Archive of Our Own ^beta

People always seem surprised when they learn Dark’s a heavy sleeper.

Well, he says surprised. Annoyed is probably more accurate. After all, it only ever comes up when he’s missed something because of it, like an important phone call or an emergency meeting or several major holidays in succession. Some have even questioned the legitimacy of his title over it. “A knight who isn’t punctual? Why, that’s as absurd as a knight who isn’t fearless! Or chivalrous! Or eternally and unquestioningly self-sacrificing!”

Tch. Well, forgive him for not living up to the standards of fairytales and war propaganda every second of his life (we can’t all be tryhards like meta knight now can we). Rest is rare in this line of work, okay? You take what you can get whenever the opportunity arrives, and Dark’s never been above taking a little extra if he can get away with it. Sailor says he should just get a better alarm clock. He says he will… when they make one he can’t sleep through.

Apparently, they have. It’s squeaking right into his starsdamn ear.

He tries to ignore it, clinging to sleep like it isn’t already slipping away, but that only seems to make him more aware of the grating little sound, his nerves lighting up one by one the longer it goes on until his whole brain is blinking like a marquee: “Wake up, idiot - there might be danger.” So, begrudgingly, he cracks one eye open against the light… and finds a pair of beady black ones staring back at him.

There’s a Squeaker perched on his pillow. A small one, no bigger than his fist, with yellow fur and twitchy whiskers and big ears that perk right up the moment he notices them. And they’re not alone, he quickly realizes. Several of the little fuzzballs are gathered around him on the bed, sniffing, squeaking, and scurrying about like they own the place. He can feel them brushing against his head and sitting on his spread-out wings, irritating and far too close. In any other circumstance, he would be seconds away from leaping to his feet, summoning his sword, and dealing with it.

In this one, however, he can’t be bothered. He simply tugs his arm out from under the sheets and shoos them away with a few half-hearted swipes, growling for good measure. They scatter as expected, leaping off the bed in a flurry of startled chirps and vanishing from sight. He doesn’t move again until he’s sure they’re gone.

“Ugh. Damn rat. Left the door open again.” His voice is all gravel, mincing half of his words to mush, lost in the cushy down of the pillow under his head. Getting up is the last thing he wants to do right now, but sleep seems to have abandoned him along with the rest of the vermin. With a sigh, he kicks the sheets away and drags his sorry carcass to the edge of the bed, where he gives his arms and wings a good stretch, grimacing as they crackle and pop like those of a man twice his age. Hmph. Suppose that’s what he gets for making a habit of sleeping in beds that aren’t his… even if this one is a lot nicer than his lumpy old cot back home. Rubbing grit from his eyes, he paws blindly at the nightstand for his mask, metal scraping against wood as he drags it over and sets it on his face. He doesn’t need to wear it, not around here anyway, but old habits are hard to break, and this one’s nearly as old and stubborn as he is.

The room’s still a mess, he notes with a drowsy glance around, probably the same mess it’s been since he met the guy. Nearly every surface is covered in stuff - everything from kitschy knick-knacks and paper flowers to gleaming gems and priceless pottery - most of it stolen, he knows, though not all of it. Laundry sits in piles on the floor or hung over the furnishings like festival pennants, all bright colors and garish patterns against rustic wood and repurposed metal. The vanity table is a war zone of cosmetics and skin care product, crowded like sentries around a fancy jewelry box overflowing with gaudy gold and spotless silver. The writing desk is no better, covered in loose coins, brass gears, and crumpled papers, with a leather pouch laid open at the center displaying all the tools a thief could need, neatly organized and lovingly maintained. The corners of the room are just as packed, tiny cities comprised of rolled-up maps, exotic textiles, and stacks of books with return dates so faded that the original owners probably forgot they ever had them. And don’t get him started on the walls. You can’t even see them behind all the picture frames, a hodgepodge of them in too many sizes and styles to count, with subjects ranging from photos of the crew to old newspaper clippings to carefully-preserved (if dubiously-sourced) pieces of fine art. There’s even an old corkboard among them, covered in chicken-scratch notes and overlapping lines of colored string, pertaining to whatever less-than-legal treasure hunt the rat and his gang were up to this week.

It’s… certainly a lot to take in, at least from Dark’s perspective. He’s hardly a neat freak himself, but seeing all the clutter and chaos for the first time, the perceived excess stored in just this one room, when his own living space still looked like the one he had back at bootcamp… well, is it any wonder it’d rankled him?

But first impressions, he’s come to realize, are not very good at sticking, especially after a long enough period of time. Dark doesn’t know the story behind every shiny bauble or pretty picture in the thief’s private collection, but he’s heard enough to know they mean something to him, beyond just their monetary value. There’s history in this room, disorder with intent, creating this… homey and lived-in kind of feel that had taken Dark a long time to really appreciate. Even his own contribution - a scattershot trail of scuffed armor leading from the door of the captain’s quarters to the bed he’s sitting on - almost feels like it belongs there now. There’s a familiar red cape tangled around one of his pauldrons, though the hat that goes with it is nowhere to be found. Nor is the thief they belong to.

He turns to face the wall in front of him, where a round, riveted porthole provides a rare break from the chaotic patchwork of frames. Looking out, Dark sees a swathe of bright blue sky, the clouds sparse and curling, the sun too high to spot at this angle but filling the room nonetheless. Late morning, by his estimate, meaning Daroach is probably downstairs finishing breakfast with the rest of his crew. He swears he can smell coffee on the air, along with something pastry-adjacent.

Coffee does sound pretty good right about now, would definitely go a long way towards helping him feel like a person again… yet Dark makes no move to leave his spot at the edge of the bed. He leans back on his hands, warmed by a shaft of sunlight spilling in from the window, letting his wings hang loose and open behind him to soak up the bulk of it. He watches the curlicue clouds of Dream Land float by outside, listening to the low thrum of the airship’s distant turbines, the faint hiss of steam in its walls, the white noise of a remarkably uneventful morning.

Hm. How long has it been since he’s been able to do this? Just… rest for a starsdamn second. For all the complaints he gets about his not-so-knightly habits, Dark doesn’t actually sleep in as often as everyone thinks. Hasn’t slept much at all in the last however-many years, getting by on Energy Drinks and spite more than anything. And, really, who could blame him? Between all the nonsense with Dark Mind, the whole Jamba Heart debacle, the Mirror… void, it’s a miracle he even survived this long let alone got a few winks in along the way.

But things are different now, aren’t they? Settled, like dust in an emptied home. Changed.

(the world is no longer ending)

It hadn’t really hit him until after the meeting yesterday. That’s a thing they do now, by the way. Him and the rest of the so-called Star Allies. Every few months or so, the little pink headache gathers them all together, and they take several hours to confirm that, no, there haven’t been any more impending intergalactic disasters since the last time they met. Sometimes a fight will break out in the interim, or something will catch on fire, or that obnoxious clown will pull a prank that straddles the line between mischief and destruction, forcing everyone to evacuate early. Sometimes all three at once.

That’s if he’s lucky. Usually, nothing even remotely interesting happens, and everything devolves into empty, pointless social hour, as was the case yesterday. Dark spent most of it bored out of his skull, avoiding small talk, tuning out gossip, occasionally trading death glares across the table with either his stoic counterpart or that uppity little spider. By the time they were dismissed, he was more than ready to just grab Shadow Kirby (still getting used to that fun new moniker) and warp home before he had to spend another second with these insipid morons.

Of course, neither this universe nor his own has ever particularly cared about what he wanted, so he and the kid were instead stopped by several of said morons. Tackled by them, actually, one after another. First by little Ribbon, who seems to have finally gotten over her fear of him, talking Dark’s ear off and getting glitter all over his armor from her rapidly-fluttering wings. Then by Adeleine, who hasn’t been afraid of him for a while now, but still kept her hug brief, shy by nature and respectful of his own need for space. And finally by Daroach, who’s never been afraid of him, sweeping the four of them into a laughing, stumbling, spinning embrace that left Dark irate and embarrassed… and a warm, fuzzy, secret third thing that he’d never admit to feeling, even under the threat of torture.

A bit of cursing, a bit of catching up, a bit of watching Shadow Kirby lose the anxious tension in their back as they chatted and giggled with some of the few real friends they have (a bit of pretending it didn’t soothe something fretful in your chest). Then, just when Dark was starting to think about escape routes again, Daroach asked if the two of them wanted to join him and the girls for movie night on the airship.

The first time he’d asked - ages and ages ago now, it feels like - Dark had said no. Of course he had. Things were still strange between them all back then, barely acquaintance let alone friendship, the worlds knitting themselves back together while his own flailed for purchase. He’d still had some excuses left behind the Mirror, some cracks yet to be mended. Every time after that, though… he’d hesitated, longer and longer with each offer, feather-soft temptation quietly and laboriously chipping its way through his ironclad resolve. He’s not exactly sure when he’d started accepting, or when he’d run out of excuses not to.

No hesitation yesterday, though. He’s damn sure of that. Now it’s morning, some years after the world didn’t end. He’s in someone else’s bed, on a ship that isn’t his, in a universe filled with folks who - for some reason - consider him a friend. Not an ally, not a tool. A friend.

…

It’s… weird, this state of post-war peace. It doesn’t feel real, somehow, so at odds with Dark’s bleak understanding of how reality works. Everything is so still now. Unhurried. Mundane. He’s… not sure if he likes it or not, if he can believe it’ll last longer than one more day, one more week, one more year. Even now, his instincts sit tense and twitchy like a thing pursued, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his life to be thrown right back into the chaos and conflict and cruelty he’s grown so used to.

(how long until you close your eyes)

(and wake up back inside the mirror)

Something brushes against his arm. He jerks away, his reverie cut like piano wire, wings snapping against his back and hand instinctively reaching for a sword that isn’t there… only to realize it’s just another damn Squeaker sitting at his side, the same yellow one that had woken him up, in fact. Or, well… he thinks it’s the same one? He’s honestly not sure. (Listen, there’s over a hundred of the little bastards on this ship. Just because Daroach can tell them all apart at a glance doesn’t mean everyone can.)

The Squeaker blinks up at him with bright, guileless eyes, tilting their head with a curious chirrup, their ears flapping about with the motion. Dark relaxes, but not by much, reaching into the visor of his mask to pinch the space between his eyes, muttering curses under his breath. Honestly, why is every rat on this ship so good at sneaking up on him? Yes, they’re a gang of thieves, he knows that… but getting him twice in, what, ten minutes? When his whole thing is shadows and mirrors? Tch. Pitiful. Clearly he’s getting soft in his old age, too slow on the draw. Either that, or all this peace is getting to him, too. Void forbid.

“What? What d’you want, kid? What’re you doing here?”

The Squeaker chirps again, tilting their head the other way, remarkably unbothered by the tetchiness in Dark’s tone. To be fair, he could’ve been a lot meaner about it. He used to be, for a while. Used to curse more, sneer more, even threaten violence if he could get away with it, whatever it took to get the nosy little rodents to leave him alone. Obviously, Daroach put a stop to that pretty quickly.

“My ship, my rules, sunshine. And, rule number one? Family comes first. Full-stop. Ya don’t gotta get along with everyone, but ya gotta at least play nice. Capiche?”

He wouldn’t say it defanged him or anything - certainly didn’t change his less-than-enthusiastic opinion of children - but it has made him a bit more… let’s say conscious of his behavior. A little reminder that he may be a prickly bastard by nature, but he doesn’t have to be one all the time.

“If you need something, go bug your uncles about it. I’m busy.”

The Squeaker raises a skeptical brow, pointedly looking left and right as if searching for whatever Dark could possibly be busy with in the handful of minutes he’s been awake. It’s a level of sass he’d expect from Daroach or his cronies, not from something small enough to punt like a hacky sack. Hmph. Cheeky little runt. Weren’t these things terrified of him not that long ago? Scattering on sight, shivering in his presence? When did they get brave enough to start poking the metaphorical bear? Surely he hasn’t been coming around that much, enough to become a fixture, to be deemed harmless. Then again, maybe this one is just especially reckless, an outlier with no sense of self-preservation and something to prove, perhaps a bit too taken-in by all the tall tales fed to them by their silver-tongued captain.

Dark decides he doesn’t care either way. He just rolls his eyes, plants a hand over the Squeaker’s face (to which they respond with a muffled, questioning chirp), and then - lightly, harmlessly - pushes them as far away from him as possible. There. Maybe that’ll get the message across.

It doesn’t, of course. Because the second he pulls his hand away, the Squeaker giggles, leaping forward and smooshing their tiny face right back into his palm. Dark blinks in bewilderment, then scowls behind his mask. “Stop that,” he warns, shoving them away again, a little more firmly this time.

They do not stop, bouncing back to him a second time, a third time, a fourth and so on, undeterred even when he lifts his hands out of reach or tries to block them with his wings. They just scurry around him in maddening circles, hopping over his head and his feet, dodging nimbly when he swipes at them, all the while snickering and squeaking like this is some fun little game they’re playing. Dark feels his lip curl back from gritted teeth, even as Daroach’s warning to play nice hums in the back of his mind. Well, tough. He’s not nice, and he does not feel like playing right now.

Steeling his focus, he manages to catch the Squeaker on their next loop, clamping his hands around them mid-jump with the kind of precision that would’ve impressed even his surliest drill sergeants, knocking a startled yelp out of the tiny thing. He doesn’t hurt them, obviously, just makes it clear that he’s not goofing around anymore, gripping just hard enough for his claws to come out. Scooting over, he plops the squirming creature down on the very edge of the bed, holding them there with a fierce glare and a firm command of “Stay.” Even then, they still have to gall to laugh, practically shaking with mirth and not bothering to stifle it, ignorant - or uncaring - of the danger the knight might pose to them.

Because he is a danger, don’t they get it? The scars, the mask, the attitude - it’s not just for show. He is a soldier. A weapon. A thing born hostile and trained to be worse. Trained to take. Don’t they know that bodies have shattered under these hands? Don’t they feel the splinters in them like he can? Don’t they see the monster behind his eyes, a thousand yards of reflective steel and empty rage, the stains that run red and black from every scar on his voidforsaken body? Don’t they see?

… They did fear him, once. They all did. When did they stop? Why did they stop? Why…

(when did it get so exhausting to argue this point)

Just like that, the fight leaves him. Dark sighs, long and heavy, loosening his grip and retracting his claws. The Squeaker notices, tilting their head with an inquisitive chirp, nothing even remotely like fear in their shiny black eyes. The knight stares back until he can’t anymore, letting them go and scooting back to his previous spot, wings tucked close to his back, glaring at a pile of old socks and loose doubloons on the floor. The kid hops over for the umpteenth time, but he can’t be bothered to stop them, not even when they wriggle under his hand and just kind of… sit there, letting it rest between their twitching ears, their tail swishing back and forth with the most baffling sense of contentment he’s ever seen.

Ugh. Void’s sake. He just… He’s never sure how to deal with stuff like this, you know? Connection. Affection. Trust. It’s all so alien to him, ill-fitting, a language no one ever bothered to teach him. He’d gone so long without it, never needed it (never deserved it), and now… now, he feels it everywhere, in even the most inconsequential interactions. It’s in the fairy dust on his pauldron, the paint on his glove, the claws laced through his fingers, the yellow fur brushing against his calluses.

It’s in the peace that follows a long war.

What is he supposed to do with it? This soft and strange and fragile thing dropped so unceremoniously into his void-stained hands, a gift that feels like a trap no matter how many times it isn’t. Does he just… keep it, for however long it lasts? Care for it? Trust it back? It could be taken from him at any moment. He could lose it like he’s lost so many things in his life. He could crush it so easily if he’s not careful.

It… hurts, holding something that delicate. It shouldn’t, but it does. Like cool air after a lifetime in boiling water. Slow-melting frostbite. A picked-open wound finally forced to heal.

(it used to hurt a lot more though)

(didn’t it)

A small chirp gets his attention. He looks down at the Squeaker - another soft and fragile thing - still parked under his hand. They look back at him with all the trust in the world, nosing into his scarred and callused palm, waiting, expectant. Dark feels… completely out of his depth. How do you give something you don’t even know how to hold?

A memory flickers in the back of his mind, candlelight-dim and years-old, more sense than sight. A round of training, steel sparking against steel. A break to recharge, the taste of electrolytes and battery acid. A critique on the tip of his tongue, changed at the last second to praise, mild but earnest. His hand on the puffball’s gray little head - if only briefly - as he tells them they did good work today. The stars that fill their eyes in response…

He doesn’t take his hand back or shove the Squeaker away again. Instead, he carefully - carefully - smooths down the soft, short fur of their scalp, sweeping his thumb back and forth in gentle, repetitive motions just behind their ear. You’d think he was handling a live bomb with how light his touch is, his muscles coiled like springs, ready to flee at any moment. They… seem to like it, though, letting out a happy little trill as he pets them, even leaning over to bunt their cheek against his side, nuzzling back. Dark feels a line of tension ease out of his shoulders. Hasn’t he seen them do something like that before, with the other rats in their pack? Some kind of… communal gesture, Daroach told him once. A sign of trust. An unspoken I am here and I feel safe with you.

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, one he starts to fight, then doesn’t, letting it slowly spread into the faintest hint of a smile.

(you really are getting soft)

(aren’t you cadet)

Without warning, the Squeaker jerks upright, eyes wide and alert, their big ears turning like satellite dishes toward some unheard sound. Then, before Dark can even furrow his brow in question, they suddenly bolt out from under his hand, leaping soundlessly off the bed. He blinks, twisting around to watch over his shoulder as they dash across the room, skirting around his discarded armor and other detritus before skidding to a stop beside the door. Barely a second later, someone on the other side pushes it open with a creak, the brim of a familiar red top hat poking into view and tilting down to look at the Squeaker.

“There you are, been lookin’ all over for ya. Hey, what’d I tell you kids about botherin’ the guests, huh?” A pale-blue hind paw steps over the threshold and gently nudges the little yellow rodent out of the room, coaxing a fit of giggles out of them as they stumble into the hallway. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve had your fun - now go help your cousins clean up ‘fore Uncle Storo has another conniption. Go on, scram, ya little ankle biter.”

The Squeaker huffs but does not argue, bumping their head affectionately against his foot. They then glance back at the knight still seated on the bed and send him a cheerful squeak of farewell, bouncing up and down in a way that makes their oversized ears look like they’re waving. Dark does not wave back - he’s not that far gone - but he does nod in acknowledgement before they scamper out of sight. Figures he at least owes them that much.

“Heh, hey, sorry about that. Coulda sworn I closed it ‘fore I left. My bad.”

Dark looks up as the door swings the rest of the way open, revealing the captain of this very airship on the other side, a charming - if apologetic - grin pulled across his snout. He’s wearing the hat, as expected, along with that stupid bell he loves so much, but the image of dapper, mysterious thief is kind of ruined by the sleep-mussed fur, the lack of eyeliner, and the shabby, oversized T-shirt he’s paired with it all, the front emblazoned with - of all things - a washed-out graphic of a cartoon rat. Not to say he isn’t making it work, though, Dark notes with a lazy glance up and down his form. The thief has a knack for a lot of things, and looking good in just about anything he puts on (or takes off for that matter) is one of them.

“Hmph. You need better locks around here, rat.”

Daroach snorts, his smile splitting wider to reveal polished white points. “And a good morning to you, too, sunshine.” He moves to nudge the door shut with his hip, his paws currently occupied with something small and crumbly. “And, hey, for the record? It ain’t the locks that’s the issue - it’s havin’ a whole crew that knows how to pick ‘em. Think fast!”

With a flourish, he tosses one of the objects he’s holding into the air in a tall arc. Dark barely manages to swivel around in time to catch it, the damn thing bouncing off his grasping fingers twice before he actually grabs it, shedding crumbs. Apparently rodent-catching is all his reflexes are good for today. He shoots a glare at Daroach when he catches him snickering behind his claws, then dusts himself off and looks over his prize. A homemade muffin, as it turns out, lightly browned and dotted with what looks like chocolate chips, set in a crinkled wrapper patterned in black and red stripes. It’s warm but not steaming, maybe popped in the microwave for a few seconds before it was brought up here, and the scent… well, Dark’s not really big on sweets (or eating in general), but he might be willing to make an exception for this one. Maybe.

“Thanks. I guess.” He pushes his mask up to the top of his head, peeling away part of the wrapper to take a bite. “Mm, what about your old man? Didn’t he build this place? Just get him to make locks they can’t pick.”

“Not my old man, Dark, I told ya.” The mattress jostles as Daroach hops onto his side of the bed, making himself comfortable in a small nest of pillows piled against the headboard. He picks at his own muffin - the wrapper blue with swirls of snowflakes - digging bits of dried fruit out of the top and nibbling them off the tips of his claws. “‘Sides, it wouldn’t matter. Doc could outfit the ship with bank vault security, and the kids would have it cracked by supper, I guarantee it. Heh, s’pose it’s what we get for teachin’ ‘em how to move through the vents and such. Eh, but what’re ya gonna do.”

Dark hums, chewing thoughtfully. It’s… not bad, the muffin. He’d honestly expected it to be way sweeter. The fact that it’s dark chocolate is a nice surprise, too. Did he ever mention having a preference? Void, he hopes so. Otherwise, it means he’s gotten predictable, too.

(yet another side effect of all this starsdamn peace)

Daroach glances at him from under the brim of his hat, his easy smile wavering just slightly, clearly trying to interpret the knight’s silence. “It’s, uh… not a problem, is it? With the kids, I mean. I’m always tellin’ ‘em not to bother you, be respectful n’ all that, but… well, you know how they get. Too curious for their own good sometimes. They don’t mean nothin’ bad by it, ‘course, but y’know.”

Dark is quiet a moment longer, idly passing the pastry from one hand to the other. He thinks about trust, the ache and uncertainty of holding it, soft as a mouse cradled in a clawed hand. He thinks about forgiveness, what little he’s been granted, and how far he still has to go to really earn it. He thinks about home, both of them, the one he’s still trying to fix and the one he found here completely on accident.

He shrugs, tearing a small chunk from the muffin and popping it into his mouth. “S’fine. No big deal.”

“Y’sure? ‘Cause I can go lay down the law right now if it’s-”

“It’s fine, ‘Roach. I’m not gonna lose it over some nosy kids.” He pauses to swallow, then adds with a pointed sidelong look, “As long as we’re not, y’know… in the middle of anything, obviously.”

“Oh, yeah, no, for sure for sure, no need to worry about that,” the thief assures him with a dismissive laugh. “When Uncle Daroach says he needs some privacy, they know to stay far, far away. Trust me on that one.”

Dark can’t help but notice how the thief avoids his gaze as he says this, brushing crumbs from his muzzle like it might hide the hint of pink peeking through the fur. “… Should I ask?”

“I’d greatly prefer if ya didn’t, thanks.”

Dark grunts, cracking a smile as he returns to his breakfast. Fair enough. Far be it from him to encourage another one of Daroach’s famously-longwinded personal stories, no matter how entertaining (or embarrassing) it might be.

A comfortable silence settles over the room, the two of them draped in the warm glow of a lazy summer morning, watching dust motes drift lazily in the sugar-scented air. It’s novel, really, having a quiet moment with the chattiest rat he’s ever known. Guy can’t seem to go five minutes without hearing himself talk most of the time. He must’ve had a pretty full morning to be so sedate now, all splayed out in his makeshift nest, his thoughts elsewhere. Dark can’t help but stare, silently following the soft curves and lithe angles of the thief’s form with the familiarity of reading a favorite story, preoccupied with the way his oversized shirt has rolled up and twisted around him with his repositioning, leaving little to the imagination. There’s something… unmasked about him when he’s like this. Like he’s set aside some vital piece of the play he puts on for the world, revealing the actor underneath, mundane and imperfect, not so larger-than-life. Not many get to see him like that. Dark wonders if he ought to consider it an honor to be included in that number.

It didn’t start out like this, doing… whatever-it-is they’re doing now. In fact, when they’d first met all those years ago, he’s pretty sure he’d threatened to kill the thief. More than once, actually, for much of the wild journey that followed. To be fair, Dark had been under a lot of stress at the time, what with the hearts and the doomsday cult and the encroaching end of all universes. You try being a well of patience amidst all of that. And Daroach, void spare him… he certainly wasn’t making things any easier. Chatting incessantly, matching Dark insult for insult, making a starsdamn spectacle of himself at every opportunity, even with six prongs of steel against his throat. Hmph. Lucky the girls had been there to stay Dark’s blade, otherwise the two of them might’ve just ripped each other to shreds before they ever got to Jambandra.

(as if his… offers… didn’t intrigue you)

That’s… Okay, listen. He won’t say he’d expected the flirting, or that it hadn’t gotten a rise out of him more than he cares to admit… but Dark’s not an idiot. He could see the intent behind it, how the thief could wield flattery and proposition just as sharply as his own claws, clearly meant to distract and disarm so he could sneak in unnoticed and take whatever it was he actually had his eyes set on. Dark had no intention of taking the bait. He had a mission, after all, a call to action with every miasmic heart they’d purged, a path carved out before him towards an end goal so impossible (so terminal) that it’d put fire in his veins. He had purpose again after so long without, a reason to fight, to win at any cost. A silver tongue with tempting promises is nothing compared to that.

(as if you weren’t still… watching… the entire time)

… Maybe. A little bit. Look, how could he not? Daroach, he… he’s insufferable at the best of times. A pretty little klepto with an ego the size of his own ship, prone to running his mouth, getting them into more trouble than they started in, and pushing every single one of Dark’s buttons specifically. That said… he’s also not one to do anything by halves. He injects performance into all aspects of himself - his words, his gestures, even the way he fights. He’s always looking over his shoulder to make sure others are watching, his eyes alight with mischief, self-assurance, even challenge. In battle, he moves as if perpetually under a spotlight, graceful and confident, turning even his slip-ups into just another part of the dance. What he lacks in physical strength he makes up for in speed and bravado, every slash of those wicked claws accompanied by a smug grin or a witty retort, insult to injury and just as cutting. Even his magic has a kind of playfulness to it, from the snow that sparkles around his wand to the fire that swirls through his bombs. He’s no warrior, not truly… but he fights well, and looks damn good doing so.

Dark wouldn’t learn of the thief’s gambling habits until much later, how he’s always had a penchant for chasing high risks with big rewards, despite the rather mixed track record he has to show for it. In the moment, watching him tear through their enemies and toss a wry smile over the collar of his cape, Dark had only been sure of one thing: this is a rat who plays with fire and lives for the thrill of getting burnt.

(as if you weren’t… burning for him… already)

Ugh, shut up. For void’s sake, he’s not that easy.

… It was still months after Termina before he’d caved. Months of meetings, text messages, unexpected hangouts, even the odd sparring match, all without the threat of universal obliteration at their backs (or a king back home to keep you chained). He’d expected the thief to drop the act at some point, to get bored of whatever little game he was playing and stop leaving his not-so-subtle hints at Dark’s feet like a breadcrumb trail (especially once he’d started leaving hints of his own). Instead, Daroach had stuck around. Found a foothold in Dark’s life and made himself at home. Even trusted him with little glimpses of his life devoid of the glamor of a good story, a checkered past he lets so few others see. He’d treated Dark like an equal, given the time of day and a seat at his table alongside his crew, the girls, and even Shadow Kirby, all the while tucking those tempting little offers into his hand each time he had to leave. No pressure, no coercion, just… there if he ever wants it.

He’d asked why, of course. Multiple times. Daroach always seemed to have a different answer. Because he knows Dark hates the attention. Because he’s a glutton for punishment and can’t leave well enough alone. Because scars are sexy and so - by extension - is Dark. All flippant, unserious answers, ones he’d always known better than to take at face value… though he won’t say it wasn’t at least a little flattering. It’d been a long time since someone wanted him for anything other than his loyalty (or violence).

One night, seated together under the stars and passing a bottle of something sharp and blessedly dry between them, Daroach had given him a slightly more honest answer: because he’s always been a sucker for a rough-cut gem, the ones fresh from the earth and chock full of little imperfections, catching the light at the just the right angles, if you take the time to look for them. Dark had grimaced at that, couldn’t fathom comparing himself to a gemstone of all things, rough or otherwise. If anything, he’d said, he’d probably be more like coal.

“Heh. Oh, yeah? Well, where d’ya think they get diamonds from, sunshine?”

… The walls don’t come down easily for Dark, reinforced as they are with a lifetime of hard lessons and too many regrets to count. But they can come down, eventually, even if it’s only one brick at a time. That moment, he thinks, might’ve been the last brick.

(carmine-red fabric bunching tight into your fists)

(a surprised hum that melts into a melodious little laugh in your mouth)

(sugar sweet as vineyards and hot hot hot on his silver tongue)

“Somethin’ on ya mind?”

Dark blinks, pulled from his wandering thoughts back into the present. Seems he’s been caught staring, if Daroach’s crooked grin is anything to go by. It’s the kind he wears when he thinks he’s won something, even if he doesn’t know what game is being played. It makes Dark want to kick him off the bed. Or maybe pin him to it. He does neither, looking away with a grunt he hopes comes off as unbothered. Daroach just rolls his eyes, clearly not buying it, and proceeds to scoot out of his nest to settle against Dark’s side instead, practically reclining into the crook of his wing with all the contentedness of a well-fed house Scarfy. Dark makes a point of looking deeply put out by it, but no more than that, even letting his wing curl loosely around the thief like a tattered shawl, chrome talon resting harmlessly on his shoulder. Of all the annoying pests he could have pressed up against him, this one is hardly the worst.

… It’s not dating. He hates having to explain that to everyone. There’s no flowers or candlelit dinners or tooth-rotting declarations of affection, none of that crap. It’s not even something they do all that often - just a bit of fun whenever they’re bored or have some free time on their hands. Wasn’t even his idea. Daroach said right from the start that he’s, quote, “not into the whole romance thing,” so they agreed to keep things casual, open, and commitment-free. Dark's fine with that, of course, more than fine, even if he did have to put aside some… misguided feelings that cropped up along the way (along with the rest of your shattered love life). Other than that, though, it’s been… kind of nice, being so loose with their arrangement. Maybe not as wild as his rookie years had been, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much these days. There’s comfort in having so few eggshells to dance around, knowing they can both come and go as they please, knowing that love - the double-edged sword that it is - is firmly off the table.

(but “benefits” isn’t the only part of the phrase)

(is it dameta)

Movement catches Dark’s eye, a distraction he’s rather grateful for this time. He looks up to see a small bird land on the sill outside the porthole window, almost as blue as the sky behind it. He watches as it hops about, fluffing out its feathers and tilting its head back and forth, perhaps seeing its reflection in the glass. Dark wonders if it’s looking back. It lingers for a moment, blinking and preening, before it gets bored and flies off, leaving a single feather in its wake, quickly carried off by the breeze. His own wings twitch in sympathy, in longing. So much blue to get lost in, so much more sky than he remembers. Not necessarily better than the ones over his own home, just… different. He can live with different. After all, there aren’t any skies inside the Mirror itself. Not like this, anyway.

There’s a shift against his side. Turning back, he catches Daroach looking away, rubbing his nose in a poor attempt to hide a fond smile. Dark bristles… but only a little, blaming the warmth in his cheeks on all the starsdamn sunlight in the room. He returns his attention to his muffin, peeling back more of the wrapper as he breaks the silence.

“I’m guessing the others are already up, then?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, pretty much. Shady and the girls got up bright n’ early to help with breakfast, and you know no one was stayin' in bed once the smell a’ baked goods hit… Heh, ’cept you, apparently,” he adds, bumping his foot against Dark’s with a teasing grin. Dark just rolls his eyes, not in the mood to justify his abysmal sleep habits for the thousandth time (or the fact that he’s not food-driven like every other idiot around here). “Shame ya missed it, though. Poor Storo was pitchin’ one heck of a fit over the state of his kitchen. Swear, it looked like a friggin’ tornado hit once the kids came floodin’ in, lemme tell ya. Me n’ Spinni had to corral ‘em into the lounge ‘fore the big man could start pitchin’ ‘em out like softballs, hehe. Not that he’d actually do that, of course, the big softie, but I’m sure he appreciated the assist. Gotta say, it was definitely worth the wait - I ain’t had a muffin this good in years. Might even put my ma’s to shame, don’t tell her I said that. Look, Ribbon even put little faces on all of ‘em! Ain’t that neat?”

He practically shoves the half-eaten muffin into Dark’s face, forcing him to lean back a bit to see it properly. Most of the fruit bits in the top have been picked out already, but the stained divots left behind seem to form what he assumes is a crude smiley face. He blinks at it, then looks down at his own muffin. Whatever expression it might’ve had is… mostly bitten off, no more than a single chocolate “eye” and maybe a third of a smile staring back at him. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

… It’s a bit fuzzy in his limited imagination, but he can almost picture the little fairy floating over a batter-filled cupcake tray, her rosy cheeks smeared in flour, her button nose scrunched in concentration, as she meticulously applies chips and raisins and other toppings into an array of lopsided faces. Behind her, an older girl with a frilly apron over her artist’s smock watches with a patient smile, leisurely stirring more batter in a mixing bowl cradled in her arm. They’re both wearing kerchiefs to keep their hair out of the way. They match, because of course they do.

“Hmph. Cute. I guess.”

“Aww,” Daroach coos, “that almost sounds like a genuine compliment comin' from you.” 

Dark gives him the most deadpan look he can muster before deliberately biting off the rest of the muffin face. The thief just laughs behind his claws, returning to his own.

“Listen, I get it. We can’t all be social first thing in the mornin’ like yours truly here. And, hey, who am I to deny a buddy his much-needed beauty sleep, huh?” He reaches up to drag the back of one crumb-dusted claw playfully down the knight’s cheek. Dark grunts and flicks it away. “Just be sure to thank ‘em properly ‘fore we head out later, a’ight? They didn’t do all this hard work for nothin’, y’know.”

Dark perks up a bit, feeling a fragment of conversation from the night before resurface. “You guys still going to that, uh, resort thing you mentioned? The one in the south?”

“Mm, nah, not anymore,” Daroach says with a shake of his head, finishing off a particularly big bite before continuing. “I was tryna convince King Birdbrain to lift that stupid ban he put on me n’ the Squeaks - you know, after the whole Necrodeus fiasco? did I ever tell you about that? it was a whole thing - but, nope, he still ain’t budgin’ on that. Peh. Stubborn bastard. Like it was even his land to begin with. I swear, I got half a mind to just take us over there anyway, make a scene, cause trouble n’ all that…”

Dark eyes him sidelong, noting the frustrated crease between his brows. “What’s stopping you?”

“Nothin’. Just…” Daroach sighs, letting his head loll back against Dark’s, his ears bunching up with the back of his hat. “It’s ‘cause Addie’s still friends with him, y’know? Couldn’t for the life a’ me tell ya why - different strokes, I guess. Still, I ain’t heartless enough to ruin that for her just ‘cause I can’t stand the guy. She don’t deserve that. And, even if that weren’t the case, you know her - she ain’t exactly the biggest fan of rule-breakin’. Heh, not yet, anyway. I’m sure she’ll come around one a’ these days, but… Ah, whatever.” He shrugs, digging another raisin out of his muffin and tossing it into his mouth. “Another time, I guess.”

The knight hums to himself, lips quirked in thought. You wouldn’t know it from the playboy persona and criminal lifestyle, but Daroach has a bit of a soft spot for kids. Always has, if the airship full of orphans who affectionately call him Uncle is anything to go by. It’s no surprise, really, that Adeleine would be the one to temper the troublemaker in him, if only a little. He and the girls didn’t exactly hit it off during that tumultuous first meeting - his own fault for trying to steal Ribbon’s precious Crystal the whole time - but impending doom has a way of making allies out of just about anyone, and it hadn’t taken long at all for the brave little fairy and the soft-spoken artist to worm their way into the thief’s good graces.

Nowadays, they’re practically like family to him, invited to get-togethers, sent presents on their birthdays, and always welcome on the ship whenever they need a place to rest during their own travels or just want to hang out with the crew. It’s almost hard to imagine this place without at least one of them wandering about, whether it’s Adeleine curled up on the couch in the lounge with one of her many sketchbooks, a gaggle of Squeakers snuggled around her to watch, or Ribbon fluttering down the hall with Spinni to help with the laundry, clad in a fancy scarf or a cute hat or some other fashion project she’d agreed to model for him. Once, Dark even saw Daroach teaching the girls how to crack a safe with stethoscopes, beaming like a proud parent when Ribbon got it open on the third try.

Seems like they’ve become as much a fixture around here as Dark has. And, void, what a strange tableau they make, the four of them.

It’s this thought in particular that draws his eye back to the walls, passing over stolen art and sun-bleached memories until he finds the one he’s looking for, tucked away just above the vanity table by the door.

It’s a recent photo, set in a relatively simple frame that somehow makes it stand out from the larger, gaudier ones that surround it. In it, he sees a spring afternoon on a grassy plain dotted with flowers, where four of the most mismatched individuals you’ve ever seen are drawing together on a large sheet of paper spread out beneath them like a blanket. Adeleine lies on her stomach, captured mid-laugh, putting the finishing touches on a rather impressive sketch of a dark-haired woman he doesn’t know. Ribbon hovers across from her, also caught laughing as she holds a crayon in both of her tiny hands, scribbling out a familiar pink puffball. Daroach lies between them, perhaps speaking, perhaps the cause of their laughter, absently doodling some kind of weird black star. And, seated beside him…

Well. Let’s just say, if his Galaxia had seen how he’d rendered her, she’d never let him live it down.

It feels… uncanny, seeing himself in such an idyllic scene. He looks as out of place as he’d felt that day, wings stiff, posture hunched, crayon gripped too tight in his fist like he’d never held a writing implement in his life before. When Ribbon asked what his favorite color was, he lied and said black. He’s never been especially creative, and his face burned like it had in his youth during lessons, struggling to make what he could barely conceptualize in his head, eight steps behind everyone else. Even her pathetic little scribbles looked better than anything he made.

Still. It wasn’t a bad day, as far as he recalls. The weather was nice, warm on his wings. Everything smelled like pollen and petrichor. It was the first time he’d seen Adeleine draw something that didn’t come to life. It was the first time he’d seen Daroach draw anything at all, apparently another thing he has a knack for. When they broke for lunch, they sat together in the shade, sharing a plate of sushi that Adeleine painted herself. Ribbon asked him to show her how to use chopsticks, while the thief prattled on about the time he and his crew pretended to be sushi vendors as part of a heist. Adeleine pulled some squares of construction paper from her bag and passed a few to Dark, showing him how to fold them into birds and fish and flowers. He didn’t notice the fairy nodding off until she slumped against his side, leaving sparkles on his armor and an odd tightness in his chest. He thinks Daroach might’ve taken a picture of them with his phone. Dark could only sit there and shoot daggers, trying not to disturb the sleeping girl.

He wouldn’t find out until later that it’d been her idea to invite him out that day.

… It’d been so much easier, you know, in the beginning. Back when they were strangers, thrown together purely by chance and fighting for their lives against unknowable cosmic forces. He could dismiss it, these tentative attempts at connection between each leg of the journey. Daroach’s interest in him? Just an annoying quirk of character. Adeleine’s offers of food from her own easel? Civilian naïveté. The way Ribbon had gripped his arm as they rushed to escape the collapsing Jambastion? A stress response. All easily explained and easily ignored.

Sure, they’d fought well together. And travelled far together. And even survived the visceral depths of the Void itself together, clinging to each other on their shared warp star for the entire ride back home, exhausted and aching and alive despite it all. But so what. If Dark has learned anything over his life - a life measured in the spaces between backstabs - it’s that even the strongest alliance can be shattered in an instant, leaving nothing behind but pain and regret if it leaves anything at all. Best to not get attached, to not rely on such fragile ties, to not get too close. It’s… easier that way, or so he told himself.

But something must’ve changed, right? A shift, a slow erosion, a warping of his worldview so subtle that he barely noticed until it no longer fit within that frame of mind.

Maybe it was Adeleine’s insistence that the four of them keep in touch, his phone pinging at all hours of the day with check-ins and in-jokes and selfies from their asinine little group chat (some of which he even responded to). Maybe it was the meetings the little pink migraine forced them all to attend, where Dark would inevitably end up sitting with the same trio of weirdos he’d barreled through hordes of cultists with. Maybe it was the fact that he simply couldn’t avoid them no matter what side of the Mirror he was on, followed through the rippling glass and dragged bodily from whatever menial task he’d picked to keep himself busy that day, goaded into picnics, parties, sleepovers, even playing tour guide for a home still recovering from his (but not entirely his) actions.

Adeleine still sends him work-in-progress sketches, asking for his advice despite his lack of expertise. Ribbon still sits with him on quiet days, watching him whittle blocks of wood into toothpicks and asking questions about magic and mirrors. Daroach still invites him to game nights with the crew, laughing and cussing him out over cards, treating him like one of the family, too.

… He doesn’t know why, is the thing. Why they keep insisting on including him in their lives, on being a part of his. Apart from his arrangement with Daroach, he hasn’t really done much to make it worth their while, never been more than a sour presence with a hair-trigger temper and a decent sword hand. Sure, maybe the years have… weathered him somewhat, dulled an edge or two, given him a bit more patience and perspective than he once had… but that hardly makes him compatible with their lot, all rounded corners and star-bright eyes and hope. Void, even Daroach’s less-than-moral standards still have grains of honor running through them.

Maybe they see him as a challenge, a long-term experiment to see what it’ll take to get the cornered beast to stop growling at them. Maybe they pity him, touched by some pathetic hero complex and deluded into thinking that - with enough empty platitudes and forced social interaction - maybe they can “fix” him, mend wounds from a history they were never a part of, could never possibly understand. Hmph. Maybe they just get a kick out of beating their heads against a lost cause, a painful yet oddly-addictive exercise in futility (a vice you knew quite well once upon a time).

Or… maybe he’s wrong. Maybe it is as genuine as they claim. A simple desire to befriend with no real benefit to them beyond that. Unprompted, uncomplicated, utterly illogical.

(I am here and I feel safe with you)

… There’s an old mantra he used to know, drilled into him by one of his late war buddies: “Accept. Acclimatize. Adapt.” A blunt set of commands, not always applicable but useful to keep in one’s arsenal, especially when the brick wall of change proves thicker than the skull bashing against it. It’d taken a long time to sink in, the prescience of those three little words, to bypass the stubbornness of a greenhorn who’d thought himself indestructible (who’d had to lose so much for it to really hit home). Seems he can apply them here as well.

He might never fully understand what the others see in him, why they try and why he lets them. And, maybe he’ll just… have to be okay with that. Adapt to it, as it were. Wouldn’t be the first time - doubtful it’ll be the last.

(you always hated having to admit she was right)

He did, yeah. But she always was the smarter of the three of them. And, besides… there are worse things to be wrong about.

He turns away from the photo and all the maudlin thoughts it leaves him with, returning his attention to the thief and the conversation at hand. “I assume you’ve got other plans, then?”

Daroach nods, scraping out the last baked-in crumbs from the inside of his wrapper. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. A little kingly setback ain’t gonna stop us from makin’ a day of it, even if we gotta do it local instead. Say, y’ever been down to Orange Ocean before? It’s lovely this time a’ year, absolutely gorgeous beaches. Looks like sunset at any time a’ day, I kid you not…”

Dark can’t help but grimace. Maybe it comes as a surprise to no one, but he’s never had much love for beaches. The oppressive heat, the clinging sand, the most obnoxious beachgoers, not to mention his tendency to burn rather than achieve anything resembling a tan. He could probably count the number of times he’s willingly gone to a beach - in a non-crisis capacity, anyway - on one hand. A trip to the coast in his misspent youth, some memorable seaside views during his time overstars, all the hours he would spend soaring over Olive Ocean whenever he needed a starsdamn break from it all… Hmph. Well, whatever. He doubts the beaches here would change his opinion on the matter (even if his eye does keep wandering back to that inviting blue sky).

“What about you?” Daroach asks as he licks his claws clean. “Any big plans yourself? Said yesterday you were free the rest a’ the week, right?”

He… hm. He did say that, didn’t he? And, void, isn’t that surreal, knowing that it’s true. That nothing requires his attention right now, either here or back home. That he does, in fact, have some genuine free time in his future (for however long that lasts). He shrugs, picking at the edge of his own wrapper until it threatens to tear, feeling a bit lost. “Dunno. Maybe? I’m not sure yet. Haven’t really… given it much thought, to be honest.”

It isn’t until the words are out of his mouth that Dark realizes his mistake. He doesn’t even have to look at Daroach to know how he reacts. Those big ears of his lifting up, his mouth curling into an shrewd grin, his eyes narrowing with a distinctive shine that could be either inspiration or mischief. Dark has yet to figure out the difference, but he can still recognize a trap when it’s being laid out for him.

“Oh? Well, ain’t that a neat co-inky-dink,” the thief drawls, balling up his empty wrapper and lobbing it across the room towards a small waste bin by the door. It bounces rather pitifully off the rim. “I mean, obviously it ain’t none a’ my business what you do with your day, but… well, if you’ve really got nothin’ better to do, then maybe I could interest you in-”

“No.”

Daroach sags, his smile flattened into a pout. “Oh, c’mon, y’didn’t even let me finish.”

“Didn’t need to,” Dark says, popping the last of his own muffin into his mouth and wadding the wrapper into his fist. “You’re not dragging me to the beach with you, ‘Roach.”

“Who said anythin’ about dra- whoa!”

The thief drops like a stone as the knight scoots out from under him and hops off the bed. As far as Dark can tell, the rest of his armor ended up on only one side of the room last night, so he heads in that general direction, sliding his mask back over his face and pointedly ignoring the creak of the mattress behind him as Daroach scrambles to right himself.

“H-Hey now, what’s the rush, hot shot? Where d’ya think you’re goin’?”

“Not the beach,” Dark replies, mostly so he doesn’t have to admit that he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. He tosses the wrapper at the bin by the door, missing by a long shot, then scoops up one of his pauldrons from the carpet, struggling to free it from the red cape it’s still tangled in.

“What, you’re not even gonna give it a chance?” Daroach asks, leaping off the bed to follow Dark around in a manner far too reminiscent of the Squeaker from earlier, gesticulating as he speaks and doing everything in his power to stay within the knight’s line of sight. “C’mon, don’t be like that! It’s gonna be fun! When’s the last time you did something fun for a change, huh? Let loose for a hot minute? Had a little excitement in your life?”

“Last night,” Dark says without missing a beat, allowing himself one self-satisfied smirk as the thief - going a little pink around the nose - levels him with a deadpan glare.

“Ha ha. Smartass. You know what I meant. Just…” He makes a bunch of frustrated motions with his paws before dropping them with an aggravated sigh. “Ugh, seriously! You’re tellin’ me you have the whole week to yourself - for the first time in, like, forever, it feels like - and, what, you’re gonna just waste it stayin’ cooped up at home the whole time? Man, talk about boring.”

Dark shrugs, returning his attention to the pauldron. “Better boring than sunburnt.”

“Oh, my- Then put on a friggin’ sunhat or somethin’, ya big baby! You can borrow one from Spinni - he’s got, like, twelve of ‘em. Or, hey, there’s this new-fangled thing called sunscreen, ever heard of it? I’m sure we got a bottle or two lyin’ around. SPF one-billion - guaranteed to block out all that evil sunlight ya hate so much.” He steps smoothly in front of Dark and leans close, paws held behind his back and a sly smirk pulled along his snout. “I’ll even help with all the hard-to-reach places… if you’re interested.”

As lovingly presented as it is, Dark does not take the bait, giving the thief a rather pinched smile as he replies, “Thanks… but still no.”

He savors the way Daroach’s expression sinks from suave confidence to pouty frustration (far cuter than it has any right to be) before finally tugging the cape free and tossing it directly into the rat’s face, knocking his hat off and making him flail to catch both. Dark steps around him while he’s distracted, setting the pauldron in place and leaning down to grab one of his sabatons, caught between the side of a dresser and the leg of the vanity table. He has no idea where the other one went.

“Stars almighty, the things you put me through…” the thief mutters behind him, depositing the cape and the hat onto a nearby ottoman already piled high with laundry. Dark continues to ignore him even as he resumes his tiresome pacing-hovering. “I’m tellin’ ya, Dark, you have no idea what you’re missin’ out on. Look, we’ve got it all planned out: Storo’s packed up the grill, and Spinni’s bringin' his longboard, and Doc’s not allowed to bring his weird experimental ‘tanning umbrellas’ after what happened last time, and Shady’s comin’ with, and the girls are gonna collect a whole buncha shells with the little ones for this craft thingy they’re doin’, and- Oh, don’t roll your eyes, ya hypocrite. I see you n’ Addie makin’ origami swans all the damn time.”

Dark doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response… until the other thing the thief said finally catches up with him, and he pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

“… The kid’s going?”

Another mistake, as it turns out. Daroach stops his pacing, and the smile that spreads across his face seems far better suited to a fox than a rat.

“Oh, yeah. Guess I forgot to mention that, huh?” he says coyly, leaning over to rest his chin on top of the shorter knight’s head, his paws crossed beneath. Dark feels his wing twitch and pretends he doesn’t. “We were yappin’ about it over breakfast, y’see. Just tossin’ around ideas for where to go instead a’ the resort. Wasn’t ’til Ribbon suggested the beach that Shady finally piped up. Started askin’ all kinds a’ questions like whaddya do at the beach, how many times we been there, if we’ve ever seen a real starfish before, that kinda stuff. They got that sparkle in their eye, y’know, the one they get when they’re real excited about somethin’. You know the one, you’ve seen it before.”

Dark says nothing, suddenly very preoccupied with the wall in front of him, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Apparently,” Daroach continues, mercilessly, “they’ve never built a sandcastle before, did you know that? Not one in their entire life, how crazy is that! Well, obviously, I ain’t gonna stand for that, no way. I told ‘em, I said, we’re gonna find the best patch a’ sand we can down there, and we’re gonna build the biggest damn castle they’ve ever friggin’ seen. Heck, a whole kingdom if they want - bigger than anythin’ King Chucklecluck’s ever laid claim to! A whole little world… just for them.”

Dark’s wing twitches again, held taut against his back where the thief leans between them. He does not look away from the wall.

“And that’s not all! Turns out there’s a whole buncha stuff they ain’t never done before. We’re gonna teach ‘em how to surf, show ‘em some tide pools, maybe get a bonfire goin’ after watchin’ the real sunset, just… whatever they want, the whole shebang, give ‘em a real day to remember.” He slides a paw down to Dark’s uncovered shoulder, giving it a small, encouraging squeeze. “I think they’d really like that… wouldn’t you agree?”

Something sticks in Dark’s throat, bitter and heart-shaped. Truth be told… he’s not sure what they’d like. Never asked, not once in all the years he’d spent training Shadow Kirby, honing them into a warrior as hardened and ruthless as himself. The king had been no better, come to think of it - only ever wanted them to swing a hammer as hard as he could, to be a useful little tool and nothing more. Neither of them ever asked if they wanted any of that, if they wanted to be a guardian for an uncaring, ungrateful world that had always treated them like an outsider… a world they still longed for, judging by all he times he’d caught the kid peeking around corners, just quietly watching the denizens of the Mirror World go about their lives, eyes filled with plain and unmistakeable yearning.

(they were never going to have a normal life)

(but you still took what little they did have)

(for all the good it did)

“M’not their dad,” he grunts, keeping his tone flat, distant. “They can do whatever they want.” 

“That’s not the-” Daroach stumbles a bit as the knight shrugs out of his half-embrace, shouldering past him back towards the bed. He huffs and turns to follow. “C’mon, Dark, you know that’s not the point. I’m not sayin’ this like the kid needs your permission or somethin’. We both know they don’t.”

“Exactly,” Dark agrees, hopping up to sit on the edge of the mattress once more. He fiddles with the one sabaton he found, buckling and unbuckling it just to give his hands something to do, his eyes somewhere to focus that isn’t the rat standing directly in front of him. “They don’t need me there.”

“Hey now, don’t be doin’ that, Dark. Don’t be puttin’ words in my mouth when you know that ain’t what I mean.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

“… No,” the thief admits with a begrudging sigh, “but you’re still missin’ the point. Yeah, sure, maybe the kid can handle things on their own these days. Maybe they don’t need their grumpy ol’ not-dad to watch out for ‘em all the time, fair enough. But what they need and what they want… it ain’t the same thing. They’re here ‘cause they wanna be, not ‘cause somebody forced ‘em to. They got friends here, Dark, real friends, and like it or not… you’re one of ‘em.” The knight grunts derisively. “I’m serious! I bet I could go downstairs right now and ask ‘em, and they’d say they’d want nothin’ more than for you to join ‘em for their big day at the beach. I bet it would mean the starsdamn world to ‘em if you did! Heh, I mean, at the very least,” he adds teasingly, “they’d probably get a kick outta seein’ you sulkin’ under a palm tree in some skull-patterned swim trunks or somethin’. I know I sure would.”

Dark scoffs, fighting back a smile and losing. That was unfair and he knows it. “Shut up.”

“Why?” Daroach smiles back, trying to catch his eye again. “‘Cause ya don’t wanna admit that I’m right? That maybe they like spendin’ time with you that ain’t just fightin’ and trainin’? That, despite everythin’ that happened… you’re still the closest thing that kid has to family? Hmm?”

Denial bites through him, chewing that momentary levity to bits. He’s not right, Dark tells himself, he can’t be. The only reason Shadow Kirby tolerates him at all these days is out of some misplaced sense of obligation. Keeping an eye on him, making sure he doesn’t nearly bring about the end of their world again. Just another responsibility for the true guardian of the Mirror World to deal with. If it wasn’t for that, he doubts they’d want to spend another second trailing after him, the man who’d almost turned them into a weapon.

Daroach, apparently, disagrees. “Look,” he sighs, placing his paws over the knight’s hands until they cease their infernal fidgeting. He can feel the contour of an old scar running diagonally across Daroach’s right palm, brushing over many, many more of his own. “I know… I know I’m bein’ pushy about this. And, yeah, I know you hate that. S’probably why I keep doin’ it, heh… B-But I’m not tryin’ to, like, guilt trip you or nothin’, stars no. Just…” He purses his lips with a pensive exhale, picking his words carefully as he gives Dark’s hands a small squeeze. “Look. Ya keep sayin’ you wanna do right by ‘em, right? Make up for all that lost time, everythin’ ya did? Well… think of this as another step in that direction. A nice, easy one, nothin’ fancy, don’t even gotta dip a toe in the water if ya don’t wanna. Just bein’ there, knowin’ ya came along even though ya didn’t have to… I think that would be enough for ‘em. More’n enough, I’m sure of it.”

He coaxes the sabaton from Dark’s loose grip, leaning away to set it back on the floor. Dark lets it happen, watching dully, turning the thief’s words over and over and over in his head. Does he really believe that? He wasn’t there, not for any of it. He didn’t see the kid wilt under Dark’s constant demands to fight better, didn’t see the violence their dark-feathered king wheedled out of them for his own amusement, didn’t see the brief, heartbreaking fear in their eyes when the Mirror spat the knight back out all those years later, unshattered, near-mad, trembling with fury and grief at their feet… And this is so small. Barely a step on a road stretching into infinity, with no guarantee of forgiveness at the end. It can’t possibly be enough.

Yet… something stirs in Dark’s chest, light and many-petaled, threatening to bloom and fill all the spaces between his ribs with a hope he doesn’t deserve to feel. It has no thorns but still hurts in the same bittersweet way as trust. Stinging even as it heals. The old Dark - the one who’d served two monsters and let his own imprisoned rage poison an innocent bystander - would’ve shoved it away, stomped on it like a stubborn weed and let it wither. A part of him still wants to, the fear stained deep, unlikely to fade even over a lifetime.

It takes everything he has to just… leave it be, to trust that these roots won’t strangle him, to believe that he is worth the second chance he’s been given.

(this is not enough for everything)

(but maybe it’s enough for now)

“So? Whaddya say, sunshine?” Daroach asks. “That enough to convince ya to leave the cave for a little while and join us? C’mon, what’ve ya got to lose?”

He tilts his head with this hopeful little smile, so disgustingly sincere it makes the thing in Dark’s chest ache even more. He can feel the last thread of his resistance fraying, already so thin to begin with, ready to just give in and let the rat have his victory… But Dark is stubborn, so starsdamn stubborn, and he can’t help but delay it just a little bit longer. Old habits, you see.

“… You just wanna see me in swim trunks, don’t you?”

Daroach wheezes, laughs like the wind’s been knocked out of him, nearly doubles over with it. Dark can barely keep a straight face himself. “Pfft, ha ha! Wow, okay, I see how it is. Just- Snrk, sorry, that really got me, hold on.” He takes a moment to catch his breath and collect himself, which gives Dark a moment to rearrange his face back into the picture of unimpressed boredom behind his mask. “Phwoo, okay,” Daroach says, clearing his throat. “Ahem. First of all… how dare you. Second of all, I was bein’ sincere with all that sentimental crap, screw you. And third… maybe I want everyone else to see you in swim trunks and be jealous about it, ever think a’ that?”

A chuckle leaps up from Dark’s throat before he can catch it, making him duck his head a second too late to hide the smile that accompanies it. Okay, fine, guess he earned that one. “Psh, dammit, heh heh… Ah. You’re shameless, y’know that?”

“Ha! Yeah? Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. And, anyway, that’s rich comin’ from you, considerin’ you’re the one-” he pokes a claw against Dark’s chest, then twirls it back to his own “-who dragged me up here last night. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.”

“Hmph. Says the guy who couldn’t keep his paws to himself through two whole movies.”

“Three, actually,” he corrects, holding up as many claws with a smug grin.

“My point exactly.”

“Snrk. A’ight, fair enough. Guess I was kinda askin’ for it by the end, huh?”

“Begging for it, more like.”

“Heh, if you say so. Then again, what can I say?” He steps right up to the edge of the bed, leaning over to brace his paws on the soft sheets, bracketing the knight between them. “I do like when you drag me around, y’know.”

His smile is sharp, a sickle-curve of white carved through pale fur, homme-fatale. Dark traces it slowly with his eyes, feeling heat trickle through him like the innards of a rainstick, pooling low. Void, the things this rat does to him… He slides his gaze lower, settling on the bell at the Daroach’s throat, held in place by a ribbon as red and silky as his favorite cape. Sunlight glints off the metal in bursts of yellow and burnished orange, reflecting the cool blue of Daroach’s fur in its shadows. Dark’s own reflection is distended on the curved surface, indistinct and smudgy like a soot-gray thumbprint (something to brush away).

“… So you’ve said,” he muses, reaching up to cup the bell loosely between his fingertips, letting his thumb run along the ridge wrapped around the middle. The thief inches closer, his chin tilting back just so, his throat bared.

“Mm-hmm. And I’ll keep sayin’ it, too,” he hums. “Maybe you’re fine lettin’ everyone think you’re nothin’ but a gloomy gus all the time, but I know better. I know for a fact that you can be pretty damn fun when you wanna be. Not to mention smart, funny, heh, charmingly insufferable… I mean, is it any wonder you fit in so well around here? You’ve even got the same foul mouth and awful sense a’ humor as me, hehe… Hey.”

He hooks a claw under the rim of the knight’s mask, holding it there with a meaningful look, an unspoken request. If it was anyone else, Dark would’ve refused, hissed and spat and stayed hidden behind his steel, his refuge. But Daroach has already seen him at his worst, has heard the whole sorry tale that led him here, and has yet to judge him for any of it (would be a hypocrite if he did). So Dark nods, letting the thief lift the mask away and set it aside with care. He starts to turn his head away on impulse, to at least hide his scar, the wretched thing… only for Daroach to rest a paw on his cheek, gently turning it back to meet his eyes, smiling warmly.

“Seriously. I mean it. I like havin’ you around, Dark. We all do. Heh, maybe one a’ these days you’ll actually believe me when I say that.”

Dark is tempted to scoff, to snap, to push away this unbearably tender thing that wriggles under his sternum like vermin seeking warmth. Even here, the old urge to run is never far behind, whispering warnings of lies and flattery and you’re getting too close again. It’s hard not to listen (it’s always been hard), but… he is trying. More than he would have only a handful of years ago. Strange as it is, this peace isn’t all bad, and they fought so hard to earn it, to earn this. The least Dark can do is be a little grateful, if not for his own sake… then maybe for the sake of those he cares about.

He looks at the bell again, traces it with the pad of his thumb. From a distance, it looks smooth and polished, utterly without flaw. This close, he can feel the scuffs that mar its surface, the subtle signs of wear and age, history carved in gold. It reminds him of his mask, in a way. He flexes his thumb, running the tip of his claw along the nicks, the hairline scratches, the sharp edge of the slit cut into the bottom. Daroach’s ears twitch at the quiet sound of scraping, intrigued, eager.

“You… like having me around?” Dark asks in a low whisper, curling two fingers under the ribbon. He can feel the thief’s throat working against his knuckles, warm and pliant behind soft fur. The skin around his nose and inner ears turns a very noticeable pink.

“Mhm, sure do…” Daroach purrs, his paw sliding slowly from Dark’s cheek to his shoulder, the skin tingling in its wake. “Is that a yes, then? To the whole beach thing?”

Void, he will not let this go, huh? Dark hums as if considering it, as if his thoughts haven’t already wandered elsewhere, getting steamier by the second. “Hmm… dunno. Think I might need a bit more… convincing first. After all…” He gives the bell a short, pointed tug. “… you’re not the only one who likes being dragged around.”

Triumph dawns over Daroach’s face, so bright you’d think he just won a high-stakes game of poker. It makes Dark want to punch him right in his pretty mouth (among other things). “Oh-ho, sounds like somebody’s changin’ his tune! And here I thought you were in a hurry to go home and be boring all day, big guy.”

“I am,” Dark says, just to be petulant. “But, like I said, if you wanna try to change my mind… then, by all means, knock yourself out.”

The thief laughs low in his throat, a rumble behind his teeth, against the backs of Dark’s fingers.

“Hehe… don’t mind if I do.”

Dark grins, baring a single pointed incisor, and yanks.

---

In the skies above Dream Land, an airship sits between the clouds, floating sedately on the winds of its steam-powered turbines. Most of her crew is out today, perhaps scouting the land below and relieving it of its glittering bounties… or, more likely, just enjoying the nice weather. Stars know they already have plenty of treasure stored away in her ample hull, ill-gotten and otherwise. And not all treasure, it can be said, is the kind that can be stolen.

In the captain’s quarters of said ship, for instance, there is a bit of both.

Gold chains and rings heavy with gems spill from a jewelry box on the vanity table, tucked comfortably beside bracelets hand-woven from colorful thread and decorated with chunky plastic beads. A silk-lined box on a shelf displays silverware inlaid with curling filigree stars, sharing space with no less than a dozen origami animals, charmingly imperfect in their folds. Old tomes with gilt edges and cracking leather faces lay in stacks on the writing desk, waiting in line for closer inspection behind by a jar filled with seashells of all kinds, still gritty with sand and salt and the ghost of little fingerprints.

The walls are much the same, half a menagerie of proudly-pilfered finery, half a collection of hand-crafted memory. On the corkboard that hangs wedged between it all, where normally the schemes and stratagems of a thieving mind are pinned in preparation for the next heist, something else has been tacked in their place. Photographs, recent ones, glossy and vivid with notes and signatures scribbled along their white borders in a variety of colors and hands. There are group shots, selfies, landscapes, close-ups, some picturesque and well-framed, others amateurish and blurry with movement. The subject matter, though, is the same in all of them: a group of friends spending time together on the beach.

In this one, we see the lot of them making their way down to the shore with towels, coolers, beach balls, and all manner of summer paraphernalia, some waving at the camera over their shoulders, some running towards the water without hesitation. In another, we see a human girl in a shoulder-covering bathing suit and sunhat, her tongue poking out in concentration as she crouches down and draws figures in the sand with a stick. In another, we see a pink-haired fairy in a swimsuit of pink and red frills, looking like a tiny airborne mermaid as she gleefully holds up a conch shell nearly as big as she is. In another, we see a gray puffball with smears of sunscreen on their cheeks, standing unsteadily on a surfboard with their arms thrown out for balance, the rat in triangular sunglasses beside them giving an encouraging thumbs-up.

There’s more. A larger rat with a patch over one eye and a chef’s hat on his head sprinkling spices over some kebabs on a grill. An older rat with a large mustache and swirly spectacles being buried in the sand by a gaggle of giggling Squeakers. The fairy and the puffball flying around a bunch of kites set against the cloudless sky. A particularly competitive round of beach volleyball. A sand castle of impressive proportions.

… A dark figure with tattered wings and a scar over his left eye sitting in the shade of a parasol, wearing swim trunks covered in skulls and pouting moodily as the dashing rat at his side takes a selfie with him.

And that’s not the only one. Here, he’s helping sort shells with the girls, glancing up as the fairy shows him the nacre underbelly of a scallop. Here, he’s caught sipping juice from a coconut with a long, curly straw, a yellow Squeaker napping contentedly on top of his head. Here, he’s gliding over the waves, his expression relaxed as he lets his fingers drag along the sun-warmed water.

Here - right in the middle of the collage - they all sit together to watch the sun sink behind the horizon, the scene cast fire-bright in its warm farewell. The dark figure leans against the side of the dashing rat, a wing draped loosely around him as he in turn leans over to nuzzle a cheek against the figure’s temple. The human girl curls against his other side, wrapped in his other wing, her eyes locked on the natural wonder before them, no doubt dreaming up a new painting or two in its likeness. The fairy sits on her lap, just as captivated by the lovely sight, while the puffball beside her struggles to keep their eyes open, all tuckered out from what might have been one of the best days of their life.

It must be said that, in this picture, there is a smile on the dark figure’s face. A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

Like maybe, for this one moment… he’s found something akin to peace.