#fyostein

There are many animals that mimic, whether to hunt or to hide. Steinbeck is the latter, of course. His hair is bright like the sun, and his eyes a pleasant blue, and he's always had a cheery air. (The margay—leopardus wiedii—has a particular talent for vocal mimicry.) "Hey!" Steinbeck is dressed in a suit that fits his form just right, and his smile is adjusted just right. It sits comfortably on his face like blood so often does. (When it needs to eat, it copies the sound of its most common prey.) The Special Divison's agent that he's found on a day off stares, and tries to place if they know this man or not. He speaks as if he must, but they cannot remember. (The prey, not knowing any better, follows the sound thinking it's one of their own.) "Can I help you?" They smile politely, though something squirms in their chest. Something feels off. (And when the unfortunate animal does-) Steinbeck grins, slinging his arm over their shoulder as if they're old friends. This part of town is empty, quiet- abandoned on a grey day like this. "You can, actually! See, I wanted to ask about some things-" (The margay goes for the kill.) -- "You must stop trailing blood in on my carpet." Fyodor states, not even looking at Steinbeck as he steps in. He leans his head on Fyodor's shoulder as Fyodor sits in xer chair. Steinbeck's chin is dripping with gore, some dribbling onto Fyodor's shirt. Xe couldn't care less, really, but xe has a reputation to uphold. "Eh, you know how to clean it." Steinbeck hums, closing his eyes to wrap his arms around Fyodor's waist. Even through the clothes, he can feel xer ribs. Fyodor sighs. "I have not the time." "Your loss." Steinbeck teases back, tracing one hand up Fyodor's chest. "You should really eat better." Fyodor's cold hand snatches Steinbeck's, pushing it back down just before he can reach xer neck. "I did not offer for you to join this operation for health advice." "I'm just saying." Steinbeck wraps his hand around Fyodor's in a mockery of a sweet gesture, squeezing it. It's not gentle; Steinbeck is capable of that despite all the bloodshed, but Fyodor has never cared for soft. "Could make you foood now and then.. would you like that?" "I did not hire a chef." Fyodor states simply, still not looking at him. Steinbeck laughs. His tone dips into something lower. "I know you didn't. Just offering a benefit." "The only benefit I'd enjoy from you is you cleaning up your mess." Fyodor rolls xer eyes. Steinbeck leans against xer more. Fyodor is cold, as if a living corpse, and it's tantalizing. "I'm sure," He murmurs into xer ear, "Both could be arranged." Fyodor clicks xer tongue, and finally takes xer other hand off the keyboard, grasping Steinbeck's chin to tilt his head as xe meets his eyes. Steinbeck stares back with a look full of bloodlust, adoration, and fangs. He has never said it out loud, only showing what they both know in actions. I'm yours. And Fyodor would not have it any other way. Steinbeck tastes like freshly butchered meat, and sunlight on a winter's day where nothing living shows its face, and newly grown crops reaching out of the earth. He's xers. In a way that Nikolai could never be, in a way that Nikolai would never want to be. He's xers. In a way that Nathaniel would never be, in a way that Nathaniel only was when he hated it. He's xers, in the way the first vulture is to a death.

The thing is that, reasonably, Teruko should know better then to think Fukuchi is coming back. He's not. Everyone else can accept that. But there is some twisted, terrible hope in her chest that rests like a disease, a mold killing her from inside, that makes Teruko want to believe. It's killing her. She goes to an empty office, and all she can think is where did you go and not oh, this is mine now. It is. She doesn't want it. She doesn't want it she wants her captain back and she wants to be held and she can't possibly wrap her head around why he ever picked her as the vice captain. She's not cut out for this. (And she wonders if it would hurt any less if she were.)