i want to be held tenderly by a titan

The rest of the evening is uneventful. James returns with supplies and, after quite a bit of calming gestures and explaining, accepts that Scar isn’t a threat to it or Barker. Scar keeps Blisk occupied (“occupied”...Barker swears he listened to the specter frame lecture Blisk about treating others equally for damn near half an hour). Sabre seems content to cuddle up to Scar’s warmth instead of leeching off Whiskey’s, which he, for some reason, finds himself happy over. Are you at that point, Barker? Are you going to get offended that someone else’s cat is cuddling yours instead of you?

So what if he is? She broke into his house and took up his space, he should be allowed to want something in return, isn’t he? He’s dwelling into an argument with himself when something finally clicks and he realizes that yes, he’s arguing with himself over a cat.

Nobody has to know, fortunately. He can keep it to himself if he keeps his mouth shut.

He goes through his still-newly-established nightly routine. Before, he’d crumple into bed as he was, still woozy and smelling of liquor, clothed in the same shirt and pants that he’d been wearing for days. He thinks better of himself now. He washes his face (Whiskey helps) and brushes his teeth, takes a shower if he feels the urge to do so, and changes into sweatpants before falling into the sheets.

It’s refreshing--who’d have thought self-care would make a man feel better about himself? He can hear Briggs’ words through some subconscious link: I told you that you’d feel better if you took care of yourself. Treating yourself like shit makes you feel like shit. 

The Beer Cooler bunch--he’s started referring to the kittens as such, now that he’s settled on a name--are tucked neatly into their box and placed beside him on the bed. They all have their colored collars on, though they’re much too big to fit around their tiny necks. Whiskey trills to him as he finally lays down, pulling the covers over his shoulders. Thankfully, Scar seems to also be keeping Blisk quiet.

He can feel himself dozing off peacefully, for once. While, yes, there is a technical war-criminal-turned-home-intruder and his mech and his cat in Barker’s apartment, the door to the room finally feels like it’s enough to provide a sufficient barrier. He won’t lie to himself: ever since Blisk had shown up, he’d been terribly anxious about letting his guard down enough to sleep at night, even in the safety of his own room. He trusts James well enough.

Whiskey is in the process of plucking the kittens from the box and tucking them in the crook of Barker’s elbow as he falls asleep.

---

He hears someone, but can’t see them. The wreckage of the dropship still groans and creaks as it settles into the ground after plummeting from the sky. He can hear his CO now: ‘All you’re here for is to fly ships, man! You somehow managed to fuck even that up!’

Even crumpled on the ground, breathing laboriously, he feels that stab of fear at what his punishment for such a screw-up will be. The IMC isn’t exactly known for being kind and understanding to their troops. He’s heard rumors--proven rumors-- of some going completely missing when they displeased higher-ups.

As much as he hated his life, he still feared what would happen. Maybe it would have been better if the impact had killed him. Nobody would have noticed. All he serves as fodder for piloting. Nobody remembers their ship’s pilot; they remember the soldiers that charge in with adrenaline and victory on their minds. People didn’t give a rat’s ass about him, and he knew it.

He can hear someone talking over the din of the shouting and creaking. After further listening, he realizes they’re talking to him.

“Holy hell, Taube! Gave a helluva wild ride, didn’t you?” Instead of accusation and venom in the voice, there’s poorly-hidden concern laden in it. He can vaguely feel as wreckage is pulled aside and tossed away as whoever it is tries to maneuver their way over to him.

He should respond--it’s probably a higher-ranked soldier than he is. Try as he might, he can’t muster up the energy to make any sound other than labored breathing. He can feel something trickling down the side of his head. He hopes it’s just sweat. He knows it’s not.

“Christ alive.” Whoever it is stands over him, silhouetted against the flames that dance in the light breeze. “Really fucked yourself up, man.”

Here it comes: the berating of ‘how he should know how to pilot’ and ‘you should be better than this’. He almost ignores the words coming from the other in preparation for the scolding.

It never comes, surprisingly.

“We’re getting you outta here, hear me?” He can feel hands covering the gaping slice in his side that he hadn’t noticed until now. “Fuck--,” they say out loud as their hands slip and coat in his blood. “You’re not getting left behind like they think you are. I’m not allowing that to happen.”

The scraps of metal and glass and whatever else the ship was composed of are none-too-gently shoved off his legs. He watches numbly as the other person rips a tourniquet out of a spare pocket and wraps it around his right thigh. A dull, muted ache strikes out from it, but he’s so worn out that he can’t react properly.

“You good?” Of course he’s not ‘good’. He’s on the ground bleeding out. Still, he knows the other isn’t going to point that out to him so frankly. His vision starts to black out and fade, and the last thing he hears is the person yelling for a medic before his eyes close.

---

Barker wakes up with a jolt. It disturbs Whiskey, who chides him verbally and thoroughly. She must sense something is wrong, because she eventually stops and sits square on his chest, stretching out so her front paws drag over his face and her whiskers tickle his cheeks.

“Mrrph?” she says.

“Mmngh,” Barker responds. He wants to sit up, but the solid weight of Whiskey helps settle him down instead. Belatedly, he remembers the kittens, his free hand coming over to fumble around to make sure they’re in their right place.

He feels nothing.

Damned if the cat isn’t still on his chest, he jackknifes up on the bed. Whiskey holds on for dear life as she’s flipped, claws digging into Barker’s shoulders through his shirt. 

“God damn you, girl,” he wheezes, hand already reaching over to turn the lamp beside the bed on. As the light flicks on, he realizes why he can’t feel the kittens in one spot.

They’re moving. They’re actively crawling away. Two of them squirm on the pillow above his head, seemingly play-fighting. Another kitten is tucked into the curve of his hand where it lays lax. The other three are spread out across the mattress, having themselves a good look-around of their surroundings.

For a moment, he’s stunned: they’re moving already? And so swiftly, at that? He’s got his work cut out for him now.

The next moment, he’s fretting: what if one of them crawls to the edge of the bed and falls off? What if he accidentally squishes one? He’d never be able to live with himself if that happened. What if they crawl away and can’t find their way back to Whiskey? What if they get cold? The “what-ifs” run through his mind so quickly he doesn’t have a chance to process them.

Frantically, he scoops them all back into a pile. He’d put them back in the box where they’d be contained in one place and safe, but he knows Whiskey would just pluck them all out again. He settles for setting them on his middle torso, using his arms to create an improv corral to keep them in one place.

Whiskey curls up in the center of the ‘corral’, purring as all six kittens shuffle over to her and quiet. He watches as they knead her tummy, and feels as Whiskey does the same thing on his stomach. The pin-pricks on pain are annoying, but he can’t find it in himself to stop her.

Barker watches in blatant horror as Blisk opens the door to reveal a massive, hulking metal frame on the other side. Even Whiskey catches on that something is wrong: she hunkers down in her box and covers her kittens with the bulk of her body. Sabre, meanwhile, leaps out and towards the stranger. That must mean she knows them, right?

He stays silent as the specter frame with a good extra foot of height walks in as Blisk holds the door open. The jet-black metal plating is somewhat covered by a tattered old leather jacket. The sensors on its head are, quite obviously, locked right on Barker.

“So, yeah, I forgot to mention,” Blisk explains casually, as if Barker isn’t metaphorically planning out his dying wishes as he stands in his own home, “Scar here was meant to be a part of the bundle.” He claps a hand on the specter’s--Scar’s--shoulder. “You can quit mean-mugging him, by the way.”

Scar instantly relents. “I do apologize,” a surprisingly soft baritone voice speaks, “for the rather harsh first impression of myself.” Scar holds a metal-skeletal hand out to Barker. “I’m sure you understand that in our typical line of business Blisk is not a particularly…favored contender.”

“I am too, actually,” Blisk interjects. “You’re just very overprotective.”

Scar tilts his head. “You’re hired to kill people. That’s not necessarily a job looked upon highly.”

Barker has to bite his lip to keep from smirking at the banter.

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” Blisk snaps, seemingly irritated that his grand reveal has led to him being chastised. He turns back to Barker. “He’s here because I have to have my own safety standards, as you can tell. You have that MRVN. I have Scar.”

“Blisk, friend,” Scar asks after a pause. “How did you end up here? Did our friend offer shelter?”

“No, I did not,” Barker interrupts Blisk opening his mouth to speak. “He showed up, threatened my life, and moved himself in.”

Scar seems appalled. “You--! You said he was a friend, someone that you’ve known since Demeter!”

“I have known him since Demeter,” Blisk clarifies. “He’s one of the runts that defected with that jackass MacAllan guy when things got too intense. I figured he owned me.”

Hearing MacAllan’s name taken in vain instantly makes Barker tense up. “Don’t you ever speak of him that way again,” he seethes, visibly angry. “He was my best friend, you bastard.”

“Yeah? He was a traitor, too,” Blisk counters. “You were as well. Why should I be respectful to him?”

Scar puts himself between the two men. “Because our friend here--I apologize again, I did not quite catch your name. Do tell?”

Barker says his name through gritted teeth.

Scar nods to him in acknowledgement. “Because our friend Barker owns the house you are taking refuge in,” he elaborates pointedly, like a parent scolding an unruly child, “and while you disagree with his past, he still deserves your respect.” The specter glares at Blisk.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass!” Blisk growls. “He--”

“He is letting you stay here, not that it sounds like you gave him any choice in the matter.” Scar claps a hand over Blisk’s mouth before he can make things any worse. “You may not be privy to it, but we owe him.”

When the tension between them still doesn’t let up any, Sabre steps in. She twines between Scar’s metal ankles. “Mrowah!” she says eloquently. Scar keeps his hand over Blisk’s face as he stoops over to pick her up.

“Oh, hello, dear!” Scar’s voice takes a kind and light lilt to it as he holds the cat close to him. “It seems she’s been handling things well.”

Barker wants to retort that she had actually just stolen one of his (cat’s) kittens earlier, but manages to bite back. “She’s a much better houseguest than your friend,” he settles on saying.

“Understandable.” Scar looks around. “Sabre isn’t too much of a disturbance, is she?”

“Her?” Barker parrots. “No. She fits right in.”

“In what manner?”

“Go look in the box,” Blisk hints. 

Scar looks at Barker for permission to go further into his apartment before quietly padding over to peer in. “I see what you mean.” He looks to Barker again, hand out, waiting for permission again. Barker nods to him, leading the specter to slowly and carefully reaching inside to let Whiskey sniff his metal fingers.

She has absolutely no such thing in mind.

As soon as Scar’s fingers are in range, she swats furiously. Barker can hear her growling from where he’s at by the door, which urges him to scuttle over. Her ears are still pinned back and her face is wrinkled in a snarl as he approaches.

“I’m so sorry!” Barker apologizes emphatically. “She hasn’t done that before, with anyone. Except the vet. She hated the vet. Still, though.”

Scar rumbles warmly. “I do understand. She has a litter to look out for, and I am a stranger in her home.”

“Yeah, but…” Barker trails off. “Why doesn’t she like you but she loves him?” He gestures at Blisk. “You’re so much more--” he fumbles for words (he wants it to hit Blisk like a punch) “--tolerable.”

“She has her reasons.” 

They all watch as Sabre skitters over at Whiskey’s angry noises, nosing into the box. When Whiskey doesn’t calm down, Scar respectfully steps away, letting Sabre in. Sabre is quick to try to calm the orange cat down, licking between her flattened ears and purring.

Scar leans towards Barker to whisper lowly to him. “I understand their relationship all too well, my friend. Blisk is quite bristly with people as well.”

Barker can hear Blisk scoff across the room. “For good reason!”

“Yes, ‘for good reason’,” Scar mimics. He heaves a faux sigh. “I promise you, I will keep him in check as best as I can, Barker. I’m quite sorry you had to deal with that sort of introduction with him in the first place.”

Barker hums distractedly. He’s decided he likes Scar. Scar is polite and understanding, respects his space and opinions, and--best of all--freely and openly chides at Blisk’s expense.