Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bloodhound gathered their equipment and battle gear, laying the items neatly on their bed. They had done this hundreds of times now, like a ritual, before every match, every event that they were contractually obligated to attend as part of the agreement to fight in the Apex Games.  They took stock of all their gear and whispered a breath of thanks to the Allfather that they had awoken - another day to repent and bring honor upon their ancestors and to those gone before them too soon. 

They raked their hands through their auburn hair that hung down below their shoulders, slender fingers plaiting it neatly to fit under their leather cap. They dressed, pulling on each garment, fastening each button and zipper before clipping on their goggles and respirator. It was preferable to dress out here in the bedroom rather than in the bathroom - they tried to avoid their reflection when possible, not wanting to be confronted by the physical evidence of their failures. They topped everything off with their helm, turning their head and hearing the familiar clink of the charms that dangled from it. The soft tinkling noise accompanied by the wind chime dancing in the breeze outside the open window was a comfort to them. 

Despite the peace of the moment, they grimaced. It was a new season, and another Legend was to join their ranks among the Games. This meant Bloodhound was forced to participate in a welcome event. ‘Fuse,’ they had heard him called by the others. Rumors and speculation traveled fast among the other Legends - if he was friendly, what his abilities were, what he looked like  - but for them, he was merely a félagi or andskoti, depending on the squad. Nothing more. 

They made the familiar walk to the pick-up point in the forest, following the dirt trail that had been worn away in the undergrowth. Besides this small mark, and their cabin, there was no other sign that a human lived among the trees here. This is the way it should be. 

The transport ship was awaiting them, and they rode in silence to the meeting hall in the center of the city, using the trip as an opportunity to meditate. If they made an appearance and introduced themself to the new Legend, perhaps they could return home and fit in a hunt before nightfall. Their stock of meat was low, and they would need to replenish it if they wished to avoid dining in the communal areas where they would be forced to eat with the other Legends. It was not that they disliked the others, but they preferred to live a more reclusive life, among the wildlife, only venturing out on their own accord for necessities they could not forage.

The pleasures of modern life were nice, and they did indulge in some conveniences. But as much as possible, they liked their solitude. In this way, they did their best to follow the Old Ways in the footsteps of their Uncle Artur. Life was simpler like this - perhaps lonely at times, but no close bonds meant no ties to sever if the need arose.

When they arrived at their destination, they straightened out their uniform - regardless of their lack of excitement to meet the newcomer, it would do well to make a good first impression. 

“Morning, Hound,” Loba’s voice called out to them, waving a perfectly manicured hand in their direction. 

“Good morning,” they replied, settling into step beside her to enter the building together. 

“Ready to meet the new Legend?” She raised a plucked eyebrow at them. 

They uttered a noncommittal grunt - it was yet to be seen if he would be a worthy adversary. Through the threshold, they could see the other Legends were already gathered. The group formed a crowd around the newcomer, everyone’s voice raised trying to be heard above the din. Bloodhound huffed a sigh and plopped into an armchair at the edge of the room. They could bide their time patiently until the initial rush died down.

Loba sat next to them, crossing her legs and jiggling a high-heeled boot back and forth.

“I take it you are not too eager to meet the Legend, either?” they asked. 

She shrugged her shoulders and tossed her braids behind her. “Honestly, hon, I couldn’t care less as long as he doesn’t get in my way. I’m in it for one thing - I’m not here to make friends.” The hint of a smile passed her lips. “Though there are those whose company I enjoy more than others.”

Bloodhound allowed themself a small smile in return under their mask. Loba Andrade was the closest they had to an ally here. Though she was wily, she was feisty and always spoke her mind and the truth - even when it landed her into trouble. She respected their need for space and privacy, never trying to delve into their secrets as the others often did under the guise of offering help or ‘emotional support’ as they had called it. 

The pair sat in companionable silence, Loba occasionally making a comment, but otherwise inspected her nails, bored, while Bloodhound sat with their hands clasped patiently in their lap. They peered out the window. The sun was still high in the sky, plenty of time to hunt today, maybe a deer this time, but a rabbit would suffice in a pinch if time grew short.

The initial crowding began to thin, and Loba stood and turned to Bloodhound. “Let’s get this over with.”

They nodded their agreement and rose to join her. The new man’s booming laughter could be heard across the room as they approached and they frowned under their mask. Another loud one. From the back, they could see his dark hair streaked with white - so no young man, clearly. His right arm was metal - perhaps a story behind this, though they would not pry despite their piqued curiosity.

The man turned to face them. He was fair-skinned and broad-chested with a rugged appearance, a dark mustache, and a strong chin. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye, but his face was still expressive and open even without it. The crooked smile that slanted across his face was too knowing, showing an easiness and self-assurance that arose from deep within. His shirt’s neckline was low enough to showcase a cluster of hair near the top of his chest, a leather vest and ammo belt thrown haphazardly over it all with little care for neatness.

Bloodhound felt their blood turn to ice in their veins and stopped dead in their tracks, heart and mind racing. Their muscles suddenly stopped listening to their commands, and they almost fell to their knees - but somehow remained upright through sheer willpower. He looked familiar in a way that tugged deep within their chest - he looked like - it could not be - it was not possible -

Their mind took them to a time long ago, the memories returning unbidden.

Limbs entangled together near a warm fire, huddled under furs to ward off the evening chill. Meals hunted and caught together, a joint effort, a shared feast. Flashes of a smile, the come-hither look of a lover, the cocky smile of one too sure of himself. Jokes and pranks that grated against their nerves, but that they still treasured and recalled fondly decades later. The lightheartedness of youth, of one barely a man, not yet world-weary and jaded. Long summer nights spent with another they held dear, lips hardly leaving the other except to come up for a breath. Dark hair tangling with copper. The freedom of sharing in their true form, their body, scars and failings. Everything laid out bare before their love. No mask, no hiding. Passion given freely, words exchanged in hushed whispers, secrets that only the fireflies overheard. The feeling of hands caressing every inch of them, comforting and exploring - and their hands offering the same in return, a gleði that they had not known since. A love, deep and true - their first, their last, their only.

The man's voice brought them back from their reverie, snapping them back to the present.

“The name’s Fuse - well, nah, it’s not really - but y’know, they made me choose a bloody nickname for the Games,” he said, stepping forward to take Loba’s hand, which she held out daintily before her. “Walter Fitzroy.”

They felt out of breath from the wave of emotion that rolled over them all at once, the dam that held it back for years had cracked, letting loose a stream that started to fill the empty, dry riverbed. They blinked under their mask, remembering where they were. They tried to steel themself. Those days were long gone. That Blóðhundur was long gone.

Walter turned to Bloodhound, who was standing still a few feet back. “Y’alright mate?” he asked, approaching.

All they could manage was a small nod - why did their mouth suddenly feel so dry? Every drop of moisture had left them, it seemed. They tried to reply - where was their voice? Likely wherever their saliva had gone. He slapped Bloodhound on the shoulder and gave them a squeeze. Their entire body tensed, but an odd warmth spread from the man’s hand, seeping down inside of them into a place that had long been devoid of anything other than bitterness and disappointment.

“And who might you be?” he prompted, unfussed by their silence.

“B-Blóðhundur,” they stammered. They lifted their hand in the customary greeting.

The man took their gloved hand in his large mechanical one. He scrunched his face up, mouthing the word Blóðhundur a few times. “Can I call ya Houndy for now? I’d hate to butcher your name right off the bat. Gimme a little time and I’ll get it. Ya might need to tell me again.”

The others had often referred to them this way, and they had been quick to correct them. But coming from him, it sounded…alright. “That would be acceptable.” they replied stiffly.

Walter brought his other hand to grab their forearm, the smile never leaving his face. His grip was firm and solid, his fingers with a dusting of dark hair over the knuckles. Bloodhound was unable to look away from the scarred and calloused hand on their jacket.

“Can’t wait to join the fight. Pleased to meet ya.” 

“Likewise,” they said softly, lifting their goggled gaze to him with great effort.

Walter gave their forearm one last friendly squeeze before he turned to speak to Natalie who had approached and tapped his elbow.

“What was that?” Loba asked as the pair walked away. “I’ve never seen you act like that before,” she accused.

“It is nothing,” they replied quickly. “I am not fond of these group activities. I wish to return home.”

“Mm,” Loba hummed, eying them suspiciously, but dropped the subject. “Well, he seems like he’s nice enough. We’ll see how he performs.”

Bloodhound returned to the ship, on legs that felt like those of a foal newly born, their heart still thumping in their chest. Their knees practically gave out as they slumped into the seat, buckling themselves in as the ship began to take off to bring them home. Bloodhound stumbled through the forest impatiently, tripping over divots and branches that they normally stepped over with ease. Their plan for a hunt now forgotten, they rushed inside and locked the door behind them.

They went into their bedroom and shut that door as well. Though there would be no one around to see them, they had to be sure. After sitting on the edge of the bed, they hastily pulled off their glove and reached into their innermost jacket pocket with clammy, shaking fingers. They slipped their hand into the small, secret slit in the lining over their heart to withdraw the small, folded scrap they kept so close. The material was softened from years of wear, the corners dotted with holes from being bent so many times - but it was their greatest treasure.

With trembling hands, they unfolded the photo, tracing their finger over the long-faded image. A man, dark-haired, strong features, scruffy-faced - much younger, but  reminding them too much of the Legend they had met today. Their breath hitched in their throat as they turned it over, tremors overtaking their arms. Their respirator hummed more loudly to keep up with their quickening breathing. They read the words scrawled on the back, inked in tiny black handwriting and seared into their memory:

‘All my love, Boone’

Chapter Text

Bloodhound grimaced at the abysmal selection of food before them. Overly salted and seasoned meat swimming in too much gravy, likely reconstituted from a powder. The vegetables were overcooked, their colors dull, and the texture mushy. And the potatoes were thick like paste, the spoon standing straight up in them - how did they manage to ruin even the most basic of foods? All of this sat in metal trays that kept it warm but dried it out. The smell did not even bear thinking about. They considered themself lucky that their respirator filtered out most of it. Reluctantly, they placed the best bits they could scavenge onto their plate and headed for a table in the far corner. Considering how much money the Apex Games brought in, they had thought the Legends would have been provided better fare.

They nodded their greeting to a few Legends as they passed - Natalie, Renee, Elliott - but they did not stop to chat. The others knew by now not to ask Bloodhound to take an open seat with them. The answer had been and would always be a polite, but firm, no. As they set their tray down on the table, they sighed at the unsatisfactory meal before them on chipped plasticware. They had been too flustered from meeting the new Legend to hunt, and they at least needed a warm meal in their belly today before they would venture out.

After looking left and right, they sat facing the window and pulled off their respirator to eat. It wasn’t often that they did this - the others had only ever gotten a small glimpse of the skin under their mask - but it was a necessity today. Their nose wrinkled in distaste when they brought a forkful of meat up to their face. It didn’t smell right, not spoiled, but off. Likely chock-full of artificial steroids and injected with hormones to enhance the growth of the poor beast that spent its life in a cramped pen. The thought caused bile to rise in their throat. Harvesting animals this way was a disgrace, and it grated against their sensibilities to eat the result of this mass production. But, they needed the meal. They choked down their food, washing away the stale herbal taste that stuck to their tongue with a sip of water. 

The water, at least, was good.

A hand descended onto their shoulder and they reached for their axe instinctively. A snarl hovered in their throat, but their fingers twitched over an empty holster. No weapons were allowed in the common areas. A portly security guard had taken hrafnsbita from them before allowing them to enter, tucking it away on a shelf with the weapons and blades of the others. 

Their jaw clenched. They had been lax in their vigilance - none should have been able to sneak up on them unnoticed. They wiped their mouth off on a napkin and quickly replaced their mouthpiece, ready to chastise whoever had disturbed them.

“Hiya, Houndy,” Walter said, sliding his own tray on the table across from theirs.

They swallowed back the insult that had been ready at the tip of their tongue at the recognition. “Walter Fitzroy,” they replied, their voice thick.

The man laughed, his eyes crinkling in his mirth. “You sound so formal. Call me Walter, Walt, Wally - anythin’ but my full name.” He paused to rub his cheeks, looking to the ceiling in thought. “Come to think of it, I think only my mum ever called me ‘Walter Fitzroy’ and only when I’d gotten m’self into a bit of mischief.”

Bloodhound looked to the side, unable to meet his gaze. “My apologies, Walter.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about, ay.” He looked down at their mostly untouched meal and back up at them, then around the room. Understanding dawned on his face at the distance between them and the others. “Y’know, I can go eat at another table. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“That will not be necessary,” they replied, then cleared their throat. The man was new, and it would not be hospitable to shoo him away on his first day. Besides, they wouldn’t be back tomorrow. They could tolerate one meal with him. “You may sit here if you wish.”

The grin returned to his face. “Alright then! Time for some Syndicate-sponsored chow.” 

He began to eat, but Bloodhound hesitated, frozen with indecision. They needed the nourishment, but that would require exposing part of their bare face to him. Their goggles would still cover most of them, but they could not force their hands to raise from the table up to remove the breathing apparatus again.

“Sure ya don’t need me to go?” he asked over a mouthful. 

“No,” they said softly. “I am unused to eating with another, is all.” With all their willpower, they forced their fingers to move to the latches on their respirator. A small click and hiss sounded at the rush of released air. Then, they removed it and let it rest back against their chest, hanging over their shoulder from the tubing on their back. They had expected Walter to gawk at them, to stare at the scars that marred even these small exposed patches of cheek and lips in disgust. But the man seemed wholly unbothered, his eyes glancing up briefly before returning to his plate. 

It was an odd thing, but they felt relieved now that they had removed part of their mask before him, rather than more nervous as they had expected. Curious. The man was missing an eye, they presumed from the eyepatch, and an arm. It could be, they thought, that he was unphased by the scars of battle and injury, long-used to seeing his own. Encouraged, Bloodhound began to eat, slowly picking their way through the plate. 

“How do ya eat this stuff for three meals a day?” he asked, pulling a face. He flipped the metal tab back on his soda and took a sip. “Not the worst I’ve ever had, but definitely up there with ‘em.”

“I do not usually partake. I prefer to prepare my own food, to enjoy the bounty the forest provides.”

“Can’t blame ya for that.” He looked up from his plate. “You’ll have to share some of that home cookin’ sometime.”

“Perhaps.” Truly, they did not wish to return to this place, but the man looked at them so eagerly, that they could not have denied him outright. "Another day."

"That a promise?" he asked, a crooked grin stretching across his face. "Don't tease me, now, Houndy."

They smiled at this, astonished at the ease at which their lips turned up for him in return.  "My word is my bond." 

“Ah, I knew there was a smile under all that,” he exclaimed, waving his fork towards their mask with a wink. “Suits ya.”

Their smile faded instantly, and their cheeks prickled with heat. Why had he said that? They were grateful that their goggles covered a large portion of their face, but still worried that he would see the splotches of red. Their heart began to pound hard against their chest, and they replaced their mask in an attempt to ease the constriction they began to feel. It did not help - it was not their breathing that caused the tug and ache inside. 

They felt their anxiety rising into their throat - or maybe it was their stomach trying to reject the meal they’d just eaten. Either way, they needed to retreat from the encounter.

“Thank you for your company, Walter Fitzroy - Walter.” Bloodhound stood suddenly with their tray but hesitated near the table to wait for his response.

“Pleasure was all mine,” he said, reaching his left hand out.

They took the hand awkwardly. Not only because it was the left - the gesture they had learned usually called for the right - but because it was his flesh and blood. They were not a small person, taller than most other Legends, with a body proportional to that height - but Walter’s hand dwarfed theirs. It was warm and they had to admit, it felt nice against their ungloved grip. When was the last time their bare flesh had touched another? 

His thick, calloused fingers engulfed their slender, scarred ones. They shook it and left with one last nod of their helm to scrape the remains of their lunch into the trash can. They hated to waste any but were unable to force themself to eat anymore. At least they had taken in enough to give their body the fuel it needed to hunt.

———————————————

Bloodhound let out a breath, low and slow. An arrow was nocked on their bow, string pulled taut, waiting for the perfect moment. The buck they had been tracking stopped to nibble a delicate patch of grass shoots on the forest floor. It took one step forward, its muscled shoulder sliding just enough to expose the area they wanted to hit — now!

They released their arrow and the animal bucked its legs out backward, wildly scrambling and bolting away. But they had expected this. After it had taken off, they searched for the arrow on the ground and found it a short distance away. It was marked with a bit of blood, evidence of a good hit, a pass-through. They waited for a short time before following the blood trail, coming upon the deer - still standing, but wobbling on its legs like a drunk man, white tail twitching. Then, it collapsed onto its side. 

Field dressing prey was a skill that Bloodhound had been taught from a young age. They made quick work of the buck they had struck, whispering thanks to the beast for giving its life. Their arrow had indeed flown quick and true, piercing straight through the animal’s heart. The beast had not suffered unnecessarily, only making it thirty yards before collapsing in the undergrowth, its lifeblood pooling among the dead leaves and twigs beneath it.

They dragged it by its eight-pointed antlers to bring it home to finish cleaning and carving it. Later, they would preserve its pelt to make use of the hide and fur. It would be dishonorable to waste any usable part. After returning home, they finished the task at hand. 

Bloodhound put their hunting clothes to wash and scrubbed the flecks of blood that had gotten on their hands and face from the evening’s work. They leaned on the sink, exhaustion settling into their bones. Usually, they faced away from their own reflection, but tonight, they wanted to try something.

‘I knew there was a smile under all that.’ 

Unmasked, they studied the person in the mirror, forcing a smile. It looked more like a grimace - tight cheeks, dry lips pulled back too far over white teeth. And the eyes - there was no joy in their mossy depths. Walter made it look so easy, but his appearance was…normal. Pleasant even, by most standards. The smile was natural on his face, sliding into place like it had always belonged there. Just like his had been all those years ago, an expression so freely given without care. 

But their smile? Their face? White and pink scars cut across their pale cheeks and neck like creeping tendrils. They ran their fingers over their skin, hoping for smoothness but knowing they would only find bumps and gouges. They could no longer remember what they looked like without these marks. 

Despite Walter’s words that it ‘suited’ them, they knew a smile did not belong on a face such as theirs. Their stomach lurched as they fought back the racing thoughts that threatened to overtake them with a wave of nausea. One word came through loudly in their mind, almost crushing them under its weight - 

Failure. 

They knew the past could not be changed, but the gods alone knew how often they had prayed for that exact thing. If they could, they would take back words thrown out in anger, take back the foolish actions of naive youth, and repent for it all. They gripped the edge of the porcelain sink until their knuckles blanched white. It had been a long time since they had recalled it all so intimately, but something about Walter, brought back the memories of days past. Good days and bad days both. Perhaps it was his resemblance to - they pressed their lips together tightly, not wanting to bring forth any further memories.

They smoothed the tangles out of their auburn hair with a boar-bristle brush and tied it back at the nape of their neck with a strip of leather. They looked up and tried to smile again, relaxing their features this time. It looked a little better. Pushed too many times past its usual neutral position, their lip cracked, causing them to wince. They sucked it into their mouth and the salty, coppery taste of blood touched their tongue. A long day under the respirator took its toll on them, stealing the moisture of the skin beneath. They rummaged through their medicine cabinet for a tiny pot of balm and smeared it over the dry patches. 

 Bloodhound turned away from the mirror. None of this mattered anyway - it was a useless exercise. Walter seeing any part of them uncovered had been a fluke, a one-time thing. 

They padded their way past the tapestries, animal skulls, and pelts that covered the walls towards the bookshelf. As they scanned the shelves, they ran their fingers over the leaves of the pothos vine wandering its way down. It had started as a small cutting from their home planet, just a single leaf and node tucked in a wet paper towel. The plant had thrived here during their time in the games, sprouting new growth almost daily it seemed. They almost laughed - at least something enjoyed its time here. Their fingertips brushed the worn spine of a thick, leather-bound volume, then they pulled it out to settle in under the furs of their bed.

It was hard to focus and they found themself reading the same paragraph over and over without understanding. They dug their fingers into their temples in tiny circles, pressing the tension out of the small muscles. Tomorrow there would be a match, and they needed a good night's sleep to perform their best. They closed the book and flopped back among the pillows, covering their eyes with their hand. Why couldn’t the words leave their mind? Why couldn’t Walter? He had touched their shoulder so readily, without hesitation. And they wanted to feel it again. Feel something again that wasn’t painful. 

They frowned. These were the intrusive thoughts of a young one, a teenager desperate for attention, not a battle-hardened hunter with more than thirty winters under their belt. Bloodhound turned out the light and lay on their side, starting a silent meditation to ease their mind before sleep in an attempt to recenter themself.

‘I knew there was a smile under all that.’ The words played through their mind one last time as they felt themself drifting off. The roguish wink that had accompanied the comment had come to Walter so easily too. They would not attempt that one - the expression would not suit them. At the thought, the corners of their mouth twitched up into a smile, one that felt right this time, good , even. 

Perhaps they could allow themself an additional encounter with Walter - if only to make good on their promise of sharing their cooking with him. After all, they were not one to break their word.

Chapter Text

Five squads left. Good odds. Allfather willing, they would claim victory this day. 

Bloodhound crouched behind an open supply bin and took quick stock of their inventory. They were running low on Heavy Ammo, but they had enough stacks of Light to get them through if they were careful with their shots. They patted their purple body armor, ensuring both their shield and health were full. Their HUD displayed four kills and two assists and they gripped their R-301 and prepared to add more to their count. 

They used a quick scan and highlighted the three foes cowering behind a boulder a short distance away. Gibraltar covered the trio with his Dome of Protection and threw out his Ultimate. Missiles began raining down on the area, buffeting the shield, but they were safe underneath. The telltale shocked cries and cracking noises of body shields rang out in the clearing. 

Bloodhound bolted towards the bolder once the skies had cleared. Their jaw clenched as they ran in - none could hide from their sight. They would slátra . They sprinted and slid across the grass before leaping behind the rock to flank with Loba. After so many seasons in the Games, their shots were instinctive, their bullets easily finding a home within Mirage, Wraith, and — Walter Fitzroy.

Bloodhound halted and stood over him, weapon aimed point-blank at the man’s face, their vision darkening around all else except him. It was clear that he was only a single bullet away from death. Their breathing quickened as they watched him slump against the rock, his hand clutched over his abdomen, blood pouring from between his fingers. The air in their lungs suddenly felt far too thick, their stomach lurched.

The Óséður rearing. Deafening roars and a flash of jagged teeth. A slice from shoulder to hip, Boone’s eyes wide as he was torn asunder, flung across the Thunderdome. Sand flying, dust clouds rising. Crowds screaming, guards rushing in. Ragged breathing. Theirs. Dark hair splayed out. Blood pooling around his still form. Lifeless. Gone. The weight of his body in their arms. Heavy. His dishonor. Their dishonor. 

Their fault.

“’S’alright, Houndy. Do what ya gotta,” Walter wheezed, his voice bringing them back to the present. His hand was up in surrender, a pained, blood-stained smile on his face, but his eyes were soft despite his injuries. “No hard feelings, ya hear?”

They nodded, a barely perceptible tilt of their chin, but could not force themself to pull the trigger. Their body was frozen, fingers suddenly made of unmoving stone. Their inner voice screamed at them to shoot, to reach for their axe, something, anything. But, they could do nothing except stare. 

Loba ran up and ended the man unceremoniously with a single bullet to his temple. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but get it together, hon. You’re lucky no one killed you while you were daydreaming over here out in the open.” 

“My apologies,” they said, watching Walter’s face fully relax in his death, sightless eyes staring upward. They knelt and passed their hand over his brow, closing his eyelids as he bled out. When a death box took the corpse’s place, they finally allowed themself to tear their gaze away to look up at the woman who stood over them, arms crossed. “I lost my focus.”

“Well, find it quickly.” She reached her hand out to them to pull them up, decorated acrylic nails bright against the dark, worn leather of their glove. Loba drew them closer, hissing, raising her eyebrows up towards the drones that hovered in the sky. A reminder - they were always being watched out here, their every move televised if it was deemed exciting enough.

The rest of the match was a blur, a flurry of sprinting and gunfire. Bloodhound ducked behind a decrepit building and used a Phoenix Kit before the last skirmish, completely filling their health and red body armor. The final ring closure was deafening, the hum overtaking all other noises, turning the sky orange.

“Taking the shot - moving in here,” Gibraltar called out on the comm, moving to the other side of the building.

Bloodhound felt the thrill of battle rising within them, tingling across their skin like electricity. “Calling upon nature’s strength!” Adrenaline rushed through their veins, filling them with a new and heightened awareness. They saw the fading remnants of enemy footprints and jolted forward with Loba. Through the thick haze of their bloodlust, a single thought managed to sneak to the forefront. 

Was Walter watching?

They pushed the thought away impatiently. His viewing of the match should have no impact on their performance. They aimed their Flatline towards Wattson, who was desperately trying to replenish her shield. It only took a few well-placed shots to down the woman, and her death box appeared after a devastating blow from Loba’s staff robbed her of the last of her health. 

Gibraltar depleted Revenant’s shield, emptying an entire clip of his R-99 into the simulacrum who had tried in vain to throw out his totem. After a slash from Bloodhound’s axe, sparks flew from cut wires, and black ooze spewed from severed hydraulic lines. They hacked and snarled as they allowed their Ultimate to completely consume them. It felt good to be like this, wild and free, as if they borrowed power from the gods themselves. 

Just as the battle seemed to reach its peak, the ring vanished. No more enemies. The field was suddenly blanketed in blessed silence, the skies blue again with puffy white clouds. They looked up in relief, catching their breath as their pulse lowered, their tense muscles finally able to relax. A fanfare of orchestral music blasted in their comms, congratulating them as one of the winners. They turned off the device in distaste - it was far too loud. 

Gibraltar and Loba slapped their hands together in glee, but Bloodhound merely nodded towards the pair. The victory brought them no joy, it was merely another bit of honor to collect. One day, they would present it all to the Allfather when they took their place among those that had fallen before them in the halls of Valhalla. Hopefully, it was enough. It had been so long, some days they forgot why they still did it - but with Walter’s addition, they were keenly reminded of the deep ache inside, their true reason for joining the Games. 

Dishonor. 

A dropship descended a short time later and picked up the victors to bring them back to the city. Applause greeted the winners as they entered the building and passed by the respawned Legends and Apex staff members who exalted their success. Bloodhound grimaced. Today they did not perform their best. They were unworthy of such praise. It felt hollow and reverberated inside their empty husk. Only one word took hold within their spirit. 

Failure. 

“Good match, Houndy!” Walter exclaimed as he walked by. His hand drew back and whacked them square across their bottom. “You were a real beast out there.”

Bloodhound was completely dumbfounded, their thighs tightening from the impact. It stung, a solid strike of his large hand against firm muscle. The slap was not done in anger, but in comradery, accompanied by a cocky grin.

“Many thanks,” they managed to mumble through their bewilderment. Why had they not immediately brandished their axe against his throat at such a brazen act? Such a touch should receive at least a reprimand, if not a threat of bodily harm should it ever be repeated. So, why had they instead thanked him?

They did not have long to ponder this, as they and the other two Champions were ushered into another room, forced to pose for pictures that were needed for the press release. Their photos would be displayed on billboards and plastered on the sides of buildings, with the word 'Champions' emblazoned above them. The images would be shared online with fans too, but none of it meant much to Bloodhound. They would comply with the minimum requirements. That was it.

They stood awkwardly with Gibraltar and Loba and blinked behind their mask, grateful that their goggles filtered the worst of the camera flashes. One of the perks of covering their face was that there was no need to display fake happiness for the masses. They peered at Loba, her cheeks tight from her forced expression. She was skilled in this, well-used to being photographed, but they could still perceive the strain at the corners of her mouth, the twitch of her eyebrow against the blinding lights.

She caught their gaze. “You sure you’re good?” she asked through her teeth, lips barely moving. “You’ve been acting…strange.”

“It is nothing.” That had been their answer yesterday, too, one they wished they fully believed. 

Loba’s smile turned genuine, knowing. “Whatever you say, Hound.” The woman was no fool, but luckily had some tact and did not pursue the matter further. 

During the seemingly endless photos, a feeling continued to nag at Bloodhound. They despised being touched and many times had forcibly pushed away an over-eager Elliott or Pathfinder who had tried to hug them. They refused the victory poses where another Legend would lean against them or toss an arm over their shoulder. Time and time again, they had shirked away from all of this contact. But with Walter - they could still feel the ghost of the imprint of his hand on them. And, they hated to admit to themself, they wanted him to do it again. Warmth spread across their cheeks at the idea. This was a depraved thought and had no place in their mind.

The lights dimmed, the obligations and terms of their contract now satisfied. Bloodhound made the journey home in a small transport ship, flown by autopilot. It dropped them off on the outskirts of the forest so they could complete the rest of the journey on foot. The walk through the woods to their cabin helped them connect with their inner peace again. The setting sun painted the colors of purples and blues of dusk against orange-red between gaps in the treetops. They relished the sounds of the gentle evening birdsong, the chirp of crickets coming out from their daytime slumber, and the rustle of the leaves in the cool breeze. No music was needed. This was enough. This was familiar. This felt like home. 

When they opened the door to their cabin, they were instantly greeted with the scent of the venison stew that had been simmering low on the stove all day. The rich scents of the meat and fresh herbs wafted through the entire house, still present even as they made their way into their bedroom. 

They peeled off their gear, their mask, and shook out their hair, partially matted from being smashed under their cap and helm. Each item was wiped down, the leather cleaned and oiled to preserve its supple strength before hanging it all in their closet, ready for their next battle. 

A shower beckoned to them, and they let it warm first, then stepped into the steaming water. Their overworked muscles relaxed under the massaging stream that washed away the sweat and dust of the day. But, it would not wash away everything they wished it could. Standing under the water, they could not help but remember Walter’s touch on their bottom. They reached back and slid their hand over the curve of their muscular backside, as if they could press the memory of his slap into their skin, will it into reality once again.

A feeling that had long-slumbered arose, and their fingers skimmed their groin, feeling their body grow firm beneath their calloused palm. This was their shame, an urge they had long suppressed - but tonight, they would give in, if only to get these recurring thoughts out of their system. With one hand pressed against the cool tile and the other wrapped around their shaft, they leaned forward. They rubbed themself slowly with the water and slick soap that cascaded down their body. Remembering, wanting, needing. 

His bare body pressed against theirs near the campfire, fingers probing, mouths meeting. The feel of his tight muscles under their trembling hands. Inquisitive brown eyes asking for permission. Permission granted, gods, was it granted so eagerly. The feeling of him, all of him. They were his, he was theirs. Then they were one. Bodies moving together until they were both spent. 

They stroked faster, hand tightening, but instead of Boone - Walter’s rough voice cut through. Their arousal settled into a deep, molten warmth within their stomach, wrapping around their lower back like the large hands they wished could embrace them.

‘Don’t tease me now, Houndy.’ The slap on their bottom, firm and sure. What if that hand had dug in instead of sliding away? What if there had been no canvas between his fingers and their skin? The sting of palm on flesh. How would the view be from underneath him? Perhaps above? His body boasted firm muscle and abundant hair, strength, and self-assurance. How gently would he handle them? 

Their breath caught in their throat.  

Or how roughly? The cold touch of metal fingers against their chest. His mustache would surely tickle and tempt in all the best ways. Would they dare to let their hands wander his form? Underneath his vest, underneath his trousers-

They groaned, a low, growling noise that was torn out from a secret place within and breathed heavily as their release washed down the drain. With it, they felt their post-match tension beginning to swirl away, too. 

Inhaling the steam that filled the small shower, they found their center. Bloodhound quickly finished their shower before the hot water ran out, scrubbing themself clean until their skin was glowing pink. They slipped on comfortable flannel pants and a soft t-shirt. The bottoms of the pant legs were a little frayed and worn, the material faded from years of washing. But, like them, there was still use in this garment, even if it was tattered around the edges. These were clothes they only wore when alone anyway, where no others could see. A private comfort. They squeezed all the extra moisture they could out of their hair with their towel, then went to the kitchen.

It had been an especially long day, but the hearty meal now ready for them was a reward they had been eagerly awaiting. Bloodhound had awoken early today, one of the rare times they set an alarm. They preferred to wake naturally with the first light of dawn, the rays filtering in through their window and bathing them in its warmth, a gentle start. But this morning, they had this task to complete before their match, so the unnatural, incessant beeping of their phone had been the first thing they heard.

Each vegetable had been sliced with care. Garlic was grated, tossed in with salt and pepper and chopped onion, and a drizzle of oil had coated it all. The venison was cubed and seared until lightly browned. The herbs and spices were dropped in with homemade stock made from a prior hunt, a sprig of fragrant rosemary laid over it all.

 Now after all the hours of slow cooking, they could finally reap the reward of that labor. Their mouth watered as they opened the lid, getting a large whiff of the aroma. They scooped themself a portion and sat to eat. Savory broth washed over their tongue, bursting with flavor. The celery and carrots from their garden were softened to perfection, and the potatoes melted in their mouth. The meat was tender and rich, reminding them of a time long past, a bowl shared near the hearth with friends and family. This meal warmed them to their core, just what they had needed. 

Even with the memories of happier times freshly recalled, they looked wistfully at the second chair at their dining table. How long had it been since this chair had been occupied? How long since they had shared a good, hearty meal with another? They could not remember, other than the mediocre lunch shared with Walter. 

Their belly now full, Bloodhound withdrew a small glass container from their cabinet. They scooped the best chunks of meat and the perfect ratio of vegetables to meat and broth into it, then closed the lid. They hoped this portion would be enough to satisfy Walter’s hunger. The rest of the leftovers were packed away with less care, dumped into a large container, and shoved back on the counter to cool. 

They searched through a drawer full of odds and ends and withdrew a small yellow sticky pad. After trying two dried-out pens, they found one that worked. They wrote ‘Walter’ on one of the squares, but frowned. It didn’t look quite right. They rewrote the note three times, displeased with the way his name looked in their handwriting. Settling on their fourth attempt, they placed the note on top of the container. 

The writing was small and blocky, but neat. This would be satisfactory. They needed to label the container on the chance they did not cross paths with him tomorrow in the dining hall. If that was the case, perhaps Loba or another Legend could ensure it was delivered to him at the next mealtime. The note might prevent another from claiming the food as their own.

Bloodhound ran their finger over the edge of the lid, ensuring a proper seal before placing both containers in the fridge. This stew was best served fresh - but the taste should still be acceptable tomorrow. 

Perhaps Walter would not mind day-old stew compared to the processed fare typically provided to the Legends. They walked away from the fridge to prepare for bed, but hesitated, turning around. Searching again for the pen, they pulled out the container and added ‘-BH’ at the bottom of the small piece of paper. It was silly, to be sure, a small thing. But they wanted to be certain that he would know who the meal was from.

Chapter Text

The Óséður lay in its nest, half-covered by leaves, eyes closed, its scaled sides rising and falling in the deep slumber of hibernation. Bloodhound frowned. Months of tracking had finally led them here, but they would have to wait through the winter now to claim their prize. Once the first green shoots of spring began to poke through the ground, they knew the beast would awake hungry and search for sustenance. Then, they could resume the hunt. 

Boone stepped forward, never turning away from the creature. Their stomach sank at the glint in his dark eyes fixated upon its curled-up form. They had seen that look before from poachers, but never from him. Greed. He took a step towards the beast, reaching for the steel contraption at his belt that would bind its limbs. 

Bloodhound snatched his wrist before he could unfurl the device. “What are you doing?”

He yanked his arm out of their grasp. “We finally found it!” He took another step forward, boots crunching the dead leaves. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Já,” they said evenly. “But, it would not be right to capture a creature who is unable to protect itself. It would bring,” they muttered to themself, searching for the translation for the word they needed, “shame.” 

Now the man did turn to face them, his prior expression replaced by scorn. He laughed, a short, cut-off sound. “This just makes things that much easier. We hunted it all this time, and now we found it. I don’t see the ‘shame’ in that.”

“Boone, that—” They swallowed with difficulty around the hard lump that formed in their throat. “If you did this, it would dishonor nature, the Allfather.” And me, they wanted to add, but refrained. They had helped him, guided him. If he were to take the creature, the blame would rest on them as much as on him.

He scoffed. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand. I spent a lot of money to come here, and even more is waiting for me when I bring this thing back.”

Someone like me? A slow-rising fury began to burn within them. “I will not allow you to take it.” Their fingers hovered over their axe. “I forbid it.”

"Forbid?" Boone’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at their hand poised at their weapon. “You’d fight me?” He gripped the still-sheathed handle of his own knife and squared his shoulders. 

“If I must.” Their voice shook as angry tears threatened to spill under their mask, but they blinked them away. “I will protect this land from any who would desecrate it.”

The air between the pair was thick, the tension pulled taut between them. Neither moved, barely blinked, waiting for the other to do something, anything. 

Finally, he shrugged. “Fine. Let’s just go back to camp.”

The walk back was tense, neither caring to quiet the thump of their boots against the earth and half-rotted leaves. Boone threw logs down on the ash and impatiently started a fire. He sat before it, brooding, staring at the flames that licked at the logs. Bloodhound stood at the edge of the clearing, hesitating. Eventually, they sat across the campfire but didn’t make eye contact with him. The man let out a big breath and stood, hands crossed over his chest. He walked over to Bloodhound and shifted from foot to foot. 

“Look - I'm sorry.”

They tilted their head up towards him, the oranges and yellows of the firelight reflected in their dark lenses. “So you will not capture the Óséður.”

The corners of his lips turned down and he sat beside them and slipped his arm around their shoulders. “I have to. I can’t wait until spring.”

“Do not touch me,” Bloodhound snarled, shoving him away. 

Boone reached for their hand. “Don’t be like that.” 

“I thought we were of a kind,” they said more softly, allowing him to take their gloved fingers. “That you understood the honor of the hunt.” Their voice lowered further. “That you understood me.”

“It’s complicated.” He reached to stroke their cheek but they jerked away again. “I think I’ve gotten to know you well over these past months.”

“Clearly, you know nothing,” they retorted. “If you do this, you are as vile as those who destroyed my home, who steal from her core, raze that which my people hold dear.”

Boone moved closer and this time Bloodhound did not move away as his fingers grazed their goggles, removing them to find mossy green eyes bloodshot from tears, long lashes darkened from the moisture. “I’m not like that. I only need this one creature, then you and I can leave this place—”

“Tomorrow, you will go. Alone. Take your ship and do not return.” They snapped, lip curling. 

“We were going to hunt great beasts together, across the galaxy. Don’t you still want that?”

"Go hunt alone - traitor.” The words almost burned their tongue to speak aloud. They didn’t mean it, not completely, but their anger reared its head and demanded the outburst. 

Boone’s expression hardened, but they detected the tiniest glimmer of sadness in the dark depths of his eyes. “Got it. After tonight, you won’t see me again.” He got up and laid out his bedroll, then settled in. “Sorry it has to be this way. Y'know, I thought what we had was special.” He was quiet for a while, unusual for him - he was not a man of few words. “Good night, Blóð.”

Bloodhound choked back the sobs that began to bubble up from inside, constricting their throat. They wanted to run to him now, fling themself on him, apologize, convince him to wait with them through the winter in their cabin. It warmed their chest to imagine the snow falling outside while they shared meals by the hearth, shared embraces, shared…everything. Instead of ‘he’ and ‘they,’ separate yet near — they could be together. 

They settled into their own fur roll and let the tears subside slowly, gently sniffling. Perhaps tomorrow morning, they would speak to him and make their wishes known. They were not in the right state to discuss such things now without the heat of their displeasure welling up again. Tomorrow. Yes. Surely the man they loved — their heart fluttered at the realization. Love. The tears began anew. Surely he would see their viewpoint, after a night's rest to cool off. 

—---------------------

Bloodhound immediately jolted upright, their breath coming in harsh gasps. They rubbed their eyes against the moisture that clung to their lashes and pulled their sweat-damp shirt away from their body. It took a great effort, but they forced their breathing to slow. In. Out. They looked around their room to ground themself - potted plants, Artur’s empty cage, tapestries, skulls, and pelts. Their fists clutched the bedcovers. Home. 

It had been a long time since they had that dream, the vivid memory of the last night they had seen Boone before his demise. They reached to their bedside table and unfolded the photograph he had left them that night and reread the words. 

All my love, Boone. 

They grimaced, folded it back carefully, and set it down. They had not gone a single day without this picture tucked in their pocket. But, it was odd. Thinking of Walter, their plan for the day - it almost felt strange to bring it with. They put it in the drawer. Surely it would be safe there until the afternoon. 

They peeled their damp clothes off, washed, and stood in their closet clad only in the towel wrapped around their waist. They thumbed through their uniforms, clicking their tongue in disapproval at the state of some of them. Several jackets hung there, but all had been patched in some way, rips sewn, or had grown a bit threadbare at the elbows. Bloodhound thumbed through them and picked the one that looked the least worn out, making a mental note to order a new set. It wasn’t often that they cared about how they would be perceived, but they wanted to make a good impression. 

They sipped a cup of tea and paced the house nervously, rearranging a shelf with crystals and succulents in the main room in an attempt to pass some time before lunch. When it seemed like a reasonable hour, they withdrew the container from the fridge and called for a transport ship to bring them to the city. Before they left, they glanced back at their bedroom. Their feet were suddenly made of lead, heavy, unwilling to allow them to move forward out the door. With a sigh, they grabbed the photograph from the drawer and slipped it into the inner jacket pocket. Next time, they would try and leave without it. But not today.

 ————----------------

They stepped into the building, clutching the container in their hands. The security guard had eyed it dubiously, but they refused to let him touch it with his curious, artificial cheese dust-stained fingers. He could have their axe and hunting knife. Not this. When they passed through the scanner with no hidden weapons detected, he had nodded them through. 

The dining hall was full, peak lunch hour, the food just recently served to the others. Today's fare was no better than the last time they had been here - it appeared to be some type of pasta in red sauce, somehow congealed into a block. Bloodhound looked around the room and spotted almost all of the others, save for—

“Houndy!” A voice behind them exclaimed, quickly followed by a hand slapping their shoulder. 

The dish would have been flung from their grasp had they not been holding it so tightly. “Walter Fitzroy,” they managed to say in return and spun to face him. 

“Aw, c’mon, mate, what’d I tell you about that?”

“My apologies.” They awkwardly pushed the container in his direction. “I made venison stew yesterday. Perhaps you might enjoy it more than,” they tilted their head towards the metal pans of food, “that.”

“That’s awfully sweet of ya.” Walter took the dish from them, the corners of his mouth turning up into a knowing smile at the sticky note on the lid. “It’s even got my name on it!” He removed the lid and popped the food in the microwave to heat up. “Let’s go find a seat, ay? You gonna stay with me for lunch?”

“I—”They felt sweat prickle their underarms and their hairline beneath the leather cap. This was not part of the plan or the conversation they had rehearsed in their head. It was only supposed to be a food drop-off, a quick hello and good bye. “I had intended to return home after delivering this meal to you.”

“Nonsense,” Walter said as the microwave beeped. He grabbed a napkin and used that to grab the hot container, then scooped a handful of silverware with the other. “Sit with me for a little bit.”

For a reason that escaped them, Bloodhound found that they could not refuse, compelled to follow him to the same table where they had sat before. They plopped down in the seat across from him, facing away from the others. 

“You’re not eatin’ anything?” Walter asked when he set down the meal. He caught their glance toward the warming trays and pushed the steaming stew closer to the middle of the table. “We can share, then. Reckon there’s plenty here for the both of us.”

Bloodhound was glad they had not removed their mask. Their mouth hung open, completely flabbergasted at his words. “N-no, but I thank you, Walter Fitz—” they caught themself. “Walter. I can wait, this is no problem.” 

As if on cue, their stomach growled. They cursed this poor timing, a betrayal by their own body. The man looked up and shrugged, brandishing two forks in front of him.

“It’s a shame that some of it’ll hafta go in the garbage, then. Don’t think I could possibly eat all this.” 

Bloodhound slowly removed their gloves and unclipped their respirator, surprised at how easily they did it in front of him this time. “It would dishonor the beast that gave its life if we were to waste this meal.” They took one of the proffered forks reluctantly.

“Couldn’t agree more,” he replied with a wink.

They pressed their lips together in a tight line, trying to remain composed against his brazen gestures and words. Walter dug into the hearty stew while they picked at a few pieces on the far side of the container. 

“Bloody hell, Houndy!” He closed his eyes as he chewed, making a noise of enjoyment that was far too loud. “This is delicious.”

His volume was beastly, sure to draw attention from the others. They chanced a peek over their shoulder at the lunchroom and caught Loba’s smug grin. She would certainly mention this later.

Their hand shot up to cover their face from her and they swiveled their head back quickly. “I am glad that you find it enjoyable.” 

They watched him in between bites, trying not to stare too obviously. Their mind conjured images from their last match, how he had lay injured at their hand and felt a stab of guilt. But, if the man harbored any ill will against them, he did not show it. Satisfied that he would finish the rest of the food, they reattached their respirator and pushed back their chair to stand. The sticky note was still attached to the lid, and they reached to grab it. Walter’s hand descended over their wrist and curled around it to stop them from taking the paper. 

His smile was roguish, playful. “You’ve gotta let me have the cute little note.”

Again, they found themself speechless, their mask suddenly growing warmer. Why must he say these things? It was far too familiar for one who was almost a stranger, yet they could not deny that, deep inside, they enjoyed the attention. “It is yours if you desire to keep it,” they muttered, waving their free hand dismissively.

He did not yet release their hand, though they had lightly tried to pull away. “You’ll have to take me on one of your hunts. I’d love to learn from the best ‘n’ see how it’s done.” He motioned to the food. “This beats eatin’ what the rest of these poor saps have today.”

“It can be a long process and requires focus. And quiet,” they added. Walter was loud, perhaps not the best hunting partner. But then again - they thought as they unconsciously brought their other hand to their chest over the photograph - he had also been a boisterous man, yet knew how to remain silent when needed. 

He released their hand and saluted sharply. “Can do. If you bring me with, I won’t say a word unless you need me to. You won’t even know I’m there.” He imitated a zipper closing across his lips.

They very much doubted that, but the thought was amusing. “Very well.”

Walter withdrew his phone from his pocket and looked up at them. “What’s your number? I’ll add ya so we can plan ahead next time. Woulda hated it if I had missed ya today. Besides, I’ll need to return this.” He tapped the side of the glass container.

They nodded. It took them a moment to recall it - so infrequently they had shared the digits with another, but they rattled off the number to him. Immediately after, they felt a buzz in their pocket and withdrew the device to see one new message. 

'Guess who?'

Bloodhound allowed themself a smile at this. “I have received your message.”

Walter beamed and ate another forkful of the stew. “Good. See ya soon, Houndy.”

“Until then, Walter.”

When their ride home arrived, they buckled in and withdrew their phone again. The only other contact in it was Loba, and even she rarely ever contacted them this way. They pulled up the message to edit the contact description. He had expressed that he did not want to go by his full name, but for some reason, it felt better on their tongue. 

Walter Fitzroy, they typed. 

It was nice to read his name on their device. Hesitating, they wrote and deleted a message three times. Would it make them appear too eager if they were to message him now? Against their better judgment, they typed and sent the message anyway, their heart pounding. 

'When are you available to join me on a hunt?'

Chapter Text

Bloodhound shifted from foot to foot as they waited near the edge of the forest. The sun had risen in a pastel sky, and the oranges, reds, and pinks now faded to make way for the blue of a new day. A clear sky was ideal, good weather for a hunt, but as they squinted up towards the heavens, they did not see any sign of an approaching vessel. They caught themself fidgeting and took a big breath of the forest air, the rich, earthy scent still present despite the filtration of their respirator. With a hushed prayer to the Allfather on their lips, they released the inhalation slowly and meditated for a calm spirit and strength. 

This morning, they had only permitted themself a light meal to break their fast: a small cup of black coffee, some fruit, and a handful of almonds. It was enough to provide the energy they would need. Despite that, the food still churned in their stomach. They swallowed down the worry that rose in their throat as they watched the sky. Walter was late. 

They pulled up their phone to confirm the time and even opened their messaging app to double-check if this was the correct day. Walter had sent a garish, animated thumbs up to confirm the details. Their backpack grew heavy as they waited, bearing hunting gear for two. They slipped it off and let it rest at their feet, then rolled their shoulders forward and back in a stretch. Bloodhound had stressed the importance of patience to the man — but perhaps they should have also mentioned punctuality.

They saw it, then, a tiny, dark speck in the sky. The air above became turbulent, the ground was buffeted by a force from above. A small transport ship descended into the clearing in a whirlwind of dirt and dead leaves. Landing gear extended from underneath, engines slowed, metallic noises quieted. The hatch opened outwards, and in the doorway, he stood.

A small ship, only big enough for one. A man casually leaning against the entrance. Inside, many trophies: animal pelts, skulls, horns, and teeth. Spoils from hunts that boasted prowess in tracking. His crooked smile, confident voice. A collection of knives and weapons more advanced than anything they had seen before. A hand lightly resting on the small of their back, ushering them in, showing them, teaching them, guiding them, pulling them close, closer. 

“Hiya, Houndy!” Walter called out. 

Several nearby birds cawed in alarm and took off with a frenzied beating of wings, startled by his volume. His boots clanged loudly against the gangway. He had promised to be quiet today, to do his best to match their own level of stealth, but even now his footsteps were far from soft.

They raised their hand in greeting. “Good morning, Walter. I am pleased to see you are well, today.” Everything they said in his presence felt awkward to them, stilted, their tongue catching on the words. It was as though they had been transported back to a time long ago when they had first learned this language. Each word had to be chosen with precision, first passing through the filter of translation.

Walter had clearly dressed in a hurry: shirt half-untucked, the end of his belt not threaded through the loop to hold it flush against his body. He stepped forward, holding the glass container in one hand, and balanced on top of it, a cardboard package with six brown bottles tucked neatly inside. 

“Sorry I’m a lil’ late. I washed this for ya. Brought a few coldies too.” Walter pressed these into their gloved hands, jostling the bottles, creating the clink of glass on glass.                                                                                                  

Silently, they looked from him to the items in their hands and back to him again. They had expected the dish and had only saved room in their pack for that. “Thank you,” was all they could say. 

Bloodhound wavered with indecision. They had no intention to bring the man back to their home, only to hunt outdoors. Even then, they had no expectation of actually catching anything. Carrying the beverages in addition to their gear would prove awkward. Was his intention that they drink while they hunted? It would be unwise to cloud their perception while stalking prey. But, it would be rude to refuse the gift, and with no other option, they shouldered their bag and tilted their head. 

“Come, I will put these away. Then, we will hunt.”

Walter hummed a tune to their left, keeping step with them as they walked steadily down the faint dirt trail. “Beautiful woods,” he mused, his head swiveling comically, looking in all directions. 

They did not turn to face him, but glanced at him out of the corner of their eye. “There is a peace about these lands. Let us hope the city does not encroach upon it further.” 

Bloodhound had been allowed to stay in the forest, not forced to live in a cramped apartment in the bustling city. It had been one of the only conditions they insisted upon when joining the Apex Games. They thanked the gods this request had been granted. 

“It’d be a shame, that’s for sure. Gorgeous.” 

Walter rubbed his scruffy cheeks and chin thoughtfully, thumb and forefinger drawing over his mustache. It appeared as though he had forgone a shave this morning in his haste to arrive — but the rugged look suited him. Bloodhound returned their eyes forward. Focus. 

They reached their cabin and unlocked the door. Walter stood to their right on the porch in front of the window, hands on his hips. He leaned forward closer to the glass and squinted to peer inside. 

“Come in,” Bloodhound said with a flick of their wrist towards the door. “I will not be long.”

On their way to the fridge, they observed the main seating area. The small recessed spot in the floor was filled with plush pillows, soft blankets, and furs. They frowned at the messy pile. If they had expected company here, they would have cleaned. 

Bloodhound set the drinks in the fridge to stay cool and turned back to see Walter standing near the unkempt seating, looking down at it. Their stomach dropped at his close examination of their untidiness.

“My apologies for the mess,” they said as they hurried over. They bent down and picked up a large quilt and began to fold it.

Walter looked around and shrugged. “Looks fine to me. Cozy.” He watched them bent before him and approached to lay a hand on their shoulder. “Ya don’t hafta do that on my account.”

They jerked in surprise and dropped the blanket at the unexpected touch. Their body straightened and their back collided with something solid. For a brief moment they felt his form pressed up against them from behind; the firm muscles of his chest and abdomen, his hips cupping theirs, his mechanical hand still on their shoulder. 

At this closeness, they caught a whiff of a fresh scent, cologne, perhaps, but not too heavy, a refreshing breath of cool morning air and dew-covered evergreens. Every muscle in their body tensed in anticipation — but of what? Their mind raced, swirled, and sweat dampened the nape of their neck. 

The fingers on their shoulder tightened briefly, a reassuring squeeze.

A tender grip after years of only knowing pain. The harsh bite of bullets, the stinging slice of knives into their flesh, the agony of the blast of grenades singeing their skin, shrapnel embedding itself into their limbs. Match after match, day after day, year after year. 

Their breathing was too fast, something burned within their chest. Walter’s hand dug in further, shook them gently. There was a question, but it sounded too far away. 

How long had it been since they had enjoyed another’s touch? Since they had wanted to be touched at all? They did not deserve such a thing. He had been the last one to–

“Hey. Relax,” Walter said quietly. “It’s okay, really Houndy.”

They blinked under their mask and stepped forward quickly to increase the space between them. “Of course. Thank you, Walter.” 

Bloodhound turned to face him, and the hand pulled away at their movement. It was a blessing that their mask concealed their face so he could not witness the evidence of their shameful thoughts. 

Their eyes were downcast, but they lifted their gaze up slowly. Walter’s expression was surprisingly gentle. Bloodhound found no sign of arrogance, no boldness. Just a soft brown eye framed by dark lashes, brows slightly furrowed. 

“We should begin the hunt,” they stated awkwardly and looked towards the door. “We have already lost much time.”

“Alright, let’s get goin’ then!” Walter exclaimed, causing them to jolt again from the sudden increase in volume.

His usual cocky expression was back — a relief to the hunter. It was far easier to face him when he was like this.

“Quiet, though, yes?” Bloodhound reminded him, their tone low despite the distortion of their respirator. “I believe you had said I ‘would not know even know you were here?’”

His eyebrows lifted, the smile slanted in playful remorse. “Right,” he said more softly.

Bloodhound led him back out of the cabin and distributed the equipment the pair would need. Bows and a small bundle of arrows, sheathed hunting knives, a small canteen of water. The rest, Bloodhound would carry on their back. There were several hunting trails they could take. But, they did not want to bring someone inexperienced to a good spot where the scent and sound could scare away the prey that might frequent the area. So, instead they led Walter to a less fruitful spot, a small grove lined with brambles. Depending on the prey, it could be a long wait for a curious creature to approach, looking for food.

They crouched behind some brush, bringing their weapon out in preparation. Bloodhound watched Walter examine the bow, doing a poor job of hiding his confusion.  

“Do you know how to use a bow?” they asked, suddenly realizing they had not even gleaned the most basic information about their hunting partner.

“Er, well I’ve used the Bocek in a few fights if that counts.” He scratched the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “Looks a lil’ different than this, though. Should be simple enough, yeah?”

Bloodhound muttered a curse under their breath. This was not Walter’s folly, but their own. In their excitement, they had not even thought of this detail. It was unfair to assume another might have experience using more primitive weapons. “It is…not quite the same.”

“I figured we’d be usin’ guns. I’ve, ah, had a bit more practice with those.”

“I prefer to hunt in the old way. It is less disruptive and more…honorable.” They paused and sighed. “Perhaps a lesson today, then. This might prove more useful if you truly wish to hunt.”

“Reckon that’s prob’ly a better idea. You’re the expert, after all.” He grinned and lifted his arms, shrugging his shoulders in a playful gesture. 

Bloodhound felt themself smile in return beneath their mouthpiece. They retreated from this area and found a spot that would work as a makeshift range, a clearing with a large tree to one side that would be wide enough to use as a target. They removed their gloves, wanting the dexterity of their bare fingertips. The bow felt good in their hands, worn and familiar, the wood smooth and well-cared for. It was their favorite companion on hunting excursions. Their eyes flicked to Walter — perhaps with a little teaching, he too, could become a trusted accomplice. 

With an easy grace from decades of experience, they lined their boots up, squared their body to the side, assumed the position. “You must stand like this,” they explained. They removed an arrow from the bundle at their back and nocked it, holding the bow up, steady. “Aim just so, with the tip of the arrow, allow for a downward curve.” They pulled back the string, arms perfectly still. “Elbow back, high.” 

The arrow flew immediately when they released the string, zinging through the air straight and true, landing with a thud in the center of the tree trunk. 

Walter clapped when they turned to face him. “Impressive!”

It pleased them to hear praise on his lips, though it felt undeserved for something so simple. His words warmed them in a way that the standard, impersonal congratulatory messages and announcements of others in the Games did not. “I have had many years to hone this skill,” they said dismissively. “Now, you try.”

They watched him set up hastily and loose an arrow before he even aimed or finished steadying himself. The arrow thunked into the dirt halfway between the duo and the tree, skidding into the undergrowth. 

“Whoops! Guess it’s harder than it looks, ay?”

“Do not rush,” they reminded him simply. “Patience.”

“Got me there, Houndy. Not one of my strong suits, won’t lie to ya.” 

“Mm.” They hummed. “A misplaced shot could mean at best, the loss of a meal, to go to sleep on an empty stomach. At worst, the unnecessary suffering of prey.”

Walter nodded solemnly and began to set up once more, more slowly this time. “Lemme try again. How’s this look?”

His form was ghastly, shoulders curled inward, elbow jutting out to the side, knees locked straight, hips at entirely the wrong angle. They modeled the correct positioning next to him so he could see, explaining again the proper stance. The adjustments he attempted to make only exacerbated his poor posture. 

They clicked their tongue in reproach. “You are not listening,” they accused, using the authoritative tone that they reserved for when they were paired up with the more easily distractible Legends. 

Something crossed the man’s features. Sadness? No, not quite — disappointment perhaps. Had their chastisement offended the man? They stepped forward to assist further but hesitated when they reached towards him. 

Though they were an experienced teacher, it had been some time since they had instructed another. Back home, many winters ago, they had taught young ones how to wield a bow. With their departure from the village, it had been a necessity to ensure the next generation of hunters would be successful in their absence. 

It was…different now with the older man before them. His bicep bulged with the effort of holding the bow steady, his thighs flexed against his pants in his attempt to hold the position they had shown, knees slightly bent. 

Focus. 

They took a deep breath and steeled themself. “Like this,” they said more gently. Their slender, scarred fingers wrapped over his knuckles on the bow, adjusting his grip. Their heart began to pound at this closeness, but they persisted. With as light a touch as they could manage, they gripped his sides to angle his hips correctly, their breath hitching at the feel of the thick sheet of muscle beneath.

Walter shuffled his feet in response to their boot pressing against his, widening his stance. They pushed carefully on the robotic arm that drew back the arrow, unsure how the haptics would respond to their adjustment. 

“Can you feel this?” they asked when the arm lowered against the weight of their hand. The realization of the crassness of their question hit them – asking Walter about his physical differences was rude, ignorant, something they might have expected from another, but not themself. Yet, the inquiry had slipped from their lips before they could catch it. “M-my apologies, it was impolite to ask such a thing.”

“Nah, ‘s fine,” he said, his eyes moving towards them without altering his position. “I’ve gotten used to it by now, the stares and questions that come with havin’ a big shiny arm like this.” He winked – or maybe a blink, but it seemed more deliberate, exaggerated. “Some kinda tech was installed, so I can feel most things…like how you’re rubbin’ me arm right now.”

Bloodhound jerked back as if burned, not even realizing that they had been absentmindedly stroking the metallic surface with their thumb. They clasped their hands together, wringing them anxiously. Today had not gone as planned, and continued to go awry. Why could they not remain in control of themself, their emotions?

“I am sorry, Walter Fitzroy. I do not know what—”

“Easy, Houndy.” His large hands enclosed theirs, one warm, one cool. “Don’t make me get tough with ya,” he warned, though his voice was gentle. “No need for all the apologies and formalities.”

Bloodhound nodded, but Walter did not release their hands. This all felt too familiar in a way that hurt, despite their heavy heart welcoming it, begging for more. Old wounds inside were ripped open, ones that they thought had scabbed over and healed long ago, hardening themself against any of…this. Even this small connection of skin on skin was more intimate than they had expected. Warmth gathered at the back of their neck and their ears. Today had been a mistake, and they had acted like a fool.

“Your hands are shakin’,” Walter observed, and let his thumb skim their knuckles. “If you want me to go, I can get outta here. Won’t hurt ol’ Wally’s feelings.”

“Nei. That will not be necessary.” They slid their hands out of his grasp and shoved them into their pockets to surreptitiously wipe the sweat off their palms. “Shall we resume?”

Over the next few hours of practice, Bloodhound once again found their calm through teaching, falling easily back into the role they knew well. They were a grueling taskmaster, pushing Walter to attempt his shots again and again until the muscles of his good arm were approaching exhaustion and sweat broke out on his brow. He was able to hit the tree now more consistently, but as training continued, his strength faded, and his shots became sloppy.

“Okay, Houndy,” Walter said, letting out his breath in a huff. He set the bow down and rolled his arm in circles. “Think that’s as much as I can take for one day.” He unscrewed the cap for the water bottle and drank deeply, a few drops dribbling down his chin. “Definitely gonna feel that tomorrow.”

“You have done well, today,” they said. “It will become easier with time.”

“Thanks, teach.” He fetched the arrows that were scattered on the ground and yanked a few out of the tree trunk. “Whaddya say we head back to your cabin and crack open a few coldies?”

Bloodhound hesitated, their initial instinct was to respond with a firm ‘no.’ But, as they studied the man before them, his white undershirt damp with sweat and clinging to his defined chest – they forced themself to look back up at his face. There was an eagerness in his expression that they found enticing, his lips upturned into a smile.

“I suppose I could share a drink with you, Walter, in celebration of a hard day’s work.” They could not stop the smile that stretched across their own face at the way his face lit up at their acceptance. “Perhaps just one.”

Chapter Text

Bloodhound stepped carefully over the patch of mud on the trail to avoid dirtying their boots. They grimaced when they heard the squelch of Walter descending into the thick muck. He made a noise of disgust and wiped his shoe off on a small tuft of grass to the side of the path. They wanted to change their mind about agreeing to this, to send him back on his way, but their chest tightened when they glanced back at him. The man trailed behind, close on their heels like an over-eager puppy. Despite everything in them that craved the respite of solitude, something deeper desired this closeness more.  

When they reached their cabin, they wondered for a moment why they even bothered to lock the door at all. None ever visited them or even knew where their home was located – well, except for Walter, now. They hoped they would not come to regret the decision. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Bloodhound said as they dropped their hunting supplies to the side of the door. They unlaced and slipped off their boots and watched Walter, ready to chastise him if he began to track mud through the house. 

 The man was observant this time, though, and took off his dirty boots as they had. Walter flopped down among the pillows and furs, immediately stretching his legs out. He groaned as he stretched his arms up and laced his fingers together behind his head. “Like sittin’ on a cloud.”

Bloodhound went to the fridge and took out two bottles of beer. They set them on the counter and dug through their drawer until they found their bottle opener. It had been shoved in the back behind old pens, scraps of paper, and a handful of oddly shaped stones that Artur had collected. 

They popped the tops off the beers, the caps clattering on the counter. The metal lids bore a tiny emblem of a running horse. Bloodhound turned them over in their hand and ran their thumb along the ridges around the edge. For some reason, they could not bring themself to put these in the recycling bin, so they tucked them into the drawer. Artur might like them.

They were about to walk back with the drinks but halted. It would make them a poor host if they did not present Walter with anything to eat. Their pantry was well-stocked with jars of preserved fruits and vegetables: apples and pears ready to be baked into pies, carrots for stew, and even a small jar of hot peppers, their most recent addition to their garden. They opened their bread box to take out the loaf they had baked earlier that week. It had been a successful batch, the crust thick and hearty, the inside soft and plush. 

Bloodhound cut the bread into thin slices and wiped the crumbs into the sink, then opened the fridge again to find a venison sausage, sharp cheese, and the small pickles they had preserved from their last harvest. They cut and arranged all of these as artfully as they could on a wooden platter and added a ramekin of blackberry preserves. The dark berries had been gathered last fall, plucked from the brambles when they were at their peak. 

They added a small knife for the spread and walked back with these carefully. Bloodhound set the tray on the firm cushion that served as a table, handed Walter a beer, and took a seat on a cushion covered by a soft deer pelt. The recessed sitting area was large enough for four, so it left plenty of room for the two of them. Yet, even sitting several feet away from him felt too close.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed. “Always feedin’ me good ‘n’ proper.” 

“It is nothing special,” they replied. “Merely what was left in the fridge.” 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, d’ya know that?” He tilted his head to the side. 

Bloodhound shrugged awkwardly. Accepting compliments for things that were simple or expected seemed too prideful, but they could not deny that Walter’s praise felt good. They unclipped the snaps for their respirator and let it hang against their chest. He didn’t pay them any mind at all, too busy loading a piece of bread with toppings and taking a bite accompanied by one of his embarrassingly loud noises of enjoyment.

They reached for a small slice of the meat and nibbled, savoring the rich, salty flavor. They had cured this sausage several months prior. It had been a prosperous season where the gods had graced them with a plentiful bounty. Being able to share it with another was a blessing.

Walter finished chewing and tipped his bottle in their direction. “Cheers – to friendship!”

Bloodhound leaned forward and touched the rim of their drink to his with a quiet ‘clink,’ fondly recalling friends and family from long ago. In their youth, they had shared many drinks and feasts in the village great hall to celebrate the changing of seasons, marriages, and holidays. Though those days were long gone, a sliver of that warmth resurfaced in Walter’s company. 

“To friendship,” they replied. 

Bloodhound eyed the bottle warily before they brought it to their lips. They rarely drank these days. There was something to them that felt sad about drinking alone in their cabin, so they seldom imbibed. They took a small, experimental sip. The drink was cool and crisp, with a light, refreshing flavor that burst across their tongue. The floral taste of hops and yeast filled their mouth with a faint familiar bitterness. 

Walter took another hearty swig, so they took another sip too, larger this time to keep up with him. The condensation from the bottle left a wet circle on the canvas of their pants as they let it rest on their thigh. They picked at the edge of the label until it lifted to reveal the sticky glue underneath, unsure if they were obligated to entertain, to regale their guest with engaging conversation. 

Their mind was empty of anything interesting to say. Surely whatever they would attempt would bore a man such as Walter. If the tales the other Legends had spread about him held any merit, Walter had lived quite an exciting life. Their eyes lifted from the bottle. He seemed content as he was, so they forced their body to release its tension, breathing out the tightness they held in their abdomen to keep their posture stiff. 

Bloodhound raised their bottle towards him. “This is good,” they said to break the silence. When had they become one who needed to fill the quiet with meaningless words? They chewed at a piece of chapped skin on their lip.

“Glad ya like it,” he readjusted his position among the cushions, appearing totally at ease in a way they envied. “Not as good as the stuff back home, but it’ll do.”

Though they had not had much to drink, the effect of the alcohol – perhaps coupled with the proximity of Walter – began to warm them. It began as a low tingle in the back of their neck, then a slight flush that spread to the tops of their high cheekbones. They undid the first two buttons on their jacket and pulled the material away from their body to vent the heat trapped underneath.

“Aren’t ya hot in the coat?” His eye fixed on them, then flicked down to the tiny area of exposed fair skin on their chest and back up again.

His words only increased the heat they felt. A drop of sweat trickled down the back of their neck onto their collar. They finished the last bit of their drink, examining the bottle to avoid meeting his gaze. 

“It is warm, I suppose.” 

Walter shrugged and downed the dregs of his beer. “It’s your house. You should be comfortable.”

They nodded; the man was right. After a day outdoors in the heat, taking off their jacket and the breathing equipment strapped to their back would be preferable to sweltering. They stood, but found themself slightly off balance and almost caught their foot on the edge of the wood as they stepped out of the nest of furs. They were more of a lightweight than they had remembered, but maybe they were merely a little dehydrated from their time spent outside. 

Bloodhound walked to the bedroom and slipped off the compact oxygen concentrator equipment they wore on their back to hang it in their closet. They removed their jacket and withdrew the small folded picture from its secret pocket. Their initial instinct was to unfold it, to read the four words on the back of the photo like they had hundreds of times before, but they resisted. Instead, they shuffled over to their bedside table and placed it inside the drawer with care. Shutting the drawer felt like a separation, a temporary closure of their past. Out of sight, out of mind.

Before heading back out, they looked down at their undershirt and stepped to the bathroom to check their appearance. They tucked the white tank top into their belt and removed their headgear. The cooling relief was immediate, though the hair that had been underneath their leather cap was smashed down from being compressed. Fingers shaky with urgency, they raked through the coppery tangles. The result was a little frizzy, but a quick braid along each side tamed the worst of it, and they allowed the rest to hang loosely down their shoulders and back. 

Their hair now tamed, they looked down and grimaced at the sight of their chest and arms. Without their jacket, the spattering of scars on their chest and neck and the deep gouges along their left shoulder were exposed. These wounds had healed decades ago in the old way. Their body had repaired itself without the medical advances that could erase injuries and leave no trace. The skin had closed over in shiny white and pink lines cutting across their muscle. This was the evidence of their burden. Unlike the photo, this was a shame that they could not hide.

They replaced their goggles and returned to the main room. Walter was scrolling on his phone, squinting at the screen. Though they rarely spent much time on their own device, they knew the others often did this to pass the time, reading gossip and watching short nonsensical videos. Their stomach dropped as their fear had been realized – he was clearly bored here in their rural cabin. Truthfully, they did not want Walter to leave just yet. They would have to try harder. For reasons they refused to acknowledge, they were filled with a need to gain his approval. 

“Would you like another drink?” they asked.

He didn’t look up when he replied, eyes still glued to his phone. “Yeah, if ya don’t mind.”

They grabbed the drinks from the kitchen, and mentally ran through all the things they could discuss with what little they knew about the man. He liked explosives; that much was clear from his abilities in the Apex Games. But would he want to discuss such things now? Would it be too personal to ask about his home planet? It might be an uncomfortable subject for him.

When they stepped down into the seating, still lost in their thoughts, they lost their balance again and tipped forward. Walter’s hand encircled their wrist, helping to steady them as they descended. The movement caused one of the beers to slosh onto Walter’s pants, darkening the grey material.

“Fjandinn!”  Bloodhound exclaimed. They hastily handed both of the drinks to Walter and scrambled out of the cushions, coming back with a towel. They threw it on his thigh and began frantically dabbing the spill. “My apologies, Walter Fitzroy.” Their hair fell over their face, obscuring their panicked expression. 

“Houndy,” he said softly, setting the drinks to the side. 

They see his hands ball into fists among the furs beside his legs. He was clearly upset, insulted. They dabbed harder with the towel, soaking up all the beer they could. 

“Houndy,” Walter said more loudly, his jaw clenched. 

Two firm hands grasped their shoulders, pushing them away from his lap and into the cushions until they were half-reclined. The damp towel was still clutched in their hands.  For a moment, Walter did not speak. He leaned over them, his added weight causing them to sink down among the blankets and furs. His gaze was fixed on them but held no anger. The corners of his mouth were pulled down into — a frown? No, not quite. Something else, the same way he had—

Pressed them down among the furs, firm but gentle hands guiding them into position, sliding behind their neck until there was no space between their mouths, no space between their bodies. Sharing breath, sharing their spirit. His weight over them, stirring something within, gods, to feel that again. 

“What’s it gonna take for you to believe me when I say ya don’t hafta be like that with me?”

Their lips parted, but all that escaped them was a small, shaky exhalation. Why did they feel so breathless all of a sudden? Any that dared to try and hold them down like this during a match would be bitten and scratched as they turned into a feral animal in their grasp, fighting for freedom, their life. But for Walter, right now, it felt different. 

They turned their head to the side, their face burning under his scrutiny. “S-sorry,” was all they could think to say.

A soft chuckle sounded above and Walter brushed his finger against their hot cheek. “You’re somethin’ else Houndy, you know that?” He sat back and extended his metal hand to them to help them up.

They took the proffered hand and found themselves seated next to him, a little closer this time. Bloodhound was acutely aware of the way their thighs nearly touched, electricity buzzing just beneath the surface of their skin. 

“Drink up, Houndy.” He tapped his bottle against theirs again. “Sk-ahl.”

Bloodhound stared at them incredulously. “What did you say?”

“Er, drink up, Houndy?”

“After that,” they prompted impatiently. 

“Skahl. Shkail?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I looked up how to say ‘cheers’ in your language. Did I butcher it completely?”

“It was a fair attempt. Skál.” Bloodhound corrected gently, and touched their beer to his.

“Skál,” Walter repeated.

Bloodhound watched him evenly as they took a sip, smiling at the realization that they had mistaken his earlier scrolling for boredom. It was a thoughtful gesture, unexpected. “Why did you seek that out?”

“I just thought it might, ah, make ya feel more comfortable to hear somethin’ familiar.” He looked at the ceiling, his turn to look nervous.

“Mm,” they hummed. “No one has even attempted such a thing before. Thank you, Walter.”

Soon all six beers were gone, the sun outside had set, dark purple overtaking the horizon, and a large crescent moon was visible through the window. The board of food was almost completely barren, both having picked at the snacks over the last two drinks. Bloodhound frowned at the empty brown bottles. The lack of drink would signal an end to the night, but they were not quite ready to send Walter on his way. The alcohol emboldened them, whispered to them to continue, a nagging thought that would not leave their mind. 

Bloodhound went to the kitchen. “I do not have any beer,” they said, rummaging through their cabinet. 

From the back, they pulled out a small black bottle with intricate white flowers painted on the front. They brushed over the emblem, feeling the tiny brush strokes under their calloused fingertips. This was a drink they had brought back from their last visit home to Talos, brewed there, each bottle hand-filled and painted.

They rinsed out two dusty shot glasses and brought them back to where he sat. The cork was firmly wedged in the bottle, but with a tug they unstoppered it and poured the clear liquor into the tiny cups. 

“Something stronger, perhaps?” they ask. Normally they would never have suggested such a thing, but this seemed like a fitting occasion. 

Walter took one of the glasses with a smile. A bright ‘clink’ sounded from their toast and the pair threw back the drinks. The flavor was strong and the drink burned their throat, but they had missed this taste of home.

“Fuckin’ hell, Houndy!” Walter exclaimed, scrunching his face up. “What is this?”

“ Brennivín.” Instead of being embarrassed, they laughed. Others rarely enjoyed this drink. “ Sometimes it is called ‘ bvarti dauði .’ Black death. Do you not like it, Walter?” Mischief crept into their voice.

“It’s alright.” He shook his head and dipped his finger into the tiny bowl of remaining blackberry preserves and popped his finger into his mouth. “Lil’ bit of an aftertaste though,” he mumbled around the digit. 

“It is…” Bloodhound felt the alcohol swirling in their system. Their words trailed off and their eyes widened as they watched him suck the sticky remnants of the jam off his finger. It was almost indecent, but they could not look away. They cleared their throat and forced themself to focus their gaze at eye level. “It is not usually consumed for the…enjoyment of its flavor.”

“Reckon it wouldn’t be,” he grinned. “If I knew you were bringing this out, I woulda saved some beer for a chaser.”

“The mighty Walter Fitzroy cannot handle a strong drink?” Bloodhound grinned. “How disappointing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m mighty, now, am I?” 

His roguish smile struck them through. The warmth seeped to every crevice of their being and they were glad that the alcohol could be used as an excuse for their reddened face.

“So I have heard.”

Two more shots down and Bloodhound knew they would come to regret this in the morning if they did not stop. They felt giddy, light-hearted in a way they had not in a very long time, and wanted to chase this feeling further. They laughed at some ridiculous joke the man had told and when they readjusted their position, realized their thigh was brushing up against his. 

“Last one,” they mumbled as Walter poured them both one more. They probably should not have another, but it was rare that they let loose like this and gods did it feel good. After they tossed back the last shot, they plopped their empty cup into his.

Bloodhound tried to focus on his face but found it harder than they had expected. Walter lifted his finger and traced along the runic symbols inked in red across their biceps, then tapped the one peeking out just above the neckline of their tank top.

“You’ll hafta show me the rest sometime,” he winked. “An’ tell me what they mean.”

“P-perhaps,” they mumbled. 

The alcohol pooled into a cozy heat, settling in their belly. They tilted their head to the side, and let it rest on Walter’s left shoulder. His scent washed over their senses, now mixed with the musky essence of sweat, and something else that their liquor-clouded mind could not find the word for, but that they wanted more of. 

“Today was…fun,” they admitted to him after a few moments of quiet. “I have not done this in some time.” 

“What, had fun?”

Bloodhound laughed, freely, loudly, too loud — they were beginning to sound like Walter in their impaired state. “I suppose not.”

The last wisps of uncertainty dissipated as a large hand rested on their knee. Their heart pounded in their chest stronger, surely Walter could hear it, feel it. His thumb moved, a barely imperceptible stroke against the canvas. The familiar tightness ached in their lower stomach, the need and yearning for another’s affection bubbled under the surface. They wanted it badly . Wanted him.

Bloodhound lifted their head from his shoulder — too fast, they found — and the room spun and swirled around them. They lurched forward, but Walter slipped his arm around their chest to keep them from falling. 

“Easy there Houndy.” 

“Mm. You are drunk,” they accused.

“Nah,” he said, with that crooked grin. One of his hands slid down their arm to their waist, but slipped up as they leaned unsteadily, causing their shirt to come untucked from their pants. “But you definitely are.” Walter’s gaze lowered to the visible patch of their fair, scarred abdomen and he licked his lips.

“No.” They closed their eyes to stop the room from moving so much. Perhaps the gods would forgive this small untruth. 

“Right,” he replied knowingly. He pulled them back to their spot, his body angled towards them, both hands on their shoulders to help keep their swaying form still. “You should prob’ly drink some water.”

They blinked, the world fizzling into static for a moment as they watched his lips move. “I do not need water.”

Bloodhound scooted a little closer with Walter’s help. Though there were two of him at times, they could see his face was slightly flushed, mouth relaxed. His lips looked soft and pink — how would he taste? 

Soft lips, an invitation. Hands undoing every button and buckle. Urgent, needy. Lifting their shirt, pulling it off, pushing them back, lovingly tracing every line and scar on their body. His mouth finding their cheeks and chin, chest, abdomen — lower, lower, every inch of them. 

A sudden burst of confidence, a stab of desire tore through Bloodhound’s chest. They leaned forward, boldly aiming towards full lips that still looked damp from the pass of his tongue. They closed their eyes, anticipating the contact of his mouth but a hand pressed against their chest, fingers splayed out, stopping them mere inches from his face. 

“Wait,” he whispered, so close that they could feel the warmth of his exhalation on their face, smell the liquor on his breath. 

They opened their eyes and instantly regretted it. The room twirled more violently than before, and though they had wanted to back away from the man, they fell forward against him, a wave of nausea passing over them.

“I am sorry, I…I, “ they stuttered, their words muffled from alcohol and their mouth being pressed against his shoulder. “I have acted foolishly. I thought we–you wanted–” Their arms began to tremble, shame rose in their throat, or maybe that was just the Brennivín. It burned. 

“We were. I do.”

The fog in their head intensified, buzzing like an annoying cloud of gnats, leaving them unable to think clearly. His hand laid across their back, a hug. Gentle. 

“It wouldn’t be right.” he said quietly. “Lemme help ya to bed, ay?”

Why didn’t he look impaired? They nodded dumbly and stood with his support, wobbling on their feet. Walter scooped Bloodhound up easily. Their head bounced softly against his shoulder as he carried them. They looked up at his strong chin, the dark stubble on his face. This was a pleasant view. It felt nice to be in his arms. Safe, like they had been with him.

They opened their eyes for just a moment, now in the bedroom. Laid down gently, a pillow rearranged under their head. Their mumbled thanks, eyes closing again. Caring hands rearranged limp limbs, pulling blankets over them. Warmth. Their voice a whisper. He leaned down to listen. A name on their breath, an invitation. Tender fingers brushed the hair back from their face, grazing their neck. They had missed his touch. The comforting weight of thick furs. Hushed good night. Sleep, darkness.

—————————

The incessant knocking of a woodpecker against a tree outside forced Bloodhound from sleep. They tried to sit up — gods, bad idea. Their stomach turned and they stumbled to the bathroom, dry heaving over the toilet. Their stomach contracted, but there was nothing to bring up. They sat back on the cool tile, wanting nothing more than to lay down and press their face against it, sink into it. But the throbbing in their head and the stale taste in their mouth demanded they take action. 

It was not often they took medication, but they had a small bottle of anti-inflammatory pills for just such an emergency. They swallowed two with a handful of water from the sink. Their goggles were still on and they removed these, frowning at the deep red divots that were left in their flesh. Bloodshot eyes stared back at them in the mirror. They splashed their face with water and scrubbed their face to remove the layer of grease. It helped a little.

Bloodhound wandered back into the bedroom and slid back into bed to rest a little longer. The bird outside seemed intent on keeping them from further sleep, so they reached for their phone. Two missed calls and five new messages awaited them, the flashing notifications demanding their attention. Their stomach dropped, a cold wave of nausea was barely held back. 

Walter Fitzroy. 

The events of the night before were fuzzy — how much had they drunk? Too much. They tried to think through it all, remembering strong arms carrying them to bed. They ran their hands over their body, still fully dressed. Nothing had happened, they assumed. They rubbed their temples, trying to remember. A sinking weight pulled from within, stifling the breath in their lungs.

Rejection.  

They had leaned in towards him, an invitation. He had refused. Walter had pushed them away, left them alone. He didn’t want them. Why would he? Why would anyone?

Shame.

They knew the messages were from Walter, but they were afraid to check, to see what was left to be said between them. Letting their guard down had been a mistake. Reluctantly, they unlocked the screen and squinted against the light, too bright for their dry, burning eyes. 

The messages spanned the last three hours.

‘Morning!’ was accompanied by an animated smiling sun.

‘You alright?’

‘Lemme know when ya wake up’ 

‘Hope your head doesn’t hurt too much. Left some water for ya’  They glanced at their bedside table. The glass was there and they reached to take a small sip.

‘Houndy?’

His string of messages baffled them. It would be rude not to at least reply, to confirm their health. 

‘I am well, I thank you, Walter.’ they typed.

‘Good!’ His reply came back immediately. ‘ Was worried about ya’ 

‘Your concern is appreciated.’

‘It was fun to spend time with you. Thanks for havin me’

Bloodhound’s brow furrowed. He had rejected them, why was he talking like this? ‘It was an enjoyable evening.’ they replied

Three dots popped up on their screen as Walter typed his reply. He must have stopped and started a few times, the bubble would appear and then vanish. They waited, wanting nothing more than to put their phone down and nurse their aching head and eat something to soothe the acid in their stomach. His message finally came through and the phone nearly slipped through their trembling fingers. They held back the retching that threatened to overtake them again as they read the words on the screen. 

‘Heya, so…who’s Boone?’

Chapter Text

Bloodhound stared at the words on their screen, barely comprehending. They shoved the phone in their pocket, unable to even begin to think of an answer. Their breath came far too quickly, each burning lungful bringing in less air than the last. Acid rose in their constricted throat, their mouth filled with water, their stomach preparing to empty itself. The room began to blur, their eyes darting frantically back and forth between the bathroom and closet, unsure which to run to. Oxygen, first. 

They scrambled towards the closet and yanked the respirator from where they had hung it on the wall the night before. In their haste, the tubing caught on the peg that held it, detaching from the machinery. They wheezed a curse while their quaking fingers replaced what had been pulled loose. Bloodhound turned it on and clipped the mask around their nose and mouth, praying that the bile did not rise any further. 

Who’s Boone?

The need for breath was all-consuming now, their ribcage felt too tight, airways closing. They leaned against the wall and slid down until they were sitting and forced themself to take slow, shuddering breaths of the filtered air. Their lungs and stomach finally calmed a little as they focused on the hum of the machine, the rasp of their breathing, in and out.

A staccato pattern of vibrations buzzed in their pocket. More messages. With a shaky hand, they took their phone out, seeing that new texts had popped up from Walter. Bloodhound stood carefully and left the closet, swiping their finger across the screen to close their messaging app. Later. They took another deep breath. Breakfast. That was what they needed. 

Bloodhound padded across their cabin, dreading the mess they would find in the main room, but cocked their head to the side in disbelief when they saw it. The blankets and furs had been neatly folded and stacked in the recessed seating area, organized by size. The empty beer bottles were nowhere to be seen. In the kitchen, they opened the recycling bin and saw that they’d all been tossed inside. The shot glasses had been washed, and set upside down in the drying rack next to the platter that had held the meats and cheese. The bottle of brennivín was stoppered and set back on the counter.

Walter had cleaned. Bloodhound shook their head and blinked incredulously. They opened up their drawers, checking to see if any of their things had been rifled through — had he snooped through their belongings under the guise of tidying? As far as they could tell, everything appeared to be in its proper place. 

Their brow furrowed, unable to process this further in their mind’s foggy state. Coffee might help. Normally, they would grind the beans fresh each morning, savoring the ritual and the fragrant aroma, but today, the loud whirring of the grinder would only worsen the pounding in their head. They withdrew a bag of pre-ground coffee from the back of the pantry and set the kettle to boil.

Bloodhound reached for the cabinet to select a mug, but froze, spying a little square note stuck to the wood. They plucked it off the cabinet door and examined the scrawling handwriting more closely.

did my best to clean up n all. hope I wasn’t too much trouble for ya  

– Wally

A lopsided smiling face with a mustache had been drawn next to his name. Bloodhound’s knees weakened and they slumped against the counter, head in their hands. None of this made sense. What sort of game was this man playing? He was purposely trying to confuse them.

The kettle whistled, piercing their thoughts. Bloodhound busied themself with pouring the hot water over the grounds to allow the brew to drip through the filter. Next, food. They set a frying pan over the stove and rifled through their refrigerator. They had a small rasher of bacon left, the last of their stash from the wild boar they had caught. Two eggs, a gift from the waterfowl that nested on the shore of the nearest pond. This would be sufficient today. 

They separated the slices of meat before tossing them in the hot pan. The bacon sizzled and popped, filling the kitchen with its thick, oily scent. After it crisped to their satisfaction, they removed the strips to rest on their plate, then cracked the eggs into the pan, careful to keep out any fragments of shell. The practicality of these tasks was like a balm to their troubled mind, but the vision of the text message still kept rising unbidden, the words seared into their mind.

Who’s Boone?

Who’s Boone?

The acrid smell of burning stung their nostrils and they turned their attention back to the food. Bloodhound hastily scraped the partially blackened eggs out of the pan and pursed their lips. It seemed mostly salvageable, but they would eat it regardless, unwilling to waste any of it. 

Bloodhound poured their coffee into a mug and sat at the table, nibbling at the meal they had prepared. Though the rich flavor of the eggs was tainted by the bitter crunch of char, the food still calmed their stomach, and the dark, nutty flavor of the coffee washed the stale taste of booze and bile from their mouth. They leaned forward with a groan, squeezing the bridge of their nose. Why had they suggested the brennivín?  

Now that the throbbing in their skull had subsided, they tried to remember the night before. It was blurry, in snippets, all swirled together with memories long past, making it hard to recall what was the truth. They had acted like a fool — of that much they were certain. They spilled beer on Walter’s lap and called him by the name he had repeatedly asked them not to. Their fingers tightened around the warm ceramic in their grasp. They knew better than most the discomfort of being misnamed, arrogant assumptions made about who they were. Their stomach turned once more — they tried to kiss him. Gods, what had they been thinking? They barely knew the man. 

Bloodhound swore under their breath at the drink that had loosened their tongue and their inhibitions. They immediately stood and grabbed the bottle of liquor off the counter and pulled out the cork with a ‘pop,’ ready to dump it down the kitchen drain. They hesitated, unable to will themselves to tip the bottle upside down. This drink was one of the few items they had brought back with them from their last trip to Talos three years ago. There was no telling the next time they would be allowed a social visit, bound by contracts and obligations.

They recorked the bottle and wistfully thumbed over the design on the front. The delicate caraway flowers were hand-painted, each minuscule blossom impossibly intricate. On closer inspection, there was a speck of yellow within the center of each flower. It was a tiny detail that the artist had thoughtfully added, though few would notice. Bloodhound wondered if they would know the painter and gritted their teeth. It was unlikely. Ten winters they had spent away from home; their village was almost unrecognizable now. 

The last time they had visited they had only been allowed to pass through their village briefly. The group of faces that had awaited their return was mixed, old and new, though the number they recognized had dwindled. The remaining villagers’ eyes shone with interest, gawking at them the same way Bloodhound recalled looking at the poachers and traders who would stop by in their youth. To many of the townsfolk, they were now a curiosity, a stranger. It stung more than they would ever admit.

Most of the elders who had guided the town in their absence had passed or moved to new, more advanced colonies, seduced by Hammond’s offers of more, better. Bloodhound clenched their jaw, their back teeth grating. Perhaps Uncle Artur had been right about all of this, predicting this downfall long ago. Now they themself were just as guilty as these corporations, participating in the Apex Games, generating revenue to support those that harvested the lifeforce of their home planet. 

Failure. 

Needles pulsed behind their eyes — it was too early, their hangover too fresh to ponder such things. Bloodhound sighed and carefully tucked the bottle away in a cabinet. This situation with Walter was not the brennivín’s fault. It was due to their own shameful lust, the temporary loss of their tight self-control. They had allowed themself to open themself up to another – and for what? Only to feel the embarrassment of rejection, the sliver of mustered confidence crushed beneath Walter’s muddy boot.

Bloodhound finished breakfast and washed their plate. They had wallowed in self-pity long enough. There were many chores to complete today and a garden that required weeding in preparation for planting, but their tired muscles still bore the exhaustion of a poor night’s sleep. They grabbed a notebook and a pen and plopped among the cushions. Perhaps they could still be productive and devise a plan for the satchels of vegetable seeds they had saved from the last harvest. They roughly sketched the tiny plot behind their cabin, finding a place for rhubarb and leek, a corner for cabbage and tomatoes. Bloodhound chewed the pen cap, the plastic gently rolled between their teeth.

They stifled a yawn. Sleep still pulled at their heavy eyelids despite the food and coffee and their head protested every moment spent upright. A nagging pain rose with every roll of their shoulder blades, tension wound tightly in their neck, settling at the base of their skull. They sighed and set the notebook down in the spot Walter had sat the night before. 

Walter. His messages awaited them. Their phone was like a weight, the unread texts tugging heavily in their pocket, on their mind. They slipped the device out, the notification light blinking rapidly in the upper right-hand corner, demanding their attention. They opened the messaging app and saw a new chain of texts, all from him. There were at least four or five — this was too much. Without reading these, they set their phone on top of the notebook and let their head fall back on the cushion that supported their back. 

Bloodhound rubbed their burning eyes. They tried to focus back on their garden plans but their thoughts slipped from their grasp like smoke, dissolving into the air. Their eyelids drooped, lashes fluttered as they struggled to keep them open. They should not sleep, having just woken a short time ago, but perhaps they could allow themself to rest their eyes for a time.

————————————

The rays of the morning sun warmed their face, gently bringing them from sleep. Bloodhound stretched out their stiff limbs in the pocket of warmth of their bedroll. They threw off the furs that protected them from the early morning chill and sucked in a deep breath of the cool air. A new day meant a clean slate, a fresh start — a discussion with Boone, forgiveness. Surely he could be convinced to wait to take the Óséður , to spend the winter in their village. Their heart leaped within their chest at the thought, the blood in their veins hummed with excitement. 

Bloodhound’s joy was short-lived. Boone had not maintained the fire, though it was his duty for the night. The hungry blaze had devoured all the logs within the makeshift pit, the flame now long extinguished. Only ash remained, grey and lifeless. A creeping tendril of doubt wormed its way within their spirit. Something was not right. 

They sat up, rubbing their hands together against the chill that crept into their fingers. “Boone?” The name died on their tongue as they examined where he had slept the night before. The leaves had been disturbed where he had lain, but otherwise, there was no trace of him. His bag was gone, his guns and weapons taken.

Their blood ran cold and they jumped to their feet, scanning the area with the sónar he had so recently gifted to them. Red tracks, very faint. Hours hold. How had he moved from the camp without their notice? Their heart sank as they saw the direction the footprints led. 

The Óséður .

Bloodhound bolted to follow the faint tracks etched in the loam, anger ready in their throat, a reprimand hovering on their lips. Though they normally preferred to move unnoticed, untraceable through the forest, they did not care. They crashed through the undergrowth, branches clawing at their jacket, their boots displacing the soil, leaving a path even the most inept tracker could follow.

At the end of the trail, they paused, panting. They found a deep, empty depression pressed into the dirt, the crushed leaves where the creature had lain in its hibernation. Deep scrapes were etched into the ground, drag marks on the forest floor, but there was no sign of a struggle. The beast had been captured shamefully while still asleep. The sour taste of dishonor filled their mouth.

Boone’s tracks and the deeper marks led to the left, towards his ship. If they were not too late — their breath caught in their throat — perhaps he had not left yet, they could find him, stop him. They ran as fast as their legs allowed, vaulting over branches and tree roots, scanning again, following the tracks that grew brighter. They were almost there, closer, closer. Bright red light shone from between the tree trunks before them when they scanned once more. 

Bloodhound burst from the forest into the small clearing, but there was no ship. The earth was still hot, the evidence of a craft recently launched. The highlight of the scan faded with the last of their hope. 

They were too late. He was gone. He had left Talos, left them. Betrayed them. 

The earth rose to meet them, hands and knees in the dirt. Bloodhound gripped fistfuls of the blackened, still-warm earth. A snarl of fury tore out from deep within their chest, from the deepest part of them. They had shared everything with him: their knowledge, their heart, their body. He had departed without a farewell, left them with nothing but ashes and sónar .

Their vision blurred with rage and their goggles fogged from the heat and moisture. They hastily yanked their eyewear off and flung it to the side. This technology was no gift, but a curse. They squeezed their eyes shut against the too-bright morning sun and pounded the soil with their fists. 

Another snarl, but it did not sound right. No — where was the anger? It was more like despair, a sob, the pathetic cry of a sveitadāræ who had been deceived by the well-traveled man. He had entranced them with shiny technology and parlor tricks. His words were coated in honey, masking the poison beneath. And, like the country fool he thought they were, they had fallen for it.

Fallen for him. 

They wiped their eyes with their sleeve and retrieved the goggles that they had tossed to the side and dusted the specks of dirt off of them, inspecting for breakage. Still intact. Good. Despite Boone’s betrayal, this technology did have its uses. 

They walked back, each step solidifying their plan to chase after him and demand — what? They did not know. The return of the beast, an explanation, an apology.

Bloodhound sighed as they approached the empty camp and packed up their bedroll. They shook it out to get the leaves and dust off, and a flash of something white flew out and caught their attention. They bent to pick it up, eyes widening at the recognition. A photograph of Boone. Rage boiled within them again. The sheer arrogance of the man, assuming after what he did they would want a photo in remembrance. 

Did he expect them to place it on their mantle in honor of his memory? Next to móður, faðir, frændi? Boone had left this picture for the stupid, rural hunter to venerate and stare at longingly. If they hadn’t been wearing their respirator, they would have spit on the ground in distaste at the thought. The glossy paper crinkled in their grip and they nearly tore it into pieces to throw it into the ash where it belonged, but on a whim they turned it over. 

Their breath and anger left them when they read the words inked on the back. 

‘All my love, Boone.’

Bloodhound woke up with blurred vision and damp cheeks. They roughly dashed at their eyes with the back of their hand, impatiently wiping away the moisture. These awakenings were becoming too frequent as of late, prompted by Walter’s presence. Their eyes still stung. This dream, this nightmare, had not come to them in some time. 

Who’s Boone?

The photo. Bloodhound jolted upright from the spot they had dozed among the cushions, racing for the bedroom. They lunged for the bedside table in a panic, fingers frantically searching the drawer for the folded photograph they had gone too long without touching, the words too long without reading. It was there. Relief rolled off of them as they clutched it in their palm. For many years, they had swayed back and forth wildly between resentment and longing, fighting for Boone’s honor while cursing his selfishness. His greed had been his undoing and he had paid the steepest price, left unable to repent. 

Bloodhound carefully unfolded the picture, breathing easier at the sight of the familiar face, the faded black ink. The sharp edges of their scorn had become blunted over time. Rage softened into empathy, the folly of youth forgiven. Boone was barely a man when he had been stained by dishonor, and they too had been marred by their hand in his death. They should have done more. Now, he relied on them to pave the way to Valhöll, and it was their duty, their burden to carry. 

They ran their fingers over the words on the back of the photo affectionately, then flipped it over to trace the thin scar over his high cheekbone, his proud nose, his scruffy jaw. They let a small puff of air out, almost a laugh. The scoundrel had not even shaved to take a respectable picture.

It took them a moment to realize that they were smiling. 

Who’s Boone?

Bloodhound’s smile faded. They had found temporary joy in laughing freely with Walter and latched onto the dream of friendship. Their plan was to nurse the tiny spark of companionship, then fan that ember in the hope that it might catch, blazing into something more. Only the gods knew how deeply they longed for that fire, for warmth and light that would chase away the shadows on their darkest nights. 

The signals had been present, they thought, Walter’s glances and touches inviting something genuine. Clearly, they had been wrong. A stab of regret spiked through their chest as they walked out of the bedroom to gather their notebook and phone. In their desperation, they misread Walter’s intentions and had been deceived. He had taken advantage of their desire, feigned closeness to glimpse how the feral hunter lived. Their lip curled. He had tried to pry their hardened shell open and wedge himself into the cracks in their armor to suck dry what secrets lay beneath. Why else would Walter be so eager to spend time with them?

More buzzing, irritating, like a persistent insect. Bloodhound’s screen lit up with Walter Fitzroy’s name, a phone call. They snatched up their phone, their finger hovering over the button to answer, wavering with indecision. There was much they could say to him, but instead they silenced the call. They were no longer under his spell.  Though they had long forgiven Boone’s betrayal, they would not forget the pain at his hand — and now at Walter’s. Twice in their life now, they had been a fool for a man, too quick to trust. 

They would not make that mistake again.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since the day Walter Fitzroy visited. Bloodhound had dodged his texts and calls since. The string of unread messages continued to lengthen, but they were unwilling to face him after their embarrassing display in their drunken state. Chance blessed them; they had managed to completely avoid him for the last few matches, neither being matched with him nor having to face him as a foe. 

Their luck ran out today. 

“Bloodhound, Fuse, and Wattson!” the booming overhead voice announced the squad cheerily, the speaker crackling from the volume. 

Bloodhound gritted their teeth under their mask and boarded the dropship. They knew they would have to interact with Walter eventually, but they did not feel prepared to face him today. Over the few weeks, they had anticipated this moment. Their frustration had simmered low, burning just enough to lull them into thinking that this, that Walter Fitzroy, meant nothing to them.

At his approach, the emotions that had warred within — disappointment, embarrassment, anger, regret — began to rise again, but settled into pathetic anxiousness. The tiny voice inside whispered its harsh truths and clouded their thoughts with doubt.

Rejection.

Walter walked up the gangway proudly with self-assurance, head held high. Unlike the scruffy ruggedness of their last meeting, his cheeks were clean-shaven and his hair was perfectly styled. Sweat prickled at the back of Bloodhound’s neck. Their hands suddenly felt chilled, like they had been dipped in ice water despite being covered by the thick, supple leather of their gloves. The respirator on their back whirred quietly, the concentrator working harder to provide enough oxygen to keep up with their increased breath. They tried to take deeper lungfuls of the filtered air as their vision blurred. Their fists clenched, they tried to stay grounded, to keep from descending further. Not here, not now. 

A small hand tapped theirs and wiggled its way into their large palm, pulling their focus away from Walter’s approach.

“Salut, Bloodhound,” Natalie squeezed their fingers gently before releasing them. “I have a good feeling about today’s match! Don’t you?” Her light blue eyes shone with determination.

Bloodhound’s jaw relaxed at her innocent excitement and the tightness in their chest eased a little. “Certainly. Together, we taka victory.”

“Time you pups see what an old dog can do!” Walter called loudly as he threw his arms around the pair to bring them to his chest for a hug. 

Natalie slipped her slender arms around the man’s middle. “I can’t wait!”

Bloodhound’s muscles tightened under Walter’s metallic arm, their mask pressed into his shoulder under the force of his embrace. For a moment, their body slumped, relaxed into his chest. They tried to steel themself against his greeting, but the warmth of his body crept through, filling them with heat, with want . 

Their face burned with shame and they tensed again. Walter had made his intentions known. He did not want anything more. He did not want them. Yet, they could not stop the thoughts that rose to their mind unbidden, their body’s instinctive reaction to his touch, this closeness. Their breath caught in their throat, the air thick with the scent of him, the same smell that had clung to their jacket after their last meeting. 

“Relax, Houndy,” Walter said, giving the hunter a slight shake. “We’ve got this in the bag. I won’t let ya down. Promise.”

Bloodhound cleared their throat and stepped backward out of his grasp, straightening their coat. “Of-of course, félagi fighter .”

The trio buckled into their seats against the ship wall and prepared for takeoff. They gripped the armrests, fingers stiff. Natalie kicked her feet back and forth, a repetitive metallic tapping. It was nice to have something to focus on, to distract them from the catastrophic thoughts that bombarded their mind, the fear that wormed its way through them.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Breath.  

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Breath . 

After the ship had risen to the altitude for the jump, the fasten seatbelt sign turned off with a pleasant ‘ding.’ Bloodhound unbuckled with trembling fingers and stood, but immediately sucked in their breath and stumbled at the turbulence that rocked the ship. The ship finally stilled and they let out the breath they had been holding. Slakaðu á.

Walter and Natalie trusted them to lead the jump today, to guide them to victory. The hunter paced back and forth, passing by the other squads, strategizing about where to land on Olympus. There were several options, depending on how many other squads they wanted to contend with. Walter’s combat style tended to be more aggressive, while Natalie preferred a more tactical game. Their own style could be adapted as needed for the squad match-up, able to flex either way with their abilities. Perhaps a mid-tier loot zone would be preferable to reduce the risk of dropping too hot.

A loud warning beep cut through the deep rumble of the ship’s vibrations. Bright red lights flashed on the ceiling, warning of the impending drop zone. The floor panels in the middle of the ship opened up, a rush of air entered, whipping around a few scraps of paper and a discarded snack wrapper that some Legend had tossed on the floor. Bloodhound stepped back quickly until the back of their calves bumped against the seat.

Though they were long used to the drops, able to squash down their terror into a mild discomfort through the repetition of the process, the view still filled them with unease. It was unnatural to be this high up. Every instinct that they had protested being this disconnected from the earth below. Bloodhound longed to feel the dirt beneath their boots, to look up and see trees and birds instead of seeing these things below them, impossibly tiny. 

They frowned. If either of their squadmates knew of their cowardice, the two would not have bestowed this duty upon them. In their already anxious state, they knew today that they did not hide it well, their thighs shook from the effort of maintaining their posture.

Unworthy.

“Ya good, Houndy?” Walter asked to their left.

Bloodhound swiveled their head to look at him, his seatbelt unbuckled as he lounged back in his seat, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. “Yes, Walter. All is well.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Glad I’ve got a veteran fighter like yourself leadin’ the way.”

Bloodhound’s chest swelled from his praise, but they let out a huff as their thoughts darkened, poisoning the compliment. Was he patronizing them? “I will do my best to guide us.”

The rest of the legends gathered around the opening, connecting their jetpacks together. Natalie and Walter hooked their lines to Bloodhound, who nodded to each teammate before staring down at the battlefield. The white clouds obscured the ground periodically as the ship moved through them, but they studied the view of lush green grass and sleek buildings below.

With a silent prayer for courage on their lips, they let themself fall forward into nothingness. As soon as their boots left the ship, they focused all their attention on the tiny building in the distance, trying to forget the way the air pushed against them, forcing its way under their mask. Their stomach lurched as the ground rapidly approached. They glanced side to side at their companions before they leaned down to push their jetpack faster. 

They quickly neared their destination, flipped feet first to soften their landing, thrusters fighting to slow their fall. Relief washed over them when they finally contacted the grass, their legs finding strength again. Walter and Natalie had broken off, each finding their own section for loot and each dashed for supply bins. Bloodhound scanned the sky but saw that no other squad had landed with them. Good. They had a little time to loot. 

Each bin they opened was a disappointment, P2020s, arc stars, sniper stocks — why were there always so many sniper stocks? Reluctantly, they equipped the Mozambique they found. It was better than remaining unarmed.

“Got a Flatline over here,” Walter called out over the comms and pinged the weapon. “And an extended heavy mag to go with it.”

They quickly jogged towards him, waiting to see if Natalie would call dibs on the weapon first, but she did not. “I could use that.”

Walter waved the gun and the magazine in the air wildly. “It’s all yours! Cheers, Houndy!” He handed them the weapon with a grin.

“Thank you.” Bloodhound eyed him warily and clipped the extension on as they slung the weapon on their back. The man was acting like his usual self: arrogant, outgoing, but kind, as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed. It did not make sense.

The trio finished picking over the loot and made their way to an inner ring. Bloodhound spotted a survey beacon along the way and climbed on the crates beside the building to pull themself onto the roof. The sun beat down on them, the metal shingles absorbing the heat. It would be a relief to remove their mask to allow the cool breeze to brush against their sweat-damp cheeks or tickle the back of their neck during a match, but they did not dare to risk it now.

Bloodhound watched their teammates below. Natalie skipped happily, eager to find a place where she could deploy her fences, clapping when she set the nodes in the doorway. Walter sat on a supply bin, scanning the horizon. How did he always manage to look so at ease? Did he have no worries at all? Their chest constricted when he lifted his hand in greeting, tilted his head back suddenly to look up at them, and winked. The hunter jerked their gaze away, refocusing on their task. More warmth gathered under their mask, and they were thankful that their flushed face was hidden. 

The familiar pop of gunfire reached their ears, a loud bang — sniper fire. Natalie’s incoherent cry for help rang out and Bloodhound’s eyes flicked back and forth, trying to see where the shot came from. Their vision exploded in colors, their ears ringing as a bullet ricocheted off their mask, blue armor shining as it cracked. They jumped behind the other side of the beacon, replenishing their shield. 

“Natalie, Walter, can you get inside?”

“Yep,” Walter affirmed. “Gonna res. Ol’ Fusey’s got ya, Watty.”

Bloodhound noticed it — there — a tiny flicker of movement on the hill, just behind a metal crate. They leaned out from behind the beacon, aiming down the scope of their Flatline. A head poked out, the shot was clear. Their finger tapped the trigger, but instead of the cracking of a shield or the shining of armor absorbing damage from their bullets, a cloud of dirt rose behind Wraith. They had missed.

“Fíflingur,” Bloodhound muttered to themself, then reloaded.

Another boom cut through the clearing, another scream – Walter’s. They ducked behind the beacon again, looking for a better spot. They were far too exposed here. The ring was coming in, so the enemy squad would have to start moving soon, but Bloodhound, too, had little time before their squadmates bled out. Their Ultimate equipment clicked. Beast of the Hunt was ready. They spotted their foes coming down the hill, only two: Pathfinder and Wraith. There was no time for indecision. 

"I bathe in the blóð!" Bloodhound cried as they activated their Ultimate, hopping down to the ground. They bolted towards the two figures on the hills, emitting a scan and unleashing a snarl from deep within their chest that would be sure to strike fear into the hearts of their foes. They leaped forward, rolling to avoid a stream of bullets from Pathfinder’s R-99 that thudded uselessly into the ground behind them, then popped back up to begin their attack. 

They let the power that surged through their veins consume them, their targets glowing red in their sight. Wraith phased and Pathfinder grappled to escape their approach, neither expecting such a sudden rush from the hunter. This time, Bloodhound’s shots found their mark, Pathfinder’s purple shield shining as each bullet whittled away the armor before cracking. They spun on their heel in the dirt to chase after the robot, faster now that the Beast within them was untethered. Hrafnsbita beckoned them, sang to them at their hip, and they reached for it, jumping and bringing the blade into Pathfinder’s side. 

When they wrenched it free, a spray of iridescent oil spurted from the slash, a rainbow shimmering in the sun. The mist became a gush as two more strikes found home within metal and wires and cords, then Pathfinder fell to his knees, display screen flickering. Downed. Bloodhound tugged their weapon loose once more and bent to wipe the greasy edge in the grass.

They scanned again, seeking their prey – Wraith could not have gotten far, even with her phasing. Her tiny form lit up in red, cowering behind the building. They clambered up the side of the building and bounded across the roof. Bloodhound saw her below, but she had not seen them yet. They aimed their Flatline at her, waiting for the right moment. She immediately perked up when she sensed their scope on her, and she looked from side to side, swapping out her Sentinel for an Alternator. 

Bloodhound felt the glow of their Ultimate begin to fade, and shot down towards the woman, aiming for the top of her head. She activated her Dimensional Rift and disappeared into the portal before her. For a moment, they had the urge to follow and finish the hunt, their bloodlust still raging – but a groan in their comms pulled their attention. Walter. They slid down the building and opened the door. Natalie’s death box had already appeared, but Walter’s body was still there. He was barely breathing, his skin sallow, pale, his eyes hazy as his life slipped away into a dark red puddle around him.

Gloves winding in dark hair, sticky with blood, their chest burned. They shook his still form, bone and muscle exposed in a way that no one could survive. Their fault, their fault. Two pairs of arms pulling them away, tugging them, guards taking them away from Boone. A feral scream filled their ears. Theirs. They flailed, kicked at anyone foolish enough to come close. Hands released, freedom. A sudden jolt to their side, excruciating pain exploding, entire body seizing, muscles tightening, needles pulsing, electricity shooting through every nerve.

“H-Houndy?” Walter’s pained voice, barely a whisper.

They fumbled for a syringe and lunged forward. Bloodhound stabbed it into the man’s chest, desperately pushing the life-giving medicine into his heart, their own heart pounding wildly against their ribcage. Walter suddenly gasped and color returned to his cheeks. His eyes fluttered open, the skin and muscle knitting itself closed over the bullet holes in his chest.

Bloodhound yanked their hand back, realizing that their glove rested on his cheek as they watched the life return to his features. They stood hastily and dropped a medkit and shield battery before him, then scanned, busying themself with watching for Wraith. She was gone, her void shifting hiding any tracks she would have normally left.

The pair took Natalie’s banner and crept to the back of the building. They crouched behind a supply bin, rummaging through the contents. Walter pulled a canteen from his belt and took a sip, passing it to Bloodhound. The hunter considered refusing, but their skin felt overheated beneath the layers of canvas and leather in the aftermath of their Ultimate. A cool drink would be welcome.

“Thanks for savin’ me back there,” Walter said. 

They cleared their throat. “You would do the same for me.” 

“I would, yeah.” He paused. “Earlier, you called me félagi. What’s that mean?”

Bloodhound unclipped their respirator and took a deep breath. The outside air felt good on their skin. “Comrade,” they explained, lifting the bottle to their mouth to take a sip. “Partner. We fight together.”

“Reckon we’re closer to elskhugi, ay?” he grinned, clearly proud of the word.

Bloodhound coughed and sputtered on the water and threw their forearm up to cover their mouth. Elskhugi. Surely he did not mean that. “Where did—” they wheezed. “Why have you chosen that word?”

Walter took the water bottle back and snapped it to his belt, his confident front wavering. “Ah, did I butcher the pronunciation again? I found an app that said it for me first. Did my best to imitate that.”

“Nei , your pronunciation was…quite good,” they said, coughing once more to clear the last of the liquid from their airway. “What do you think it means?”

“Did I just call you a cunt or somethin’? Sorry, mate. Online it said elskhugi was a 'very good friend.' What’s it really mean then?” 

“It, ah, þúst,” Bloodhound stalled, wishing an enemy squad would attack so they could avoid this conversation. “One could argue it does mean very good friend, but, I do not think—”

“Warning: Ring closing,” the automated voice announced loudly in their comms, cutting them off.

“Thank the Allfather,” Bloodhound muttered under their breath. They wiped their mouth off with the back of their glove and replaced their respirator before standing. “We must find a spot on the high ground in the next ring. Come, Walter.” 

He trailed behind them, following where they led. It was easy to fall into a rhythm with Walter like this with the distraction of the match. Comfortable, even. There were many things pulling their attention, requiring their focus that made it easier to be around him. They noticed the faint red glow of enemy tracks and knelt to show Walter the disrupted dirt of a recent battle. He seemed eager to learn and excitedly pointed out the footprints that led away from this fight. 

Bloodhound looked up at him and took the hand he offered to help them back up. His metallic hand gripped their glove firmly, but gently. Though they wanted to allow themself to fall against his chest when he pulled them up, to slip their arms around his solid form, they did not — could not. With five squads left, they would need to remain vigilant. 

Their foolish, unrequited feelings would have to wait.

—--------------------------------------------

Bloodhound groaned as they slowly opened their eyes. Too bright. The sterile, astringent smell of disinfectant stung their nostrils. Finally, their clouded vision cleared and they focused on the speckled, foam ceiling tiles and stark white walls. Rhythmic beeps punctuate the silence. They pushed aside the crisp, starched bedsheets and swung their feet over the side of the lumpy hospital bed, bare feet touching the cool linoleum. The clear bag of fluid that hung nearby was almost empty, infusing via a long tube that led to their forearm. 

They tugged the IV out of their arm, dabbing away the drop of blood that formed with the edge of their stiff hospital gown. Their clothes were neatly folded on the bedside table, mask and respirator sitting atop, boots on the floor. No matter how many times they respawned, it was just as unnerving. It was easier not to think about who, if anyone, saw them, tended to them. No staff members were present in the medical wing of the hangar, though Bloodhound had occasionally seen a medbot scurrying down the hall. 

Bloodhound pulled on their clothes and slid their belt through the loops of their pants. They had claimed second place with Walter. It was not a victory, but there was still honor in the effort. The outcome was acceptable for being down one squad mate. They clipped on their headgear and smoothed out their outfit before walking quickly down the hallway. There was much work to be done when they returned home, weeding and tilling the soil of their garden to prepare for planting. The season was ending soon, and they were already far behind. Perhaps there would still be enough daylight to finish the tasks today if they hurried.

“Houndy, wait!” Walter’s voice boomed down the hallway.

Bloodhound cringed and kept moving towards the exit, pretending they did not hear him. They just needed to get a little further, then they could board the transport ship, home free.

“Houndy!” Walter’s voice sounded louder, his boots squeaking against the floor. He was closer.

A hand gripped their shoulder. They stopped and turned to him, unable to ignore this.

“Good game, today, elskhugi! ” Walter said, his usual cocky smile spread across his face.

“Thank you, Walter.” It was hard to ignore the way heat spread from his fingers through their jacket, to settle in their core. They had made up their mind to dismiss these feelings – yet their body betrayed them. “You…should not call me that. Vinur would be better.”

“Mm, doesn’t have the same ring to it though.” He pulled his hand away and scratched the back of his neck as he inspected the ceiling. “I'm glad to see you’re doin’ okay. I was worried. You…haven’t been answerin’ my calls or texts.”

“Your concern is appreciated, Walter, but I am well.” 

“Did I do somethin’ to upset ya?”

He was pretending to be oblivious. Did he think they were such a fool? Bloodhound gritted their teeth but shrugged and turned around to leave. They tensed when Walter’s hand slipped around their bicep to stop them, his fingers digging into the muscle and causing their body to jerk backwards when he tugged. 

Their self-control snapped, panic bubbling over at being restrained. They wrenched their arm free from his grasp and slammed their body forward against his until he crashed back against the wall. Walter’s head contacted the metal with a thud, his lip curling in pain. Bloodhound’s forearm pressed flat against the man’s neck, forcing his chin up to expose his throat.

“Who put you up to this?” Bloodhound asked, harsh accusation in their voice. 

Walter’s Adam’s apple bobbed against their sleeve. “Wha?” he rasped, dazed, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Is this one of Elliott’s pranks? A joke for Octavio’s videos?”

Walter reached for their forearm, but they merely pushed harder, causing him to cough, his face to redden from strain. “Houndy, bloody hell, you’re chokin’ me. I don’t—”

Their voice shook now, their vision clouding with moisture. “Did you find what you were looking for? Did the Syndicate bring you here to-to torment me?” Their breathing quickened. “Remind me?”

“Remind you of what? Lemme go,” he whispered, struggling against their arm until they finally released him. Walter rested his hands on his knees, doubled over as he took a few deep breaths. “I’ve no idea what you’re goin’ on about.”

“Then, why?” It didn’t make sense. 

He blinked and rubbed his throat gingerly. “Why what?”

“Why did you sit with me? Show me kindness when you did not have to?” Their voice lowered, trembled as their foggy memory recalled the feeling of his hands on their knee, their chest. “Touch me?”

“I dunno.” Fuse shrugged and smiled, a rogueish look that struck them through with a pang of bittersweet remembrance. “There’s just somethin’ about ya that’s kinda…cute.”

Cute. Bloodhound shook their head in disbelief. No one had ever called them such a thing before. This was a joke. They studied his face for any sign of deceit, looking for an uneven breath or a subtle twitch of his mouth or movement of his eye. They found none of this. Unless he was highly trained in hiding these things — doubtful — he was speaking the truth. 

“I do not understand,” their voice was small, their thoughts swirling wildly in their head, unable to settle into anything coherent.  “You-you did not want me. Your choice was clear.” Sinking realization began to dawn on them.

“I’m not sure what kinda fella you think I am.” Walter’s smile faded. “You were drunk as a skunk that night. Wouldn't be a gentleman if I took advantage of that.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Not gonna lie, Houndy, it hurts that you think so little of me. No one ‘put me up to’ anything.” He emphasized the words with exaggerated air quotes.

Bloodhound struggled to form a reply, fully processing the revelation: they had been wrong, misjudged, mistrusted, all in error. “I am–I am sorry, Walter Fitzroy.” As soon as the words passed their lips, they realized their mistake of calling him by his full name. Another mistake. Could they get nothing right? 

Failure.

The man continued. “Besides, you were whisperin’ some other bloke’s name when I was puttin’ ya to bed. Seemed like you expected him instead of me.” He shrugged. “Boone.”

“Boone.” The word was rusty on their tongue, foreign. It had been many years since they had said his name aloud. It felt wrong, like dry ash filling their mouth, like a single drop of rain trying to quench the dry, cracked earth below. How could they even begin to explain any of it? “He…I…” was all they could manage. 

Their fault.

Walter’s expression tightened. “Maybe I was wrong about things. If you already had someone, you coulda just said somethin’ about it instead of just ghostin’ me.” He turned to walk away. “Hope you ‘n’ Boone are happy together. Really.”

Bloodhound’s breath caught in their throat, the barely held back tears fell behind their mask. “Happy?” They let out a choked, humorless laugh at the absurdity. “Boone was taken from me long ago.”’

Walter stopped in his tracks, boots squeaking on the floor as he spun around to face them. “Aw, Houndy.”

They could hear it in his voice – he felt sorry for them. They met his gaze and regretted it. His face bore pity, and they knew if they stayed a single moment longer, the remaining shreds of their composure would dissolve. This was the exact thing that they had wanted to avoid, the reason why they told no one about the things that pained them, the reason why they had not confided in any of the others. None would understand. The look in his eyes as he perceived their weakness was too much to bear.

“Ah, shit. Look, I didn’t mean to…” he frowned and gestured helplessly in the air. “Sorry. I didn’t know.” 

Bloodhound pushed away the hand that Walter lifted weakly towards them and once again moved towards the exit. “You were not supposed to.”

This time, Walter did not follow.

Chapter Text

Bloodhound sat back in the soil with a huff and pulled off their dirt-covered work gloves. They swiped the back of their hand across their damp brow and surveyed their work of the morning, clearing the weeds and creeping vines from their garden. The discarded greenery was tossed into a heap to be burned once it dried. Soon, they could sow the seeds they had saved from the last planting season, and, gods willing, this year’s harvest would be as bountiful as the last. 

They tucked their gloves in their back pocket and grabbed the hoe from its spot leaning against the cabin. Though they were tired, and the sun’s rays beat down on the back of their neck, there was still much work to be done. The tilling was laborious, but soon they had created the neat, straight rows required for seeding. At least this small corner of their life was in order.

A far-off noise caught the hunter’s attention. It started off quiet, a rushing or rumbling sound – water? thunder? – and they soon recognized it as the engines of an approaching vessel, a transport ship. Their stomach sank. There was only one designated pick-up and drop-off spot in the area near their home, and no others knew where they lived except — 

Walter Fitzroy.

Bloodhound rushed inside their cabin to check their phone, the message blinking on their screen from Walter two hours prior, asking if they were home. He had sent them the question along with a string of emojis. To their dismay, their suspicion was now confirmed. Walter was coming.

They uttered the longest string of curses they knew and looked down at themself. Their pants were coated in dirt, their shirt sweat-stained, the hem tattered. They lifted their arm and lowered their face to smell themself and wrinkled their nose in distaste. It should not matter – Walter’s opinion of their appearance should be of little consequence to them. But, they could not ignore that they did care.

They stood in the house, wavering with indecision. It was not a long trip from the path to their home, a few minutes at most. Could they lock the door and pretend not to be home? That was a cowardly response, to be sure, but they wanted to avoid this meeting, this confrontation. If they met him, it could not be in this state, sweaty and disheveled, unprepared. 

Their gaze passed over the cabin — this too, was a mess, the blankets crumpled in haphazard heaps. They had spent the last few nights sleeping out here curled among the blankets and furs, a book slipping out of their slackened fingers, Artur nesting by their side. Why had they not cleaned?

Bloodhound summoned their thoughts into some semblance of order. First, perhaps they could change clothes. Then, they could fold the blankets, but they would have to hurry. Sweat prickled their underarms as they walked towards the bedroom and rifled through their drawers, grabbing the first clean pair of pants and shirt they could find.

They rushed to the bathroom and washed the soil off their hands until the water ran clear. Then, they stripped their dirty clothes off and slathered their underarms in deodorant. Truly, they needed a shower, but this would have to do. Bloodhound pulled on the clean jeans and T-shirt in a panic, not even looking at themself.

As they headed to the main room, intent on a whirlwind cleaning, there was a knock at the door. Bloodhound froze in place, eyes widening. Walter. Goggles. They ran back to the bedroom and fastened on the eyewear. Gods, if they had answered the door like that, they would surely have crumbled to the floor in humiliation.

Though Walter had seen some of their scars, what was visible of the lower half of their face, they were not ready to deal with his reaction if he saw it all. Hiding part of themself acted as a ward against some of their anxiousness. Seeing the world filtered through the slightly darkened lenses was easier, and allowed them to keep their distance from the others.

Bloodhound hesitated, hand on the doorknob. They had anticipated having to speak with the man again. Walter had admitted to wanting more than friendship, but life would be easier if they kept their relationship professional. How should they greet him? The hypothetical conversations had run through their mind several times, and always ended with a polite acceptance of an apology and a handshake goodbye, the custom that Walter was familiar with. Simple, neat, and polite. They would then send him on his way and finish their gardening. Though Walter’s presence was disconcerting, they must treat him as they would any other colleague from this day forward. 

Their hand tightened on the doorknob. What if he brought up Boone? They did not know Walter well, but there was no way he would be so cruel. Either way, they could not leave him standing outside any longer. With a big breath in and out, a silent plea for calm, they opened the door. 

Before them stood Walter Fitzroy, as expected. Today, he had foregone the usual vest and belts, opting for a simpler outfit, grey jeans and a black T-shirt stretched across the broad expanse of his chest. He grinned when he met their goggled gaze.

“Hiya, Houndy, my good ol’ elskhugi,” he said enthusiastically. Walter held a box in his hands, and he pressed it into theirs immediately. “Brought a lil somethin’ for ya.”

“Vinur,” Bloodhound corrected. This man never ceased to puzzle them, but his unflinching excitement did ease their worry a little. “I thank you, Walter Fitz–Walter.” 

They looked from the box to Walter, then back to the box. It was brown cardboard, simple, heavier than they expected. Perhaps this was a tradition where he was from, to always bring gifts when visiting another.

“Go on, open it,” Fuse encouraged, leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.

Bloodhound pulled out the tab that held the top of the box closed and slowly opened it up. They were almost afraid to look inside as if something would leap out at them. They disliked surprises but pulled the lid back just enough to peer at the contents. Within the box was a cake, sloppily iced in chocolate, uneven half-melted globs coating the surface. On top of it all in large, wobbly letters was the word ‘sorrv’ scrawled in pink icing.

“This is…nice,” they managed to say. “Might I ask – what is ‘sorrv’? I am unfamiliar with this word.”

“Erm, ran out of icing. Was s’posed to say ‘sorry’.” Walter scratched the back of his neck, the tops of his cheeks flushing a light red. “Look, Houndy, I feel like an ass for the other day. I shouldn’t’ve said what I did. know a cake doesn’t make up for it, but…I hope you’ll accept my apology. Give me a chance to make things right with ya.”

Bloodhound felt the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of their lips despite everything. Walter was a fool, loud and far too bold – everything they were not – but this gesture was kind and thoughtful. 

“I accept your words of apology.” There was so much more they wanted to say, but standing in the doorway holding a cake was not the place for such discussions. “Come in, sit.” They tilted their head toward the messy pile of pillows, blankets, and furs in the recessed seating area. “Please excuse the mess. I was…not expecting company.”

“The place looks fine to me.” Walter strode in, taking off his boots before he plopped into the soft cushions, looking as comfortable as if he had done this hundreds of times before. “Didn’t mean to barge in on ya, I just didn’t like leavin’ things off where we did.”

“It is fine.” It was only a half-truth. Though they wished this meeting had happened differently, this the sort of thing they had come to expect from Walter. They would never admit it to him, but something about his impulsiveness was endearing, a contrast to their calculated actions. Bloodhound put the cake down on the counter and set the kettle to heat up on the stove. “Would you care for tea, Walter?”

“Aw, no brennivín this time?” he teased, amusement in his voice.

“Gods, no,” they said, more emphatically than they had intended. Bloodhound cleared their throat. “I have decided not to partake for some time. I was…quite ill after my last encounter with the drink.”

“You were drunk off yer ass,” he called. “But tea sounds lovely.”

Bloodhound let the smile remain on their face as they took out two plates. They cut two thin slices and set them on the plates, then looked through the refrigerator until they found the strawberries they sought. The berries were dark red, plump - perfect companions for the cake. They arranged a few out next to each slice. While they waited for the water to finish boiling, they let their fingers graze over the labels of the jars in the cabinet, mouthing the words as their fingertips touched them. Myntu, baldursbrá, vallhumli, sítrónubörkur. What kind of tea would Walter like? Something sweet, perhaps – or strong?

The kettle whistled loudly, and they decided on a robust, black tea. Simple, but it would balance the sweetness of the cake and berries nicely. They tucked the loose tea into the mesh strainers and allowed it to sit and steep while they brought the dishes to Walter.

“Thanks, Houndy,” he said and immediately stuffed a forkful into his mouth.

Bloodhound took a small experimental nibble. They did not often gravitate towards desserts but did indulge from time to time. Despite the cake’s questionable appearance, it was moist and dense, the chocolate icing not too sweet.

“I should be thanking you for preparing this treat.” Their cheeks prickled with warmth. Why did everything they say to Walter sound so awkward and stiff?

“It’s the least I could do after you shared that delicious stew and taught me how to use a bow. Thanks again for that, by the way.”

“Mm, ekki málið,” they murmured, falling into silence as they focused on eating.

“Nice shirt, by the way. I gotta say it surprised me to see ya wearin’ somethin' like that. Suits ya, though.” He winked. “Adorable.”

Adorable? Bloodhound cocked their head to the side, this must be another of the man’s jokes. “My shirt–?”

They almost choked on the bite of cake when they looked down and realized what clothing they had donned in their haste. It was light blue, a nice color, like a spring sky, but the decal on the front – gods, why had they not thrown this away? There was a pile of kittens of various breeds on the front of the shirt. Butterflies flew across and the scene and the kittens frolicked and chased the insects across the grass.

“Th-this was a gift from Loba,” they managed after swallowing their bite of cake with great difficulty, their mouth now dry. “It was given to me as a jest, I had not realized that I still…I should have–” they stood up abruptly. “I must attend to the tea.”

Bloodhound heard Walter’s soft chuckle as they scrambled out of the furs to fetch the two steaming mugs. None of this was going as planned, and they needed to get things back on track. They removed the strainers from the cups and tapped them against the rims to get the last drops, then set them in the sink. Later, they would add the used, loose tea into their compost.

The hunter carried the steaming cups carefully, then handed one to Walter. They settled back among the cushions, hoping desperately that he would not mention their clothing again.

Bloodhound took one small sip to wet their mouth, readying themself to speak. “I wish to extend my apologies to you as well, Walter.” They clasped their hands around the mug in their lap. “I have acted foolishly, and it was dishonorable of me to assume you had ill intentions.” They looked away, to the side. “Those who have tried to…befriend me before did so for their own motives. I do not give my trust lightly.”

“No need for an apology, really.” He saw their face and smiled. “But I accept. I hope ya feel that ya can trust me.”

There was something about this man they did trust — he was brash and spoke his mind with little filtration, it seemed, but so far he had not lied that they knew of. Their hands suddenly felt cold despite the warmth of the ceramic against their palms.

“I do,” they said, and despite the weight of the words, they meant it.

“Vinur?” he asked. 

“Vinur,” Bloodhound affirmed, looking up with a small smile. This was progress – they could relax. Now, to finish the tea, wish him well, then send him on his way. 

“Y’know, ya never told me what elskhugi meant,” Walter said, then took a sip of tea. 

Panic zinged through them. “It is unimportant — you have the correct word now,” they said quickly, stumbling over their words. “Do you like the tea?”

“Tea’s good.” A mischievous twinkle shone in Walter’s eye and he stroked his mustache. “It’s gotta be somethin’ bad if ya don’t wanna tell me.”

Bloodhound shook their head. “Not quite…bad. Just… sko… ” They were glad they had been generous with the deodorant — sweat began to prickle beneath their arms.

“Then what? C’mon Houndy, ya gotta tell me.” Walter smiled that smug, confident grin that suited him well. He bit a strawberry, the red juice dotting his lips, then his pink tongue snuck out to slowly lick away the sweet nectar.

Bloodhound’s chest constricted at the way he leaned forward while he did this, his gaze fixed on them, eyebrows raised. He scooted towards them a little more, setting down his cup. 

The hunter looked at him evenly and tensed in anticipation, their mouth tightening. His hand slid over the furs until his finger contacted the side of their thigh, just barely brushing the worn denim of their pants. Bloodhound stared into their mug of tea, watching the swirling patterns of steam rise from the surface. They closed their eyes, remembering.

A demure smile where arrogance usually rested, a humble offering. His voice, hushed and quiet, tickling their ear, suggesting, teasing. Their skin prickling with electricity, body coming to life under his tempting touch. His hand sliding up their thigh to the place that he knew would leave them breathless. Promises shared under the stars, the same stars that flashed behind their eyelids as they let themself descend into shared passion. This Blóðhundur, young and foolish, had hope for the future, their future together – the only one that had ever called anything more than félagi .

“Please?” Walter asked, pulling them from the memory, his eye soft, imploring.

The word ‘no’ became stuck in their throat. They tried to dislodge it, but it would not come forth as they stared at him; they could not deny him when he looked at them so eagerly, touched them like this. This would be a problem, a fact that would surely go to Walter’s head if he ever found out. 

“It means ‘lover,’” they explained, resigned, their voice soft, barely audible. 

“Oh,” Walter breathed, his eye widening in surprise. “That right?”

Warmth settled on the tops of Bloodhound’s cheeks, a splash of pink across their fair skin. “Yes.”

He was quiet for a moment — unusual for the loud and boisterous man. Bloodhound took a sip of their tea to try and calm themself. Their slender fingers quaked around the thick ceramic, and they gripped it harder to try and steady themself. Why did Walter always have this effect on them?

“Well,” he started, taking a too-loud slurping sip of his tea. “S’pose that isn’t us.” He paused. “Yet.”

A small choked noise escaped from Bloodhound. “I…” They could not form a coherent response, and looked to Walter in alarm, waiting for him to relieve them, to admit that he was only kidding. He had to be joking. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

His expression softened when he saw their distress and he set his mug down. “I’m only messin’ with ya.”

All Bloodhound could do was nod, but as flustered as they felt at his brazen jest, they could not deny that their heart leapt at the thought. Walter studied their expression carefully, his own settling into something more serious. He crept closer until he was facing them among the cushions. His knee touched theirs as they sat cross-legged on a cushion, unmoving. Walter took the mug from them and their fingers released it to him limply. 

His hand found theirs, his skin warm, somehow feeling warmer to them than the hot mug that had just occupied their hands. He skimmed their knuckles with his thumb, swiping over bone and scar with care.

“Wh-what are you doing?” they managed to utter.

“Do I make you that uncomfortable? Your hands are shakin’.” A flash of doubt crossed his face. “Maybe I shouldn’t tease so much, if ya don’t like it.”

This was not the conversation they had rehearsed and they were unprepared. The truth was, they did like it. His words caused warmth to bloom within them, their heart to flutter wildly within their chest in a way it had not in decades.

In these moments, Walter made them feel carefree, the same way – they swallowed – the same way he had, but without the naivety of youth, without the thoughtless passion of two lovers barely into adulthood. Walter’s actions were intentional, practiced, boasted experience that piqued their curiosity.

Bloodhound licked their lips, their tongue poking at a small piece of chapped skin. “I am merely unused to such attention,” Bloodhound said stiffly, as close to admitting the truth as they could manage. They prayed that he would not question them further. “It…surprises me at times.”

Walter smiled knowingly. “Guess that means I’ve gotta get you used it then, ay?”

Their lips parted in surprise, truly speechless now. Bloodhound flinched as his artificial hand lifted towards their face. For years they had only known pain and fighting, blocking any movement towards their face instinctively to protect it from blows. It took all of their willpower to release the tension they held, and let Walter continue.

The cool metal cupped their cheek, the touch gentle, the surface a cold relief against their burning skin. They let out the breath they had been holding and closed their eyes, leaning into the touch. Starting at their head, they willfully released the tightness in their jaw and neck, their arms, chest, stomach, legs, all the way down their feet, even their toes had been clenched in their anxiety.

“That’s it,” Walter said gently, his voice raspy and low, as if speaking to a wounded animal that would bolt at any sudden words or gestures. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

This intimacy, this closeness was everything their broken soul had craved for years. Their spirit sang, and they let the joy fill them. They reveled in the momentary happiness until a sliver of darkness pierced them, poisoning the experience. 

Shame.

A man such as Walter, with an appearance that was pleasing, would surely be dissatisfied by a body, a face as marred as theirs. It was better to let him know, let him see now so he could break things off before they let themself get too attached. The quicker they experienced the disappointment of his disgust, the quicker they could heal and move on. They could try to forget any of this ever happened, the hope of a connection squashed.

Rejection.

“W-wait,” they stuttered, leaning away from him. Their hands shook as they reached behind their head for the clasps on their goggles. They could barely grasp the buckle as much as their fingers trembled. “Before you–before we–” their throat constricted, their breathing quickened as their fingers refused to work properly. “You should see what…”

Bloodhound closed their eyes, unable to watch his face as they made a fool out of themself yet again. Panic rose within and they squeezed their eyes shut tighter. A strong pair of hands, one flesh, one robotic, covered theirs, still fumbling with the clasps. 

“Easy, Houndy.” He pushed their hands down to their sides and kept holding them. “Ya don’t have to do all that.”

The tremor found its way to their lips, leaving them barely able to speak. “I…I think you must see. My face is,” they paused and gritted their teeth, the self-loathing they had nursed over the years finding its way into their voice. “Ruined. It…is not what you–”

Walter's hands released theirs to cup their cheeks as their voice trailed off. Their eyes shot open in time to see him lean forward, moving closer and closer until the tip of his nose almost brushed theirs.

“I don’t need to see what’s under the goggles to know you’re not ruined.” His thumbs grazed the scars extending from under the bottom leather of their eyewear. 

“Th-thank you, but–”

“Shh,” he soothed. 

His breath was warm against their face, smelling of tea and cake, the fresh scent of his cologne mixing with it all in an intoxicating blend. Their heart raced — any faster and they would certainly faint, but they fought to stay present, to be here with him. 

“You’re not ruined, Houndy,” he repeated huskily, his lips mere inches from theirs.

Then, against the wild beating of their heart and the blood ringing in their ears, Walter kissed them. 

It was slow, tentative, the warm cushion of his lips fitting against theirs perfectly, a moment of bliss, as if they had always been like this and always would. His mustache brushed against their upper lip and nose, the bristles tickling but softer than they expected. He was firm, but gentle, allowing them the chance to pull away.

They did not.

Parts of them that had long slumbered awoke, desire and passion surging within them, the joy swelling within their chest until they were sure they would burst. Walter lifted his mouth from theirs to allow them to both take a breath, then pressed his lips to theirs again, harder this time.

Emboldened, Bloodhound lifted their quaking hands to him, one resting against the firm swell of his pecs, the other cautiously sliding behind his neck into the longer hair at the nape of his neck. His tresses were as silky as they had imagined, smooth. The dark strands slipped between their calloused fingers. They pulled him to them and his breathy chuckle tickled their lips, but the sound of the laugh was quickly muffled when they kissed him back, covering half of his mouth with theirs. Bloodhound tasted the remnants of strawberry, and something deeper. They wanted more.

Their kiss was inelegant, awkward and slightly off-center, but Walter did not miss a beat. He casually shifted the angle of his face to capture their lips fully. He let his metallic hand slide down their chest to rest at their waist, the pressure of his touch searing through them. A need that they had not felt in many years pooled in their middle, winding up tightly within them. His hand descended a little, to their hip, two fingers slipping into their empty belt loop.

Bloodhound took a shaky breath, their head swimming as his other hand wound into their hair, lightly tugging their auburn locks near the roots. They were quickly approaching a point where their thoughts fizzled into static, only able to focus on his lips and hands, the scents overloading their senses. When he gripped their hip harder, pulling them forward, a tiny groan passed their lips despite their best attempt to contain it.

Walter smiled against their mouth and finally pulled away to look at them. He patted their crimson cheek affectionately before sitting back on the cushions. “You don’t have to be anythin’ other than yourself around me, alright?”

“Alright,” they said quietly, mind still reeling and processing what had happened. Bloodhound grabbed their cup of tea, but paused, not yet wanting to wash away the taste of him that still lingered on their lips.

“Reckon I should get outta your hair. I saw the tools out front, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“It is not a problem,” they said quietly, face reddening anew. “There is still much to be done, in the garden, but I am glad that you came to visit.”

“Let’s do it again sometime when you’re not in the middle of somethin’.” He finished the rest of his tea in three big gulps and stood, crawling out of the pillows slowly. 

“I would like that,” Bloodhound said quietly, in awe of the words crossing their lips. What had happened to sending him away as only a friend, a coworker? Now, they did not want him to leave.

“Maybe at my place? I can try ‘n’ cook something for us. It won’t be as good as your stew, but ol’ Fusey knows how to make a thing or two.”

A small smile alighted their face at the thought of the cake. The presentation was a bit offputting, but the taste was good. There was honor in the effort, and they knew better than most to not judge by outward appearances. Bloodhound followed him, their legs weak as they pulled themself out out of the nest of furs. 

They moved to open the door for him, hesitating. Were they supposed to kiss him again? Was that too forward? Perhaps a hug instead – or was that not enough after what they had just shared? This was one of the areas where their skills were dull, their knowledge lacking. Instead, they twisted their hands together uncomfortably.

Walter stood, wordlessly watching them, then smiled gently. “See ya ‘round.” He slipped his arms around their shoulders, pulling them into his chest for an embrace. 

They let their hands come up to encircle his middle, returning the affection. It was different this time, his hand stroking a small circle on their upper back, an unspoken acknowledgment of what they had shared, and could share in the future. The warmth of his body radiated onto theirs, sinking into their clothing along with his cologne. When Walter finally released them, they let their hands drop to their sides bonelessly, unsure of what else to say.

“Yes. I will see you later, Walter.” Bloodhound watched him descend the wooden steps to the path.

He turned around one last time and gave them a wave and a cheeky salute. Bloodhound bit their lip, their cheeks burning once again as they nodded at him in return. They closed the door and leaned against it, their body sagging against the wood. It had taken all of their strength to remain upright.

They lifted their hand to their face, pressing the memory of his fingers into their skin, holding onto to the ghost of his touch that remained, etched into every nerve. Though this had not been the apology and reunion they planned for, it was better than they had expected, more than they could have hoped for, more than they deserved.

Unworthy.

Bloodhound sighed and walked to the bedroom, but stopped before they opened the drawer where Boone’s picture rested.  Normally they would check the photo to ensure it was still there. Then, like a ritual, they would open it to read the words, to relive it all, the good and the bad in one breathtaking instant.

This time, they hesitated.

They caught a whiff of Walter, fresh air and pine, complex woody notes, a hint of leather and smoke. Bloodhound lifted the neckline of their shirt to their nose and inhaled deeply.

They smiled as their phone chimed on their bedside table and Walter’s name popped up on their screen. This was a opportunity to chase the taste of happiness they had sampled today, the closeness they had denied themself for twenty winters. Despite their uncertainty, despite Walter’s unpredictability and their own self-doubt, they decided to take that chance. 

For years they had only acted out of duty, mechanically completing tasks due to the guilt they bore for their failings, for others. This was something they needed to do for themself. Not for Boone, not for Mother or Father, not for Uncle Artur, not even for Walter.

It would not be easy, but perhaps it was time to break old habits and live in the present. For Blóðhundur.

Chapter Text

The elevator chimed softly with each floor Bloodhound ascended, signaling the rapid approach to their destination. They fidgeted with the tiny clay pot in their hands. Walter had brought them a gift each time he came to visit them, and perhaps it would please him if they partook in this custom as well. They were unsure if Walter liked plants or enjoyed caring for them, but they believed that the small succulent with its plump, pale green leaves would be easy enough for the man to maintain. 

Today was finally the day of their dinner with Walter. He had been texting them excitedly all week, occasionally sending a good morning or good night message, random check-ins to see how they were doing, or to see if they had hunted anything worthwhile. At first, it had been strange to regularly check their phone – they often did not bring it with them. But there was something oddly appealing about knowing that another awaited their response, and knowing that they had crossed Walter’s mind during the day. It seemed that he crossed theirs just as often. 

They had even dared to send an emoji, their very first. It was just a simple face, a smile in response to the picture he had sent of his fresh haircut. Walter’s reaction to their message had been so over the top that they had to put the device down for a time, their cheeks burning scarlet. They had buried their face in their hands to hide their flush, though no one else could see them. It was embarrassing, but secretly, they adored the attention.

They glanced at their reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator and frowned behind their respirator. It had been a long time since they left their home in casual clothes and even longer since they had visited the home of another. Their dark grey jeans were well-worn and soft but without holes, and paired nicely with the black leather jacket they rarely had the opportunity to wear. It had been a gift from Loba some time ago, though, unlike the kitten T-shirt that had been a joke, this had been a genuine attempt to get them to dress differently and go out with her and the other Legends for drinks. 

They had accepted the gift with tact, but had refused to accompany her to a too-loud bar with overpriced drinks. What would be the point? The music would overshadow any conversation that might be had, and dancing was not exactly something they were interested in doing publicly. 

Bloodhound turned to the side. Their pants tonight were a little tighter than their battle outfit, the material more restrictive, stretching across and showing the shape of their well-muscled thighs and backside in a way the stiff canvas pants did not. Though they were technically covered up, they felt exposed. 

Their hair was clean, freshly washed with a few drops of almond oil brushed through it for shine and softness. They had attempted several styles of braids, but settled on a simple, clean look with two small braids along each side to keep the hair out of their face, but allowed the rest to cascade over their shoulders. Hopefully, Walter would find their appearance acceptable. 

Bloodhound gave themself a final once-over before the elevator finally stopped on the very top floor, the eightieth level of the building. They swallowed thickly. Eighty floors at perhaps fifteen feet apiece — they forced their morbidly curious mind to stop calculating the distance. 

It was better if they did not know. Below their feet was metal and concrete, not open air. Solid. It was safe and secure here…hundreds of feet above the ground. 

Bloodhound’s heart skipped when the elevator dinged. This was it. The metal doors opened, revealing a hallway with a single, dark red door at the end. As they passed by the ferns that lined the hall, their approach created just enough breeze for the green fronds to wiggle in greeting. 

They smoothed out their T-shirt, wiped their damp palms on the back of their pants, and knocked on the door. Their knuckles rapped against the metal in a staccato pattern, trying to come across as firm, but not too insistent. Just then, they spied the doorbell beside the frame and their stomach dropped. Should they have pressed the button instead? They still could. Maybe he had not heard the knock if he was busy cooking — they should give him another moment.

Bloodhound shifted from foot to foot but resisted the urge to check their phone. They had been sure to double and triple check the date and time before they had begun to journey. This was the correct date, time, and place. Patience was an important virtue — but Walter was taking too long. They reached for the doorbell and pressed the button just as the front door clicked with the sound of unlatching deadbolts. Bloodhound pulled their hand away sheepishly.

The door opened inward to reveal Walter, standing in the doorway. His cheeks were pink and clean-shaven, his mustache freshly trimmed. The tank top he wore was half tucked into the front of his pants, behind a belt that looked new and unworn, no cracks or scuffs in the leather. He looked good. His hair was a little disheveled, perhaps, but in an intentional way that suited him. On top of it all, he wore that knowing smile, one of their favorite features of his. 

“Evenin’ Houndy,” he said. “Hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding the place.”

“No, Walter, it was fairly simple,” they replied, speaking slowly to ensure they called him the appropriate name. Bloodhound held their hands out before them, awkwardly presenting the man with their offering. “For you.”

He took the pot from them, his fingers grazing theirs as they carefully transferred it to his grasp. “Adorable, thanks, mate! A little plant will liven things up around here.” Walter stepped back inside, holding the door open with his hip and nodding towards the apartment. “Come in, don’t be shy, now. Make yourself at home.”

Bloodhound stepped over the threshold cautiously. They were instantly greeted by the savory scent of cooking meat and spices: oregano, basil, and garlic. Noticing that Walter did not wear his shoes inside, they bent to untie their bootlaces. They watched him move about the apartment as he searched for a place to put the plant. 

They stuck their hands in their pockets, rising to the balls of their feet and lowering again as they looked around. The apartment was spacious, surrounded by large, windowed walls that offered a view of the entire city — they would be sure to keep their distance. As beautiful as it might be to those that enjoyed a city view, looking down and realizing how far up they truly were was not an enticing prospect. 

The decorations were modern and minimalist, the space was open without walls separating the kitchen or dining area. Two large couches took up one corner of the room, and beyond, a hallway that they presumed led to the bedrooms and bathroom.

Walter set the succulent on a table beside one of the window panels. “Reckon the lil’ guy will be happy right here.”

Bloodhound nodded in agreement and unclasped their respirator and let it dangle against their chest. The terra-cotta pot looked rustic and out of place next to the abstract, glazed art pieces that also adorned the table. 

“A bit of sun and a little water once or twice per week is all it needs. It does not require much.”

“Ah, that’s good to know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have much of a green thumb. Thanks for thinkin’ of me.” 

For once, the man seemed at a loss for words, his eyebrows drawn together slightly. If they didn’t know better, they would have assumed him to be nervous. 

“Somethin’ to drink? Water, wine? I don’t know shit about wine, but I’ve got a bottle that the fella at the store recommended. Somethin’ that he said was ‘divine.’”

Snippets of their mishap with the brennivín came back to them. Though they did not remember much of the evening with Walter, the day after had been spent alternating between bed and the bathroom, teetering on the edge of nausea for hours. Artur had watched them critically, preening his feathers in silent judgment as they shuffled from room to room. 

“I have been known to…lose myself under the effect of alcohol. Perhaps water to start?”

Walter winked. “Comin’ right up.”

He filled a glass for them and pressed it into their hand. Bloodhound was grateful for the water and immediately took a sip. The water was cool on their parched tongue, and they realized how dry their mouth had been. As they drank, they let their eyes travel down to the exposed skin above the low neckline of Walter’s shirt, the dark hairs of his chest visible, but quickly snapped them back up to his face.

“How ‘bout the ol’ grand tour?” Walter motioned for them to come in closer out of the entryway, and they stepped across the dark tile to meet him in the middle of the room. “Well, you can see everythin’ in here. ‘Open concept is in’ is what they told me when they put me up here. Dunno about any of that – I just took what they gave me.” He shrugged. 

“It is…nice,” they said, unsure what other pleasantries were expected of them. Bloodhound followed him down the hallway as he pointed to doors left and right. 

“Extra bedroom, bathroom, extra bedroom, office – don’t need a bloody office – extra bedroom. Not sure how many people they thought I was gonna be havin’ over. Guess my reputation from Salvo followed me, even here.” He turned to grin at them, trying to joke, but their face was unreactive. 

Bloodhound’s pace slowed. “Your reputation?” 

He frowned slightly. “I was a bit of a partier back in the day. Gettin’ a bit too old for all that now, though. Er, but you’re the first to visit me here,” Walter added quickly. 

“Ah,” Bloodhound managed to get out, unused to banter such as this. “I-I am honored that I am your first — the first,” they corrected quickly and let their voice trail off. 

Their cheeks warmed. They were out of their element here. Throw them into the woods to track a deer or prowler, they would easily complete the hunt with finesse, quickly and efficiently accomplishing the task. Ask them which knife was best for whittling wood, which for skinning, which for delivering devastating blows to their foes in battle and they could answer without hesitation. Foraging, field dressing prey, or growing crops — these were all the things they knew well.

Navigating this right now with Walter felt clumsy, like a foal taking its first steps on wobbly legs, their stuttered words stilted and too formal. 

“Anyway, you haven’t even seen the best room of the whole place,” Walter said, grabbing their hand and unashamedly pulling them towards the last open door at the end of the hall. 

Bloodhound’s eyes widened behind their goggles. His bedroom was decorated as minimally as the rest of the house, a large bed over a low frame, much larger than theirs back in their cabin, covered with a dark, plush comforter. There was plenty of room in the bed for two, if not more. Two empty beer bottles sat on the bedside table, which Walter hastily grabbed and tossed into the small trash can in the room.

“Whoops, thought I got ‘em all,” he said with an uncomfortable chuckle. 

Walter stepped towards the outside wall, clear glass from floor to ceiling with a door cut into it that led to a balcony. Beyond, skyscrapers and antennas pierced the sky, dark against the swirling reds and oranges of a fiery sunset. 

“Best view in the whole city.” Walter reached for their hand again and tugged them towards the door.

“W-Walter, I—” They did not want to get closer, but their legs kept moving to follow, refusing to listen to their command.

“Gorgeous, right?” he asked as he opened the door.

A gust of cool air forced its way into the room, rustling their hair. The sides of their vision darkened and their palm grew cold, even in his large, warm grip. Could they admit their cowardice now, having barely gotten to know the man? It would be rude to spoil his excitement, as eager as he seemed to show them. 

A smell suddenly reached them, above the evening air. It was acrid and dark — smoke, fire. 

“Is something burning?” they asked hesitantly.

“Fuckin’ hell, the garlic bread!”

Walter’s smile instantly faded and he dashed towards the kitchen, leaving Bloodhound to stand in the bedroom alone. They finally allowed their shoulders to slump in relief, having contained all the nervousness they desperately wanted to hide from him. Once they had composed themself, they went after Walter. He stood over the oven, frantically fanning blackened slices of bread with an oven mitt. Smoke rose from the pan and he coughed, occasionally glancing up at the fire alarm on the ceiling. 

Bloodhound watched the man with sympathy. The ground meat that was browning on a pan had begun to look a little dry and risked its own burning soon, set too long without being stirred. They removed their jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the chairs at the table. They clipped their respirator back on to protect their lungs against the fumes and slid in beside Walter. One of their hands rested on his side to gently move him out of the way. 

“Ya don’t have to do that, Houndy. I’m supposed to be the one doin’ the cookin’.” He desperately looked from the burnt bread to the beef, clearly wavering with indecision.

“There is no shame in requiring assistance.” This was one thing that they were comfortable doing, and helping prepare the meal took some of the discomfort out of this meeting. They peered at the counter, finding the olive oil, salt, and pepper. Bloodhound added a small drizzle to the dry pan, then twirled the spice rack until they located rosemary and thyme, adding a dash of each. “We can do this together.”

“So what you’re really sayin’ is that I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” he teased, scraping the burnt remains of the bread off of the baking sheet. 

Bloodhound smiled gently as they slid the spatula along the bottom of the frying pan to loosen the bits of beef that had stuck. “I did not quite say that.”

“Well,” Walter mused, throwing the charred remains of the garlic bread into the trash. “Sometimes it’s what ya don’t say. But I’m glad ya came to my rescue. I shoulda warned you that I am a shit cook.”

“Mm,” Bloodhound hummed. “It is unfortunate what happened to the bread. Do you have any more?”

“Nah, but it’s for the best. Garlic prob’ly isn’t the best idea on a date anyway, is it, ay?”

Bloodhound’s mouth tightened at the insinuation, glad that the warmth of the oven and stove could be blamed for the slight flush across the tops of their cheeks. They relaxed a bit at Walter’s gentle laugh, though, allowing themself a small smile, the tiniest huff of amusement. 

“I suppose it is not.”

The meat now rescued, bread crisis taken care of, Walter resumed his role as head chef. He arranged bagged salad mix on two plates, then popped the top off of a jar of sauce to mix it in with the beef. 

Bloodhound crossed their arms over their chest, leaning against the counter as they watched him. They were no purist when it came to food, though they preferred to mainly use what they had hunted or grown for their own meals. There was something that tasted better when the ingredients were harvested on their land, the flavorful bounty of the forest. 

Walter mixed everything carefully with great focus, a small trickle of sweat running down his temple from the heat rising from the stove. Still, they thought, there was something even more appealing about enjoying food that another had prepared for them with care. They could not recall the last time they had eaten the home-cooked meal of another. 

They helped him carry the dishes and laid them out on the table next to the silverware that was already set out. The smoke in the room had dissipated, so they removed their respirator and sat back in the chair. Walter set down two wine glasses and turned the bottle in his hands to show Bloodhound the label. It bore the image of a fox, its tail twisting around the side of the bottle, eyes narrowed with mischief. He uncorked the bottle and poured the dark, red liquid into the glass closest to himself, but paused before filling the second.

“Whaddya think?”

Bloodhound stared at the mouth of the bottle hovering over the second cup. Part of them wanted to decline the drink. They wanted to be sure that they remained in control of themselves, of their thoughts that seemed to race in his presence. Their eyes trailed up the bottle, across his muscular forearm covered with dark hair, his flexed bicep adorned with faded tattoos. They finally lifted their gaze to his. Though his eyepatch covered one eye, they could see in the other a desire to do things right, to please. They cleared their throat and nodded. It would be impossible to deny him outright when he looked like this. 

“A small amount,” they conceded. 

Walter poured half the amount into their cup and placed it before them on the table. “I wanted to apologize again for the way things started between us, for what I said before.” He sat down, scooted his chair in, and held his glass up in their direction. “To new beginnings?”

Bloodhound smiled and lifted their glass as well. “To new beginnings.”

They waited until Walter brought the glass to his lips, then took a sip with him. The drink was smooth, the hint of dryness that they had expected tempered by the mild sweetness of berries, the faintest hint of something deep, like cocoa.

Walter swirled the wine in his glass while the corners of his lips turned down into an appreciative frown. “Not bad.”

The pair ate quietly at first. Bloodhound focused on their plate intently, unsure of what to say. The pasta had been topped with a hearty scoop of the meaty sauce, and they mixed it together, twirling the noodles around in their fork. They almost jumped when Walter spoke.

“It’s no stew made from scratch, but I hope it’s alright for ya.” He grinned suddenly, a brilliant smile that showed his strong, white teeth. “Reckon it’s better than that pasta in the dining hall, anyway.”

Bloodhound sipped their wine, feeling just the slightest hint of the effects. “You have prepared a fine meal,” they offered. 

Through dinner, the alcohol settled into a pleasant buzz, just enough to warm their stomach and loosen the stiffness of their tongue. It was easiest to fall into a discussion about the Apex Games: their favorite weapons, predictions about map changes next season, and which Legend was due to have their abilities scaled back.

This conversation was comfortable for them, but Bloodhound wanted to ask more personal questions, questions about him – why he joined the games, where he was from, his likes and dislikes. The curious part of them, the part that the wine began to pull to the forefront, wanted to ask him to speak further about his earlier comment about his ‘reputation.’ Surely he had some interesting tales under his belt — but they did not wish to pry. Perhaps if the conversation veered that way naturally, they could ask some of these things.

After dinner, the dishes were all placed in the sink, and the pair moved to one of the couches, wine glasses in hand. Bloodhound accepted just a tiny bit more, sipping slowly and pacing themself. They sat back on the plush cushions, running their fingers over the velvety soft material as they watched Walter crouch in front of the TV stand. It was impossible to ignore the view as he rummaged through the cabinet. 

His tank top allowed a generous view of strong back and shoulder muscles. Bloodhound tightened their hand into a fist when their mind wandered to what it might feel like to dig their fingers into that muscle, feel each one move underneath their fingertips as he—

“I get the sense you tend to prefer things a little lower tech.” Walter pulled out a record, the album cover black with the band’s name emblazoned in white across the front. “Bit of an oldie but goodie. Like me,” Walter said cheekily, turning to Bloodhound, his smile widening at the pink tinge that returned on their face. “You like classic rock?”

Bloodhound shrugged as they set their now-empty wine glass on the coffee table. The truth was that they did not often listen to music. What need was there for loud  music when they could enjoy the soft birdsong at the first light of dawn? In the evenings, the crickets chirped, filling the air with their familiar sounds. The pattering of rain on their cabin roof soothed them more than any serenade as they curled among the furs with a warm cup of tea. The sounds of nature were enough to satisfy them.  

Still, they knew the modern songs that played in the dropship, the ones that the younger Legends danced to. Over the years, they had picked up a passing knowledge of popular music, but what they truly longed for were the sounds of Talos, of home. 

There was a haunting beauty to the trill of hand-carved flutes. The power of the drums was unmatched, stretched taut with the leather of past hunts. In the Great Hall, Bloodhound would sit and listen with wonder to the clear and bright music of stringed instruments that settled deep within their spirit. While they feasted with the villagers, the singers lamented the change of seasons and told the tales of the old gods, the old ways.

Walter placed the record on the small turntable and lowered the needle until the music began. To their surprise, Bloodhound did recognize this song, buried in their mind, the memory hazy as if coated in a thick layer of dust. Long ago, they had wandered the Outlands, taking on hunts and missions to earn money for their village. A trader had offered them passage in exchange for three thick pelts and a knife carved from the tooth of a prowler. This song had been played many times on that journey, and the trader had excitedly showed them that he wore the band’s accompanying T-shirt. 

Bloodhound drummed their fingers on their thigh to the beat. It wasn’t that they disliked the music – the drums were fast but in time, and there was a certain charm in the way the wailing of guitars and impassioned vocals wound together over the thumping of steady bass. They could appreciate the craftsmanship of the song, the intensity. It brought back those memories of days past, when things were simpler and they were younger, still filled with hope that they could enact change for the future. 

They smiled wistfully. Their eyes were drawn to Walter as he approached – likely this music did the same for him, too. Walter sat beside them, slinging his arm over the back of the couch, barely brushing Bloodhound’s shoulders. 

“I recall this song,” they said, trying to strike up a neutral, casual conversation. “It was…quite popular.”

“Aye, it was,” he said, smiling. “My ol’ mate Mags and I used to blast this one after a good brawl. Crackin’ skulls, then crackin’ open coldies.”

“It does sound like a good song for fighting. Ah, powerful,” they added. 

“Right,” he agreed. “Y’know, it’s good for other things, too.”

It was slow, tentative, but his bare arm slid lower until it rested against them, metal hand curling over the top of their shoulder. Bloodhound looked down and away, feeling Walter’s eye on them. They stared into their empty glass on the coffee table. Maybe they should have had more wine.

His other hand reached for theirs, thick fingers resting lightly on their hand in gentle invitation. They had anticipated this and allowed the touch. His index finger stroked the back of theirs, tracing the thin white scar across their knuckle. 

“This okay?” Walter asked. 

“Yes,” they said softly. 

His hand slid up their thigh a few inches, a featherlight touch trailing over the worn denim. “Still good?”

“Y-yes.” Despite the way their breath felt short, they felt their body responding to his touch, a tightening in their lower stomach that wrapped around to the small of their back.

The arm around their shoulder slid back so his hand cupped the back of their neck, steel cool against flushed skin. He toyed with a lock of their hair, twirling it around one finger. Walter smiled at Bloodhound’s sudden intake of breath when he slid his hand higher on their thigh, just another inch. It was not quite indecent, but moved beyond a simple touch between comrades, between vinir. 

Heat radiated from Walter’s hand on their leg, a tingle spreading from beneath his thick palm. They were suddenly acutely aware of how restrictive their pants felt, growing tighter the longer they stayed like this. Their head swam among the smell of his aftershave that wafted around them, fresh and crisp.

The music in the background escalated, picked up speed in time to the thrumming of their heart. Walter leaned forward and, hand still on the back of their neck, guided their face towards his. 

Walter’s lips were as soft as they remembered from last time, plump, tasting of wine, lush dark cherries and hints of oak. They gripped the couch cushion more tightly as his tongue swiped languidly across their lips, passing over each bump and ridge of hairline scars. They opened their mouth to him, expecting his tongue to push inside, but to their surprise, he pulled back, his expression serious.

Why had he stopped? Had they not performed in the way he expected? They knew they were out of practice with these things, intimate touches and actions. They were sure their face was completely crimson. “I – have I done something wrong? It has been…some time since…

“Nah, you’re doin’ great,” he murmured. 

Walter slowly tugged at each of their fingers until he had pried their hand off the cushion. They had not noticed how tightly they held it until they saw that the velveteen surface held the imprint of the pressure and moisture from their palm. An apology hovered on their lips, but they held it back with great effort, seeing that he was going to speak.

“You’re grippin’ the couch for dear life. If you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to do anythin’ at all.”

The pause was for their sake, they realized, not due to his displeasure. Their eyes dropped in shame, but they froze when they saw the confirmation of his arousal pushing against the crotch of his pants. Desire filled them, burned within their belly. The wine encouraged them to push aside the thoughts of doubt that threatened to ruin the moment.

“I wish to continue,” they said. This time, their voice did not shake.

Walter smiled, dazzling them with that roguish look that caused the breath to hitch in their throat. He leaned down and they let themself be guided down until they were half-reclined on the couch, Walter above them, his knee between their thighs. Their limbs trembled with excitement and trepidation. The view from below him was as enticing as they had imagined, and they allowed themself to enjoy this, soaking it in and committing it to memory.

He nudged his knee up slightly and Bloodhound couldn’t hold back the groan as the side of his thigh brushed against their stiffening shaft. Their hands lay limply on the couch, unsure of what the protocol was, what he wanted.

“You can touch me, Houndy. S’alright,” Walter murmured. “Don’t be shy, now.”

Experimentally, they gripped his sides, running their hands up and down his torso slowly. His body was strong, muscles prominent despite his age. It was obvious he had known a life of fighting from his calluses and tattoos, the scars he bore, his prosthetic arm, and eye patch. The evidence of decades of battles looked appealing on him, bespoke of many stories of strength and survival.

It was a shame that such things looked disfiguring on them. They hoped that Walter would not be too disappointed when he saw more of them, everything they had hidden for so many years behind their mask and clothes. 

“There ya go,” Walter praised, pulling them from their thoughts.

His approval soaked into their starved spirit, encouraging a blossoming within them from places they thought had long withered. Walter bent down to kiss them again, heavier, more hungrily. His hands wandered their form, one sliding up under their shirt to skim their tight abdomen, the other slid lower between their thighs, brushing over the bulge that was now impossible for either of them to ignore. 

Walter moved his fingers down the length of it through the denim, and as embarrassing as it was, they let out a tight wine and bucked their hips up against his hand, wanting more, needing more. They closed their eyes and felt themself begin to slip away, their mind drawing up sensations of long, dark hair tickling their neck, of slender fingers gripping them tightly, stroking, rubbing, until — they opened their eyes to remind themself where they were, who they were with.

Walter Fitzroy. 

They kissed him back with fervor. 

It was sloppy, messy, sometimes kissing the side of his mouth, his mustache, sometimes his chin, but they hoped that he would understand what they wanted, but could not say. Encouraged, Walter’s touch became more insistent, wrapping around their cock as best he could through their pants. Bloodhound’s hands froze on the man’s belt, not to take it off, but to hold themself steady, trying to stay grounded against the sensations that began to disorient them. 

Walter ground his hips against their leg, allowing them to feel what lay beneath his trousers. They had not known another since Boone, but they did know that what was underneath would certainly be intimidating. What if they could not satisfy him in the way he wanted? Their head spun, dizzying spots danced across their vision. Bloodhound focused on their breathing, trying to stay present despite the hand that moved to their belt buckle, slipping the tongue of the belt out, pulling it away to loosen it, two fingers skillfully undoing the button at the top of their jeans.

Walter’s mouth descended to their neck, his mustache tickling, the coarse hairs brushing against scar and skin. Their blood sang and pulsed beneath his lips. Gods, it felt good — but something was not right, like an instrument barely out of tune, the tone a hair too sharp, a drum slightly offbeat, trailing just behind the rest of the band. 

Their fingers tightened on his belt, clammy fingers shaking. In a panic, they reached up to where their jacket pocket usually lay over their heart, but remembered with a sinking feeling that the picture was not here. The memory of him was at home, locked away in a drawer as if he meant nothing at all, forgotten among dried-out pens and scraps of paper. They indulged in their lavish desires, undeserving, while their people suffered, their planet suffered. He had suffered because of them.

The music was suddenly far too loud, the sensations drowning them, sound and touch and scent and taste overloading them. Their lungs ached, chest burned. Walter’s hand slipped lower, fingertips just grazing the short, auburn curls under the waistband of their undergarments.

Unworthy.

Shame. 

An odd sound reached their ears above the music, gasping, harsh – and they realized that it was their own breathing. They closed their eyes as a ringing sound overtook them, darkness called to them, to bring them into sleep. Their consciousness hovered on the edge, but something loud, a shaking of their shoulder pulled them back up into the brightness of Walter’s living room. Walters face, mouth moving, but only that high-pitched noise came forth.

“Houndy?” Walter’s concerned voice repeated above the ringing. “Stay with me, now. D’ya need the mask? Shit.” He quickly got off of them with another curse under his breath and ran to the table to retrieve their breathing equipment. He flipped the tiny switch and held the mask up against their nose and mouth.

Bloodhound inhaled deeply as the assisted breaths filled their lungs. This was not the way this was supposed to go. Why could they not just be normal like the others that Walter Fitzroy was likely used to, able to partake in these things without this happening?

When their fuzzy eyes finally focused, they saw Walter kneeling beside the couch, one hand on their mask to keep it in place. His mechanical hand stroked the hair back from their face, away from their goggles.

“I am sorry to trouble you so, Walter Fitzroy,” they said softly. 

“Nothin’ to apologize for,” he said, suddenly smiling. “’cept for callin’ me ‘Walter Fitzroy.’ What’ve I told ya about all that, ay?”

They could not help but hum in tired amusement. “You are right.” Bloodhound sat up slowly with Walter’s hands guiding them and took the mask from him. “Did you still want – to-to…like we were before…” their voice trailed off helplessly, hoping he would fill in the rest for them. They fiddled with the mask in their lap, picking at a spot where the paint had chipped off the metal.

“I do,” Walter said, patting their cheek affectionately. “But I think we should slow it down a little.”

Bloodhound nodded. Walter did not appear to be angry or upset that he had been denied the intimacy he – and truly they – wanted. But perhaps after tonight, he would cut things off when he realized they could not deliver what he had been hoping for. Walter had said he had known a life of parties and, gauging from his comments, he had likely had many partners. How could they ever dream to compare to any of that?

“Up ya go.” Walter gripped their hand and helped them stand, robotic arm crooked around their lower back to steady them for a moment. 

They let themself rest against him, their cheek pressed to his shoulder. This was it. This was the moment he sent them away. Would he laugh to himself the moment he closed the door, that the inexperienced hunter had almost fainted at just a few kisses and heavy touches? Would he gossip with the other Legends? Surely he was not so cruel. 

“Now c’mon,” he encouraged, letting them stand on their own. Walter walked to the table and grabbed their jacket to hold it up for them. 

Their heart sunk all the way to their floor, along with the last shreds of their self-esteem. They had been right. They would leave his apartment as quickly as possible, tail between their legs, and never speak of this embarrassment again. Their own foolish worries had ruined their chance at building something new. It was for the best. They did not deserve such a thing, anyway. 

Failure. 

Bloodhound gritted their teeth against the self-pity that rose in their throat. They had been alone for twenty winters – what was twenty more? “I will return home now. I am sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Wha-?” Walter’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Home? Already?” 

“I know that I cannot offer you…what you might be accustomed to on an evening such as this. At least, not tonight,” they added quickly, shamefaced, staring at their feet in humiliation. Now they sounded too eager, too forward, too desperate. Could they get nothing right with this man?

His expression changed as realization dawned on him. “Aw, Houndy, it’s not like that.”

Bloodhound’s head shot up to look at him. “Is-Is it not?” they asked hopefully, gaze fixed on the jacket. Their entire being hung on the next words he spoke. 

“C’mere,” he put the jacket down and motioned for them to step closer. 

Walter wrapped his arms around them in a bear hug, their face smashed into his chest, their arms trapped at their side. They let their respirator clatter to the floor from their hand. For a moment, Bloodhound tried to pull away to save themself any further embarrassment but realized he would not let go so easily, his metal arm unyielding. They relaxed against him, breathing deeply, allowing his warmth to encompass them before finally melting in his grasp. When he let them go, Bloodhound stood uneasily before him, but without as much of the prior tension.

“I don’t want what I’m ‘accustomed to,’ Houndy.” He paused to tap a finger under their chin and trace their jawline. “I want you.”

They smiled shyly, their cheeks burning up at his admission. There was nothing they could say after that, completely at a loss as they stared into his eye, the brown soft and inviting. They wished they could muster up even a sliver of his confidence or share his ease with words to say the same in reply.

“And, besides, it’s like they say, yeah? The best things in life are worth waitin’ for. Well, I’m in no rush. I like spendin’ time with ya just like this.” 

“I do as well. Sharing meals with you has been a gleði I have not known in some time.”

“Gleði?” he repeated, trying the word on his tongue.

“Joy. Happiness,” they offered.

“Ah. Well, it was a gleði, minus the part where I burnt the bread and practically smoked out the whole buildin’,” he joked and picked up their coat again. “Let’s try this again. I could use a little fresh air. Will ya join me?”

“I will,” they agreed, stepping quietly towards him and slipping their arms through the sleeves that he held up for them. 

Again they had assumed the worst, their mind jumping to the most catastrophic, if unlikely, outcome. This time, instead of feeling small and foolish at their hasty misunderstanding, they were filled with gratitude for his kindness, the way Walter corrected their folly without demeaning them.

The familiar scent of their leather jacket reached them, the weight comforting and covering their body in the way they usually preferred. Walter gave their shoulders a reassuring squeeze and pat before releasing them. He continued to surprise them each step of the way, continuing to pursue them despite their awkward and clumsy attempts to reciprocate.

Bloodhound did not understand him, his intentions or motivations, or why he was so drawn to them, but perhaps they should allow him the opportunity to show them. 

He held his hand out to them now, offering more than just physical affection, more than just guidance out of his apartment. In his calloused palm, he held the possibilities of companionship and understanding, of gentleness and passion — and they wanted to know what it was like to share that with him. 

They smiled and placed their hand in his. His fingers curled around theirs gently, an unspoken promise. 

“Thank you, Walter.” 

Chapter Text

Bloodhound frowned as they brushed a crumpled and faded chip bag to the side with their boot. They passed an empty soda cup next, flattened against the pavement, then another. Their first instinct was to pick up the trash and locate the nearest garbage bin, but as the gust from a passing vehicle brought a plastic bag with it, they realized there were too many discarded items. The task would be endless. They wrinkled their nose involuntarily as they passed a grate on the sidewalk and the smell of waste and musty dampness reached their nostrils despite the filtration of their mask. 

Discarded chewing gum and cigarette butts dotted the cement below their feet. Bloodhound counted the line breaks in the sidewalk as they tried to form their thoughts into coherent questions they could ask. They were not one to fill the quiet with filler, with empty and meaningless words, but it felt like they should be saying something. The pair passed by a few other pedestrians, their heads bowed over their phones, strange faces illuminated in the dark by the dim glow of a social media feed. It seemed that Walter and they were the only two without their eyes focused on a screen. Their gaze flicked to their right to peer at him. Despite the lack of conversation or his phone, he seemed content to walk like this, humming softly to himself.

Walter’s arm brushed theirs as he made a left turn down the sidewalk, crossing the street despite the red hand blinking, warning them to stay in place. Bloodhound looked from the signal to Walter, hesitating, but there were no vehicles moving their way. He boldly kept going, already halfway across, and they did not want to get left behind. They rushed after him, slowing when they caught up to him. 

Bloodhound examined the canvas jacket Walter had donned before they left, the pockets and back adorned with a multitude of patches and pins. There was seemingly no order to the decorations, a random assortment of band names, animals, and cartoon characters. Their eyes were drawn to one on his chest, a pin in the shape of an animal. The creature’s body was rounded and soft, but instead of the small, dark nose they might expect, there was a bill. At its other end, a flat rudder-like tail curled upwards. The animal smiled and gripped a tiny knife in its webbed claws.

This was a neutral topic, a question about his collection. A safe query. “What is that?” Bloodhound asked, tapping the pin. 

Walter looked down at his chest. “Aw, that lil’ guy?” He smiled affectionately. “It’s an animal we have back home on Salvo. Strange fellas, but adorable, right?”

“It is,” they agreed, leaning a little closer to examine the words under the pin. ‘Cute ‘n’ stabby’ was written on the scroll beneath it. “Stabby?”

“Looks like it’s ready for a cuddle, but it’s got spurs with venom in its feet. Wouldn’t kill ya, but…bloody painful, I’d imagine. I wouldn’t mess with one.”

“Ah,” they said. “That seems wise. Most wildlife is better left undisturbed.”

Walter reached up and smoothed his mustache, brushing down a stray hair that stuck up, then pushed his hands in his jacket pockets. “What about you? Got any odd creatures where you’re from — Talos, right?”

“How did you know that?”

The tops of Walter’s strong cheekbones took on a faint rosy tinge. He turned his face to the side, but the color did not escape the hunter’s perception. “Ah, well, ya know,” he started, then cleared his throat. “May have looked up your name a few weeks back. Was tryin’ to learn more about the mysterious hunter I’d just met.”

“Walter Fitzroy, you have been researching me?” A teasing smile crept across Bloodhound’s lips, and a soft laugh passed through their respirator, slightly crackled and distorted from the machinery. “But, you are correct. My home is — was on Talos. My people still reside there.” Their voice trailed off self-consciously. “Rather, some of them still do. Much has changed in my time away.” 

Though they tried to hide it, they could not conceal the bitterness that crept into their voice. The dismal answer had spilled out before they could alter it. This was too heavy of a topic for a first date. Walter had fallen quiet, and their heart pounded, waiting for his response. 

“Y’know, time has a funny way of changin’ things. I reckon things woulda been very different whether you were there or not.”

Bloodhound frowned; he was likely right, but it did not do much to ease the burden of their guilt. “Perhaps.”

Silence fell over the pair, but Bloodhound was determined not to sink into the brooding they often did when confronted with their failures. They had raised a glass to new beginnings, and they intended to hold true to that and push beyond the limits of their comfort. 

“What of — Mags, was it?” They said, changing the subject. “You said she was your mate. You two are close?”

“Aye, we were. When I left to join the Games, we didn’t part on the best terms.” He rubbed his artificial shoulder absentmindedly. “Had a bit of a falling out.”

“Ah.” Bloodhound’s face warmed under their mask and their eyes dropped to the stained pavement. “I am sorry to hear that. Maybe one day your relationship can be mended. Words lashed out in anger between friends can wound, but so, too, can those wounds be healed.”

“This went beyond a few nasty words.” Walter laughed, but without the usual warmth behind the sound. “That whole fiasco at the new season launch event…the attack on the stage, on those innocent people in the crowd — that was her, Houndy. Maggie, Mags.”

Their eyes widened behind their goggles. They had heard the name Maggie when the woman had announced herself, but their mind did not make the connection until now. “Oh.”

“Not really sure about repairin’ anything with her. Some things can’t be fixed.”

Bloodhound searched for an answer, but no comment that came to mind sounded right. “I see,” they said quietly. 

Asking Walter about the friend he had mentioned earlier had seemed like a safe topic — clearly not. They shoved their hands in their pockets, fingers brushing a tiny stone. Curious. Bloodhound ran a calloused fingertip over the smooth surface. It was perfectly round, without a single nick or scrape marring its surface. Artur must have left for them, a prized rock from his collection. 

The raven had likely sensed their unease as they flitted about the cabin preparing for this evening and had left this gipt for them as a token for strength and calm. Artur was a fickle hrafn, prone to acts of mischief. Despite that, he was a good friend, and the slight weight of the stone in their pocket did help a little.

Walter stopped suddenly before a storefront, and Bloodhound, eyes still down, bumped into his back. 

“M-My apologies,” they stuttered. 

“S’alright.” He pulled open the door for them, his voice cheery once more. “Wanna grab some dessert?”

A whoosh of air-conditioning accompanied the door opening, rushing past them and tousling their hair. The brightly colored shop was a refreshing sight amongst the drab grey of the surrounding highrises. Instead of dark cement and mortar, the entrance of this shop was lined with light pink bricks, the words ‘Sinful Scoops’ painted in flowing cursive across the front window.

Bloodhound stepped over the threshold into the small store. The light scent of cinnamon and sweet cream replaced the heavy smog and exhaust fumes of the air outside. They breathed deeply as they blinked to adjust to the bright lights inside, the walls covered in candy-toned pastels. Staff members stood behind a glass display that boasted a rainbow of flavors and textures — the number of choices was almost overwhelming. They hung back, waiting for Walter to order first, to see what he chose.

“One scoop of salted caramel for me,” he said to the apron-clad woman behind the counter. Walter turned to Bloodhound. “Houndy?”

“Ah,” they started. Their eyes darted back and forth across the glass, looking for anything familiar, finally settling on a light green tub. They squinted at the label. “Mint chip. Please,” they added.

The clerk deftly dipped the scoop into the tub behind the glass, rolling the ice cream until it was perfectly round, then plopped it onto a fresh waffle cone. Walter shuffled down the counter to the cashier. 

Bloodhound tapped his elbow when he reached for his wallet to pay. “Allow me,” they said. “You provided dinner.” 

“Nah,” Walter said, patting their hand. “I asked you out — my treat.”

They nodded meekly and stood back while he paid. The woman scooping handed them both the cones and they held them reverently.

Walter moved towards the corner booth and slid in so he faced the door, allowing Bloodhound to take the spot that would conceal the view of their unmasked face from anyone walking in. They stood for a moment, watching him scoot in. It was a small thing, a detail that others may have forgotten, but he remembered. Their heart jumped in their chest, but they merely nodded to Walter as they moved in to sit across from him.

They handed Walter his treat, his fingers grazing theirs over the cone. Bloodhound unfastened the clips of their respirator and took a few breaths. Unmasking the bottom half of their face in front of him no longer felt odd — quite the opposite. It was a relief to feel secure, to share this part of themself with someone who made them feel normal, not an oddity or a curiosity, at least for a little while.

A drip threatened to spill over Walter’s waffle cone, and he immediately lapped it up, his tongue flattening and curling around the base of the scoop. He captured all the spots that had started to liquefy and Bloodhound blinked uneasily behind their mask at the sight. It was nearly lewd the way he worked, changing directions, up, then around the top. Bloodhound’s mind immediately went to a place they knew it should not, but to feel his tongue on them, making those same motions—

They swallowed down those lustful thoughts. It was indecent to stare like this, they knew, but they still could not tear their eyes away. When Walter looked up knowingly, he smiled as he licked his lips. Bloodhound quickly dropped their gaze. Their goggles obscured their eyes, but there would have been no mistaking that they had been watching him, with an embarrassing, slack-mouthed expression. Bloodhound clamped their mouth shut, lips pressed together in a tight line.

Shame.

Why could they not control these depraved thoughts? Bloodhound ignored their burning cheeks and quickly focused on their own ice cream, sticky rivulets of light green already traveling down the side and threatening to roll over their fingers. They focused on their task, licked up the drips, and avoided watching Walter out of their peripheral vision, trying not to see if he was studying them just as intently. 

They concentrated on the flavors and textures, and the coolness of the ice cream on their tongue. It was not often that they ate sweets, preferring fresh, crisp fruit, or baked goods they prepared themself, but they did enjoy the taste. The mint burst across their palate with refreshing sweetness, and the bite of the sugar was tempered by the slight bitterness of the dark chocolate flakes. They had chosen well. 

“Yours has salt in it?” Bloodhound asked, peering at Walter’s cone. Light caramel ribbons swirled through the vanilla, but they could not imagine what it would taste like. Salt was an unusual addition to dessert.

“Wanna try?” Walter tilted his ice cream towards them, a teasing glint in his brown eye.

They eyed it, looked from the proffered cone to Walter, then leaned down. A small taste could not hurt. They licked quickly to capture just a small amount of the caramel stripe on the tip of their tongue, never taking their eyes off him. He watched Bloodhound in return, just as intently, with something expectant in his gaze that caused a warmth to coil deep within them.

The rich, saccharine caramel was overlaid with a light hint of saltiness that lingered pleasantly on their tongue. They had imagined the salt would overpower the flavor, wash the other out entirely with its boldness, but the two complimented each other well — perhaps a little like Walter and them.

Bloodhound leaned back in their seat, looking down at their own slowly-melting ice cream. “It is very good.”

They could feel Walter’s gaze on them, searing into them with an intensity that they were not ready to match. The edge of the waffle cone beckoned to them, and they nibbled at it, enjoying the light crunch and delicate sweetness and the distraction it provided.

“Glad I found this place,” he said slowly. “And glad you decided to come with me.”

The two finished their ice cream, crunching the bottoms of the waffle cones. Bloodhound replaced their respirator and stood to leave with Walter. They noticed a few specks of the white cream clinging to the ends of his mustache and they grabbed a napkin from the dispenser on the counter as they left.

“Walter, you have a little—” they stopped themself as they lifted the napkin towards his face. 

What were they doing? This was wholly unlike them. There was an instinctual familiarity they felt around him. It went beyond the resemblance to their past love, though it was hard to ignore that similarity. Unlike Boone, there was an experienced gentleness about Walter, something within his spirit that seemed to call to theirs and soothe them. Walter tilted his head to the side to examine them.

Bloodhound pressed the napkin into his palm instead and cleared their throat. “You have a little bit in your mustache.” They pointed to their upper lip to indicate the spot he should wipe.

“Ah, thanks, Houndy,” he grinned, dabbing his facial hair clean. “What would I do without ya?”

The bell of the shop door tinkled as they exited, a gentle chime against the rumble of passing vehicles. Walter’s hand bumped against theirs as the pair began their trek back to his apartment building. Bloodhound was painstakingly aware of how their pinky grazed his thumb, but his hand continued to swing lightly back and forth. It happened again, the warmth of his hand barely touching theirs. Was he doing this on purpose? In a moment of courage, but without looking, they slid their fingers around his and squeezed softly.

They stared straight ahead but out of the corner of their eye, they saw the edge of his mouth turn up into a smile, and he slipped his hand further into their grasp, threading his warm fingers in between theirs. Their calloused palms rested together both worn and scarred from many battles and wielding weapons. Bloodhound wondered if his fingers ever ached as theirs sometimes did, weary after a match, each tiny joint bearing the memory of each fight.

“I’ve been meanin’ to ask,” Walter started, looking up at the sky as they walked. “Why did ya decide to live all the way out in the woods instead of here in the city with the other Legends? It’s gotta be a long trip to and from the dropship hangar.”

“I prefer a measure of…privacy and quiet. In the forest, I can hunt and grow what I wish. It reminds me a bit of home.” They shrugged. “The rides to and from the matches allow me a chance to meditate and calm my spirit before, and after, to reflect upon my victory or loss, as the gods will it.” 

Bloodhound’s voice warmed as they thought of their home, of their cabin, the familiar smell of wood and rain and soil. They turned their face to Walter — how nice it might be to embrace him beside the fire on a rainy night, with the windows opened to allow in the cool air of a storm, soft furs draped across them both. Their limbs could tangle together lazily, their head on his shoulder, his hand in theirs like it was right now.

They gripped his hand harder. Walter would look good reclining with his chest bare in the cozy glow of a fire, surrounded by the scent of the woodsmoke. Their fingers would skim over pelts and skin and hair alike, a light touch that they hoped he would enjoy — they certainly would. So far, he had seemed to lead such things, but perhaps in their own home, their wandering hands would be bold enough to follow where their mind led and act on their desire. 

Bloodhound cleared their throat and relaxed their fingers. “There is a beauty to…nature, a strength that is oft overlooked. My home is humble, perhaps a bit simple and lacking in luxury, but I enjoy it, all the time.”

“Makes sense,” Walter mused. “I liked it too. There’s nothin’ to hunt out here, except maybe the occasional rat. But, I dunno, there’s somethin’ beautiful about the city, too. Don’t you think?” He motioned his arm up at the nearest building, the rows of lights rising into the sky. “Maybe not in the same way as the woods ‘n’ all, with pretty trees and flowers, but I always dreamed of livin’ someplace like this.”

The pair approached Walter’s building, signaling a potential end to the evening. Bloodhound slowed their pace, wanting to prolong it just a little longer. They looked around. A hum vibrated under the soles of their boots, pulse-like as if the city was a living thing. Street lamps and buildings extended as high as they could see, and the lights shone like stars all around them, full of people, full of promise. Perhaps Walter did have a point.

“Growin’ up, I thought I could be someone important and change things for the better. Y’know, live somewhere that wasn’t a half-assed town made of scrapped buildings with boarded-up windows.” Walter’s voice hardened. “Stayin’ somewhere like this meant I made somethin’ of myself. It meant I was more than just some lousy boxer, brawlin’ in dingy pubs while a bunch of drunks bet on who would break an arm or lose a tooth.”

He used his free hand to gesture around them with a quick, jerky movement. “And this beats fightin’ losing battles against the Syndicate. ‘Bringing order to the Outlands’ my ass. But hey— they want Salvo, they can bloody have it. Not like I have the power to do anythin’ about it.” 

Bloodhound’s arm tensed at the ferocity in his voice. Most did not speak ill of the corporation that funded the Apex Games, but they knew better than most how greed and power could ruin a town, a planet. Walter’s voice trailed off, but then he suddenly perked up as if realizing where he was. Walter gave Bloodhound a winning smile that barely covered whatever thoughts he had just been lost in. 

“Enough about all that, though. Don’t mean to ruin our evening with that sappy shit. The past is the past. Point bein’...I like it in the city.”

“I suppose there is a certain charm to be found here,” they said evenly. “Especially given the…proper company.”

Walter laughed softly. “That right? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to flirt with me Houndy.”

Bloodhound looked away, but couldn’t conceal their smile. “A poor attempt.”

“Just teasin’. Ya did fine.” He stopped in front of the doorway, rising up on the balls of his feet before lowering again. “Well, you’re welcome to come back up, but reckon we should call it a night for now, ay?”

“I-I think that would be best,” they admitted. 

He smiled softly and reached for the door handle. “Text me when you get home so I know ya made it safe ‘n’ sound.” 

“I will do as you request, Walter.”

Bloodhound watched him, hesitating in the doorway. Why did he just stand there? Walter looked up, not impatiently, but clearly waiting for something. He licked his lips slowly, almost as if he wanted — 

Realization sank like a weight within them. Did he – Did he want them to–? They reached up with trembling fingers and unfastened one side of their respirator, letting it dangle against their face, enough to reveal their mouth. Walter's fingers slid along the door handle, a slow, overdramatic show of beginning to pull it open.

“Good night, Houndy,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice as he began to turn away. 

“W-Wait,” they began, reaching for his sleeve.

Walter faced them fully, releasing the door. “Hm?”

“May I — ah, may I kiss you?” they asked, cringing at how formal the words sounded coming out of their mouth. It was foolish to ask such a thing after their session on the couch. What was a chaste peck on the lips to say farewell after that? But still, they were compelled to ask, to hear him affirm what he wanted.

Walter smiled gently. The expression was warm, his cheeks dimpling. It smoothed over every wrinkle and crack within them that longed for affection, that was desperate to hear and feel desired, and to know that they did the right thing. They had botched many scenarios in their life, made poor choices, and failed in the most devastating ways. Bloodhound needed to get this moment right. As insignificant as it might be, it would crush them if they did not. 

“That's very sweet - ya don’t have to ask,” Walter said with a grin before his voice dropped to a low rasp. “But, the answer is yes.”

Bloodhound nodded solemnly and stepped forward to stand in front of Walter. The briefest moment of hesitation flared within them, but they forced their confidence to surge above it. 

Walter wanted this. They wanted this. 

Slowly, they lifted their hands to cup his cheeks. Their other attempts at kissing him had been rushed, so hurried by an urgent passion that they had not even done it correctly, missing his mouth in their eagerness. 

This time, they would not miss. 

They held his face steady and leaned forward, their fingers no longer shaking. Bloodhound closed their eyes and tilted their head just so, then closed the gap between their mouths. Their lips pressed against his firmly, holding still for a beat before letting one hand slip around his neck, fair fingers tangling into the long, soft hair at the nape of his neck. 

They were about to pull away, farewell now completed, but Walter let out a breathy little laugh. The sound settled into a hum deep within his chest as he kissed them back, and they had no hope of disconnecting now. Walter tilted his head the other way and crooked an arm around the middle of their back possessively.

Shared breath, wandering hands. Cinnamon and leather invading their senses in a cramped bed, barely big enough for one. Their chest tight, uncertainty. His lips gentle, reassuring. The weight of him over them, safety and comfort and warmth enveloping them, soothing them. Whispered promises, firm lips guiding. A mustache — 

The tickling of coarse hairs against their lip and nose brought their mind back to where they wanted to be. They pulled away from Walter to inhale deeply, to relieve the burning in their chest, but also to remind themself that he was not here with them, but Walter. His fresh evergreen scent, clean and crisp filled their lungs. They needed breath, needed grounding against the way their mind began to wander to places long past. That Blóðhundur was gone, he was gone, but not forgotten, woven into their spirit. 

Bloodhound was determined to not let fear and regret overshadow this moment. This was a fresh start, a chance to build what they never had before — with Walter. They leaned into him harder, lightly tugging his hair gently at the roots, bringing out a sigh from his parted lips.

Walter smiled against their mouth, and tucked one hand into the back pocket of their jeans to pull them closer. Metallic fingers gripped their firm muscle through grey denim, and their thoughts reeled as their knees almost buckled at the touch. Should they ask for more? If they pulled him inside the lobby and up the elevator towards his apartment, he would certainly give them what they wanted, as eager as he had seemed earlier. 

The tightness in their chest returned. Only the gods knew how badly they longed to resume what they had started with Walter. How nice it would feel to be with another, to feel desired despite their appearance, despite the weight of the failures, despite the way they deserved the isolation that had endured for twenty long, lonely winters. Exhaustion settled into their muscles and mind, an ache deeper than surface fatigue. Though they wanted more — much more — this was all they could bear for now. Their body cried out for rest almost as desperately as it craved him, and Bloodhound understood more than most to listen when it spoke. Ignoring such things often had a poor end.

Bloodhound relaxed their lips, and Walter leaned away, sensing the end of the moment. The hand in their pocket retreated, the space between their bodies was there once more.

Walter reached out to squeeze their leather-clad bicep. “Thanks for comin’ out to spend some time with me. Haven’t had a night this fun in a long time.”

A weary, but genuine smile tugged at the corners of Bloodhound’s lips. “Neither have I. I would like to do this again with you.”

“Are you askin’ me out on a second date already?” He laughed softly at the way their mouth dropped open slightly in panic. Walter tapped their chin affectionately with his knuckle and kept talking, saving them from having to answer. “You’re a gem. You pick the place next time.”

“I will think on this,” they said as they stepped back and lifted their hand in a half-salute. “Good night, Walter.”

“G’night.”

Bloodhound walked backward a few paces, their arm still up in an awkward wave. For a reason that escaped them, they did not want to be the first to turn away. Walter smiled and shook his head before raising his own hand and turning, disappearing into the building lobby. The hunter walked down towards the transport pickup spot, their steps lighter, like a great weight had been removed. 

The smile lingered on Bloodhound's face as they rode home. Despite their mistakes, the night had gone better than expected. The events of the evening played through their mind once more, dinner and after, dessert — truly, it had gone much better than they had imagined. 

During the short walk through the woods to their cabin, they lifted the neckline of their shirt up to their nose, catching a faint whiff of Walter’s cologne still clinging to their clothes. They barely realized they had made it home, lost in their thoughts. As soon as they opened the door, a beat of air and wings buffeted them and Artur flapped towards them, landing on their shoulder. He affectionately nibbled a strand of their auburn hair. 

While they washed some fresh raspberries for the raven, they could not help but recall what Walter’s pink tongue looked like skillfully lapping at his ice cream. They clenched their jaw. Artur hopped down onto the kitchen counter, unamused with the delay in his snack, and pecked their finger lightly. They refocused and finished their task, then hung up their jacket to change and wash before bed.

Bloodhound glanced at the time on their phone as they moved into the bathroom to scrub their face. It was a respectable hour to prepare for sleep, not too early, not too late. Their eyes widened as the sight of their messaging app icon reminded them of their promise to Walter - they had almost forgotten, unused to having anyone awaiting their message.

‘I have made it home safely.’ they sent him. 

‘Thanks for letting me know. me too’ he sent back with a laughing emoji and a photo of a beer in his hand, his sock-covered feet up on his coffee table in the background.

Bloodhound’s obligation was fulfilled, and now they could relax for the evening. Tomorrow morning, they had many chores to complete. Wood needed to be split for the fire and the garden required watering and weeding. Bloodhound brushed their teeth, continuing to run through the list of chores in their mind. They swiped over their face quickly with a damp, soft towel, then moved to the bedroom to finish their routine. 

They arranged their things neatly on their bedside table, each item in its proper place: their respirator, close by in case they needed it during the night, a glass of water, and their phone, now charging. Satisfied with this bedtime preparation, they slid under the furs and blankets. 

It felt good to lay down after a long day of activity. Spending time with Walter had been enjoyable, but they were unused to outings with others, and their body bore the exhaustion. Bloodhound sighed in contentment as each muscle eased, and they ran their hands over the plush pelts. The covers were warm with a satisfying weight to them, though not as nice as it had been underneath Walter, his mouth on their neck, teeth and lips teasing, his hand on their—

They groaned and turned over on their other side. Bloodhound readjusted the front of their sweatpants which grew tighter and more restrictive by the second. The familiar ache spread from deep inside, the feeling as insistent as Walter’s tongue had been against theirs, boldly caressing their lips, like his fingers reaching under their waistband, down towards—

 Bloodhound impatiently turned to their other side, throwing one foot outside of the blankets, but they were unable to get comfortable. Meditation would surely help. They counted their breaths, finding an even pattern. Good. They focused on the image of a lone tree on a mountain, each pine needle, each crisp sprig feathering out into lush, green branches. The sun set behind the tree in bright goldenrod yellow and pale orange, the same color as fresh honey. 

In this place, the air was peaceful, still. They could imagine the scent of the pine sap sticky on bark, its scent sharp and refreshing, but — something else — a hint of musk under it all as they were pressed up against Walter’s muscular chest. His arm slung around their waist, pulling them closer until all they could feel was solid muscle and warmth.

Bloodhound’s eyes snapped open and they moved onto their back to stare at the ceiling in annoyance. It was becoming increasingly apparent that sleep would not come to them unless they also rinsed clean of what remained pent up inside, started but not finished earlier at Walter’s apartment, still hovering just below the surface. 

Why they did this, they did not know, but Bloodhound reached for their phone, their heart fluttering in their chest. This is something they should take care of themself, quickly and silently, but they could not stop their fingers moving of their own accord, typing a message to Walter Fitzroy. 

‘Walter, are you still awake?’ 

‘Yep. did you really just send me a ‘u up’ text? Haha’

Bloodhound squinted at their screen, brows furrowing in confusion. ‘I do not understand. Yes, I did ask if you were awake.’

‘Forget it, dumb joke. Yeah, I’m awake. Can’t sleep.’

‘I cannot either.’ Bloodhound wanted to see if he would say anything else, but he did not, and they wanted to keep the conversation going. ‘Why can you not sleep?’

‘Got a lot on my mind.’

‘What sort of things are on your mind?’

‘Ah, not sure if I should say much more than that, mate’

Bloodhound reached into their sweatpants, slender fingers brushing against their stiff cock. Their skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish with the need for release. They longed for Walter’s touch on them again — but their own hand would do, just as it had for as long as they could remember. Though they had only known the barest hint of Walter's fingers through layers of clothing, they could easily imagine what it would be like to experience much more with him. They stroked themself once, twice as they closed their eyes. Gods, this is what they needed. They could no longer deny it. Bloodhound withdrew their hand and typed another message.

‘I would like to know.’

Walter sent an emoji of a purple devil face winking.

Bloodhound stared at their screen, waiting for another message. Though they did not often use emojis themself, they knew what that one meant in this context. But, disappointingly, no more messages came from Watler. 

Their phone suddenly vibrated rapidly in their hands, and they dropped it on their chest from the unexpectedness. They fumbled for the device that somehow had wedged its way between their neck and shoulder and lifted it, hastily righting it from its upside-down position. They blinked against the brightness as it lit up cheerily with the words ‘Walter Fitzroy’ displayed across their screen, along with the icon for an incoming phone call.

Bloodhound’s breath caught in their throat, but without another second of hesitation, they swiped their finger to answer the call.

“Halló?” they asked.

“Hey, Houndy,” Walter started, his voice raspy.

Bloodhound was quiet for a moment. There was something else in Walter’s tone, something almost strained. Perhaps it was merely tiredness, his inability to sleep — but that naive part of their mind was quickly pushed aside. They knew that tone, and recognized the sound of one who was wanting. It was the same quality they knew their own voice would carry if they spoke too much right now.

“Hello,” they said again awkwardly. “I…did not expect you to call.”

“What did you expect?”

They licked their chapped lips. “I-I do not know.”

The line was silent except for the faint sound of Walter’s breath, and in their room, their own, heavier than normal but unlabored.

“Still wanna know what’s on my mind?” he asked, breaking the quiet. 

His voice was huskier than before, the timbre low and deep in a way that Bloodhound knew would rumble and vibrate against their chest if they were up against him. Though they had little experience with such things, there was no mistaking where this conversation would go. They let their free hand wander down their toned abdomen, over deep ridges of muscle and scar alike. Their calloused finger moved along the trail of coppery hairs from the divot of their navel back down to the place that was begging for touch again, straining against the front of their pants.

“Yes, I do,” they said with more certainty, gripping themself firmly, their voice trailing off as they awaited his answer.

Walter let out his breath slowly with a soft grunt. There was a shuffling noise on the line, and when Walter finally spoke, Bloodhound could feel the yearning in the man’s voice. It seared through their veins, hot tendrils of need surging beneath their palm as he uttered the word they longed to hear above any other. 

“You.”

Chapter Text

Bloodhound’s stomach tightened at Walter’s confession, receiving exactly what they had hoped to hear. They closed their eyes, letting the acknowledgment soak in, enjoying the way his words settled into the deepest parts of them that craved this validation.

“Me?” they asked, seeking confirmation, fingers twitching over their grip on their cock. 

“Yeah, you, Houndy.”

It was improper, perhaps, to fish for a little more, but they could not resist the opportunity. “What…what about me?”

Walter laughed gently, and Bloodhound imagined how warm his breathy chuckle would feel against their skin. “Thinking about how cute ya looked today, all nervous ‘n’ excited. It was fun to get a little closer.”

All coherent thoughts slowed as if trudging through thick mud, leaving them unable to pull the words through the filter of translation. What they wanted to say was that the evening was  draumur sem rættist, but instead, all they could come up with was a lukewarm: “It was…nice.” 

“How ‘bout you? What’s on your mind?” Walter prompted, unfazed by their mild reply. “I was surprised to get your text so late. You don’t strike me as much of a night owl.”

What could they say to him? Bloodhound’s mind clouded, a foggy haze pulled over their thoughts as they stroked themself, long, unhurried passes of their hand. They groaned softly as their thumb rolled over the tip, smeared a slick drop of precum, wishing it was not their finger, but Walter — that tongue. He had lapped at his ice cream so enthusiastically, curling and twisting, the tip capturing every melting drop. Would he be just as attentive to a lover — to them?

“Gonna leave me hangin’? C’mon, tell me what’s keepin’ ya up tonight.” 

Bloodhound’s voice was frozen, stuck behind the lump in their throat as they gripped themself. The pressure to say something mounted as they heard his expectant soft breathing on the other line. They must say something, anything—

“Ice cream,” they blurted out. 

“Ah.” The line went silent for a few beats. “It didn’t agree with ya, or…?

“Nei, nei,” Bloodhound’s heart thumped in their chest and their face flushed — words escaped them. “Andskotinn,” they hissed. “What I meant was…when we were eating ice cream…I noticed, ah, your tongue.” Their face burned with the shame of the admission.

“Mm,” Walter hummed in understanding. “My tongue, ay?”

“You appeared quite…skilled,” they added, hoping he did not probe them further. 

“I’d love to show ya what I can do with it,” he murmured, voice husky. “This old dog knows a few tricks that would have your toes curling.” 

A tight whine escaped Bloodhound’s lips and they rolled their hips up into their fist. They could hear his breathing pick up over the phone like their own, and longed to feel that breath hot against their ear, their neck. Bloodhound put the call on speakerphone and set the device on the mattress beside them. With their free hand, they pulled their shirt up, the material bunching up by their chest, the room suddenly too hot, their clothes too restrictive. 

The cooler room air was a welcome relief against their warm skin. They let their hand wander their own flushed form, over the firm muscle of their pec to circle a nipple, rough fingertips brushing over the sensitive peak. Their cock leaked their arousal, lubricating the movements of their hand, continuing to jerk up and down.

“You’re awfully quiet, but I bet I could figure out how to get a few sounds outta ya,” Walter teased. 

“I—” Their mouth dried, every drop of moisture abandoning them, leaving their tongue parched. “W-Walter—” they tried again and failed.

“‘S’alright. Ya don’t have to say anything.” His voice was rougher. “Should I stop?”

“No,” they closed their eyes and forced the words to come from their scratchy throat. “I enjoy the sound of your voice. Very much.”

“I can do the talkin’ for the both of us,” he continued. “But I like hearing you, too. It’s too bad you’re not here with me now. This big ol’ bed is empty ‘n’ cold — and I bet you’d warm it right up.”

Bloodhound arched their back, fucking their fist more fervently. Walter’s bed was much bigger than their humble sleeping arrangements, plenty of room for a tumble with a partner. Those dark, silky sheets would be a luxury to lay on, smooth against the roughness of their calloused and hardened body. Walter might wrap his arms around them until the two of them were a tangle of satin and limbs and desire, moving as one. 

“I wish we did not have to stop earlier in your apartment,” they admitted in a flash of boldness, stroking faster as they recalled how his hands had reached between their legs and grazed them through their jeans. It had only been the barest touch, but it had seared right through them, awaking every nerve in their body that called out for more, for him. 

How good it would feel if it were his hand on their cock right now instead of theirs. It would be a treat to watch him settle between their thighs, his eye brown and soft, that smile teasing what was to come. Lips and bristles of facial hair roaming their bare skin, every sensitive spot he could reach. They would run their fingers through his dark hair, and his tongue would slide up and down their length, surrounding them in wet warmth. 

“That right?” he murmured.

Would Walter be one to make them wait, pulling them to the edge only to stop before they reached their end, in an ebb and flow of pleasure until they finally burst? They sucked in their lower lip as a low, rough, grunt sounded on the other line. Maybe he would be eager to bring forth their release, a fast and powerful climax that would leave them limp in bed, all the bones in their body reduced to jelly. 

He had not proven himself to be patient — but perhaps with them, he would take his time. He might make love with a slow build-up, like lighting a campfire, sparks struck from flint to catch the tinder. Perhaps Walter would stoke those embers with care until the flames licked and lapped at the wood and the fire blazed gloriously bright for all to see. 

“I would have liked to know…” their voice trailed off as their breath came more harshly. Bloodhound reached for their respirator with their free hand and placed it over their nose and mouth, taking a few deep breaths and recentering themself.

“What did ya want to know, Houndy?” he asked, voice low and dark. 

Bloodhound set down the mask, ready to share what they had longed to say. “I want to know what it is like to be… with you,” they managed, and continued before they lost the surge of confidence, not waiting for a reply. “I want to be near you, to-to touch every part of you. Kiss every part of you. When I leave your apartment, I want to carry your scent with me, bear the marks of your passion on my skin.” The line was quiet, but they continued. “I have not felt this way in many years, but I—” they paused again, their mind searching for the right words. “I desire you, Walter. I can no longer pretend that I do not.”

Bloodhound released their grip on themself, replaced the respirator, and laid anxiously, trembling in the aftermath of their admission. Their heart raced, the oxygen concentrator whirred on their bedside table as it worked to keep up with the exertion of their desperate lungs. Sharing their confession had been the boldest thing they had done in as long as they could remember. Even waiting for the drop before a match was not this worrisome. Seconds ticked by like an eternity as they awaited his answer. 

The line was dead quiet. 

Their stomach twisted into knots. Walter was not a quiet man, and never seemed to be at a loss for words. Had they bored him to sleep? Overstepped a boundary? Perhaps their admission was far too chaste, and he had expected something more vulgar on this late-night call. 

“M-My apologies. Have I said the wrong thing?” They reached for their phone and saw that there was no active call; he had hung up.

The moment and mood were ruined just like the confidence they had mustered. Their mind raced to dark places, self-doubt overshadowed arousal and the glimmer of hope they had allowed themself to bask in. What were they doing? They still barely knew the man and were talking about laying with him. Could they not contain themself? They were acting like an animal in heat, only focused on one thing. It was unlike them. 

Bloodhound waited for the phone to ring again, for a text, anything, but the screen remained dark. Should they text him, just to make sure he was alright? Would that seem too desperate and confirm what Walter likely already thought of them?

Perhaps their clumsy words had revealed the depth of their inexperience and desperation and he had decided that enough was enough. Bloodhound pulled their pants back up and sat on the edge of the bed until their breathing settled back into a normal pattern. The respirator finally quieted, relieved of its duty. With Walter, they second-guessed each move they made, though he had only given them reassurance along the way.

Despite knowing that, Bloodhound’s heart refused to calm. Their fingers twitched against their thigh as they resisted the urge to succumb to old habits, to reach for the photo in the drawer, the crutch that never failed to calm them. It was cowardly to run from these things. If they could run into battle, their axe raised before them, they could send three little words to the man who had already shown an interest in them. 

‘Is everything alright?’

No answer. Usually, he messaged them back fairly quickly. 

Failure. 

They grimaced, hating themself as they gave into temptation and opened the bedside drawer, picked up the photo, and unfolded it. Their fingers rubbed over the photo of Boone. Long ago, the surface had been glossy and smooth, but years of touch and time had worn away the smooth layer. But instead of relief, they only felt a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The photo represented merely that: a memory, a piece of the past. Walter did bear a strong resemblance to Boone at first glance, but the more they looked at it now, they saw more differences than similarities. 

Walter’s nose and brow shared the same strong traits, broad and chiseled, but there was something gentler about him compared to Boone. His grizzled hair, the streaks of silver were nothing like the long, black strands that lay over Boone’s shoulders, sleek as a raven’s feathers. The edges of Walter’s features were softer, and his gaze bore something that Boone’s had not. It was hard to name exactly what it was. Was it simply his age, Walter having more than twice the life experience that Boone had at the time it was taken? 

Or was it more than just the differences between the two men? They, too, were older now. No longer were they a youth throwing themself headfirst into every experience and challenge with reckless abandon — though sometimes they did wish they still had a bit of that fire and hot-blooded energy. Responsibility and isolation had tempered their spirit, and each year spent alone, they had built up a shelter around their heart. 

And in just a few short weeks, Walter had taken it down completely. 

Walter had leaped over every obstacle they had thrown in his path. They had mistrusted and accused him, but still, he was undeterred. He had pulled down the bricks of the wall they had built one by one and neatly stacked them to the side in case they needed them again. There was no judgment from him, only calm understanding. He had held steadfast until they had finally laid out their feelings before him. 

At least, they thought they had — it was unclear how much he heard before the phone disconnected. Maybe it was better this way; they could pretend they said nothing. Still, they could not drop the idea that he had heard them and hung up immediately after.

Rejection. 

No — Walter did not play these games. Bloodhound licked their lips, reliving the day’s events, all the moments where Walter had consoled them, made them feel worthy of this, of him. When they were with him, the weight of their burden was lightened. His presence soothed that dark part of them that felt endlessly vast, where they often became lost when they were faced with their anxieties. In those moments, his tattooed fingers reached for theirs, and he pulled them out from that darkness to carry a bit of their worry across his own broad shoulders. 

I want you. 

That is what he had said in his apartment. Them. They blinked and examined the photo in their hands more closely. Though they knew it was the same picture they had carried for so long, it seemed so different now, like a veil had been lifted. It still held the fondness, the warmth of what they had shared with Boone, but the memory was different now . The spell it bound them with had faded a little, like a child learning that the fairy stories of elves and gremlins were not true. Despite how they had clung to the memory for so long, desperate to relive it, Boone was not their future — but Walter could be.

I want you. 

Their phone buzzed frantically on their pillow and their body initially tensed, then sagged with relief when they saw Walter’s name brighten the screen.

“Halló?” they asked, nervousness and excitement both warring within their belly. 

“Houndy!” Walter exclaimed. “Sorry ‘bout that. Phone died. Bad timing, shit. I’m awful at rememberin’ to charge the damn thing.”

“It is alright. No apology is needed.” It was the truth — though his words calmed the remaining fears of their racing mind. 

“So…” he resumed suggestively, letting the word trail off absurdly long. “I never did hear what you wanted.”

Bloodhound’s heart jumped in their chest. They breathed in long and deep, then let the air out slowly, their passions reigned back in. The rise and fall of emotions had been too much today. 

“Another time, perhaps,” they said softly. “It is getting late.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Walter replied. 

Bloodhound’s chest tightened at the disappointment in his voice. They knew this was not the answer he wanted, but they could not repeat what they had said now. 

“Guess I’ll…talk to ya tomorrow?” 

There was hurt in his voice, uncertainty. Bloodhound folded the photo back up and dropped it on their bedside table. They did not have the energy or strength of spirit to resume what they had started with him, but, as they reluctantly thought of their barren refrigerator, they extended a different offer to him. 

“I must eat breakfast in the dining hall tomorrow. I plan to arrive quite early; I have many chores to attend to tomorrow. Perhaps you would care to join me for a meal?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Walter replied, his voice brimming with happiness. “Little brekkie with my elskhu— er, vinur. How’d I do that time? Pronounce it right ‘n’ all?”

“Yes, Walter, with one slight correction.” The joy in Walter’s voice was contagious, seeping into Bloodhound’s as they relaxed back into their pillows. “I might say that you are my…mjög góður vinur.”

“Lemme take a guess; does that mean devilishly handsome friend?”

A laugh burst out of them, a sudden, genuine noise that surprised them. When was the last time they had laughed like that?

“Not quite.”

“Nah? Okay, how ‘bout noble and wise friend with a really big—”

“You are a fool, Walter Fitzroy,” Bloodhound cut in before he could continue with his suggestion. They shook their head, laughter fading from their voice. 

“Yeah, maybe. But if I get to hear ya laugh, it’s worth it. Tell me, then, what’s it mean?” 

“Very good friend,” they said. 

“I like that.” He cleared his throat. “Guess I’d better let ya get to sleep. Think you can get some rest now?”

Bloodhound smiled against their phone. They had not achieved the release they had wanted earlier, but in some ways, this was better. The last threads holding them back, tying them to the anchor of their past had been severed. There was a lightness to their spirit, a renewed sense of purpose as they floated towards the surface of a murky sea, finally seeing the light shimmering above — and they intended to pursue this with Walter.

“I believe I will sleep well tonight. Thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. G’night, Houndy.”

“Good night, Walter.”

Walter stayed on the line for a few more breaths before he disconnected the call. It took Bloodhound a moment to realize that they were still smiling. In a split-second decision, they tapped the camera app and raised their phone above them. Their free forearm rested over their eyes, shielding the top part of their face from the shot, then took a picture, their lips still curled into a smile — just for him. 

They prepared to send this photo to Walter, but first, swiped through the pages of smiling emojis to locate one to accompany the picture. Walter seemed fond of the tiny faces, and they found one that appeared sleepy, three Zs trailing from its mouth. They sent this with the picture before they could change their mind.

Bloodhound stared at the chat, holding their breath as three dots popped up. A string of emojis came through, faces with hearts for eyes, one with its tongue out and a flushed face, an…eggplant? It was an odd choice, but they did have gardening to do tomorrow and it was going to be a warm day. They sent a carrot and cucumber back to him, confirming their plans on tending to their crops. 

They settled back into the bed and pulled the blankets up to their chest, glancing out of the window to the side. The moon was nearly full, the stars bright pinpricks against the inky darkness of a sky, each one perfectly distinct without city lights polluting the night’s purity. Their heart pounded in their chest — it would be nice to share the view with Walter. He enjoyed the city, but maybe he would come to see the beauty and serenity of the forest at night. 

Walter was a bold man, brash and with a quick tongue that they were certain would get him into trouble at times — but his spirit was kind, and he never made them feel unworthy the way their own mind did. They were just about to put their phone down for the night when it buzzed twice in their hands. Their smile was renewed when they viewed the photo he sent. 

Walter’s head rested back on his pillow, a hand behind his head, arm bent to the side. Bloodhound’s eyes followed the bulge of his bicep, down to the divot of his armpit, the dark hairs there — and his bare chest, the defined muscles of his pecs covered with soft hairs. It seemed like it would be a warm and comfortable place to rest their head. Their finger traced his strong neck, up the rugged line of his jaw, the dark shadow of a beard already growing there. They could imagine the gritty roughness of the emerging hairs under their fingertips. 

They searched for a suitable reply, but, as sleep begin to tug at their eyelids, all they could think to send back was a single, red heart. Bloodhound hoped it would be enough. 

-x-

Bloodhound woke as the gentle rays of the dawn sun bathed their face in light and warmth. They shifted under the furs, stretching their limbs luxuriously under the softness. Sleep beckoned then back into its arms, but they resisted. Last night they had stayed up later than intended. The tiredness from the day and the excursion and events with Walter had mostly vanished, though their eyes burned from the hours of lost sleep. They slid their legs out of the covers and wiggled their toes on the pelt beneath their bare feet and reached for their phone.

‘Good morning, Walter.’ they typed. Bloodhound hesitated before sending it and added a tiny sun emoji. Perhaps that would convey some warmth to their words.

As Bloodhound began to get ready for the day, Walter’s disappointed voice from last night replayed through their head. It seemed that they always let him down in some way. They were woefully ill-equipped for these encounters. The man had expressed a willingness to wait for their readiness, but everyone had a point where they could wait no longer. What would be Walter’s? 

Things with him were moving much faster than they had expected. He had not yet seen their entire face or body — once he did, surely his face would show his disgust. Would he no longer desire to pursue anything with them? They knew their appearance was different from the others, what most were used to seeing. 

Bloodhound would never admit it aloud, but they had felt a pang of jealousy at an outing where Elliott had removed his shirt. He had done it so easily in front of the others, not the slightest bit ashamed of his appearance. He bore a few scars, small ones, faded lines in his smooth, tanned skin. The Legends had made comments and good-natured jokes praising and teasing him. If they ever attempted such a thing — unlikely as it was — the response would be entirely different. 

Bloodhound grimaced as they walked into the bathroom, passing by their reflection in the mirror as they went to turn on the shower to let it warm up. The last time someone had seen them in a state of undress besides Boone, many years ago in their village, it had crushed them. Their tunic had become bloodstained during a hunt, the dark red liquid slowly dripped onto the linen while they carried the beast back. They had paused by a stream to rinse the stain out; the sooner it was washed, the better, lest the blood set and permanently mark the light fabric. When they rose from their crouched position and turned, they saw a woman from their village, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock.

She ran away before they could say anything to her. They had quickly thrown the wet shirt back on to cover themself and their shame. The woman could barely make eye contact with them the next time they saw her, and her cheeks would turn red from remembering what she saw, they knew. It was then that they learned it was best to remain hidden, the confirmation of what they already believed to be true.

Bloodhound sighed as they began to slip off their pajamas. Luckily, the steam from the hot water fogged the mirrors in the bathroom so they did not have to look at themself again while they undressed. If they could barely look at themself, how could they stomach revealing themself to Walter? With Boone, they had spent nearly two seasons by his side, slowly warming to him as the leaves turned into reds and oranges, as the weather grew cold and the first snowfall stuck on the forest floor. Sharing a campfire, sleeping beside one another for warmth through the chill of an autumn night, and completing tasks together with a common goal had all led to accidental touches. Repeated closeness led to familiarity and comfort, and inadvertent glimpses of one another’s bodies.

They pulled themself back into the present as they stepped into the shower; they could worry about that when the time came. Too often their mind sprinted ahead, imagining scenarios that were unlikely to ever occur, but felt so exhaustingly real. Warm water pattered against their back and they scrubbed themself, rolling their head side to side to allow the water to massage a tight spot in their neck. Their fingers dug into the spot, fingers pressing into muscles and tendons. Gone were the days of going to sleep in the small hours of the night and waking up completely refreshed. They smiled despite the ache — it had been worth it. 

Bloodhound finished their wash and dressed, but stopped in the kitchen before they began the journey for breakfast. It felt wrong to leave to meet Walter empty-handed. He had a preference for their homemade goods, but their stock of food was low. As they perused the shelves in the refrigerator, their eyes were drawn to a jar of blackberry jam.

Walter had enjoyed it when he last visited. Their cheeks warmed beneath their mask. The truth was, they did remember how much he enjoyed it, along with the vivid memory of his finger in his mouth, loudly sucking jam off the tip of his finger the night they had shared drinks. Though their recollection of that drunken night was spotty, that image was one they could easily. 

They retrieved the glass jar from the fridge and tucked it into their pack — maybe he would like it with breakfast, too. Bloodhound slung the bag over their shoulder and slipped on and laced up their boots. While they walked through the forest, their phone buzzed happily in their pocket. 

‘Morning Houndy’ he sent with a winking face. ‘See ya soon’

They smiled and found themself scrolling back up to the picture Walter had sent them. The icon above his name was grey with the white outline of a head and shoulders, a blank template. As Bloodhound walked to meet the approaching ship, they tapped a few spots on the screen, checking their device settings. How could they set the photo as his image on their phone? It would be enjoyable to view it each time they messaged him. 

The hunter fiddled with it a little longer while the ship brought them to the city, but could not discern how to set it. Bloodhound stepped out onto the pavement and entered the building that housed the dining hall. Alexander sat in a booth by himself, muffin in one hand, head bowed over a book. On the other side of the room, Loba sat at a table, scrolling through what they assumed was a social media feed while she nibbled on a bagel. They started to walk towards her, the query hovering on their lips. 

She spent a lot of time on her phone, and perhaps she could assist them with the contact picture. Bloodhound hesitated half-way to her, standing awkwardly amongst the empty tables. Requesting her help would require revealing a bit about their situation. Loba had been a steadfast and trustworthy friend so far; they trusted her more than any other. They took a deep breath and continued to head towards her, the soles of their boots thudding softly on the scuffed linoleum. 

“Good morning, Loba,” they said, lifting their hand in greeting.

“Morning, Hound,” she replied, glancing up from her screen.

“I was hoping to receive your assistance with a task, but I must ask for a measure of…discretion.”

“Oh?” Loba’s perfectly plucked eyebrow raised and she leaned forward in interest. “I’ll keep your secret — for a price.”

Bloodhound frowned beneath their mask. “What is your price?”

“I’m kidding, hon,” she rolled her eyes and patted the seat beside her. “So serious. What do you need?”

“I would like to set a photo I received as the display image for one of my contacts.” Bloodhound sat cautiously, perching on the very end of the chair. They pulled their phone out of their pocket. “I am unfamiliar with how to do so.”

“Easy. Let me see.” She took their phone from them, prying it from their grip that tightened slightly before she pulled it away from them. “Who’s the contact?”

Bloodhound swallowed thickly. “It is, ah…Walter Fitzroy.”

“I see,” Loba purred knowingly. She navigated to the contact list, slow enough for Bloodhound to follow what she did. When she tapped on the dots near the blank profile photo, it immediately pulled up their photo library, revealing their selfie from the night before and his. Her finger hovered over the image of Walter. “I’m assuming this is the one you want?”

Bloodhound’s eyes roamed the screen — the dates above the photos ranged two years, but there were not many, a few dozen or so. The images were mostly of Artur sleeping, or interesting plants and flowers they had encountered in the forest. The two dated yesterday were very obviously different from the rest. 

“Yes, that is it.”

“Mm,” she hummed as she selected it. “I can see why you like it. It’s a good one. You two must have been up to something fun last night.”

“We exchanged words, these photos, nothing more,” they said hastily, pulling their phone back from her once she had saved the changes. “I thank you for your assistance.”

Loba winked. “Any time. Your secret is safe with me.”

Bloodhound nodded and, needing a distraction, went to make themself a plate of breakfast. Walter was not there yet, but they could not stand around without doing anything; that would raise too much suspicion that they had come here with the intent of meeting with him. Loba would surely give them that knowing stare when she shrewdly deduced their true intent. 

They shuffled over to the buffet table and wrinkled their nose. It might have been better to go hungry. The pan of scrambled eggs jiggled as they bumped the table as if it were a single gelatinous piece, likely reconstituted from a powder. They sniffed above the bacon and sausage links — these seemed…alright. Breakfast was, for the most part, a difficult meal to tarnish. 

They scooped themself a generous helping of each, then popped two pieces of wheat bread into the toaster, and waited, arms crossed over their chest. 

“Houndy!” Walter called out loudly across the dining hall, causing them to jump in alarm. He strode over to them, waving his robotic arm in their direction.

Bloodhound sank down a few inches as if that would hide them and glanced anxiously at Loba and Alexander, who had both looked up from their breakfasts to observe the pair. Walter unashamedly threw his arms around the hunter in a bear hug, squeezing them to his chest. They squirmed in his grasp, but he was determined to keep his hold until they patted his back lightly in acknowledgment. 

“Hello, Walter,” they said with cool formality, smoothing out their jacket once he let them go. “I am glad to see you. You appear well-rested.”

“Good to see ya too,” he grinned, his hand still on their elbow. “I’m starvin’ but I see ya got a head start. I’m gonna go grab a bite if you wanna find us a table.”

“Of course.” 

They plucked their browned toast from the toaster, poured a cup of coffee, and moved to the table they had shared during the last two meetings in the dining hall. Bloodhound took their usual spot, their back to the rest of the hall. There was always a moment of unease at being unable to guard their back, but fighting was forbidden in the common areas. They should not have much to worry about, but as Walter slid into the seat across from them, it was a relief to know that he would keep watch. 

Bloodhound removed their respirator and eyed the man’s plate, piled high with eggs and meat like their own. He had grabbed a few packets of jam for his toast, the artificially sweetened and colored red goo that was likely only a small percentage of real fruit. His fingers fumbled at the edge to tear the packet open, but they placed their hand over one of his gently to stop him. 

“Wait,” they said softly. “If-If you would prefer, I brought brómberjasulta.” With their free hand, they reached into the small bag slung over their shoulder and withdrew the jar. “You seemed to...ah, enjoy it when you last visited my home.”

Walter’s face lit up with a wide grin. “Look at you, always thinkin’ of me. So sweet.”

Bloodhound quickly pulled their hand back, realizing it was still resting on top of his. “I merely thought you might prefer it over what is offered here.” They vaguely motioned towards the packets. 

“I do,” he said. Walter took the jar from them, slathering a thick layer of dark jam over his bread. “Still think you’re a sweetie though.”

Their lips tightened to a thin line, feeling warm blood rush to their face. Would they ever stop feeling this way at the slightest compliment from this man? They secretly hoped not, but hid the redness with their mug as they took a long sip of coffee. 

“So does this count as our second date, then?”

Bloodhound nearly choked on their drink at his ghastly volume. “No,” they replied in a hushed tone, hoping he would take the hint. 

“What’d ya have in mind then?” he asked, thankfully more quietly, his eye shining with eagerness. “If you’ve thought it over at all. I know we just saw each other yesterday, but I’d like to do it again with ya.” 

They dabbed the corners of their lips with a napkin to wipe away the grease from the sausage, but also to hide their smile. When Walter looked like this, it was impossible to maintain their composure.“I would like to keep it a bit of a surprise.”

“Aw, I love surprises,” he said around a bite of bacon. 

“I…” They wrung their hands in their lap. It would be unwise to oversell the idea, in case he expected more than their humble offering. “I do not wish to get your hopes up for naught. It is no grand adventure.”

“Doesn’t hafta be anythin’ grand, Houndy. I’m just happy to spend more time with ya.”

“Very well,” they replied, letting their smile show now. “This week is quite busy…we have two matches this week, but perhaps on Saturday evening you could join me at my cabin.”

“It’s a date, then?”

“Yes.” Bloodhound pushed the remaining eggs around on their plate with their fork, but looked up at him when they answered, their voice even and confident. “It is a date.”

Chapter Text

Bloodhound shook their head as they plucked another carrot from their garden and tucked it into their basket. Their phone buzzed in their pocket, once, then again, and again. They smiled. It must be Walter, sending them separate messages instead of taking the time to compose his thoughts into one coherent text. Oftentimes, they would take a few minutes to contemplate their answer to his messages, delicately formulating a response that was thoughtful and eloquent. Walter Fitzroy would reactively send back a GIF in response. He was a fool — but they were growing fond of these correspondences even so. 

Walter had been messaging them frequently these last few days, inquiring what they had in store for him tonight. He had some outlandish guesses that Bloodhound had refused to confirm or deny. It was surprisingly fun to tease him like this, to wield a little power and to be the one who had the answers. Walter asked for hints, which they had not provided, afraid of spoiling the plan they had so carefully laid out.

Bloodhound set down their basket, patted their dirt-covered hand on their pant leg to wipe away the soil, then withdrew their phone from their pocket, curious to see what he would ask this time. 

‘Ok, at least tell me what I should wear. Shorts? Long pants? My birthday suit?’

Bloodhound’s cheeks flushed at the absurdity, but they began to type an answer. ‘We will be outdoors in the woods. You should dress accordingly.’

‘I see, I see. Better wear pants then. Wouldn’t want a mosquito biting my ass.’

‘Wearing clothes would be advisable, yes.’ they sent back, trying not to imagine the man arriving off the transport vessel wearing nothing but his boots, standing at the top of the gangway with his legs spread wide, his hands on his hips.

‘What else do I need to bring?’

Bloodhound smiled at his contact photo, his countenance grinning at them confidently from the top of the screen. They could not wait to see him again outside of the games and the contractual obligations that bound them.  

‘Nothing, other than yourself.’

-x-

Bloodhound rearranged the display of tiny animal skulls on their shelf for the fourth time as they waited for Walter to arrive. They heard the sound of the approaching ship, the hum of engines growing louder as the craft descended into the nearby clearing, and knew it was only a matter of minutes before he would knock. One of the blankets in the recessed seating area was askew, and they rushed over to neaten it, folding and refolding it until they were satisfied with the result. 

They made one last trip to the bedroom, even though they doubted Walter would see this room — though part of them secretly hoped the night might bring them here. Bloodhound took a deep breath as their cheeks flushed at the thought. Things would surely not go this direction tonight, not with the tame date idea they had planned. But with Walter, things seemed to organically veer in that way, a natural progression that felt instinctual. 

Simple touches, his hand on their shoulder or their arm, caused goosebumps to ripple underneath their jacket. His voice reverberated within them, his jokes and kind words collecting in the corners of themself, remembering them, savoring them. They felt their face grow warmer and opened up the bedside table drawer to tuck away the pencils and small sketchbook that lay on top. Inside, was the small folded photo, and they started to push it into the back of the drawer, but paused when their fingers contacted the photo paper.

They had been viewing Boone’s picture less and less, trying to stay their hand whenever they were filled with the urge to open it and stroke the faded surface. It was mere habit at this point, one they were desperately trying to break, to sever the threads that still bound their heart and mind to the past. Bloodhound regretted even thinking of it now, the desire to unfold the picture rose to the surface once more, strong and insistent; perhaps one quick glance before Walter arrived would be acceptable. They picked up the folded photo but did not feel the usual relief that came with holding it. This felt wrong, forbidden somehow. Were they going to fall back into old habits right before their date with Walter?

Bloodhound jumped when the knock came at their front door, their heart rate spiking with the quick succession of taps against the wood. They dropped the picture on the dresser and scurried to the front of the house. With one last tug at their jacket hem and a quick glance down at themself to ensure their appearance was acceptable, they pulled the door open.

Walter’s face lit up into a wide grin as soon as he saw them. He leaned forward and captured them in his signature tight hug. This time, they returned the embrace immediately, pulling him closer, burying their face in his shoulder. Their body relaxed against him, welcoming the closeness. Though their nerves still shook and the light dinner they had eaten not too long before churned in their stomach, it was comforting to meet him in their own home. Here in the woods, they could be themself more freely without worrying about prying eyes. 

When Walter released them, they surreptitiously surveyed his outfit. He had chosen wisely despite his absurd suggestion of arriving nude. The grey canvas pants he wore appeared thick enough to deter curious insects and would protect him from the thickets of brush they would pass through. A dark T-Shirt stretched across his chest, topped with a light jacket, a swishy material that would ward off the chill of the evening wind.

“Good evening, Walter,” they said, realizing they had been staring at his chest a beat too long without saying anything. It was a good thing their goggles hid their eyes, though he was observant enough that he may have noticed the direction of their gaze.

Walter’s eye crinkled in delight. “Evenin’ Houndy. I’m excited to see what ya have in store for us tonight.”

“Shall we go now?”

“You tell me. I’m along for the ride.”

Bloodhound reached for the backpack laid near the doorway and slung it over their shoulder. They fought the urge to check the bag again — they had already packed and unpacked it a few times, ensuring they had everything they wished to bring. 

The sun had nearly finished setting, the last wisps of orange light glowing through the trees. Bloodhound walked slowly, eyeing Walter as they began their journey. They chose a path that they hoped would not be too difficult to traverse, but watched the man stumble over a small dip in the dirt. 

“Stay vigilant,” they warned. “The terrain is uneven.”

“Right. Can’t see too well though,” Walter replied, letting out a little grunt as the front of his boot caught a tree root. 

He wobbled for a moment as if he was on the precipice of falling. Bloodhound lunged towards Walter and took his hand to steady him, slipping their slim, scarred fingers into his warm palm. He squeezed their hand in thanks.

“My hero,” Walter grinned.

Bloodhound returned their gaze to the path ahead, glad that the dim lighting would hide their blush. Would their cheeks ever stop warming at Walter’s jests? His standards were quite low if that was all it took to impress him, but still, the words settled well within them. 

“It was a small thing.”

“Maybe,” he said pensively. “But ya know, I’ve learned that sometimes it’s those little things that mean the most.”

Bloodhound hummed a small noise of agreement and let go of his hand for just a moment, surprised at how much they missed the contact. They withdrew the small battery-powered lantern from their pack, then turned it on and clipped it to the outside of the bag to provide a little light for Walter’s benefit. The lamp cast a dim glow all around them, subtle but enough to illuminate the potential hazards on the ground. They knew these trails well and could travel them forward and backward with their eyes closed if they wished — but Walter could not. 

They reached for his hand once more, this time threading their fingers between his until they were entwined comfortably, like two matching halves placed back together, whole once more. It was a simple gesture, but it linked them to Walter in a way that felt right. The pair trekked, making small talk, but Bloodhound found it hard to focus too deeply on the lighthearted conversation, as excited as they were to show him one of their favorite sights. Walter seemed happy enough to chatter alongside them, contentedly filling the quiet despite their short and noncommittal answers. 

Even though they usually lived in silence, preferring the sounds of nature, this was a welcome change. When Elliott or Octavio rambled during a match, it was much less endearing, sometimes grating on their nerves as they tried to focus. Now, with Walter, they didn’t even try to suppress their smile as he regaled them with a tale from his youth. He spoke of a reckless adventure that was surely exaggerated — but they enjoyed the story, the enthusiasm he imbued into every word. His anecdote was punctuated with jabs in the air to imaginary foes with his free hand as he described a fight from long ago where he had been vastly outnumbered, but still came out on top, bloodied but victorious.

It was not much further, and Bloodhound slowed as they descended a gentle incline through thinning trees. They clasped his hand more tightly. 

“We are almost there.”

The pair’s boots sunk in lightly to the damp ground as they moved, and Bloodhound excitedly squeezed Walter’s hand twice, hoping he couldn’t feel how cool and damp their palm was becoming. What if Walter was uninterested in this view? Would he be bored by something so simple? A man used to action and grand adventures might expect far more than such a rural sight. 

“Houndy, this is beautiful,” Walter exclaimed, removing all their doubt as he stepped forward, tugging Bloodhound with him.

Before them, the moon hung in the sky large and full, perfectly round, the view unhindered by buildings or light polluting the horizon. It bathed the area in a faint luminescence as it reflected off the rippling surface of the lake. The gentle waves lapped at the shore, a soothing, repetitive sound. 

Bloodhound released Walter’s hand to rummage through their pack, withdrawing a thick blanket with a sleek bottom layer that would resist any moisture. They unfurled it and shook it out before laying it on the ground. Their eyes were fixed on Walter, his face still turned up to the sky as if he could not tear his gaze away from the splendor above. 

“I thought perhaps you might enjoy viewing the stars with me,” they said, tugging on his hand and motioning towards the blanket. “Would you care to join me?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely!” Walter immediately plopped down on the blanket and made himself comfortable on his back. He patted the blanket beside him, beckoning Bloodhound.

They sat delicately on the edge of the blanket first before lounging beside Walter. Above, a brilliant canopy of stars was strewn across the dark horizon, constellation sharp, standing out like bright pinpricks. For a moment, Bloodhound was quiet, absorbed by the view. Though it was far from the first time they had seen it or lay here to contemplate their life’s path, it was different with Walter present. There was a peace to be found in nature, beneath something so vast — how could the worries of the day compare to the endless expanse above? Everything else felt so small and insignificant in comparison; their fears and uncertainties melted away, fading into the darkness around them to be carried away by the waves.

“Never seen anythin’ like this,” Walter said quietly, awe in his voice. “Not even back home. Feels like I could reach out and touch it all.” For emphasis, he lifted his hand to the sky, closing his fist over empty air with a soft sigh before letting his arm fall to the ground. 

“There are few places left where one may view the skies unhindered.” Bloodhound shifted on the blanket, their hand brushing against Walter’s inquisitively. They took a deep breath and reached out with their pinky, hooking it around his. With their free hand, they pointed upwards toward a few constellations, tracing the imaginary lines in the sky. 

“Sporðdreki. Fiskikarlar. Karlvagn. Ásar bardagi,” they named, showing him the first ones that came to mind. “It is said that long ago, the stars and planets were put into their places by the gods themselves. The deities used the sparks from Múspellsheimr, the land of fire spirits to give light to the heavens and the realms below.” 

For a moment, Bloodhound worried that this tale would seem childish, but the stars shone in Walter’s eye. He was completely enamored with their story, a galaxy glimmering in his gaze as he absorbed their words. His state filled them with relief; this was the reaction they had hoped for. 

“Some constellations tell a story, or represent the gods themselves, while others commemorate great battles.”

“I like that,” he murmured. 

“I am unsure if I believe it to be true,” Bloodhound continued slowly. “But it was the tale told to me by the village elders long ago, and one that I passed onto the young ones while I presided over the tribe, as was my duty.”

“Do ya miss it?” Walter asked softly. “Bein’ with your people an’ all?”

Bloodhound swallowed the lump in their throat. The truth was complex, allowing for no simple answer, but Walter’s question had not intended for any of that. He would not want to hear about their cowardice, how they had abandoned their people in their moment of greatest need. They left their village leaderless to play in the Apex Games. It had been easy to tell themself that it was to earn money and recognition for their people — not a lie, exactly — but they fought for Boone, too. At first, their skills were lacking and they lost many matches. But then, with their first victory also came a sense of pride. The accolades and wins felt good for their own selfish spirit, for once in their life making them feel good about something they had done. Pride was a dangerous, double-edged blade, and they had wielded it more times than they cared to admit. 

Guilt. 

Bloodhound was quiet for a moment and let their eyes trail over a few more constellations, soundlessly mouthing the names. The taste of the silent words in their language soothed them. “I do miss it, at times…” their voice trailed off. “It was a simpler life, though many years have passed since I have resided there. Those that remain have a hard life. Many have moved on, chasing after the promise of Hammond’s offers of work and relocation, wealth and resources, but some still hold true to the Old Ways.”

They cleared their throat, indicating an end to that discussion. Any further and they would be pulled into a dark mood. “It is nice to share the stars and this evening with another,” Bloodhound let go of Walter’s finger and propped themself up on the blanket. “I am glad you agreed to come with me.”

Walter interlaced his fingers behind his neck, still scanning the sky above. Bloodhound’s heart soared at the sight of him. The moonlight caught his rugged features, highlighting the strong lines of his cheekbones and jaw enticingly. His expression was gentle, his body relaxed — they wished they had a fraction of his confidence and ease. What would it be like to go through life that way? Making decisions with certainty instead of constant second-guessing, sharing experiences with others without retreating into their own mind must be freeing. 

Bloodhound soaked in this view of Walter, realizing they were staring again, but let himself revel in it for a few moments longer. Their eyes lingered on his full lips. How romantic it would be to kiss him beneath the light of the moon and stars, sealing their intent before the gods. Did they dare do it now? They rarely chanced such daring moves, but the moment seemed perfect for it. Their mind soured the moment, tendrils of doubt twisting within their belly. He was a handsome man, and it was hard to believe that someone like him was interested in someone like them. 

If Walter suspected anything of their current internal struggle, he did not show it, remaining still, content to lounge on the soft blanket. It was impossible to tell if Walter was merely aloof, completely absorbed in viewing the heavens, or purposely acting this way to offer them the opportunity to seize this moment on their own. Bloodhound steeled themself. If Walter thought highly of them, perhaps they should believe him.

Worthy.

Bloodhound licked their trembling lips and, before they could talk themself out of it, bent down until their mouth pressed against Walter’s.

His lips were soft and plush, inviting, the bristles of his mustache rubbing just under their nose. The coarse hair scratched them gently, brushing against their scarred skin. They breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Walter smiled against their mouth and he accepted the kiss, chaste as it was, little more than a peck, really — but they had done it. They pulled away and examined his face, the corners of his mouth still lifted. When his smile grew wider at their stare, they lay back quickly on the blanket to look straight up, their heart pounding.

It was Walter’s turn to prop himself up and gaze at them. “Mm. What was that for?” he asked.

Bloodhound blinked behind their goggles, immediately worried they had violated some unspoken rule of budding relationships. “D-Do I need a reason?”

“Nah,” Walter teased, reaching out to give their bicep a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just teasin’.”

They swallowed hard. “If you must know,” Bloodhound started. “I found the view of your face…appealing. The moonlight suits your features.”

Walter’s crooked grin slanted further. “Why, ‘cause it’s so dark ya can barely see me?”

“Nei, nei ,” they started to sit up in a panic, scrambling to explain themself, crestfallen that they had said the wrong thing. “You misunderstand…”

“Aw, Houndy. I’m only kidding. Sorry, I really shouldn’t pull your leg so much,” Walter said gently, his face full of genuine regret. “You’re so serious about everythin’ — I should be more careful. I don’t mean to upset ya.”

Bloodhound relaxed their tight posture. Of course Walter was joking. “You did not upset me. I am merely unused to such banter.” They smiled, voice taking on an amused tone. “Though one would think by now I should come to expect it from you.”

“Oh?” he asked. “What else do ya expect from me?”

Their smile receded into something more serious as Walter scooted closer and splayed his hand out across their chest. They could feel each finger laying over their shirt, their heart thudding solidly under his palm. He guided them down until they were on their back again, then leaned over them on the blanket. Bloodhound closed their eyes, gripping a handful of the soft material beneath them, waiting for the contact they knew was coming. Walter bent a finger and brushed the side of their face with his knuckle gently, from the bottom of their goggles down over the bumps and ridges of their scarred jawline.

“The moonlight suits ya too, y’know,” he murmured before covering their mouth with his. Walter’s kiss was strong and sure, more brazen than theirs had been.

Bloodhound lifted their hands to him, wrapping around his shoulders to pull him closer, no longer wanting any space between their bodies. Walter’s hands gripped their waist and suddenly moved, breaking the kiss and rolling so he was on his back, pulling Bloodhound over him. They grunted in surprise, unsure of what the man was doing. Their first reaction was to get off of him and apologize — but they paused, waiting. 

Bloodhound lifted their chest off of his, their hands sinking into the blanket on either side of his head. They were acutely aware of every point of contact of their body laying over his, the way their shins brushed together, their thighs and hips were flush against his. 

“Wh-What are you…?” they began, a little breathless from the exertion and anticipation.

Walter’s hands stroked along their sides, one sliding up their back to bury itself within their auburn locks, partially tussled free from the loose binding of their ponytail. They trembled in his grasp as he gently eased their face down toward his. His lips brushed theirs, not yet kissing, merely holding them at this closeness. The possibility of what awaited them buzzed within them, like static electricity building and waiting to be unleashed in a mighty bolt. 

When he spoke, the movement of his lips against theirs, a featherlight touch, was enough to make them shudder. “Look, Houndy, I know sometimes I can be a little…much. More than you’re ready for. Thought maybe you’d like to set the pace this time.”

“I do not know.” Bloodhound’s chest tightened. “What if I disappoint you again?”

For a brief moment, the hand in their hair closed, gently tugging on their roots in warning. “None of that, now,” Walter chided softly. “You haven’t disappointed me. I want ya to feel comfortable. And if that means just layin’ here holding hands, that’s fine with me, too.” 

Bloodhound examined his face in the dim light, searching for any sign of deceit but found none. It was tempting to remove themself from this position and not face the discomfort that came with expanding their boundaries and indulging in their desire. But, as they shifted their position slightly, heat rose within their belly, gathering in their chest, traveling up their neck and down between their thighs — they knew what they wanted.

Walter.

They threw caution to the wind and kissed him, hoping to imbue the passion they felt into the pressure of their lips on his. Walter was warm beneath them, solid, strong, and familiar despite having only met a short time ago. Walter had sauntered into their life with kind words and a crooked smile, reminding them of things they thought themself incapable of feeling. They had expected him to be drawn to the other Legends, like Elliott with his charisma or Loba and her flawless features, but instead, he chose to spend his time with them. Why?

His mechanical hand glided down over their hip to grip their bottom, and pulled them out of their own head when he gave them a generous squeeze. The hand in their hair had loosened, fingernails scraping their scalp in a way that left them dizzy. If they had a tail, it would surely be wagging as heavenly as it felt. 

Bloodhound’s cock began to stiffen between the pair, and they halted their kiss to surreptitiously readjust their position to remove the pressure, hoping that Walter would not notice. They could not say why they felt embarrassed. This was the natural and expected consequences of their actions, as they and Walter both knew — but shame still rose within them, their initial instinct to hide their growing arousal. 

Instead of letting them move their body away, Walter bent his knee slightly so their groin pressed against his thigh more firmly. He moved his leg up and down a few times until they stiffened further under his attention. Bloodhound found themself unable to move away, more from their own yearning than from Walter’s hold on them, and groaned as their shaft rubbed against his leg. They were sensitive despite the layers separating them. The friction of their cock against cotton and denim wasn’t enough, but they would take whatever they could get, emboldened now by lust, calmed by his reassurance.

They relaxed over Walter, chest pressed to his and ground their covered shaft against him. Each stroke against his muscled thigh brought them a small jolt of pleasure that settled in their middle, tugging and tightening deep within. A soft moan passed their lips resting against his hair, a few silken strands catching and sticking to the moisture. Walter trailed kisses along their jaw before moving to capture their earlobe between his teeth, gently nibbling.

“That’s it,” he affirmed, his voice husky in their ear. “Good.”

Good.

Another tight noise escaped them, a high-pitched whine that sounded horribly desperate. Why did his praise, the simplest affirmation, feel so fulfilling? Bloodhound buried their face more deeply in his neck, breathing in his scent, dew-covered evergreens and morning air, fresh and crisp and full of the promise of a new dawn. They kissed the softer skin there, smooth from a recent shave, their lips pausing over his pulse point, racing just as quickly as theirs. His head tilted to the side to offer them more of his neck. This was an offering of vulnerability, like a wolf rolling on their back to show his mate his belly, and Bloodhound was overcome with a burning need they had not felt since long ago.

Theirs. 

The gods only knew how deeply they longed for him, and from how hard he felt beneath them, how his hands pulled at their auburn tresses, the feeling was completely mutual. The whimper on their lips turned to a near-growl, a low and dark rumbling deep in their chest. If Walter wanted them, he could have them — but so, too, would they have him, claim him, mark him as theirs and theirs alone. 

Theirs. 

They boldly sucked in a mouthful of Walter’s neck, feeling the blood under his skin rush to meet their mouth. The part of them that normally lay dormant, the feral, primal being within reared its head, demanding more. Bloodhound dug their teeth in lightly to his skin, not enough to hurt him, but to let the man know their intent, and give him one last chance to change his mind.

Walter bucked his hips up against theirs as they bit harder. His arousal became impossible to ignore beneath them, the thick length of his cock tenting the canvas as much as the material allowed, straining against the seams in his pants. When they finally released their hold on his neck with a wet little pop, they could see his composure had slipped. His face no longer showed the collected confidence of a more experienced man, but the desperation of one who was wanting, aching, just as needy as they were.

Hands searching, exploring, one metal, one flesh. Heat and ice running over their form, bare legs entangled under the furs. The feeling of him against them, ready, the taste and smell of his sweat-damp skin. A taste they would savor as their lips and teeth and tongue claimed every inch of him. Arms taking possession, thighs flexing, hands grabbing, digging into muscle. The slick sounds of preparation, the exquisite stretch of probing fingers—

Bloodhound rutted their hips against him more fervently as he rolled his hips in time to match theirs, an erratic tempo of mutual desire. They moved their mouth back to his, their teeth grasping his lower lip, but froze as a single cool droplet hit their cheek from above. They pulled away, a curse on the tip of their tongue. Fates would have it that the instant they had allowed themself to be free, to follow their desire down whatever course it wished to follow — rain. Andskotinn.

Walter looked up at them, confusion pushing forward through the haze of lust in his eyes. “All good?”

“It is beginning to rain,” Bloodhound explained, pointing upwards, another drop hitting their face.

“A lil’ rain doesn’t hafta stop us,” he said suggestively, reaching for them.

“Perhaps not, but with this chill…” they sighed, resigned, and moved off of Walter. “I do not think it wise to remain out here if it continues.”

“Ah,” Walter frowned. “You’re the expert after all.”

Bloodhound offered him their hand to help him stand. Walter groaned as he rose, rubbing his lower back gingerly. He stretched and tilted his hips forward and back as they hastily shook the blanket to rid it of any dirt or leaves, then rolled it and shoved it in their bag. A few more drops fell on them; they had less time than they thought.

They grabbed Walter’s hand as they had on the journey out, but pulled him along more quickly out of necessity rather than gentle guidance. The rain began to fall harder, swollen drops of water finding their way between the treetops and soaking their hair and their sweatshirt. They peered over at Walter, seeing that he did not fare much better, the rain soon drenching his jacket and shirt.

“I am sorry,” they huffed as they moved faster, boots now splashing in muddy puddles on the ground. “This was not in the plan for our evening.”

“‘S’all good,” he assured them, squinting against the rain droplets that ran down his face. “My arm won’t rust, and I’ll dry off.”

They soon made it back to the cabin and the pair kicked off their sodden shoes, leaving them in the doorway. Bloodhound immediately went to grab a towel for Walter, then stoked the dying fire to life. They poked and prodded the embers, sending sparks wafting up the chimney. Once the fire began to lick at the flames once more, they tossed a few logs on and turned to Walter. His body shook of its own accord in an attempt to warm him, and he hugged the towel around himself tightly. Bloodhound guided his shivering form close to the fire.

“I must get you out of these clothes,” Bloodhound said, immediately wishing the floor would swallow them up at the insinuating eyebrow waggle that Walter gave them. “I do not—I only meant…you are very wet.”

Bloodhound disregarded the man’s soft snicker and how easily he was entertained by such crude humor. They went to fetch him some dry clothes to wear, ruing their bad luck. This was an unfortunate event. They had checked their weather app time and time again and it had not indicated a chance of rain. Of course, the app could not make guarantees, as fickle as nature could be, but they should have paid more attention to the change in the air, the shift in atmosphere as the clouds rolled in, covering the moon. They had been far too distracted, lost in the moment with Walter, the feel of his lips and hands and —

Bloodhound refocused on their task and moved into the bedroom to peel off their own wet clothes off, tremors beginning to overtake their own body. They quickly braided their wet hair away from their face, threw on a worn pair of pajama pants and a dry T-shirt, then searched for anything that might fit Walter. Bottoms first. Though they were of a like height, Walter’s legs were a bit thicker, and his middle a bit more filled out, the muscles bulkier. They found a pair of grey sweatpants, the pair was a bit loose on them — perhaps it would work for him. Would any of their shirts fit him? They pulled out one from the bottom of their drawer, a promotional shirt from one of the first few seasons of the Apex Games. It was baggy on them but might work well with Walter’s broad chest and shoulders.

They brought these out into the living room, and Bloodhound handed the garments to him, expecting him to head to the other room to change. Instead, Walter immediately dropped the towel and yanked off his shirt, then pushed down his pants. Bloodhound’s eyes dropped to the dark blue boxers he wore. The man had no shame, clearly — but they did. They turned away and their hand shot up to cover their eyes as an added precaution.

“M-My, apologies, Walter.”

“Houndy, I wish ya didn’t feel like ya always hafta apologize,” he said.

Bloodhound bit back the urge to apologize for apologizing, and nodded, listening to the soft sounds of his movements as he dressed.

“I’m decent, if ya wanna turn back around.”

Bloodhound swiveled to face him, discovering that the man clearly had a different definition of ‘decent’ than they did. The shirt seemed to fit him well enough, though it was tight across the chest, the generous swell of his pecs filling it out more than their own. But the pants. The soft material stretched across his thighs, a size too small. They swallowed hard when he shifted his position, allowing them an almost obscene view of the outline of his cock behind the cotton-polyester blend. Loba had joked before about ‘grey sweatpants season,’ but they had never understood — it had been the season for deer and rabbit. Now, they understood, perhaps too well.

Walter ran a hand through his hair, slicking the still-damp strands back off his forehead, then stuck his hands in his pockets, further accentuating the lewd contour. Bloodhound could not look another second, lest their own body, now only clothed in thin flannel, give them away. They turned their gaze back to his face, finding a warm smile awaiting them.

“How do I say ‘thanks’ in your language?” he asked while he pulled a cushion closer to the fire, then plopped down on it heavily. Walter stretched his toes toward the blaze, warming himself before it.

“Takk.” Bloodhound watched him find a comfortable position, noting that his feet were missing a few toes. The sight of another injury was not alarming, as many as their own body bore, but they wondered what had caused those injuries: one or several incidents? Claimed by battle or by nature? “Takk fyrir to express a bit more gratitude,” they continued without missing a beat.

“Takk fyrir, then. ” He grinned at them, pleased with himself.

Bloodhound shook their head, attempting to conceal the smile that threatened to stretch across their lips — none had ever attempted to learn their language, and he did so excitedly with childlike wonder. “Ekki málið. Would you care for some tea? It might help warm you a little.”

“Sounds perfect.”

While he relaxed before the fire, Bloodhound stepped into the kitchen. They set the kettle to boil, nervous yet excited as they prepared to share the second surprise of the night. They lifted the lid of the glass container on the counter and bit their lip. It had taken some time to find a suitable recipe that they thought he would enjoy, but the resulting muffins had turned out better than they had expected. They could still picture the box with the highly processed and individually wrapped sweets in his pantry and hoped that their baking could compare to the desserts he enjoyed.

The swirls of cinnamon sugar through the batter had a lovely effect, packed with granules of crunch and bursts of flavor, each bite unique in composition. They had plucked the last of the season’s apples and mixed the fruit into the batter, adding moisture and a delicate, yet slightly tart flavor. The topping was rich and sweet, the savory butter contrasting the sugar perfectly. For their first attempt, it had gone far better than they expected.

They placed a muffin on a plate for Walter and one for themself. Sweets did not often appeal to them, but they would indulge with their visitor so he did not eat alone. Bloodhound glanced at him again, leaning forward to prod the logs with the poker. The T-Shirt was pulled taut against his back, and the sweatpants clung to the round musculature of his bottom.

Bloodhound looked down at the plates. Many things had reemerged in Walter’s presence. Emotions and needs and wants that they had stifled for so long were becoming impossible to hold back the more time they spent with him. They were acting like a love-struck youth, stumbling over their words and clumsily navigating this with Walter. It was embarrassing — yet, Walter’s hand was gentle over theirs, his teasing never to mock, but to jest without cruelty or judgment.

Bloodhound shivered, imagining the possibilities of what they could share with the man. They did not want to get too far ahead of themself, but it was nice to picture having someone to share meals and everyday conversations with. Early morning coffee on the porch, watching the sunrise amidst birdsong. After a trying day, how nice it would be to have someone to lament their struggles, to hold them through the days where their strength seemed to fail them, and to do the same for him. And — when desire wound within them, someone to share in passion, to please and be pleased. 

Bloodhound sucked in their bottom lip and leaned against the counter. Could they please him? Walter clearly had more experience in these matters, and in comparison, they felt woefully inadequate. Perhaps he could show them, teach them, guide their hands, their mouth, their body. 

The kettle began to wail, and they turned off the heat, wishing that they could pause their own thoughts just as easily as the disappearing flame of the stove. Bloodhound took a deep breath in and out, then searched their cabinet of dried herbs. Their fingers brushed over the hand-labeled jars, some nearly empty, but eventually found a suitable choice. They stuffed two small, metal strainers full of fragrant, dried chamomile blossoms.

They poured the water into mugs and let the tea steep, breathing deeply of the steam rising above their cup. Bloodhound added one drop of homemade vanilla extract to each cup. The resulting aroma was delightful, creamy notes of vanilla and chamomile rising to greet them. The flavor combination should pair well with the cakes, light and without caffeine, perfect to drink in the evening.

Bloodhound returned to the main room, carefully balancing the plates and mugs. “When I visited your home, I recalled seeing those, ah, cinnamon cakes in your cupboard.” They handed him a dish and a cup. “I attempted to make something similar. It might not taste quite the same, but my hope is that you enjoy it just as much.”

“Ah, such a sweetheart,” Walter said, setting the plate and mug down. He grabbed the muffin and took a big bite, immediately making a loud groan of appreciation. “Yer gonna fatten me up if ya keep feedin’ me like this,” he mumbled around a crumbling mouthful. “Bloody delicious.”

Bloodhound’s heart soared at the expression on his face, and the noises, though nearly obscene, filled them with joy. They settled delicately into a cushion across from him. Despite the setback of the rain and the simplicity of the evening, Walter seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Granules of sugar and cinnamon from the crumble topping clung to his mustache, but his tongue poked out to lick them away.

They picked up their own muffin and took a small nibble to hide their smile. “Thank you, Walter.”

Though Bloodhound had not been acquainted with Walter long, they knew that he was not a quiet man. But right now, he was at ease, sipping tea in companionable silence with them. The fireplace popped occasionally. A log split under the heat, sending sparks shooting up into the chimney. The wood was especially fragrant tonight, the last of their stock of hickory. This was a good use for it; they hoped Walter found the smokey scent just as appealing as they did. They closed their eyes for a moment, completely at peace with the moment. When had their spirit last felt so whole?

They finished their tea, but felt sleep begin to tug at their eyelids. Bloodhound tried their hardest, but could not stifle their yawn. They covered their mouth sheepishly, hoping their guest did not feel rushed to leave. It was far too early for him to go, but their eyes were growing heavier and heavier. Another yawn escaped them, wider than the first.

“Ah, I cannot stop,” they said, but withheld the apology they wanted to add.

Walter leaned forward and patted their shoulder. “No worries, Houndy. I’ll request a ride, usually takes a little while for it to get here anyway.” His face fell as he tapped his phone screen, and he looked up at Bloodhound. “Ah, shit. Might have a bit of a problem.” 

“What is it?” 

“Looks like the transport app is down. Error message keeps poppin’ up when I try to request a ride.”

Bloodhound’s pulse quickened. They pulled out their phone to try, to see if they could help, but received the same error message. Their phone confirmed what they simultaneously wanted yet feared: Walter would be staying longer.

“I-I see. You are welcome to remain here for as long as you need.”

Walter scratched the back of his neck and tapped to view the details of the error message further. He squinted at the fine print on the screen. “Might be all night. It says ETA on the fix is 5 AM.”

Bloodhound blinked rapidly behind their goggles, unsure how to process this information. Walter would be staying until the early morning — there were no other options unless he knew someone with their own craft. “Ah.”

“I hate to impose, but ya won’t even know I’m here. I can camp out right here.” He pointed to the cushions and furs. “Quiet as a church mouse.”

“Nei.”  

What type of host would they be if they made their guest sleep in the living room? After laying near the lake, he had massaged his sore back — they knew well what it was like to wake after laying on an uncomfortable surface or awkward position. Those aches could last days, if not longer. 

They shook their head. “You may take the bed. I can rest here. I have before, it is no trouble.”

 It wasn’t completely a lie, though they dreaded the pains they anticipated from sleeping among the cushions rather than in their bed. Their neck had just started feeling less sore, but they could accept a little more discomfort on Walter’s behalf. 

“Nah, I couldn’t do that to ya. Wouldn’t be right.”

Bloodhound swallowed hard, watching him. For once, he looked a bit nervous, unsure of himself. There were no other options, except —

“We could sleep…together.” The words slipped from their lips before they could stop them, sliding right across their tongue. Their eyes shot up to Walter, finding his expression as surprised as they likely felt.

Walter’s eyebrows lowered suggestively after the initial shock at their words. He didn’t need to say a thing, his face very clearly conveying his insinuation. Bloodhound held their hands up in front of them, waving them frantically, cheeks instantly reddening. 

“I did not mean — I merely meant —”

“I know what ya meant, Houndy.” He winked at them. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise.”

Bloodhound nodded, their face still burning. “Very well. Come, then.” 

The hunter led Walter into the bedroom, unsure how to proceed. They motioned awkwardly to the bathroom, offering Walter a chance to perform whatever before-bed tasks he needed to complete to be comfortable. Bloodhound perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly scrolling through their phone, really looking at nothing as they heard the sink running. They didn’t want it to seem as if they were just sitting and waiting for him to be done — though that is exactly what they were doing. 

When the bathroom door swung open and Walter stepped out, his skin was pink and glowing as if he had washed his face. Bloodhound smiled at him awkwardly and stood to go into the bathroom next. As they passed him, they noticed the mark they had left on his neck, a dark red splotch already bruised, very obviously a bite of passion. They quickly moved into the bathroom, closed the door behind them, and stood at the sink, breathing deeply as they removed their goggles. The edges of the leather left an imprint on their skin, deep pink gouges from the pressure of the eyewear. Their reflection stared back at them, brows furrowed. Could they really sleep in the same bed as Walter and maintain their composure? Could they keep their hands to themself? Could Walter? Did they want him to ‘be on his behavior’ as he had said?

Just hours ago they had been on top of him, humping his thigh like a dog in heat, so desperate for release. They splashed water over their face and wiped it away with a towel, then rubbed a tiny dot of moisturizing balm between their fingers, spreading it over their cheeks and neck, covering the webbing of scars etched into their skin. The minty scent was calming, the ritual of cleansing helping them to find their center again. They could control themself. 

Bloodhound was about to leave, but hesitated with their hand on the knob — they were not yet ready to reveal their face to Walter. They slipped their goggles back on and entered the bedroom, finding Walter already sitting in bed, half under the covers.

“Shall I leave the bathroom light—” they started to ask, but the question stuck in their throat when they saw what was in Walter’s hands.

Walter examined the photo, already unfolded in his grasp. He turned it over, his eyes widening as he read the words on the back. Bloodhound wished in that instant, they were anywhere rather than right here, forced to face Walter’s discovery. 

“W-Walter, it is…” they started, but couldn’t find the words.

“Boone,” Walter said reverently. “Didn’t mean to pry. It was just sittin’ on the table.”

Bloodhound nodded. They stood uncomfortably beside the bed, unsure of what to do next. They had planned to quickly slide under the covers and face away from him, but that didn’t feel right now. How must Walter feel, holding the picture of the one who had first held their heart, holding a physical reminder of their shame, failures, and abandoned dreams all in one?

“Please accept my apologies,” they said softly, mustering up the last of their voice that threatened to abandon them at any moment. “I-I can sleep in the living room.” They took a step backward, nearly stumbling over the fur rug beneath their feet.

“Nonsense.” Walter patted the bed beside him, his voice dropping into a warm, low rasp that they had no hope of denying. “C’mere Houndy.”

They obeyed his request, nervously lifting the covers and sitting on the farthest edge of the mattress, away from him. Walter held his arm up and to the side, clearly expecting Bloodhound to place themself in that spot. Cautiously, they scooted closer over the soft sheets until their thigh touched his under the furs.

“That’s better,” Walter said quietly. He draped his arm over their shoulders and let it rest around them. “There’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, keepin’ a picture of someone who was important to ya.”

Bloodhound shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. “Perhaps not.”

“I mean it,” he continued, holding the picture in front of him. “Keepin’ people in your heart is nice ‘n’ all, but sometimes a picture holds the memories a bit better. Wish I had kept some.”

“Y-You do not think it strange to…ah, hold the picture of Boone?”

“Why would that be weird?”

“He was my first lover,” they said, unsure why they were sharing this, the words that were locked away earlier now spilling out unbidden. “The…only one.” If the words surprised Walter, he did not show it, much to their relief. Any poor reaction would have completely decimated what shreds of their dignity were left. “And you are—” the words refused to come.

“He must’ve been special to ya,” he said, relieving them from their discomfort by folding the picture back up. “Handsome fella, too if ya don’t mind me sayin’.”

“He was rather charming. You remind me of him, a little,” Bloodhound admitted, licking their dry lips. 

This was a conversation they had not expected to have with Walter for a long time, surely not the type of thing potential partners discussed on a second date. But, nothing with Walter seemed to follow the typical patterns they knew and understood. Somehow, though, his gentle questioning and reassurance calmed them rather than increased their worry.

Walter grinned and tightened his grip on them, metallic fingers cool against their bicep. “Ah, so he was a noble gent with a heart of gold too?”

Bloodhound smiled wistfully. “Not precisely, no.”

“Gold is overrated anyway,” Walter said. He set the picture back on the table where he had found it. His hand skimmed a little lower, down their arm to rest at their waist. “Trust me.”

Bloodhound shuddered. It was an innocent gesture, a side hug, nothing more. They willed their body to remain still, but felt their arousal beginning to build at his touch, warmth spreading from beneath his mechanical palm despite the coolness of the metal. The threads of their self-control pulled taut, threatening to snap. They quickly scooted away and flipped onto their side, facing away from him. It crossed their mind to turn off the dim light on their bedside table, but they left it on to guide him if he woke during the night.

“It is getting late. We should rest,” they mumbled stiffly. 

Walter did not answer right away, but Bloodhound felt the bed sink as he moved, settling in beside them. “Right. Got an early wake-up tomorrow to catch a ride home.”

They pressed their face into the pillow. The leather and metal of their goggles began to dig into their skin uncomfortably, and they could not find a position that relieved it. They could not sleep like this tonight, but to be completely unmasked around Walter was more than they could handle on top of…everything else.

“I…would prefer to sleep without my goggles,” they said slowly. “Is it alright with you if I turn all the lights out? I-I know once before I tried to show you what lies beneath my mask, but I do not know…” they paused. “I am not ready to do so now.”

“Lights out is fine by me,” Walter said. “And if you wanna face away from me, that’s fine too. The back of ya is just as nice to look at as the front. Or I can face the other way — you tell me what you’d like.”

“You may stay as you are.”

Bloodhound cleared their throat and reached over to turn off the bedside table lamp, removing the last bits of illumination in the room. They peeked at Walter. The room was almost completely dark, only the palest glow from the moon pouring in through the window — but it did not allow for much of a view. They lifted their goggles from their head, enjoying the freedom from metal and leather, the fresh air on their smothered skin. When they settled back into bed, they faced away from him just in case. 

“G’night,” he said softly.

“Good night.”

Bloodhound closed their eyes and counted down from twenty, letting their breaths out slowly with each beat. They imagined their body growing heavier as they released tension from head to toe, one body part at a time, picturing their body sinking through the mattress to the floor. Even though they had been so tired just moments before, rest would not come to them now. They lay a while longer, trying to will sleep to come to them, but it seemed that their body was resisting every attempt. 

Bloodhound heard and felt Fuse shift beside them. His breath was deep and slow, so they turned to face him. His eyes were closed and they stared at him in the near-complete darkness to try to gauge how deeply asleep he was. They had thought he was giving off signals of wanting something more tonight, but maybe he did just want to rest. He did mention being on his best behavior.

“Can’t sleep either?” Walter asked suddenly. 

Bloodhound twitched in alarm. “N-No. I thought perhaps you had fallen asleep.”

“Not yet.”

“Is there something I can bring to make you more comfortable?”

Walter chuckled softly. “Not unless you wanna bring yourself a lil’ closer for a snuggle.”

Bloodhound held their breath and flipped their body away from him again. Another one of Walter’s jokes. They should just ignore his comment and attempt to sleep once more. But the way the bed shifted, the slight dip from Walter’s form called to them, urged their body to move closer. Perhaps he had meant what he said, despite how lighthearted his words had been.

It was only polite to make their guest feel comfortable, after all. They backed up bit by bit until they felt his hips behind theirs. This was the courteous thing to do, they told themself, and nothing at all to do with their own desire. This was merely…the hospitality of a good host. 

Walter’s body surrounded theirs under the pelts, a perfect fit of his hips cupping theirs. His chest radiated a comforting heat, solid, muscled. The remnants of his cologne and aftershave still clung to his skin, but below that, a more primal smell came through, a slight musk, something warmer, just the scent of his skin, of him. They remained as motionless as they could, but could not resist pushing their bottom into the curve of him more firmly. For good measure, they wiggled to remove any remaining space between them as a…mere courtesy to fulfill their guest’s request.

“You left me quite the hickey on my neck, y’know,” Walter murmured, lips against their ear. “Reckon that’ll be there for a while.”

His breath tickled the sensitive skin behind their ear and a shiver traveled its way up the length of their spine. Bloodhound eyed their respirator sitting on the bedside table as their chest tightened, preparing to grab it should the need arise.

“I–I should not have done that,” they said softly. “I was not thinking.”

“Mm, I dunno. I believe ya were thinkin’,” Walter teased. His hand, warm and calloused, rested on their side where their shirt had ridden up before sliding underneath around their middle. “Thinkin’ that you wanted everyone to see it and know that I’m yours.”

I’m yours.

Bloodhound groaned softly as their pajama pants grew far too tight underneath the blankets. If they stayed up against him like this, kept talking like this, they were sure that sleep would completely escape them. They squirmed, deciding to try to add just a little space between their bodies, but only succeeded in grinding themself against him.

Uncertainty and desire warred within them, both fighting for dominance to face Walter, one cowardly, one brave. Desire was winning. This was better than they could have ever imagined tonight going, his chest behind them, firm body surrounding them in warmth, his arm around them keeping them close — they sucked in their breath sharply — and his hand. It wandered down the tight plane of their abdomen, tracing the scored lines of defined muscles as they tightened their stomach. Walter slipped it into their waistband, but stopped as his fingertips just grazed their short curls.

“Last time we talked on the phone, it died before you told me what ya wanted to know…” he started, voice husky behind their ear. “Still feel like sharin’ with ol’ Fusey now?”

Bloodhound swallowed hard as they felt something else, but behind them, against the back of their thigh, thick and firm. Why shouldn’t they allow themself to enjoy this with Walter, come what may? An opportunity had presented itself to them, a chance to be close to him in the comfort of their own home, their own bed no less. They moved their hips slightly to push themself back as closely as they could and let their arm rest over his, neither halting him, nor pushing him forward. His fingers drew back and forth among the trail of coppery hairs leading down from their navel.

Tightness curled in Bloodhound's chest, wrapping around their lungs. They yearned for Walter, to be with him in the way two lovers could, but deeper than that, they wanted to be held and protected, to allow themself to feel small and vulnerable. Their guard was always up around the others, a shell protecting themself from further pain or attachment. Even with Boone, there had always been a slight wariness with him, a barrier reminding them that he was an outsider — and in the end, his betrayal had solidified the need for that defense. 

But it was different with Walter. His presence soothed them in a way Boone’s never had in life or his photo had after his death; truly there was no comparison. Instead of the weight of memories burdening them, grounding them through guilt and responsibility, Bloodhound’s spirit flourished under Walter’s gentle touch. Their starved soul sang and thrived when he asked permission each step of the way, treating them as an equal, deserving of the consideration he offered them. Walter could be trusted. 

Bloodhound swallowed the lump in their throat, wanting to clearly share this with Walter so there would be no mistaking their intent. “I wished to know…what it was like to be with you, in every way.” They guided his hand lower, ready to show him that they needed this as badly as he did, further answering the question that still hung in the air like the heady scent of him all around them. “I want you, Walter.”

“Shit,” Walter hissed onto the back of their neck, grinding his hips against the cushion of their ass.

Bloodhound whined, feeling his length press between their clothed cheeks; they wished there were no layers between them. Walter’s thick fingers immediately resumed their descent and found their prize, Bloodhound’s cock, stiff, skin burning with need against his calloused palm. He encircled them with his hand, but held the position, not moving any further. The hunter choked back a whimper, trying and failing to restrain their noises of desperation.

“Want me to keep goin’ Houndy?” he asked, the question sweet, tempting like a siren song they could not even begin to contemplate resisting.

It was his turn to plant his teeth on their neck, nipping lightly, playfully. A squeak was all that came from their throat when he readjusted his hold on them. His thumb stroked the underside of their cock, passing through a slick drop of their arousal that had rolled down before smearing it over their tip. 

“Hm?”

The answer was simple, yet it caught in Bloodhound’s tight throat. In battle, they were a fierce opponent, fighting and clawing to their last breath even as their lifeblood drained from them. They would never lay down their weapon unless they were physically unable to hold it, never requesting a quick painless death or leniency. They had never begged for anything from anyone other than the gods — not for mercy, favors, or assistance with any tasks. But right now, the way Walter teased them, offering them a sample of what was to come, they did not know what they would do if he did not continue. 

Rational thoughts left their mind as quickly as the blood that rushed to pulse in their flesh in Walter’s grip. Bloodhound rocked their hips into his fist, their precum leaking into his hand, easing the passage of their cock through his fingers. Though they thought their answer was obvious enough by their actions, Walter had stopped moving his hand, intent on receiving verbal confirmation. 

The word slipped out before they could stop it, soft and husky with yearning. 

“Please.”

Chapter Text

All the moisture in Bloodhound’s mouth dried as soon as the word escaped them. They squeezed their eyes shut, worried that they had embarrassed themself completely. Never had they sounded so… needy. It was wholly unlike them to act this way, but it seemed that Walter seemed to bring many things out of them that they had not anticipated.

They did not have long to ponder it as Walter stroked his hand along their length, coaxing their mind from self-consciousness and back to the moment, all of his attention on them. The touch was gentle across their skin despite the man’s usual roughness. His hand was as calloused as theirs, battle-hardened, but it was warm and skilled. It felt… incredible. They arched their back, pushing their bottom against him more firmly, letting themself get swept away by the moment. They allowed Walter to sever the ties that bound them so tightly, freely giving themself to him. Waves of pleasure washed over them, like them of the steady ebb and flow of the water they laid beside a short time ago. Beads of their arousal continued to drip from their tip, captured and swiped away by Walter’s hand.

Heat pooled within their middle as Walter continued, the yearning lazily settling into something decadent, like warmed honey. They sighed as he squeezed lightly at the base of their shaft, bringing from them a short breath of wonder as their cock swelled further in his grasp. Their body responded to him, so willing, so eager, so desperate. Every nerve in their body craved this, cried out for it. The rolls of their hips were clumsy and inelegant as they sought more from his grip, fucking his hand with fervor.

"Relax, love, there's no rush," he breathed. “You’re doin’ just fine."

They doubted that, but he was surely too kind to say otherwise. In a hunt, each of their graceful steps was sure and strong, every single muscle hewn and etched with the memory of experience. Now — they felt like an elk newly foaled, a mere calf rising for the first time on shaking limbs in a world far too bright, so far removed from the warm comfort of solitude. But with Walter helping them to stay upright on those wobbly legs, guiding them through the steps, navigating this together...maybe they would gain the strength to stand on their own.

They whined softly when Walter released them, but he let his fingers trail along their thigh with a feather-light touch, raising goosebumps in its wake. This was a new type of bliss, so long had the touch from another brought only the pain of a fist, a blade, or a bullet. His hand wandered, in no hurry, gently exploring the divots of scar and muscle over their lower tummy and the curve of their hip. Curious fingers slipped up under their shirt, ghosting over the tight planes of their abdomen and sides before brushing over each of their peaked nipples, bringing forth another incoherent sound from them. 

Their hips jerked forward into nothing at the contact of his rough fingertips lightly pinching their nipples and Walter laughed softly against their neck. A single finger followed the deep trail scored into a V that lead downward and his hand resumed its place on their cock.

“That feel good, Houndy?” he asked, voice gravely.

“Yes,” they managed to say. “Walter…do not stop. Please.”

Their shame dissolved as he rubbed their stiff length, over and over, alternating pressure, hard and soft and something in between. Walter read their body’s reactions perfectly. He would work faster, only to slow just as they began to ascend to their climax, bringing them back down. His thumb flicked the underside of their tip in a way that caused stars to burst behind their eyelids and their mouth to go slack.

This was beyond anything they had imagined, and it was merely his hand. What would it be like to experience more with him? They shuddered at the thought. He nuzzled his face further into their neck and peppered their skin with kisses, his greedy mouth nibbling every inch he could reach. The gentle bites grew into something more firm, more insistent as Bloodhound continued to pump their hips forward.

“Ya left me such a pretty mark,” he mumbled into their skin. “How ‘bout I leave one of my own?”

All they could respond with was a low, depraved groan as he clamped his mouth onto the side of their neck, gently at first, making sure they didn’t wish to pull away. Bloodhound had no plans to retreat — not tonight. They stretched their neck allowing him full access to the fair skin there, their cheek pressed into the soft pillowcase in surrender. They writhed on the pelts, hands clutching uselessly at tufts of velveteen fur as Walter’s teeth sunk into their flesh. Pain and pleasure mingled in a way that left them dizzy and breathless. His tongue skillfully flicked over arteries and veins pulsing hot with their desire for him.

He sucked on their skin harder, as he quickened the pace of his hand, jerking them in time to the increasingly erratic movements of their hips. Their rhythm picked up into short, staccato bursts when their climax began to rise to the surface, the coiled tension wrapping all the way around their low back. Bloodhound moaned and turned their face into the pillow to muffle the sound. 

Walter’s lips rested over the spot he had just bitten, sealing the mark with a kiss. “I love hearin’ ya make all those sweet lil’ noises,” he murmured in their ear. “Ya don’t need to hide ‘em. You’re safe with me.”

Safe. 

The tightness coiled within them, too much to hold back. They shut their eyes, overwhelmed with the feeling of his clothed cock bumping the back of their bare thighs. There was a damp spot at the tip where his arousal leaked through, evidence that he was enjoying this as much as they were. Their chest tightened, and a small wheeze came from their throat — not a sound of pleasure. Not now — helvítis. They cursed their body’s faults, their weakened lungs threatening to ruin the moment for them. Bloodhound opened their heavy eyelids to peek at the equipment sitting on their bedside table. Putting it on would be an admittance of their low tolerance for such things unassisted — surely not what a new lover wanted to advertise to their newfound partner.

“D’ya need to put on the mask, love?” Walter asked, catching the direction of their gaze. He slowed his stroking but did not stop. “Don’t want ya passin’ out on me tonight.”

Reluctantly they reached for their respirator in silent agreement as their lungs began to ache, grateful for his tactful handling of the matter. They slipped the strap over their head to secure it in place. Fresh, cooled oxygen flooded their starved airways, easing the burning that had started low within their chest. Their breathing eased with the assistance of the pressure pushing and pulling the air in and out.

“There we go. That better?”

Bloodhound nodded, jostling the tubing connected the mask to the small concentrator on their bedside table. Only once Walter was certain they had recovered did he continue. Their filtered breaths rasped softly through their respirator alongside the faint mechanical click of valves opening and closing. It took a moment for them to relax once more, but Walter continued to work them, build them back up as if nothing had happened.

Their arousal soon banished the last shreds of their nervousness, the last wisps of self-doubt that clung so desperately to their being. Walter’s erection still bumped the backs of their thighs, and they reached back, threading their arm under his to fondle him through his sweatpants as much as the awkward angle would allow. Bloodhound let their mind wander unashamed; it was easy to imagine if there were no layers between them, if instead of this mere imitation of the act, they could allow themself to be with him fully. One day, they would gain the courage to feel him, all of him, to give completely of their body and spirit until there was no separate he and them, but instead became something else altogether as the two became one.

To be filled by him would be incredible, his hands guiding their hips in a slow roll while he took his time with them, making sure they felt only pleasure. Though it had been ages since they lay with another, but they did not forget the exquisite stretch of a partner — and with Walter, it would be brought to new heights. Their fingers desperately grasped to grip what they could of him, brushing over the damp fleece that had soaked through with his arousal, confirmation of his prior words.

I want you.

With a snarl that tore out from deep within their chest, they came, hips bucking wildly into his stroking fist. They spilled their release into his palm, warm trails of it dripping to coat his fingers.

Bloodhound’s vision blurred and they focused on their breath, the respirator’s fan spinning rapidly on the bedside table as it worked to keep up with the demand. Their cock slowly softened in his hand, and once the last surge of their orgasm had passed, embarrassment enveloped them as they glanced down at his fingers. In the dim lighting, the barest hints of moonlight streaking in through the window, they could see the slick mess they had created in his hand. 

What was the proper protocol here? They wanted to reciprocate in some way, but first — do they run to get him a tissue, a towel? Would that ruin the moment? It had been so long since they had done anything like this, their mind was pulled from the joy of it all into the logistics. They removed their mask and placed it back on the table, wavering with indecision. The cool night air from the half-open window alighted on the burning skin of the tops of their cheeks.

“Pull your pants down a lil’ more for me,” Walter said, nibbling their earlobe.

Bloodhound hesitated, lips trembling. Did he think…? They sucked in their breath when they felt him grind against them again, the thick length behind them curiously nudging at their thighs and backside. Did he…want to—?

“W-Walter, I am not…” Their mouth would not form the proper words, suddenly filled with cotton. They wanted to — the gods only knew how badly they wanted to — but now was not the right time. Their heart raced as guilt filled them, conflicting fears and wants bubbling up within their throat. “Not prepared for...”

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured soothingly, not missing a beat. “I’ve got somethin’ else in mind. D’ya trust me?”

Though they did not know what he planned, Bloodhound nodded, a gesture Walter could surely feel with how close he was. It surprised them how easily they agreed, their worry so quickly mollified by his words. They did trust him, wholeheartedly. He had given them no reason not to, and had allowed them as much control as they needed to be comfortable. Now, they would give some of that to him, an exchange that they hoped would solidify this trust. 

They pushed down the waistband of their pajama pants slowly, over their hips, pausing as they felt Walter lean back to watch them reveal their body. Their thighs were scarred, and no others had ever seen so much of their bare skin — but for Walter and their own desire, they would make this allowance.They shivered, not from the cold of the air on their bare flesh, but of their anticipation, waiting on his reaction. Bloodhound steeled themself and continued sliding the garment down until it rested just above their knees.

A fluttering began in their chest and they debated putting their mask back on, but this was not shortness of breath. This was merely their anticipation, the slight nervousness of waiting to see what he would do next.

“Is this…enough?” they asked breathlessly, not asking the true question that burned within them: were they enough?

He leaned away from them, and they could hear him suck in his breath in appreciation. “You’re perfect.”

Perfect.

That was the last word they would ever think to describe themself. They were flawed, perhaps more than most, in both mind and body, But the way Walter spoke the word so reverently, like a prayer, an admission of something holy — it reverberated within their spirit, lifting them to new heights. 

“Absolutely perfect,” he repeated for emphasis.

A wave of emotions they had not expected crashed over them, their chest tightening not from lack of air, but from something else, from deep inside of themself. No one, not even Boone, had ever called them that. Perfect. But Walter — he held each broken bit of them, not forcing the pieces back together to fit them back the way he thought they should be, but instead accepted them just as they were. 

“I…thank you.” They shifted, uncomfortable despite the way they basked in the warmth of his praise. Their cock was now soft in his sticky hand and they cleared their throat. “Do you need a…ah, a towel?”

“Nah, I don’t. Lift your leg up just a bit.”

They did so, confused, and he finally let go of their cock to reach back and grip his own, coating the tip in their release before pressing it between their thighs. His thick heat rubbed against their inner thighs, slick with their cum. Realization of what he wanted hit them as his hand pressed on the outside of their leg, guiding it down to enclose his cock between their legs.

Slowly at first, he pumped his hips back and forth as if testing the waters, but the strokes were smooth with the added lubrication. 

“Bloody hell, Houndy,” he groaned as they flexed their thighs.

He slid his mechanical arm under their neck, bending so the cool metal of his forearm lay across their sweat-damp chest, pinning their upper body to his. His other hand reached to grip a handful of their muscular bottom, fingers digging into their hip as they flexed. Bloodhound remained still, adjusting to the new sensation, afraid of ruining Walter’s pleasure by doing the wrong thing. 

"C'mon Houndy. Closer." Walter tugged their hips back against them suddenly. "I won't bite ya - er, well, not again. Heh."

Encouraged by his words and eased by his lightheartedness, they began to push back against him. It took a few moments of mismatched paces, an awkward pull when he pushed, but they soon found a pattern that mirrored his. Walter’s breath was hot against their neck and a rough grunt accompanied each thrust. Bloodhound wondered if he was imagining the same thing, that instead of their thighs, he was fucking them properly. He felt so big against them even like this, taking up space between their thighs in a way that surprised them — would it fit inside them? 

The thought caused a new rush of blood to race to their cock, to their surprise stiffening once more despite the way they were so recently spent. Their hand began to slide down to their groin, but they paused. How shameful would it be to touch themself with Walter behind them? He might think they were some depraved animal, unable to abstain even though they had just climaxed in his grasp.

Walter reached down to place his hand over theirs, guiding it to their cock. “Ready again already? Mm. Go on, then.”

They awkwardly stroked themself at first, unused to being watched when they did this, but soon they kept in time to Walter fucking the taut muscles of their thighs. His shirt had ridden up along with theirs, bare skin rubbing bare skin, sticking a bit from perspiration. 

There was no way they could finish again, but they enjoyed this, lost in the pleasure, broaching the territory of overstimulation. All they knew were decadent furs and warm skin, the slick sound of Walter’s cock sliding between their thighs, the pressure of their hand on their length. Their eyes now adjusted to the dim moonlight, they chanced a glance downward to watch the obscene sight. The tip of his cock would appear between the front of their legs only to retreat and disappear just as quickly. 

“I bet ya feel so fuckin’ good an’ tight, Houndy,” he said between his ragged breaths, his hips snapping against theirs. “Think you could take it all?”

“Walter,” Bloodhound whispered. “I-I do not know.”

“I bet ya could do it for me,” he groaned once more. “I wouldn’t rush it, make sure you’re good ‘n’ ready, take it slow. Would ya like that?”

“I would. Gods,” they hissed, their body tightening, the shell around their self-control cracking under the white-hot pressure of their need. “I want that — want you.”

He hummed behind them. “Show me how bad ya want it, then.”

Unlike him, they did not have any smooth lines to say, no cheeky comments meant to entice and tease their partner — so instead, they pushed back against him harder, arching their back to meet his thrusts with equal power, the slap of skin on skin loud in the otherwise quiet room. The man did not seem to mind this answer at all. 

His hand slid lower along their thigh, the sounds that came from him now almost pained. Each noise was almost better than his words of praise, involuntary sighs and pants that were beyond conscious thought. His movements became more haphazard and sloppy, no longer a steady rhythm as he chased his climax, using their body to reach the end he sought so desperately. Bloodhound squeezed their legs together, allowing him more friction, hoping it was just what he needed.

“I’m— fuck,” he groaned and his hips stuttered and jerked before stopping entirely. 

Walter’s cock throbbed and twitched, trapped between their legs, and warmth spilled over Bloodhound, coating their already sticky thighs in more mess.

For a time, neither moved.

Walter’s warm breath tickled the back of their neck as his breathing slowed. After a few more beats, he withdrew his cock from between their legs with a small, tight noise. Bloodhound readjusted the position of their legs to keep any of the release from dripping onto the furs — they did not intend to spend their morning scrubbing this pelt clean. They were contemplating how best to rise from the bed without making a mess when the mattress shifted behind them. 

Walter stumbled his way in the dim lighting. There was a thump, and by the accompanying mumbled curse, his toe had likely found the edge of the bookshelf. Bloodhound lay awkwardly, feeling oddly vulnerable in this state, pants at their knees, their mixed fluids slowly drying between their thighs.

They watched as Walter turned the lights on and rifled through a few drawers before he found a towel. The sound of running water reached them, then he shuffled back awkwardly, cloth in hand, this time leaving the bathroom light on to guide his path. With the bright light on, Bloodhound squinted at him. His gaze was downcast and to the side, an odd expression.

“What are you…” their eyes shot open as they realized they were unmasked. “Oh.”

“I’m not lookin’, no worries, mate,” he said as he approached. “Need to see where I’m goin’ though.”

They nodded mutely as he bent over them, starting to wipe the mess away. He passed the towel over their leg a few times, scooping up what he could. This was too…intimate, familiar in a way that caused their chest to ache. He did not only want to use their body, but to care for them afterward. How easy it would have been for him to let them fend for themself after their shared passion, to watch them waddle awkwardly to the bathroom or to turn over and fall asleep — but he had immediately fetched them a towel, a small consideration, but a meaningful one. Bloodhound placed their hand over his, halting him from cleaning them further. 

“Am I bein’ too rough?” he asked, frowning.

“Nei. I–I thank you. I can attend to the rest.”

Walter released the towel and resumed his place in bed beside them. Bloodhound finished cleaning themself up as best they could, then stood to toss the soiled towel in the dirty clothes hamper. They turned out the bathroom light, once more bathing the room in darkness.

When they returned, Walter held the furs up for them to allow them to effortlessly slide under the covers. This time, they scooted back against his warm chest without his prompting, and his arm rested over their middle. It had been so long since they had fallen asleep beside another, they had forgotten how nice it was. In the glowing aftermath of their pleasure, they felt comfortable in a way they had not yet, playful.

“How is your injury?” they asked, a smile hovering upon their lips. 

“Injury?”

“Your foot — it must have been quite the bump from the sound of your curse.”

“Lil’ bruised, but I think I’ll live.” He planted a kiss at the nape of their neck. “It’ll take a lil’ more than a stubbed toe to take me down.”

“Mm,” they hummed, their voice filled with mischief. “I am glad to hear that the mighty Walter Fitzroy has not been bested by a bookshelf. That would be…rather embarrassing.”

“Right.” Walter laughed, a breathy, relaxed sound. “Well, if I hurt m’self and this is what I get afterward…maybe I need to pick fights with furniture more often. Your kitchen table might’ve been lookin’ at me funny.”

Bloodhound smiled at the absurdity, but a yawn quickly overtook the expression.

The room grew quiet as the two lay together, their breathing slowly syncing as they relaxed. Drowsiness overcame them both, the lethargy of shared passion and post-climax comfort. The sounds of crickets chirping, and the occasional hoot or caw of some night-hunting bird came through the window, but otherwise, their world was peaceful and quiet.

“Y’know,” Walter mumbled sleepily against their neck, mustache softly scratching against their skin. “I like that you’re feelin’ comfy enough to joke with me. Sometimes ya seem so serious, Houndy, I’m not sure if ya like my teasin’ or if you just think I’m a complete idiot.”

“I do not see why both things cannot be true,” they said slowly, keeping their tone even.

He chuckled and pulled them back against him more closely until their body was completely molded within his, a perfect fit. Walter planted a small kiss at the nape of their neck. “Cheeky lil’ rascal.”

Bloodhound smiled, snuggling down further until the tufts of fur brushed against their chin. When they had first seen Walter those weeks ago, they could not have even fathomed that this is where he would be now, that this is the role he might play in their life. Life here was turbulent, subject to the whims of the Syndicate, the Apex Games Commission who were able to decide many things for them per the binding agreement they all had signed. There were many uncertainties in the Apex Games. Many decisions were made for them without their input, but this, with Walter — he was their choice, one made of their own volition.

The thought pleased them greatly; though the games thrust them together in matches, they spent time with Walter not out of duty or obligation, but because they wanted to. This was what they wanted. And they were what he wanted. Even thinking of such things sent a fresh wave of giddy happiness through them, the moment still surreal. The burst of energy passed as quickly as it came, the day’s events taking their toll.

Bloodhound let their exhaustion overtake them as they slipped their hand over Walter’s on their stomach and threaded their slender fingers through his. Sleep tugged at their heavy eyelids, a siren’s call they had no hope to resist. The heat of his body and the furs that trapped it cocooned them in comfort, and soon darkness covered them completely.

-x-

Bloodhound woke with a start as an odd sound reached their ears, a rumble, snuffle, and snort. The noise continued, louder, before halting altogether. They tried to go back to sleep, feeling exceedingly comfortable, luxuriating in this nest of warmth. They yawned, their face pressed into a solid surface, not their pillow, surely, but…pleasant to lay against. A scent surrounded them, not merely the fresh dew of morning, but smoke and leather, evergreen and musk rousing their senses — Walter.

Their eyelids snapped open to rest upon his face, mouth slightly open. During sleep, he had rolled onto his back, and they had apparently found a resting place on his chest. He had removed his eyepatch to reveal a long scar over the eye extending from his brow, over the closed lid. Bloodhound looked away quickly — they would not like being gawked at in such a manner. They nearly jumped when his mouth twitched, but only a snore emitted from him.

His arm was slung around them, his hand resting casually on their waist, holding them close. Slowly so as not to wake him, Bloodhound disentangled themself from his grasp, delicately lifting his hand as they scooched off the mattress. They grabbed their goggles and made their way to the bathroom for a quick splash of water over their face to wash away the haze of sleep.

Their reflection stared back at them, looking surprisingly well-rested considering that they had shared their bed that night. Their eyes lingered on the small, dark mark on their neck, Walter’s claim on them. They reached up to touch it, fingers passing over it in mingled interest and disbelief. Their cheeks warmed in remembrance, the memory of his mouth imprinted on their skin.

Bloodhound dried their face and rebraided their hair with businesslike efficiency before replacing their goggles. They were just about to leave the bathroom when they noticed a crusty splotch on their shirt, a remnant of their before-bed activities. They cringed and quickly removed the garment before Walter could see — which they knew was a ridiculous worry as the stain was likely his as much as theirs — and tiptoed back to the bedroom to grab a clean shirt from their dresser. The first thing they found was a sleeveless compression shirt, and they tugged it over their head.

As they meandered into the kitchen, coffee was the only thing on their mind — besides the man sleeping so soundly in their bed. They had ground fresh coffee beans the day prior,  fortunate as the coffee grinder was quite loud and might wake their guest. Though as another loud snore emanated from the other room, they thought maybe he was quite a sound sleeper.

Bloodhound set the water to boil and smiled, thinking again of Walter asleep in their bed, the moment completely unbelievable. The fates had smiled upon them, allowed them this chance; and they had taken it. They leaned against the counter, watching the steam begin to rise from the kettle so they might stop it just before it wailed. Their eyes flicked upward to the window over the sink, seeing that the rain had cleared the way for a crisp and bright morning.

Their morning coffee was like a ritual, a silent and routine way to start their day — and today, they would share it with another. In some ways, being able to prepare a drink or food for someone was a greater joy than what they had shared together the night before. Well, perhaps not better; different, a compounding happiness. It had been decades since they had been in such a situation, but the steps of their routine had not changed in that time. They scooped the ground beans into the filter and poured the water over the top, enjoying the bright, nutty scent that filled the kitchen, invigorating their senses as—

—he hugged them from behind, a playful squeeze while they tended to the two clay cups before them. His laugh, their laugh, throats still rough from sleep, or rather from the lack of sleep that two young lovers knew well. His hips cupping theirs, chin on their shoulder, pressing into the muscle, a pair of lips dancing along their neck, long silken hair tickling their jawline. Strong arms around their waist, whispered good mornings, promises of nothing and everything.

Artur’s gentle caw drew their attention to the living room while the coffee dripped into the carafe. They breathed in and out slowly. The raven perched on the mantle above the now-cool fireplace, proudly preening his ink-dark feathers with a beak just as shiny and dark.

“Góðan daginn,” they said softly. “Komdu hérna, Artur.”  

He obliged, taking a few leisurely steps across the stone before flapping over gracefully to land on the counter beside them. Artur craned his neck to examine them, eyeing them critically.

Bloodhound stroked beneath his beak, down to his chest, their rough fingertips slipping along his sleek, inky feathers. “I have brought a guest home with me, Artur. I ask that you be kind to him…he is a friend.”

He puffed himself up into an orb, dark and round, chirping in contentment to let them know that they should continue. Bloodhound indulged their friend a little longer, their deft fingers scratching underneath his neck feathers, hoping to entice him to behave himself. Artur had been known to engage in mischief around the other legends — but with some luck, he might be as smitten with Walter as they were.

Artur perked up at another snore, this one louder than before, and peered around them toward the bedroom. The coffee still dripped, not yet finished with its slow journey through grounds and filter. Artur’s talons clicked on the counter as he walked back towards the sitting room, though this time, he glided onto the floor before the fireplace, to land among the clothes in a crumpled heap. Bloodhound hastily shooed the raven away and bent down to pick up the clothes Walter had taken off the night before. 

In their anxious state, they had not done their usual once-over of the cabin before bed, a quick loop to tidy anything out of place. The clothes were still very damp, dripping with the remnants of rainwater when they picked them up. They brought the pieces outside and squeezed the excess water out, then hung them from the edge of the porch railing. Hopefully, the morning sun would be enough to dry the garments before he left. Or perhaps, they should wash them and dry them properly, providing a convenient excuse to see him again to return them. 

Bloodhound straightened the shirt and jacket, stretched over the wood until they lay straight and unwrinkled. They stood back and looked out at the woods from their porch, an orange sky filtered between the trees, the light chasing away the dusk. The air this morning was clean and pure, the earth so recently washed clean by the rain, and they smiled, knowing their garden would surely thrive after this. 

The seasons had begun the subtle signs of changing already, the slow transition of summer to autumn, but if the weather held a bit longer, they could get a few more batches of vegetables before the frost claimed the roots of the plants. A sparrow sang its morning song, pulling their attention to the East. They closed their eyes, letting the sun warm their face. The breeze was a bit cooler than they preferred, but the crisp air felt nice in their lungs, breathing new life into them, into this new day.

Bloodhound jumped in alarm when a hand descended onto their shoulder. They immediately whirled around, instincts on high alert, arms up in a defensive position — but it was only Walter. Of course.

“Mornin’,” Walter said, voice scratchy and rough.

“Good morning,” they replied. “I hope I did not wake you.”

He rubbed his eye with a balled fist. “Nah, think I startled m’self awake with the snorin’. Hope it didn’t bother ya last night.”

“No, I slept very well,” they sheepishly lowered their arms, their heart fluttering at the sight of him. 

His hair was always disheveled, but in a purposeful way. Now, the locks were messy, tangled from sleep. They wanted to rake their hand through them and smooth each strand down. Walter’s cheeks and chin were darkened, the shadowy beginnings of his beard returning. He had brought a blanket with him, slung over his shoulders. 

“I smelled the coffee, too. Any chance I could snag a cup?”

“Of course,” they said as they scurried inside. “Please, sit.” They motioned to the bench that leaned against the cabin wall and Walter settled onto the wood.

They moved as quickly as they could, not wanting to leave their guest waiting. Two pieces of bread were thrown in the toaster, and while that crisped, they filled a mug for each of them with coffee. At the dining hall, they had watched him pour a small amount of sugar in his cup — they would do the same for him here. Bloodhound sliced a small pad of butter on each piece of toast, smearing it to lightly coat the surface in the rich spread.

Coffee prepared, toast perfectly golden and ready, they balanced the cups and the dish all within their arms and walked to meet Walter once more. Artur snuck behind them, following with awkward hops and skips, as if waiting for them to misstep and drop a slice of bread. Bloodhound tutted when he moved too close, their foot nearly catching him across the side. It was not often they allowed him bread, too much would make him plump and lazy — but on occasion, they shared a piece of crust with him.

When Bloodhound stepped over the threshold, they smiled at the sight of Walter, wrapped up in a soft blanket pulled from their bed, completely enamored with the sight of the forest and skies. The profile view of his face was breathtaking in the light like this and their pulse quickened as they watched him, filled with pride that he enjoyed their home.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” they asked. 

“You weren’t kiddin’ about all this. I get why ya don’t like to leave this.” He paused and turned to them, his eye soft, his brown iris catching the golden glow of the sunrise. “I don’t want to either. Transport app is back up though…I can be outta your way soon.”

Bloodhound nodded solemnly and stared down at the dishes in their hand, their excitement turning to ash in their mouth, dry and bitter. This illusion, the one where they pretended Walter wanted to live here was broken by the reminder that he would soon be leaving. They hand him his mug and offer him a piece of bread, which he took eagerly. There was more than enough room on the bench for two, so they gingerly sat a foot away, nibbling on their breakfast.

They took a long, deep sip of their coffee, the dark flavor coating their palate and awakening the senses still dulled by sleep. Out of the corner of their eye, they watched Walter, too, anxiously waiting to see if he would enjoy his coffee. Though they had observed him prepare his own, it was a gamble to attempt to imitate what they had seen rather than ask.

Walter’s lips seal around the rim of the cup, and tipped it back as he took a swig of the brew. His eyes closed and he breathed in the steam, making a small noise of appreciation.

“Thanks, for the coffee Houndy,” he affirmed with another big, too-loud sip. “I couldn’t ask for a better mornin’. Though, there is one thing I’d change if I could.”

Their heart sunk — they had gambled unwisely on the coffee. They should have asked him how he liked it rather than making assumptions from their hasty observation in the dining hall. He would of course want them to remake it. They began to reach for his cup, but stopped when he lifted his arm up and to the side, offering a spot underneath the blanket beside him.

“Only thing I’d change is that you’re all the way over there, and there’s a spot right here with your name on it.”

Bloodhound’s heart skipped at the earnest expression on his face — they could not deny him when he looked this way. Slowly, they sidled along the wood until their thigh brushed his, then he lowered the blanket, the fleece soft against their bare arm and warding off the morning chill. He let his hand rest at their waist before sliding down, mechanical fingers clicking softly as they curled around Bloodhound’s hip. His hand there felt so natural, as if it had always been there and always would. Their body relaxed into his with a familiarity that surprised them, leaning against his shoulder. They tilted their head, leaning until it rested against his, just so.

This felt… right.

An inquisitive trill sounded at their feet. Artur pecked at the leg of Walter’s sweatpants, eating a crumb of toast that had fallen and gotten caught in a fold of the material. His eyes fixed on the remaining slice that Walter had set down on the plate beside him, precariously close to the edge. He leaned forward to peer at the raven.

“Hey, fella. Hungry?” Walter tore a small corner of his toast and held it out to Artur, but the bird hesitated, hopping back from the sudden movement of the man’s hand.

“Ertu svangur,” Bloodhound offered. “Ask him that. He will understand.”

Walter’s eyebrows raised and he tried the words slowly. “Ertu svangur?”

Artur quirked his head to the side, his eyes bright as he looked from Bloodhound to the bread, weighing his hunger against his distrust.

“Það verður í lagi,” Bloodhound soothed, their voice low. “Borðaðu.”

Artur quickly snatched the bread from Walter and flapped onto the railing, gobbling up his prize. Soon, the bird was back for another, closer this time, rubbing his beak against Walter’s pants insistently. Walter proffered one more edge of crust with a smile as the raven immediately grabbed it this time.

“I take it you know this lil’ guy. A pet of yours?”

“Artur is not quite a pet. He is a trusted companion, though fickle at times. Hm?” They asked, directing the question at the bird who refused to acknowledge their comment and instead nibbled his bread, clearly insulted at the comment. “But do not give him too much bread; he will grow plump and lazy.”

They breathed a chuckle at Artur’s indignant glare and took another sip of their drink, readjusting their position against Walter’s side. The sun rose higher, the sunrise turning into true morning, the tangerine skies making way for bright blue, signaling a day full of promise and unexplored possibilities. Bloodhound pulled the blanket over their shoulder more securely when it began to slip off, encapsulating themself in warmth once more.

They did not know what they were to Walter; merely a lover, friends, or — their breath hitched in their throat — his partner. The pair had yet to define what they were or were not. But instead of causing them worry, Bloodhound was content for now, as long as Walter was, to just enjoy the simple pleasure of each other’s company and allow this to develop as it may. Gone were the youthful days of lunging headfirst into ventures they were unsure of. Time had granted them patience and, despite their anxieties, they were pleased that Walter was willing to go at that pace. 

He readjusted his mechanical grip on their hip, reminding them of its presence. There was not much more the hunter could ask for; a quiet morning, fresh air, coffee, and someone to share it with. Bloodhound sighed in contentment; they would never tire of this.

Walter turned his face to the side, pressing his lips to their hair. “So, guess you could say we’re elskhugi now, ay?” He emphasized the question with a good-natured rub of his elbow into their ribs.

“You are a fool, Walter Fitzroy.” 

Despite their words, Bloodhound’s growing grin stretched too wide to hide behind their mug. They felt the rumble of his laugh as they rested against him, the sound warm and deep and true, and soon their own soft laughter joined his.

Once their mirth had quieted, Walter spoke, this time his tone serious and low. “Am I wrong about us though?” 

“Nei.” Bloodhound set their mug down on the bench beside them and slipped their arm behind him, offering him a bit of the same reassurance that he often gave to them. “You are not wrong.” They cleared their throat of the slight discomfort of their admission. “I suppose you will be wanting to return home soon.”

“Yeah, prob’ly should,” he said quietly. “Got one of those press photo-op things today. But I’d like to enjoy this just a bit longer, if that’s alright with you, mate.”

“Of-of course…” their voice trailed off. Walter had attempted to learn their language, and it was only proper that they returned that attempt. “I would like that my…mate.”

Walter’s laughter began once more, loudly ringing out in the clearing. “You’re a bloody gem, y’know that, Houndy?” He threw his other arm around them, nearly sloshing his remaining coffee, but the drink and any potential spill was soon forgotten as he kissed their cheek with an overdramatic noise. “Don’t ever change.”

Bloodhound’s cheeks flushed under the man’s overeager affection. They could not promise they would never change — though admittedly they had remained stagnant for far too long, stuck in old ways, a repetitive familiar and self-destructive pattern. But perhaps they could learn and grow with Walter, if he was willing to continue offering them patience and an open heart. Their chest constricted, and instead of answering, they leaned forward and kissed him, their hand resting on his cheek to hold his face steady. They brushed their fingertips over the rough stubble of his jaw and hoped that this conveyed all the things they wanted to say but could not. 

They received a reply in kind, his lips molding against theirs. The path forward with him curved beyond where they could see, into a dense forest where brambles and fallen branches may lay over the trail. But as long as they could place their hand within Walter’s, they knew that they were willing to travel it — together.

Chapter Text

Bloodhound soaked in the peace of the moment: the brisk, nutty scent of their coffee, the light pressure of Walter’s metal hand crooked around their hip, and the metal of his shoulder that they rested against, now warmed from the contact of their body. All was right in the world — but they knew the tranquility must end. They closed their eyes, savoring every last second but felt him tap their hip twice, signaling that the time for him to go had come. Walter had important things to do that day, and they needed to clean and take stock of their supplies. The weather was changing, and unless they wanted to spend every meal over the cooler months in the dining hall, they needed to prepare for the cold season.

Still, their heart sank when the bright ‘ding’ of Walter’s phone cut through the quiet morning, breaking the spell. 

“Ah, my ride’s close,” Walter murmured, pressing his lips into their hair. His hand slid down their hip, fingers splaying across their thigh as he squeezed the muscle beneath. “Reckon I better get going.”

Bloodhound nodded their reluctant agreement, trying to quell the ache within their chest. Being with him as they had last night had changed something for them, a subtle shift that they struggled to place. There was an added level of comfort and familiarity in Walter’s touch now as if his fingertips carried the memory of their intimacy, and his hand casually resting on their leg felt…right.

Walter pushed off of them to stand with a quiet grunt, his fingers denting their thigh. When the pressure of his hand lifted, it left behind a spot that felt far too empty, a dark void that could only be refilled by his palm once more. Bloodhound rose to their feet as well, still quiet until they remembered the parting gift they had gathered for him.

“Can you wait just one more moment?” they asked, already stepping toward the door. 

He nodded and they scurried to the kitchen and hastily rummaged through their cabinet. Their hand brushed against the rough paper of a brown bag, and they withdrew it, the material crinkled from being reused and refolded a few times prior — but it was clean and would serve their purpose well. They tucked three carrots, two zucchinis, one cucumber, and four perfectly round tomatoes into the bag with care. It was not much, a humble offering — but they wanted to give it to him all the same, to share in what they had grown. They brought this to the front porch, where Walter crouched before the clothes that hung over the railing, rubbing the damp material between his fingers.

“Still kinda wet,” he said at their approach. “Whaddya say you hold onto ‘em until our next date?”

Bloodhound’s lips tightened into a bashful smile, their cheeks once more taking on the flush that Walter seemed to pull to the surface so effortlessly. “I–Yes. I can do this.” They stood silently for a moment before thrusting the paper bag in Walter’s direction perhaps a bit more forcefully than they intended. “And for you.”

Walter took the proffered bag by the handles and peeked inside. He pulled out a zucchini and whistled appreciatively as he eyed it. “Impressive.”

Bloodhound cleared their throat. “I allowed these to stay on the vine a bit longer than usual.”

“Thanks, Houndy. I’ll hafta find a recipe to do ‘em justice. I’ll try not to burn the ol’ apartment down while I’m at it,” he said with a smile. “Oh! Almost forgot,” Walter added quickly. “Got you a lil’ somethin’ too.”

 He stepped forward and fiddled with his jacket, the partially sodden garment still hanging over the railing. Walter dug in the coat pocket, his tongue poking out in concentration as he searched. After a small victorious sound, he pulled his hand out and pressed a flat object into Bloodhound's palm.

Bloodhound examined the impossibly thin slice of wood in their palm, cherry, perhaps, or oak. They turned it over in their hands, studying the craftsmanship, the smoothly sanded edges and rounded corners. The emblem of a waxing moon and spattering of stars had been burnt into the surface on one side, the sun and two clouds on the other. At the top, a red silken tassel looped through a small hole, slightly damp threads dangling. They blinked at the offering, taking a moment to realize that it was a bookmark. 

“Thank you,” they said slowly as they stroked a finger along the smooth surface. 

“I saw you had shelves full of books last time I was here and I dunno,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Not much of a reader myself, so I dunno how practical this one is, but I saw it and thought of ya.”

Bloodhound smiled, unable to hide the unabashed joy his words brought them. “It is a thoughtful gift. Useful. I will treasure it.”

For a moment Bloodhound stood awkwardly, clutching the bookmark in their hand as they watched Walter swipe through his app to check the position of the impending transport vessel, the bag of vegetables tucked into the crook of his arm. The early morning light caught his features, highlighting strong cheekbones and stubbled jaw. His nose was perhaps slightly crooked, broken a time or two, but the rugged imperfections suited him. 

A deep ache bloomed within their chest — to wake up every morning and view him like this , so unguarded, would be a joy beyond measure. Walter looked up at Bloodhound and flashed them a grin as if he could read their thoughts, the expression sudden, dazzling. Walter had to be completely unaware — or maybe all too aware — of the effect he had on them when he did that. Walter slung an arm around their shoulders and pulled them in for a hug. They sagged into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, trying to hold it in their lungs as long as they could while they rested their face in the crook of his neck.

Walter grumbled at the insistent beep in his hand, and a deep, low hum began to fill the air, the sound of the approaching vessel lowering toward the pick-up spot just north of Bloodhound’s home. But Walter didn’t release them just yet and pulled away just enough so his lips grazed theirs, mustache bristles brushing against their upper lip.

“How d’ya say ‘goodbye’ in your language?” he asked softly.

“It depends on the recipient, the setting,” they said, matching his hushed tone. “Sjáumst is what I would choose.”

“Sjáumst,” Walter repeated. “Goodbye, yeah?”

“The closer meaning is ‘we will see each other again.’”

Walter hummed, his lips so close to theirs now that the vibrations of the noise traveled to their own, the sensation near-tickling, tingling. “I like that. Sjáumst,” he said again. 

Bloodhound smiled, and his lips found theirs, sharing their joy. None of the others save for Loba had ever shown even a remote interest in learning their native tongue. Though his pronunciation was imperfect, Walter seemed so excited to learn these small bits, so eager to please and get it right; it refreshed them, made them feel less alone. When Walter finally broke the shared seal of their lips, the gloom over Bloodhound's spirit lifted. This was not goodbye. 

Sjáumst.

With one last peck on their scarred cheek, Walter waved his farewell and trekked into the woods, and they watched as his form grew smaller before disappearing completely around a curve in the path. Bloodhound returned inside and busied themself with arranging their quarters back to their liking, cleaning the dishes, and throwing Walter’s wet clothes into the wash with their own laundry. They thumbed through their journal, noting down what produce had been given to Walter. 

Once all the chores had been completed, Bloodhound stood before their shelves, their fingers trailing along the spines of the books before choosing a thick, leather-bound volume. They stepped down into the recessed seating area in the main room and rearranged the furs and pillows into a comfortable pile and settled among them. The pages released the scent of aged vanilla and wood and leather when they opened the book, nostalgic in the way it made them long for something they could not verbalize, but could see in their mind’s eye. They inhaled the aroma deeply as they reclined against the cushions and prepared to read. 

It was a story they already knew by heart, a tale of grand adventure. The pages were dog-eared and well-worn, but no matter how many times they read it, they enjoyed it just as much, discovering a new detail they had overlooked before. Their eyes roamed the familiar paragraphs, but they could not quite fall into the story. Their fingers cradled the leather cover and held Walter’s bookmark close. 

Bloodhound set the bookmark between the pages and traced the outline of the sun etched into the wood with their calloused fingertip. The symbols were perhaps a bit like them and Walter; he was like the sun, bold and vibrant, while they were closer to the moon, their brightness shining in a different setting, more subdued. Both complemented each other, each with their individual strengths. Surely Walter had not thought so deeply about it, but it was still a lovely gift even so. 

They rummaged through the pile of furs beside them for their phone and snapped a photo to send to Walter. Bloodhound searched for a sun and moon emoji to send with the photo, scrolling through screens full of ones they would never imagine finding a use for. They smiled at the tiny, cartoonish symbols that Walter was so fond of — but Bloodhound could not deny that they had grown to enjoy them, too. 

Besides, they had to admit: the two little emojis did look good next to one another.

-x-

Bloodhound stood in the rising elevator, forcing themself to not bounce from foot to foot as they waited to reach Walter’s floor. They hastily brushed at the fur around their collar, the tufts of soft fur too much stimulation on top of their unease. It took all of their self-control to remain still and maintain their composure, their mind racing, worry twisting like winding snakes within their belly.

Walter had not shown up for the match today.

At first, they thought he was merely late — punctuality was not one of his strong suits, after all, and he often ran in at the last second, unkempt but always there in the nick of time. But when the hatches to the hangar closed, five minutes until boarding, they knew something was amiss. To top it all off, he had not replied to their messages.

Bloodhound had tried to ask one of the staff members about Walter’s absence but received only a glazed expression and shrug from the man corralling the Legends into place. Their last-minute phone call before they were ushered into the dropship had gone straight to voicemail.

It was unlike the man they had grown fond of to be so quiet. Something was not right. 

Bloodhound did not win today, coming in a respectable third place, but they felt neither joy nor disappointment at this result. They could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. Over the past week, their messages with Walter had been frequent, teasing words, mundane comments about their respective days, and always a good night and good morning text. But today, when their wake-up message was left unread, they had assumed that he was trying to focus on the Games and eliminate any possible distractions. 

That was clearly not the case. 

The elevator dinged cheerily when they arrived and they quickly stepped down the hallway, readjusting the backpack over their shoulder as they approached Walter’s door. Bloodhound raised their closed fist but hesitated before their hand could contact the metal. Walter had not invited them over. They leaned forward, lightly pressing their ear to the door as they listened. The only sound was the faint hum of the elevator descending behind them, but they thought within his apartment, they heard others talking — perhaps the television.

Their chest constricted before they knocked. What if Walter had other guests over? Was his silence intentional, aimed at them in particular? Intruding would be rude, and they knew more than most the strain of hosting an unexpected visitor. But they needed to at least confirm that he was not ill, in need. Once they received that information, they would be satisfied and return home if he wished. 

They rang the bell beside the door, listening to the muffled musical chime on the other side. For a moment, they considered leaving, their courage wavering. Did this seem desperate, overly attached? They could face any beast, fight tooth and fang against any foe — it was shameful that this is what unnerved them most. When there was no answer, no sound of movement, they rapped their knuckles against the door insistently, once, twice, thrice. 

Nothing.

They knocked again, harder, pounding hard enough that the side of their fist ached from the effort. An image of Walter laying on the floor rose unbidden to their mind, an accident, an injury, an emergency—

Their heart beat too quickly, shaky fingers dug in their pocket for their phone, ready to call him, to call — they were not sure who else, but they would find someone . Finally, to their immense relief, there was a shuffling behind the door, the turning and clicking of deadbolts, and then the door swung inward.

Their eyes rested upon Walter, finding him unkempt, his salt and pepper hair tousled as if he had slept on it wet, now molded to the shape of whatever surface it had laid on. His jaw was darkened with days’ worth of stubble. They immediately noticed that he wasn’t wearing his prosthetic, the strap of the thin, white tank top stretched over the empty metal socket. Deep bags sunk beneath his eyes, the skin darkened from lack of sleep. At the sight of Bloodhound, Walter’s eyebrows raised first in surprise, then recognition. 

“I know I should have spoken to you first before coming,” they started, immediately filling the silence and not giving him a chance to speak. “But I hope that—”

“Houndy!” Walter exclaimed and stepped forward. He lifted his arm to throw it around the hunter in a hug, but halted with a grunt, face contorting in discomfort as he hissed out a curse.

“Walter, are you…alright?” they asked hesitantly. 

“Yeah, just — a lil’ muscle strain.” He jerked his shoulders in a tiny shrug with another wince. “Nothin’ I haven’t worked through before,” he said, smiling through what Bloodhound could tell was thinly veiled pain. “I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

Bloodhound nodded slowly, seeing right through his front, but not yet willing to confront him. “I am glad to hear that you are well. You were not present at the match today and did not answer my calls or messages. I…worried for you,” they admitted, voice wavering.

Walter stepped back into his apartment, tilting his head to invite them in. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to cause ya any trouble.”

Bloodhound entered, immediately noting the mild disarray. The kitchen counters were littered with food packaging and wrappers. Dirty cups and plates overflowing in the sink, remnants of caked-on food that would take much scrubbing or soaking to remove. 

“Woulda cleaned up a bit if I’d known you were coming,” Walter said, walking gingerly toward the couch, his posture tense as if each step pulled and tugged something inside.

“You do not need to do anything on my behalf,” they assured, eyeing the way he limped, tightness stretching across his shoulder blades.

Bloodhound fought the urge to step forward and help him or lend their arm. They would not assist unless asked, knowing the pride of bearing one’s pains and injuries with as much dignity as possible. They followed him and watched as he pushed aside the blankets and pillows strewn across the cushions to make room, then plopped down with a deep groan of mingled pain and relief. Walter motioned for them to join him, dug in between the couch cushions for the remote control, and muted the television. 

Their worry was mollified a bit now that they had confirmed he was not in immediate jeopardy, but their body still bore too much pent-up nervous energy to sit still comfortably. They needed to do something small with their hands to release it, something, anything. Bloodhound searched the room as casually as they could manage, and their eyes were drawn to the succulent they had gifted him on their first visit here. The clay pot was still sitting on the small table beside the tall window, not moved an inch from where he had originally placed it. They frowned. Even from here, they could see that the tiny green petals were beginning to wither, slightly shrunken from thirst. 

Bloodhound tutted softly, a gentle click of their tongue, and walked toward the plant, scarred finger brushing along the browning stalk. It was not too far gone. With a bit of water and less light — it should recover. They picked up the pot and brought it to the kitchen, aware of Walter’s eyes on them.

“Charlie’s not lookin’ so hot, ay?” he said roughly. 

“Charlie?” they asked. Bloodhound stacked a few of the empty cups to the side of the sink to make room, then plucked a paper towel from the roll and set it down on the counter. 

“The plant. Had to give him a proper name an’ all.”

“Mm,” they hummed, a small smile pulling at their lips beneath their respirator. “It is a good name.” Their smile faded slightly as they tilted the pot side to side, examining the dry soil and darkened spots on the leaves, the plant slowly shriveling from lack of moisture. “He does not require much, but…that does not mean that he needs nothing. A small amount of care from time to time to maintain balance — that is all.”

Bloodhound turned the faucet until the water was just a thin trickle, allowing a bit of water to quench the dry soil, pulling back once the top level of dirt had darkened. They set the plant on the paper towel, taking a deep breath as they peered at Walter. His posture on the couch was hunched, but he straightened when they looked up and met his gaze. He was trying — and failing — to hide the true extent of his discomfort. 

Their head tilted to face the granite counter, relieving him of the need to pretend and hold himself so tensely. Beside the sink, they saw a few sticky spills staining the white surface, one such spot of red liquid had dripped over the edge onto the tile below. Bloodhound’s heart filled not with judgment, but empathy. Cleaning was low on the priority list when pain overtook all else, but they grimaced when they saw more beer bottles than they cared to in the near-overflowing recycling bin. Self-medication often led to a poor end.

Perhaps, like Charlie, Walter needed a little extra care, too.

They had packed a dish of their latest batch of venison stew for him, a small gift along with the return of his clean clothes. Bloodhound withdrew the glass container from their backpack, especially glad they had brought him a home-cooked meal. It was clear he needed nourishment and comfort. 

When they opened the fridge, their frown deepened, finding only condiments, a few bottles of beer and cola, and in the bottom drawer, the vegetables that they had gifted him that past week. The carrots and zucchini seemed to be in salvageable shape, but the cucumbers had begun to rot. They wrinkled their nose at the scent of the browned tomato — perhaps the whole lot would need to be thrown out, already touched by the streaks of decay. 

Their feelings were far from hurt, understanding that this was often the way of perishable presents. These days they strove not to waste a single thing they grew or hunted, instead canning or composting that which they could not eat. But they understood after seeing Walter’s state. In their time as village leader, they had graciously accepted baskets of fruit or vegetables with good intentions. Sometimes, though, time and energy escaped them, too busy preparing for the harshest seasons or attending to urgent matters that demanded their attention. They would return home from their tasks and fall into bed fully dressed, no remaining mental fortitude left to force themself to wash. When they finally found the strength to tend to their home, days later, they would find the tomatoes and strawberries dotted with white spots of mold in the basket. 

Bloodhound closed Walter’s fridge, not wishing to overstep or draw attention to what they had seen. They walked over to him and unclasped their respirator, then unshouldered their pack and set it on the floor beside them as they perched stiffly on the edge of the couch. From the plates and half-empty cups on the coffee table, they could tell he had spent much time here over the last few days. 

They stopped before shrugging off their jacket. Did Walter truly want them here or was too kind to send them away? Perhaps he wished to retreat back into solitude and nurse himself back to health, alone. If he wanted that, they would let him, though their fingers twitched with the desire to help, to lend what aid they could provide. Walter rolled his shoulder lightly, his mouth turning down into a frown. 

They stared at his form, thin shirt revealing many scars, some shallow, some deep, all long-healed. A web of raised skin extended out from the metal socket embedded into his shoulder, pink and white lines creeping over his skin, tanned and freckled from decades of sun exposure. 

Though they did not know firsthand the pain of loss of a limb, they had heard of such things from others, a leg or hand lost in a hunt or accident still causing pain many years after the fact. Those types of old wounds could ache deeply, a discomfort that settled into imaginary bone and sinew. The ghost of nerves that no longer existed would flare, the body still remembering missing joints, mourning the loss.

“Thanks for takin’ care of the plant for me. I did warn ya when you gave him to me that I’m shit with taking care of ‘em,” Walter said and their eyes flicked back up to his face. “My green thumb musta been on my other hand.”

Bloodhound nearly choked on their saliva and their cheekbones warmed at the ease with which he joked about his old injury. They had been staring at his artificial shoulder just before and he had to have seen the direction of their gaze. Shame rose along with the heat spreading across their face. Walter’s eye glinted with mischief, showing no discomfort at the topic, but his expression softened when he saw the rosy tint extending beneath their goggles.

“Gotta laugh about it,” he said, but there was a catch in his voice that they hadn’t heard before. “But, it does bother me, sometimes,” he admitted, looking down to his side where his bicep would be. “Like someone’s digging their hand under my skin and squeezin’ for dear life, even though, well, there isn’t anythin’ for them to grab. The back pain is just icing on the cake. What can ya do? It’s been bad this week. I could barely get myself off the couch this morning to shower or to answer the door for a certain…rapscallion. But I’m glad I did.”

“I am sorry it pains you.” Bloodhound’s mouth went dry, but they mustered every scrap of their courage. “I hope I did not trouble you too much by coming over. But…I might know of a way to provide some relief,” they started. 

“That right?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“I have a balm with me, one that I mixed for my own aches. It could temporarily ease the pain.” They leaned down into their pack, fingers searching the front pocket where they kept their pocket knife, a small kit with bandages, and the bits of stone and metal Artur had placed in there for safekeeping. Finally, they felt it, the cool metal of the tin, the scalloped edge of the lid.

Bloodhound pried the lid off the jar, the medicinal herb and mint scent immediately reaching them both. The surface of the green ointment dipped down on one side where their fingers had pressed into it many times before. They held the tin before them, fingers trembling. This was a bold offer of help when none had been requested — but they could not sit back and allow Walter to remain in pain if they knew of a way they might help. 

“Smells nice. Minty,” he said. 

Walter turned from them and their heart skipped — he was surely offended. They began to return the lid to the container but watched as he slowly tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side where it fell in a crumpled heap on top of a blanket.

“I, ah, prob’ly can’t reach where it hurts,” he cleared his throat. “D’ya mind?”

Did they mind? 

Bloodhound swallowed hard, glad that he was turned away from them and his pain prevented him from craning his head too far to look at them now. Before them was an expanse of hardened muscle, Walter’s body formed from countless years of fighting and training. They had seen his bare upper body before, briefly when he had disrobed in front of them at their cabin. But that time they had quickly averted their gaze to preserve his non-existent modesty, catching only a glimpse of him. 

To just be able to run their hands along each plane of his back, enjoying the feel of him beneath as they also relieved his discomfort — 

“No,” they said, their voice huskier. “I can assist.”

They shirked off their jacket, the material easily sliding over the tight sleeves of their compression undershirt, and they let the heavy canvas fall behind them onto the couch. Two fingers dipped into the thick balm, and they rubbed it between their fingertips until it thinned, warmed by their body heat. Their tentative hands reached out to Walter’s broad shoulders, smearing the ointment across one of his shoulder blades. 

“Tell me if I am hurting you,” Bloodhound said. “I have not done this for another in some time.”

“Ahh, doubt you could hurt me. I’m tough as— shit!” His words morphed into a curse, choked in his throat as Bloodhound rolled their hand upward and dug into the meatiest part of his good shoulder. “Right, maybe a bit softer. Guess I’m in worse shape than I thought. I fell out of the habit of doing those stretches that are supposed to help keep me loose.”

Their fingertips glided smoothly across the knots of scar and muscle beneath. The scent of the emollient filled the room, and Bloodhound could hear Walter breathing deeply through each pass of their hand now, easing under their firm but gentle touch. They dug their knuckles into the dip beneath his right shoulder blade and kneaded gently along the ridge of bone. 

“You have not cared for yourself as you should,” they said softly, biting their lip at how every spot they touched seemed tense, tight.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, a small whine passing through his lips when Bloodhound used their thumb to dig into a stubborn spot that refused to yield. “Never thought I’d live this long anyway, so keepin’ the ol’ bones in tip-top shape wasn’t much of a priority.”

“And now?” they asked, their voice a low, soothing murmur.

“Mm,” Walter’s groan rumbled in his chest when Bloodhound ran their hand along his other shoulder blade. “S’pose I could try to squeeze in a bit of stretching here and there.” He patted his belly. “Lay off the beers a little.”

“It certainly could not hurt.”

Their eyes dropped to the scars beneath their fingers, confirmation of his earlier words. They, too, knew what it was like to throw themself into battles and danger without any regard for their own well-being. When there was nothing to live for, nothing worth preserving — what was one more injury, one more scar, one more fight?

Bloodhound’s finger trailed over a particularly large scar near the middle of his back, leading up toward his left shoulder blade. The gouge was a valley of white tissue, long-healed and slightly puckered, pale against the darker skin around it.

“One of my first fights in the Bonecage,” Walter said conversationally, sensing the location of their touch. “Three versus one — I took ‘em all, but they brought a little piece of me with ‘em.”

“So I see. Victory often comes at a price.”

Bloodhound gripped handfuls of firm muscle, trying to make each pass of their palms effective without causing unnecessary pain. Their fingers roamed all the dips and valleys of his upper back and shoulders, leaving no spot unattended. 

“Ain’t that the truth,” he said with a low huff of humorless laughter, his tone darkening. “I was dumb enough to pay that price every time, too. Too hard-headed to accept anythin’ less.”

Bloodhound didn’t know how to respond, wanting to provide support and empathy without prying, without dredging up memories that had been long buried. Quiet fell over the apartment, the only sounds Walter’s occasional rough breaths when their fingers discovered an especially tight corner of muscle.  

They searched for anything else to discuss, not wanting to spend time rehashing old hurts and fights and adding to the pain he already felt. Their mind blanked of anything, and their eyes darted around the couch, their bag, the TV silently playing a rerun of a gameshow, the empty beer bottles on the table, but settled back on their ointment as they dabbed their finger in the tin once more.

“How does the balm feel?” they asked haltingly.

“Nice ‘n’ tingly,” Walter said, his voice returning to its normal lightness. “Much better already. Takk.” 

“Ekki málið,” they replied softly. “Willow bark and eucalyptus ease the pain, and aloe soothes the skin, among other things. It helps me when my old wounds wish to make themselves known again.” Bloodhound cleared their throat. “I have more at home if you would like to keep this jar for yourself.”

“Hm,” Walter hummed as their hand slid across his upper back once more. “I appreciate the offer, but I think you better hold onto it. Gives me an excuse to get you over here more often, ay?”

Bloodhound swallowed, their throat tightening as it always seemed to do around Walter. He said these things casually, with such ease, without even thinking — but they had started to look forward to his easy familiarity, even if they could not reciprocate in kind with witty words. 

There was still a large portion of his lower back that they had not yet touched, the mid and lower section. The couch did not allow enough room for Walter to lie down, or for them to use the proper leverage to tend to him properly. It would not do to leave the job half-done. They patted his shoulder gently, getting his attention, reluctantly pulling him from the lull of his relaxed state at their hands.

“If it is not too much to ask — I might assist you a bit better if you were, ah, lying down. Perhaps we can move to your bedroom?”

“Oh?” Walter turned to look at them over his shoulder as far as his still-tight muscles would allow, a cocky eyebrow raised. He winced as the movement pulled a sore spot taut. “Cheeky lil’ rascal. If ya want to get me in bed, ya just need to say so.”

“I did not mean—” They blinked behind their goggles. “It would be merely for the massage, of course.”

“Of course,” Walter replied with a sly grin, amusement dripping in his voice. He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders experimentally, turning to Bloodhound with a grin before padding down the hallway. 

Bloodhound scurried behind and watched the way the light caught the contours of his back, the emollient glistening in a dim sheen across his broad shoulders. He stood straighter now and walked with less hesitation — a good sign that they had already eased his pain some. Pride bloomed within their chest.

Walter entered the bedroom, the covers bunched up and unmade, and tilted his head toward Bloodhound. “I’m all yours. How d’ya want me?” 

This time, Bloodhound could not hide the tiny, choked noise that gathered in their throat. Their eyes flicked down his body, mind wandering where he certainly knew it would. The trail of dark hairs from his navel enticed them, leading downward into his waistband. Walter had to know what he was doing. Despite how they knew to anticipate him saying such suggestive things, it still unsettled them each time — but they could no longer deny that they enjoyed the comments.

“On your stomach, if you can.”

“Say no more,” Walter said as he crawled into bed, each movement intentional and slow. He pulled a pillow under his stomach to support his lower back, and another to hold within his crossed arms under his head. 

Bloodhound first sat on the edge of the bed, trying to find a proper angle to massage him the way they wanted. It was not working as they wanted. Then, they knelt beside him, still unsatisfied with the position. They looked at him, his eyes closed, dark lashes resting atop his cheeks, and steeled themself. If he could treat them with such familiarity, then they could, too.

From their kneeling position, they swung a leg over Walter’s hips, straddling his legs. They lowered themself so their weight rested mostly on their own legs, but some of it on his upper thighs and bottom. Their eyes were fixed on his face, watching for any sign of discomfort or hesitance, in the corner of his mouth, or the crinkle of his eye, but he still bore the same relaxed expression.

“Is this alright?” they asked, their voice a slow breath as they leaned some of their weight into a long stroke up the muscles curving along his spine.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned. “More than alright.”

Bloodhound smiled, adding a bit more ointment to their hands, pressing them along his sides, down his rib cage. Their smile faded when he began to make more noises from time to time, low groans of enjoyment that were nearly lewd as they worked in long strokes up and down. They tensed their thighs against the pressure that began to wind within their lower stomach, acutely aware of how close the firm muscles of his buttocks were to their groin. Each time they moved, their body pressed into his, a perfect fit, an imitation of how they might roll their body into his if—

They quickly lifted their hips away from him; Walter would surely notice their arousal stiffening beneath the layers of canvas and denim. This was supposed to be a healing massage, not a situation for them to take advantage of and get their own selfish enjoyment from. It was less comfortable this way, holding themself above him, but at least Walter would not feel anything other than their hands smoothing the muscles. Bloodhound refocused on digging circles into his lower back, manipulating the muscle until he quieted, his body now lax beneath them.

Satisfied that they had done Walter’s back and shoulders justice and not trusting themself to remain like this a moment longer, they began to move off of him. They could not stay this way a moment longer. If they did, they would surely expose their shame. Before they could lift their knee, Walter turned, repositioning himself onto his back below them. The imprint of a wrinkle on his pillowcase was etched into his reddened cheek, his expression hazy and soft.

“Y’know, no one’s ever done that for me before,” he said, stretching his arm up, letting his hand rest beside his head, palm open with relaxed fingers.

Bloodhound licked their lips as they studied his face, a tiny laugh bubbling at the base of their throat despite how they tried to contain their mirth. “I suppose that would make me your…first,” they said, grinning at the successful delivery of their joke. 

“Yeah.” Walter smiled gently, his eye shining as he looked up at them with something akin to wonder. “S’pose you could say that. Lovely view from down here, by the way.”

The laughter that had risen within Bloodhound’s chest dissolved a little, settling into something more somber. “I am fond of this, as well.”

Their eyes were drawn to his hand, palm still open upward, fingers wiggling in invitation against the soft material of his pillowcase. Bloodhound leaned down and placed their hand in his, enjoying the way their slender fingers seemed to fit so perfectly between his as if the spaces had been designed especially for them. They readjusted their hips, eyes widening beneath their goggles when they felt him, just as hard as they felt themself becoming. But his hips remained frozen in place. 

Their gaze flicked back to his face from their joined hands, finding his expression soft with wanting, hungry, but tempered. Beyond that was a glint of something, open and vulnerable that almost hurt to perceive. Bloodhound closed their eyes, unable to bear the way it made their chest ache, made their heart rise into their throat. He was looking at them like— 

No one had looked at them like that since— 

Since—

It was just the aftermath of the massage, his relaxed state. Nothing more, surely. But when they opened their eyes again, he was still looking at them like that, his mouth now slanted into a hint of his usual roguish smile. 

“How d’ya want me now?” Walter asked, repeating his earlier question, but this time his voice was raspy and low, lips staying parted just slightly, his tongue rolling out over his bottom lip enticingly. 

A wave of boldness overcame Bloodhound, surging through them at the sight of him, expectant and waiting for them, always encouraging, offering them ample opportunity to pull away, to run, to hide as they had for twenty winters before him. 

Today, they would not hide. 

He was like them, imperfect and scarred on body and mind alike. They were not glad for his pain, but it linked them in a way, and allowed them to see this side of him, less cocky, less brash. Beneath his bravado was a kindred spirit, flawed and hurt as they were, different, yet the same in ways that bound them both with the same thread.

He… needed them. 

They leaned down to him, pushing his hand further into the mattress as they aimed their mouth toward his. Bloodhound captured his lips, feeling his smile grow as they tilted their head to the side. The cushion of his lips fit theirs just as perfectly as their joined hands, two halves of the same whole, now made as one. Their free hand rose, wandering his naked abdomen, calloused fingertips brushing through the patch of hair over his chest to arch over over a peaked nipple. They let their hand continue its journey, threading into the longer hair at the nape of his neck. 

Bloodhound rolled their hips into his, their cock nudging his, both clothed lengths rubbing together through the thick material of their pants. They groaned into Walter’s mouth, and he drank in the sound, swallowing it down as his tongue swiped across theirs, a request for more, more. 

Their tongue greeted his as they changed the tilt of their face, lightly tugging on the roots of Walter’s hair, guiding him to angle his head back to kiss them more deeply. Walter’s drawn-out moan and the buck of his hips told them everything they needed to know — they were doing this to him. They would never forget his words, burned into their mind-

I want you.

They, who had known no other in so long. 

They, whose hands trembled and fingers shook even in his grasp. 

They, who doubted each action, each of their clumsy steps forward with him. 

They were enough. 

Bloodhound's hand left his hair to skim back over his body before fumbling between them both. Their fingers rested on the button of his jeans, hesitating. “May I…” they started to ask when they pulled their mouth off his, letting their words trail off. 

Walter’s pupil was wide and dark, his lips flushed and wet from kissing. “Ya don’t have to ask every time, Houndy. I’m yours darlin’.”

“But your…back,” they offered, offering him an out, a shame-free way to disentangle him from this if he was in no mood for such things.

“...is feelin’ much better thanks to someone,” he grinned.

They nodded somberly, reassured by his words but the nagging feeling of inadequacy returned, trying to work its way into the moment and ruin what confidence they had gained. How inexperienced and foolish they must appear next to him — why he wanted to be with them at all still escaped them, but he did. 

He did.

They tried to hold onto that thought, to cling to that bright bit of positivity through the veil of darkness that threatened to descend over them. Walter squeezed their hand, drawing them back to the moment at hand, his expression serious when they focused back on him. 

“I can’t imagine not wanting you. Shit,” he hissed when their fingers grazed his cock through the denim. “But if I didn’t want to do somethin’, I’d tell ya. Promise.”

They nodded and lowered their lips to the side of his neck, kissing and nipping as their fingers worked to loosen the button and zipper of his jeans. One-handed, it took longer than they expected, feeling like an eternity in the heat of the moment when truly it had likely only been a matter of seconds. But Walter was not fussed in the slightest, his hips eagerly rutting up to greet the hand that finally slid down into his pants. 

Bloodhound found his cock ready for them, the silken skin hot, a smear of sticky precum sliding across their scarred palm. He sucked in his breath in a hiss when their slender fingers wrapped around his girth, drawing him out from the confines of denim and underwear. They released their hold on him to tug his pants down a bit more to expose a strip of his well-muscled thigh. The fair skin there was covered in coarse, dark hair and they ran their fingertips through it, their own desire winding tightly within them. 

There were many things they wanted to say, to tell him how grateful they were for his patience, for always handling their worries with grace, for making them feel something besides pain or hollowness for the first time in as long as they could remember. But the words would not come, nothing felt right in their language or his. 

Perhaps they could show him what they meant, instead. 

Bloodhound released their grip on his hand and lowered their body, moving downward, crawling over his form. They allowed their hands to explore the planes of his exposed abdomen, fingertips dipping into the divots of chiseled muscle and the soft lip of his lower tummy, running over his navel and through the line of dark hairs that led to the thicker patch of short hairs around his cock. 

Slowly, like this, hands always moving, they sank down until they had settled between his thighs, their weight dipping down the mattress. Their mouth watered at the sight of his cock, standing proudly upright, a bead of his arousal dripping down over the tip. 

Walter bent his knees, giving them more room, and reached down for them, brushing a lock of auburn hair from their face and tucking it behind their ear, back into their braid. Their eyelids fluttered closed when his rough fingertip brushed along the shell of their ear, sending a wave of electricity cascading down their body. His hand cupped their cheek, his thumb extending to skim against the tops of their cheeks and the bottom edge of their goggles. 

Bloodhound melted into his touch, leaning their head toward his palm, enjoying how the heat that radiated from his skin sunk into theirs, joining the flush that had already risen to greet him. 

Their eyes rose to his, finding a longing there that matched what they felt within their chest, the feeling expanding until it might burst if it grew any larger. Walter was unusually quiet now, chest rising and falling evenly, but his eyes held a thousand words, kindness and compassion and wanting all swirling within the honey-brown depth. A pang shot through them when they realized that Walter had not yet seen their eyes. Meeting their gaze would only reveal his own face, reflected back at him in their lenses. 

No others since their family, since Boone had seen their bare face. Even the medics who performed the physical exams to ensure the combatants were fit for the Games did not dare to ask. The first overly-touchy medic who tried to pry the goggles off of their face had found themself with a blade at their throat, snarling words warning them just exactly what would happen if that were to ever happen again.

But — it was not like that with Walter.

There was no expectation, no obligation. They did not want to do this because they felt they must, that he was owed it, but because they wanted to. Others would have jumped at the first opportunity to see them, to spread gossip about what lay beneath — the other Legends had all asked at one point or another. But Walter had stopped them before when they had tried to show him their scarred and ruined features. The time had not been right.

Now, it was.

Bloodhound rose onto their knees and lifted their hands to the clasps at the back of their head, undoing the buckles one at a time. They waited for nervousness to halt them, for tremors to overtake their fingers — but their hands did not shake. It was slow, but they were in no hurry, and neither was Walter. 

They pulled their goggles off and brushed their hands through their hair to smooth it and set the eyewear to the side, not daring to look at Walter yet. A small part of them worried about what he would think. They were not one to put much stock in physical appearances, but they could not deny that they wanted to have Walter’s approval or anything even remotely close to it — they would take quiet acceptance, neutrality. Bloodhound blinked a few times in the light, letting themself adjust to the change before they stared up at Walter.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his gaze darting to take in every inch of their face. “Bloody gorgeous. Green eyes — beautiful.”

The tops of their ears burned with the earnestness of his words, the heat flaring down their neck and chest. They had built this moment up in their head to be some grand reveal, a magical moment where they could throw aside all their inhibitions in the heat of passion and rip their goggles off — but this was not like that. This was quiet intimacy, and their spirit was filled to the brim with the way he just soaked in the sight of them, his eye shining with awe. 

It was better than anything they could have imagined. 

“Hidin’ that from me, from everyone all this time,” he murmured in wonder. “Stunning.”

Their heart fluttered against their ribcage, and they lowered themself onto their forearms on the bed over him, melting into his one-sided embrace as he reached for them, his hand threading through their braid. He held them close, pulling them against his chest while he nipped at their bottom lip, kissing every available bit of skin on his face that they could reach. He pressed his lips to their chin when they broke away to take a breath they both desperately needed.

Bloodhound descended down his body once more, their hand reaching between his thighs, sliding their fingers around the thick base of his cock. They squeezed lightly, watching Walter’s head roll back onto the pillow, his hand shooting down to clutch a handful of the blankets. 

“Houndy,” he whined, a sound much too small for such a large man. “Fuck .”

Yearning raged within them, recognizing the desperation in his voice, the same as they had felt at his hand in their cabin. He craved them, hungered for them just as badly as they did for him, perhaps his need even greater tonight in his vulnerable state. 

Power surged through Bloodhound, a primal, possessive instinct that reared its head, lending them boldness. They lazily stroked his length, their slender fingers barely touching his cock, his skin so hot it was nearly feverish. Their thumb dragged beneath his tip, spreading the leaking precum, bringing another groan from Walter. This was an intoxicating position, the feeling creeping through their veins, heady and thick.

In battle, they felt something akin to this, a rush of confidence as they effortlessly dominated a fight, held another at their mercy. Tonight, it was nothing so brutal, but their hands no longer trembled, their voice no longer shook its way through a tight throat. 

“What do you want?” they asked, intending to tease and tempt as he often did, but the question was genuine as they delved into this long-unexplored territory with him. 

“You’ve done enough for me. Ya don’t hafta…” he started, but his voice turned into a strained whine when they circled the head with a swirling finger. 

“Let me continue to take care of you, tonight,” they said, surprising themself with how smoothly and easily the words rolled off their tongue.

Walter’s words tumbled free as Bloodhound bent down towards his cock, their warm breath fanning out over the bare skin of his lower stomach. “Want your hand, your mouth — anything. Just want…you. Need you. Please.”

“Mm.” Bloodhound studied him closely as they would their prey in a hunt, calmly observing, watching his fist balled up in the covers, his thighs flexing with the need to move. Another wave of confidence pulsed through their veins, and a teasing smile stretched across their lips. “Then, you shall have me.”