Chapter Text
It takes Wukong an embarrassing amount of time to notice.
In his defense, he’s spent the last four days since returning to Flower Fruit Mountain fixing up his hut -who left a hole in it?!- cleaning his things, throwing out old rotten food from his fridge, patrolling the grounds to make sure all the security seals are up to date and no one decided to mess with the vault while he was away. Oh, and take care of his monkeys. When he first set foot through the waterfall, their reaction had been unlike anything he’s ever witnessed.
Wukong had never seen them screaming and shrieking and chirping like that before -and its a testament to how much they missed him. The first day Wukong couldn’t even move a toe out from the makeshift nest they made under the peach tree before they started snarling and hissing. A few of the younglings even bit his feet to keep him still -and his tail! The audacity!
So he spent the first day resting, eating the fruits his dear subjects offered to him and sleeping through most of the afternoon as the older ones worked their way through his fur. A month on the run plus the whole mess in the celestial realm left his fur matted and not as glossy as it used to be. During the race for the rings, it had been unbearable -knotted, dirty fur tugging when he moved and stretched, forcing the king to waste magic that should be stored up for a faster recovery on extensive visual and physical glamors.
MK and his friends never noticed how quickly he physically recovered over the first week -and while MK’s adoptive father, Pigsy, had sent a few looks his way, Wukong is proud of how well he managed to slowly build up the glamors and hide away the worst of the grime.
So the first day?
Spa day, monkey edition.
Second day?
Cleaning.
So much cleaning.
Third day?
He goes sightseeing around his island, monkeys clinging to his shoulders and head like a shroud of little hands and tails. Chirping and fussing on him still as their king patrolled their home and made sure everything was in place.
So it’s the fourth day in the afternoon that Wukong, his chores done, finally notices. As he stands in front of his stone fruit tree, planted years ago from a single peach pit that Wukong hacked up after stumbling his way drunk back to Flower Fruit Mountain after a very very bad, very not good, frankly admirably catastrophic series of bad life decision, he’s almost too enraptured in counting the latest flowers beginning to bloom on the tree and wondering if maybe he should install one of the beehives inside the cave to make sure all of the flowers are properly pollinated when he finally senses it.
A little sting of magic in the air, so subtle he almost think its just his imagination; but when he tilts his head towards teh ceiling and activates his golden sight, he’s surprised at the faint, sineous trail of magic that is not his own languishing in the air, heading out from the cave.
Lost, curious and definitively weary -after such an adventure, he just wants to rest, train the kid and gorge himself on fruit, truthfully- Wukong takes the bait and goes to satisfy his curiosity towards this unusual pulse of magic that feels familiar, but is too faint for him to fully pick out.
Which brings him to now. He’s walked after this odd trail of magic like a sniffer dog locked on a scent, the particular celestial nature of this magic just dim and similar enough to the ambient magic of Flower Fruit Mountain it's no surprise that Wukong hadn’t noticed initially.
But he does now.
And the more he follows it away from his hut, through the rickety wooden bridge and right to the edge of the inside of the cavern where the rocks are damp and slick with humidity, the more that scent becomes familiar. The more it makes his eyes narrow with distaste, his lips pinch, his tail twists into knots because he does not want to deal with this mess now. By the time he locates the source -a simple inauspicious crack in the cave wall, barely big enough that Wukong could cram himself in if he’s very determined about it- Wukong is past wanting to deal with this.
Yet he still leans down, just enough to stare judgmentally into the hole and bristle when he sees something shift in the shadows. How the other managed to force himself into this tiny hole is beyond him -Wukong would never, ever be caught dead hiding in such a small, crushing space, it would remind him far too much of the eternity spent crushed under a mountain- but the intruder is nothing but a ball of fur and clothing curled up like a bird nesting in the worst possible location.
It’s almost amusing how far this unwanted pest went to fit inside this tiny dent in the cave wall. Unfortunately Wukong is not feeling very amused right now. The king lets out a gruff noise, snapping his teeth together.
“Oi, I see you.” Wukong, with a lack of a better thing to say, states calmly.
Two purple eye peers back at him, like the eyes of a racoon shining under a flashlight. Wukong feels his face scrunch up in a grimace as he takes note of the harsh glare his enemy, the Six Eared Macaque, gives him at the king’s gall of visiting the tiny crevice the shadow demon has holed himself up in. A hole in the wall, yes, but this is Sun Wukong’s wall and he’s not gonna let it slide.
He glares at the shadow, making note of the way the other is positioned. Macaque is laying on his side, facing the king; knees tucked to his chest and wrapped nearly fully in that dirty, weathered red scarf of his. Only his head and a low, flicking tail peaks out -though Wukong is not surprised to see a hand slowly emerge from the bundle of cloth, claws extended and ready to rip at divine flesh the moment Wukong dares put a single limb into this small space.
Still, despite being cornered, Macaque says nothing. Wukong sighs, and asks in a more deadpan manner;
“What are you doing here?”
No answer.
Wukong’s not that surprised; the air stinks of silent defiance, dramatics and bad decision making skills. Of course Macaque would try to ignore him. It’s a childish attempt at avoiding the situation that is so utterly Macaque in nature it makes the god let out a quiet huff of amused exasperation -and given the way he spies the shadows across around the hole rippling in response, the six eared intruder definitively caught that and he’s not happy about it.
It’s almost entertaining that Macaque has the gall to seem indignant when Wukong should be the furious one. Wukong just caught him red handed trying to break into Flower Fruit Mountain, after all. How he got past the barrier the Sage has no idea -well, he might have one, but he’s not going to admit it even to himself- but now that he’s spotted this unwanted guest, Wukong won’t be able to go back to resting with his monkeys while brainstorming for MK’s next training session until this unwanted dramatic pest is dealt with.
So armed with the desire of peace and quiet and no grimey shadow monkeys in sight, Wukong squats down further and glares into the thin fissure the demon has huddled himself up into. Macaque glares right back, silently defiant.
Maybe the other is embarrassed about getting caught so quickly?
Who knows.
Wukong scrutinize every inch of the other’s face. It’s not often he can do this -neither monkey can stand each other, and every moment spent within the same area code is spent trying to break bone, sunder flesh -inflict enough hurt that the other backs down and limps away into the shadows to scheme for another day. Because despite how much Wukong hates the shadow and the feeling is mutual, he’s crossed that line once and that is enough.
Speaking of…
The more he looks at the clearly agitated shadow, the more Wukong notices something off about the other. Macaque has his glamors up -thick lines of arcane magic weaved so tightly together like the weave of a handbasket not even truth sight can peer through them. But despite these protections hiding his scarred eyes and ears, Wukong knows those extensive glamors are as heavy as they are stiff, a work of art even the greatest of demons would be jealous of -yet all that power behind them comes at a cost. The magic is too high strung, trying to change them would be like trying to remove wool strings off an intricate carpet to add new, colorful wool; a daunting task. Like trying to reforge a helmet while wearing it. It’s impossible or at the very least, extremely risky. Any wrong move could cause it to break and snap like a taut string, wasting an intricately made glamor and forcing the caster to spend hours remaking it.
Not something Macaque would risk, as self conscious as Wukong knows the other is of his ears -and, well, his eye too now, the king remembers with just the slightest unease.
So while the spell covers Macaque's weak points, it does little to hide the mottled bruises across his face or the deep eyebags the demon sports. The way his body occasionaly trembles, or the faint stink of sick in the air. And just like that, it clicks for Wukong why the other isn’t cursing him back to the next decade, putting an actual curse on him or simply fleeing into the shadows before Wukong can throw him out himself.
Macaque’s not acting out because he’s in no position to fight.
He’s injured and trying to rest.
Oh. It falls in place -Wukong should have seen it coming. The fight against the Lady Bone Demon had only been four days ago and Macaque had taken the brunt of the damage given he’d fought Wukong while the witch had him under her control. Merely thinking of that fight opens up a unwanted hole in his stomach - a disorganized, frozen fog, flashes of combat overwhelmed by the memory of how hard it had been to hold back, to strain against her control and stop her from reaching for the shadow demon’s neck and break it under his hands as if it was a toothpick- and he doesn’t want to entertain any reminder of her any longer than needed, so he pushes it to the furthest corners of his mind and turns his attention back to the parasite huddled up in a literal hole in the wall of his home.
Of course Macaque would pick Flower Fruit Mountain to recover. Anywhere else would leave the injured shadow extremely vulnerable to attacks from other demons, a thought that leaves a pit in Wukong’s stomach for some reason. The ancient mountain is the safest place for a creature like him -a person with no allies and plenty of enemies. Flower Fruit Mountain is warded against intruders -at least, it should, how the hell did the shade get in in the first place?- and it was mostly uninhabited in the present day.
Gone were the days where it was overrun with all sorts of mythical creatures -whoever remains now are simply native fauna, immortal monkeys and one single king. The island only has Wukong and his subjects as intelligent life and while he is plenty a threat to the six eared thief, their animosity no less lessened by that brief moment of fighting together against the witch, a promise is a promise and Wukong had given his word that he wouldn’t start anything with Macaque to MK. At least, unless the pesky shadow started it first. Which makes the king blink and toy with an idea.
Would this count?
This is technically breaking and entering.
Macaque’s not wanted here, not on Flower Fruit Mountain.
(Not anymore.)
By all means, Wukong should be free to reach an arm into the hole, grab the unwanted demon by the scruff of his neck and throw him out. Maybe right into the lake outside -from the smell of sweat, dust and old blood that makes his nose wrinkle, Macaque could surely use a bath. An unwanted house guest and a assaulter of noses -double crime, making his expulsion more than warranted.
He toys with the idea the longer the other doesn’t answer. Goodness, he could be relaxing under his favorite tree but no, he doesn’t even get a full week of peace. Frustrated, Wukong intones with thinly veiled calm:
“You need to leave.”
Macaque bares long, white fangs in response.
Bite me, his eyes seem to say.
Wukong raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Hardly the first time Macaque threatened to bite him -their fights often ended in bloody grapples and unfortunately for the Six Eared Macaque, the shadow demon lost the ability to pierce the Sage’s stone hide about three immortalities ago. Most often than not, it ended in broken claws for the pesky shadow. Which while hilarious to witness, also meant the shade more than often goes for his eyes during their fights.
Wukong’s not feeling like regrowing an eye today, thank you very much.
So against his better judgment, he stands up. Macaque tenses even further within his little hidey hole, seemingly ready to fight tooth and nail, but that’s no concern to the king. He merely half-glares in exasperation at his unwanted house guest. Wukong has better things to do than bother with the shadow. MK is coming tomorrow and he’d prefer not having to explain to the kid why the cave is thrashed and there’s a monkey-shaped hole in one of the walls of the cavern.
No, dealing with an ornery, injured Macaque is more trouble than it's worth. Who knows what curses the demon has under his sleeve? A desperate demon is dangerous, and better left be. As much as Wukong would like to grab a single hair, make a grapple stick and use it to get the aggravating demon out of his home, regardless of how much Macaque screams and thrashes like a racoon ushered out of a garbage can, they’re both recovering and this is just… not worth it.
Not worth it at all.
Especially if MK catches wind if Macaque comes whining to the kid. Wukong just knows the shade will find a way to spin this in his favor. Sure, the cave used to also be Macaque’s home, but that was a long, long time ago and Macaque only ever visits -or rather, breaks in- to Flower Fruit Mountain with murderous intent ever since… well, ever since he came back.
(Resurrection is not a word Wukong likes to use to describe the shade’s return. It brings too many reminders. Fills his mouth with the taste of failure, iron, and blood.)
Out of preferred options, Wukong turns away and throws a glance over his shoulder at the crevice from which two glowing purple eyes glare at him.
“Don’t touch my stuff.” He recites after a moment, resigning himself to this mess. The Sage makes note of how the other’s eyes half-widen at this, only to quickly narrow -no doubt trying to find what the trick is. It’s always like this with Macaque, now. He always doubts, always reconsiders every word, festering in the idea no one could ever say the truth, that no one would do anything without asking for a price. A long time ago, he'd ben gently eased out of that habit -but now its back, a sickness returned tenfold, distrust carved deep into every scar that Wukong inflicted.
Forcing that train of thought away, Wukong pushes through it and rattles off. “Don’t eat my peaches. Don’t go into my house. Don’t hurt the monkeys.”
This gets him a loud, furious hiss from the shadow, as if the mere thought that Wukong would think him capable of that infuriates the demon. Wukong doesn’t care. He’s already being generous enough, he’s not going to give Macaque any wiggle room out of this -though he knows that the moment he catches the other off guard and out of that tiny crevice, he’s throwing him out. Being near Macaque and not fighting is never good.
Sometimes though some things are not worth the effort, and Macaque really, really isn’t.
“And finally-” Wukong pauses, letting the silence hang between them, only the roar of the waterfall piercing through the tension thick in the air. “I don’t care what you do, just get the hell out of my cave.”
With that, he turns away fully and walks back to his house, tail head high and categorically ignoring the feeling of his enemy glaring at his exposed back.
He doesn’t need to make a fuss about it. Wukong has time on his side -Macaque will eventually get tired of acting like an unwanted guest and leave the cave.
Wukong shouldn’t concern himself with a living reminder of his failures.