feet from the stranger in a burst of combusted air, a weird swirl of something that looked like fire or a mess of furry tails behind the stranger as he turned towards the guy.
The stranger--the fox, he mentally corrected, because he could kind of see the shadow of the tails, now--got there first, slapping the barrel of the gun up with one hand and getting right up in the now-terrified guy's face. The other gang members scattered, yelling, and the watcher delicately dropped the loudest, most of his attention on the one-sided conversation in the alley.
"Roll me for my cash? Whatever--we trade a few punches, you fuck off, 's all good. Pick a fight? Okay. But this? No." The fox punched the guy in the face, hard enough bones crunched, grabbed the gun again as it fell from a nerveless hand, then looked up, right at the watcher.
"Y' want this," he shook the gun, somehow making it look like a kid's toy as he did, "or can I tie it in a sailor knot?"
The watcher blinked. "They're goin' to start calling you possessed," he replied, looking at the gun with an assessing eye.
"They can call me the Devil if it makes them feel better, but I do not want someone taking another potshot at my back. You done?"
"Yeah." Better to melt the damn thing down for its metal than try to fix it to actually shoot straight. He was mildly surprised it hadn't backfired on its user.
The fox put both hands on the barrel, stretched the gun out longer and thinner with a yanking motion, the metal glowing briefly red, then tied a half-hitch, dropped it on the ground by the former owner's body. "You stalkin' me?"
"Why do you ask?" he dropped down onto the street, stood up straight, resettling the shotgun on his back as he did.
"You're always around, when I look up," the fox replied. "I'd've asked if y'were planning to shoot me, but at this point I doubt it."
He chuckled softly, holstered the gun he'd had in his off hand, so the fox could see his empty hand.
The fox was damn near bouncing on his toes, then did, hopping high enough be level with his eyes for a second.
"Should I call you Rancher?" the fox inquired, flicking a hand at the hat, half-grinning. "Beanpole?"
"You can call me Daisy if you think I'll answer to it," he replied, amused, feeling a curl of smoky interest rise in his belly. This close, the fox smelled of fire, not just from the cigarettes.
The fox laughed, his teeth a white flash in the dark. "I think I'd rather use Strider, if it's all the same to you."
Under the cover of his hat, he raised an eyebrow, and the fox grinned up like he'd seen it anyway. "Long story, but Strider kept order, kinda on the quiet. Liked to smoke."
"Whatever makes you happy, kid," he said, and the fox started laughing again.