She knows Guts is mad at her. Casca gives too much attention to that stupid pet fish of hers—attention that should be his. She knows he’s mad, but she also sees through a ruse only a child could ever naively think might work. He’s been sitting in the same sun-beaten spot for most of the afternoon, his occasional glare her only contact from him since breakfast. It’s second nature of Casca to just ignore his stubborn pouting whenever it concerned Fillet but Casca wasn’t seeing any fun in playing dumb this time, and her smiling can’t be stopped.

   Guts knows she’s planning something when she draws near, but is too busy pretending to be grumpy to call her out on it. When she finally strikes, however .  .  . it feels good. It’s an itch Guts didn’t know needed scratching. He’s in trouble. He’s sure it’s her influence, making his eye slowly close and his head lean back on her for a just a little bit more. It’s her influence that brings a low rumble to his chest, confessing to her it’s what he’s wanted all along. Damn her.

          “I missed you today.” Apparently, he’s finally deemed her worthy of his words.

                         “And whose fault is that, Guts?” she rose a teasing brow.

                                                               “The fish.”

                                           Casca groans. “You’re such a dork.” 

   Among the island inhabitants—both native and otherwise—it isn’t exactly a secret that Guts and Casca have started to become like surrogates to many. Some human, but most not. 

   Guts had originally come up here to spend some time alone, but a half-pint’s company couldn’t be so bad. Thursday’s a rather timid kid anyway, so perhaps he too seeks some time away. That kind of thinking is what takes Guts by surprise all the more when unlike the others, Thursday asks him outright. It takes a moment for the swordsman’s silent stare to break away from the boy. The name papa is still quite a heavy burden for him to adopt, but it isn’t exactly wrong at this point, is it? A minute passes, and the blank slate of Guts’ features relaxes into a half-smile beneath the collar of his cloak. Ah, whatever. Anything is better than Mr. Guts.

              Indeed, this island has softened him more than he likes to admit.

   “Well, if you did, I guess I could let it slide once or twice.” It rolled off the tongue nicely. A massive hand reaches out to cover the top of the boy’s scruffy head in an affectionate pat.

Nothing surpassed the comfort of lounging enclosed by the four walls of her home while the elements went to war. The rain of a picture-perfect early autumn day drummed against the windows, sharp wind whistling and joining in on its song, and it had Casca bound to the couch since noon. A situation tremendously downgraded by the absence of her mate, whose co-worker’s drinking habits left Guts no choice but to help out at the Mine instead of spending it tangled between the sheets with her. To make a point of her steadily increasing boredom, Casca folded a leg over the back of the sofa and caved to a hearty sigh. Only her fingers kept busy as they zapped through every existing channel, a frequent repeat of the same old procedure whilst hoping for a higher force to hear her plea and change the program. So much for ‘Netflix and Chill’. 

Little did she know that an angel with a personal mission was long assigned to her, trotting his way into her life on a total of four paws, and all four of them at least the size of her fists. With the occasional allowance for privacy whenever she went to the loo, Puck didn’t leave Casca’s side if it could be avoided. Today, Casca couldn’t help but feel sorry for him (and herself, too). His muzzle didn’t leave the cushion of his furry forelegs since she had first stolen a peek. But, Puck was a dog - and dogs found delight in the little blessings life offered. And because he was a large hound, too, bred for hunting prey in challenging climates, it didn’t take much for him to grow utterly fed up of sharing Casca’s attention with a bunch of box-trapped puppies when so much fun could be had outside. 

Ten minutes into ‘The wonderful world of puppies’ and he gave her that look. 

Granted, Casca didn’t initially see much of that look. All paired with persuasive, ‘please look at me because you didn’t pay attention to me in the last minute’-eyes, Puck kept his intentions well concealed - after all, it was part of his new game. The first time she separated from the on-screen pups, Puck still looked like he hadn’t moved an inch in the last hour. Thud, thud, thud. His tail drummed rhythmically, swished across dull carpet floor. Forth, back, up and down until his human mum went back to the show. Blissfully ignorant, just as he had hoped. For now. 

Five minutes later, and thanks to the irritation of feeling closely observed, Puck enjoyed Casca’s undivided gaze once more. She eyes him suspiciously, but his attempts to keep up the oblivious act were award-winning nonetheless. “Don’t act like you can’t see me”; her melodic cooing results in another excited tail-thumping. Dogs loved to play games, yes they did, but trying to feign control when hearing their favourite humans voice? Impossible! His delight was far too great.

Casca followed his gaze until it met - oh, what a surprise - the corridor with his leash dangling from a coat hanger. Seems like Puck and her had shared the very same idea of passing some time together, even if it still rained like mad. This dog didn’t care about the weather. Casca cared, but she was bored out of her own skin - enough to think about donning a rain coat and go for a quick run with Guts’ best buddy. When Puck whined very much in the manner of the television puppies, his persuasive eyes were but a final means to an already won point. Just in case Casca changed her mind. Not that anyone would, face to face with the deepest, brownest, most loyal pair of dog eyes they had ever seen. Only a very cruel and heartless, perhaps even sociopathic monster would reject the plead of a dog in need; a dog who loved this human just as much as he loved his master. And Casca was neither a monster, nor was she a sociopath. She loved this four-legged angel as much as she would love her closest family.

When she sat up, the hound jumped to his enormous paws too. His plan had worked, yes? It must have done so, because the next thing he saw was the leash in Casca’s hands! Lucky for his colour-blind eyes, he didn’t have to see the ridiculous pink of her coat; but, even if he did, his love was unconditional. Her fingers felt so nice in his coat. Casca loved the softness of it, despite its brittle look. Well, what time was there left to waste?