Chapter Text
There’s a few cans of soup in the pantry.
Not a personal favourite, and a too bit high in sodium to be his first choice for any normal occasion, but handy in a pinch, and good fuel for an ill comrade, as Rouge had so handily mentioned some time ago, so Shadow takes two to carry back to the stove.
He could cook real food, of course- he’s picked up a few new tricks in his time on-planet- but it’s fast, and condensed canned soup is the exact sort of over-processed “comfort food” he figures the hedgehog upstairs would appreciate.
There’s a can opener in the drawer, but that’s more for Rouge and Omega’s benefit than his. Rouge, because for all her strengths actual enhanced strength sunny one of them, and for Omega, because otherwise he’ll crush them open against his head like an empty soda can at a party and leave wet beans behind everywhere. Shadow, slightly more dignified and far more pragmatic, uses a claw to pry up the thin tin seal and peels it off like a strip of tape, tossing it in the recycling bin to be dealt with later.
He wrinkles his nose at the thick, oily yellow film of the liquid inside before slopping it into a pot on the stove.
Food on the ARK had been… predictable, if he had to choose a word. Comfortingly so. Freeze-dried, powdered, concentrated and re-hydrated, yes, but nutritious and fortified with all the necessary fats, vitamins, minerals, and acids, all measured to the correct volumes and quantities to be consumed at the correct times.
Very little of it was what he would choose to describe as pleasurable- not like wild mint, fresh strawberries, and apples- but more like… oatmeal. Quick, efficient, and filling. Practical and easy to store and prepare. Like canned soup.
Just… cleaner.
And less oily.
He flicks on the gas burner and quickly ignites it with a gentle zap of red light. The smell is offensive even as it burns, but as his research had advised, gas-power only requires periodic refills instead of the steady upkeep of an electrical grid, and he isn’t around enough to justify installing solar panels. He supposes he could power everything using his own chaos energy, but unfortunately, installing that kind of hardware is slightly beyond the range of his usual expertise.
He could learn, yes, but again, he’s hardly “home” with enough frequency to justify the effort.
The generously-named “soup” begins to smell slightly more palatable as it’s heated. Good enough that he finds himself stepping out back for a brief moment to uproot a handful of small white onions to throw in as well- for a bit of added nutrition, of course.
The scent of green and dirt is far more welcome in his kitchen than wet tin and salt anyways, he finds. Clean water, too, is welcome- one of the first things he’d done upon arrival after dropping off his guest was let the faucets run until the stream turned clear, then taste it for any impurities.
Groundwater here tastes better than anything he’s had in a city, but is vulnerable to heavy metal contamination and algae blooms in the hotter months.
Nothing that could hurt him- obviously- but the native residents of the area were as always far too fragile.
But today, it passed the test. His guest may complain of the slightly clouded tint if he poured himself a cup from a faucet, sure, but the worst it would do was give him a little extra calcium. Shadow figured he could survive that.
Speaking of. He turns an ear towards the stairwell and pauses, just a beat.
No movement.
Good.
He resumes his stirring. As weird as it is to see the hedgehog moving at a- dare he say it, sensible pace- he’s not naive enough to think for a second that it’s guaranteed to last. If he were the type to gamble, he’d put a fair sum on the line to bet their little truce would last maybe four days, tops. Less if some kind of unexpected crisis broke out requiring his attention.
Forget that his little ragtag group of friends were more than capable of handing themselves on their own if needed. Honestly, he must have some sort of complex.
He frowns, staring down at the swirling current of noodles and onions. The steam beginning to rise feels… nice. Soothing.
He closes his eyes. There had been alternate versions of everyone he recognized between universes in the shatterspace void- everyone except Sonic and himself.
He’d had… time. To wonder about that. Plenty of time.
Given that the prism crystal had shattered into a number of habitated worlds equal to the number of shards, his hypothesis was that the united crystal itself was some form of anchor point grounding their reality. When it had broken, so had the fabric of their existence, fragmenting all living beings grounded with it into multiple iterations of themselves.
If he hadn’t jumped, he wondered, if he hadn’t teleported at that exact moment, would Sonic have encountered multiple incarnations of himself as well?
There had been a robotized Rose hedgehog under the thumb of the five Robotniks- would that world’s Shadow have been a second metallic pet alongside her? Or perhaps inside another stasis tube, hidden away somewhere in that hideous red fortress? Perhaps on the forest world his alien genes would have tipped him closer to the state of that feral fox, controlled by only his most primitive instincts. On the ocean world, perhaps a bloodthirsty mercenary.
Would Sonic have met a fifth flickering ghost on that grey, washed-out replica of their own reality? A projection of Shadow, wearing his face, mindlessly repeating the same rote phrase over and over again?
The way Sonic had looked at them, that pain in his eyes… would he have mourned for him, as well?
He hesitates, pausing in his work to just… stop. Just to stop, and… take stock of himself.
He sets down the knife he’d been cleaning and spreads his hands, inspecting both for any unusual shakes, and finds with some annoyance that there is a faint tremble at the tips of his fingers.
It’s light, nothing anyone else would notice, but he’s surprised it hadn’t caught his attention sooner.
What else had Rouge’s book said? Something about the body communicating with the mind. Tension and sensation, posture and… something.
He takes a deep breath, counts to four, and lets it out. Waits four seconds, then breathes in again- does it four times, until his mind seems to clear.
There is… a light pounding in his forehead and temples. His shoulders have begun to curve inwards. His fingers, no longer shaky, feel… tingly. Like the first few seconds after an electric shock.
Sonic had been electrocuted, he recalls. Repeatedly, in fact, back on that metal metropolis. That was likely a factor contributing to his slow recovery.
He sets the clean knife and cutting board down next to the sink with a little more force than is strictly necessary and flicks off the stove on a series of quick motions. Seeing that- seeing the other hedgehog forced to endure a litany of experiments for the curiosity of those damned Robotnik clones- loathe as he was to admit, that had stuck uncomfortably close to home. Watching an echo of his memories and experiences play out in front of him, to someone he had worked with so closely in the past… even if they weren’t friends, it was. Unpleasant.
At the time, his hands had clenched tight into fists, nails digging through the fabric of his gloves and straight into his palms- he’d felt frozen, transfixed, unable to look away. He’d itched to leap up, resume his furious barrage against the unyielding portal’s surface, force it through brute strength alone to let him in, but he… hadn’t.
He’d never felt anything quite like that before.
He hopes that he never will again.
Four inhales, four exhales.
He opens his eyes to a bowl of hot chicken soup, laid out on a tray next to a spoon and a glass of water that has already settled.
Right.
He puts a concentrated effort into make the stair steps creak as he climbs them back up to the guest room. Sonic had never struck him as the easily-startled type, but it had been a hard few days, and he knows well how long it can take to pull your mind from the battlefield. He doesn’t want to deal with him worsening his injuries with any abrupt movements.
He knocks twice on the door at the end of the hall, propping the tray on one hip to hold it steady. “Sonic.”
A groggy voice answers, but if any English words are used, they’re beyond comprehension. “It’s me,” he says unnecessarily. “I’m coming in.”
“‘Kay.”
Figuring that’s as good as he’s likely to get, Shadow walks in to find his guest struggling to sit up. He curses under his breath and sets the tray down on the end table before rushing to assist. “Stop moving.”
He’s waved off with a casual gesture. “It’s alright Shads, I’ll be fine- I’ve handled worse.”
“You’ve been lucky,” he counters, but holds himself back from manhandling the stubborn idiot. If the blue fool needs to burn himself out before deigning to accept reasonable assistance, so be it. He is capable of patience.
Not that he expects a long wait. He can hear the other’s breathing catch audibly as he shifts back, until he is once again cushioned upright on his borrowed pillow throne. Even recently bathed, he smells of heat and exertion.
“Cracked ribs, muscle strain, and fatigue will take the larger part of your recovery,” Shadow recites aloud. “Superficial injuries should clear up soon enough, presuming you continue to ingest fluids at a reasonable pace.” Speaking of, he retrieves the tray of soup and carefully moved it to the other’s lap. “Eat as much as you can,” he instructs. “There is more on the stove.”
He notes Sonic’s baffled expression but chooses not to comment. Of course the idiot hadn’t considered the basics of care; simple fundamentals like rehydration and rest. His idea of first aid is probably “wrap it in sports tape and walk it off”, which would explain the sheer volume he burns through on a day to day basis.
He must be hungry, Shadow thinks, watching him eye the bowl with blatant suspicion, but he hesitates to pick up the spoon helpfully provided. The pause lasts long enough that he’s begun to grapple with the mortifying possibility of having to spoon-feed the moron when he finally lifts the entire bowl to his mouth and starts to drink.
Shadow feels his eye begin to twitch, but, again, dedicates a heroic amount of effort to saying nothing. “Know thy enemy”, he’d read somewhere once. Wise advice that had proven useful on frequent occasion, and not just on the battlefield. If his enemy at this time is Sonic and his impulsive, flighty nature, then he’d take just about any excuse to run off on his own, leaving Shadow behind to plan for Eggman’s inevitable move on the prism. Any benign criticism or abrasive comment would be the perfect excuse to disappear- which is the only thing saving him from that discussion he’d promised earlier, as well.
Shadow’s ears flick at the reminder, and he shifts in his seat.
Sonic, for his part, is as oblivious as always: he keeps slurping at his soup, taking frequent breaks to rest his shaky arms.
He eats like he was raised in a barn.
Hell, maybe he was, Shadow thinks, ignoring the wet slurps. Given his other mannerisms, it would certainly make sense. And hell, it could even explain his preference for a nomadic lifestyle.
Now he doesn’t know much of the other’s upbringing, but everything in his behaviour screams cocky, shortsighted, and scared of commitment.
Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s stuck around Green Hills as long as he has- Shadow wouldn’t be shocked if he woke up one afternoon and skipped town on a whim, couch surfed and hitchhiked his way across the mainland like a leaf in the wind.
It probably has something to do with his bizarre codependence with that two-tailed fox and the others, or his unhealthy fixation on playing the hero all the time. If it’s Robotnik’s fixation on the island keeping him here, then he’d likely disappear as soon as the doctor did, or whenever his little crew of friends dispersed.
The thought is logical and his reasoning is sound, following every observation he’s made thus far, but it’s still… oddly troubling.
“Uh… Shads?”
He looks up. His guest has lowered his bowl in favour of watching him with an inscrutable expression. “You doing okay there, buddy?”
“I’m not your buddy,” he growls, but he puts no real heat in it. “Finish your food.”
“Already did.” And… oh. Apparently he had.
Shadow sighs, then moves to stand, taking the bowl and untouched spoon with him. “Would you like another?”
“Uh. No thanks, I’m good.”
“Hm.” That was fine for now. Better to start off slow with these things, rather than overindulging. Small portions spaced out over more frequent intervals would serve well enough until they were both back up to speed- another one of those things he’d learned in his experience planetside.
He’s halfway out the door for what feels like the hundredth time that day when a movement stops him.
Sonic, his hand raised just an inch in his direction.
His eyes narrow. “What?”
The hand drops. Green eyes flick away in a second of- something- before they harden. “Why did you help me?”
He tries not to roll his eyes. Flighty, he reminds himself. Any excuse to run off. “It was help you or witness the end of all existence. Believe it or not, it wasn’t a hard choice”
“I thought you wanted that,” the other says back. “To end the world, and all.”
Ah.
For whatever reason, he finds himself looking away. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” Sonic pushes, because of course, that’s what he does. He pushes, and pushes, and pushes, and when that doesn’t work and he doesn’t get the answers he wants he just doubles down and gets reckless and fucks everything up for everybody, because he can’t just stop at leaving well enough alone. “And it’s not exactly the sort of thing you just forget about, you know? Fire and brimstone, death and destruction?”
And The fool dares to smirk at that, though it’s a small thing.
Shadow feels his grip tighten on the tray. “Things changed.”
“What things?”
“That’s personal.”
“Like how blowing up a planet is personal?”
“Yes.” And he turns around, ready to walk away and leave it at that, fuck the consequences, when-
“You can just say you don’t wanna talk, you know.”
And that-
That’s unexpected.
Enough to slow him down.
He turns back, one hand on the door.
The obnoxious blue fool isn’t smirking anymore, but he is looking at Shadow with an odd quirk of the brow that makes it feel like he’s the one missing something.
And then he shrugs, like it’s no big deal either way. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to go fishing for a vague and mysterious cover for everything. You can just say you don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Would you listen?” he asks dubiously.
“I just need to know why.”
Shadow watches as the other clenches his hands, tensing and relaxing rapid-fire as though holding himself back from something.
It’s a show of restraint that’s unexpected for what it is, and Shadow catches himself somehow faltering in the face of it.
“I need to know why,” he continues, “so I know it won’t happen again. So I know I can trust you.”
Because I want to trust you.
The unspoken part hangs in the air like a cloud. It dries out his tongue like Omega’s terrible stale crackers, the ones he keeps in the cupboard so he doesn’t make a fuss about being left out on the rare occasion he’s there while food is being served, never mind that he can’t eat them and will mostly just uses them to make a mess.
So I know it won’t happen again.
He wants to deny the possibility. Shut it down with confidence, drop the subject, walk out, leave it at that. But he can’t. Not when it’s already happened before, not when he knows what’s possible, not when there are still dark little holes in the folds and recesses of his mind that he knows once held something important- that those things were taken away, easily and silently and without even the slightest suspicion on his part. That it could happen, that it had happened, that it could happen again…
Rouge knew whatever Rouge knew, which is usually more than anyone is comfortable with, but she’s been looking out for herself long enough that she should be able to cut ties and run if needed. And Omega is functionally indestructible, fully capable of being puzzled back together as long as a few small and durable components survive somewhat intact. And that’s what they do, both of them- they’re survivors. They can take care of themselves. He doesn’t need them to trust him with anything- he trusts them. He trusts them to live. And some days, the weight of his relief at that is staggering.
Because if they couldn’t? If they didn’t? He doesn’t know how he would cope.
He realizes, distantly, that it’s been silent now for an unusual length of time, neither of them moving so much as an inch.
It’s like time was holding its breath, waiting for one of them to fuck it up.
He opens his mouth. Don’t trust me, he wants to say. You shouldn’t trust me. I don’t even trust me. But he doesn’t.
And like a coward, he shuts the door behind him.