Chapter Text
Espio was fascinated with words.
He’d learned very quickly, moving to an area where Common was spoken more. . . well, commonly, that he had a very limited vocabulary in it. All his lessons had been so formal, so eloquent, that they’d neglected to teach him slang words or simple terms for simple things, to where he found himself asking Vector what a wharf was as they stood right on one, what was a vinyl and what’s the difference between a cuckoo and grandfather clock and what does for the love of fuck mean.
He started writing them down. Words he liked and all that came with them. Just quick things jotted on the back of scrap paper. Most he kept in his desk drawer. Some he lost track of.
Cuckoo
Small wooden intricate tiny bird she shows her face and sings the hour and time is told in feathers and flitting wings
Grandfather
Something named for the old the wise the loved the stern and aged and known, big and dark and deep ringing signal the turn in commanding tones, call the whole clan to noon
The dictionary that they’d gotten at the thrift store helped with some of the words in books, but others were more complex, more contextual. Those, Vector was often pretty good at explaining.
“What does ‘debut’ mean? This vinyl says ‘debut’.”
“It means it’s their first album. ‘Debut’ means the first time showing someone something, kinda.”
Debut
Newness and trust, here it is and here is me and I give it to the open air and hope for a single wink back
Once I was alone and showed myself on the ratty rug in the office, a debut of desperation, you said come in and sit down and make another and now I live upstairs
“What is ‘cinematic’?”
“Like. . . like a movie. Big, dramatic, pretty, like it looks like it was made to be seen on screen.”
Cinematic
All so loud so proud so bold so undersold and too much to swallow, all the world a heavy pill on my tongue that doesn ’t dissolve
He found himself enjoying the writing almost as much as the words themselves. Interesting to see words in his own hands, shifted by his own tongue and made into something else completely. He collected words in every language. In Common and his native tongue and everything else that he could find, anything he liked the sound of or the meaning attached to it. Just the act of learning a language had made him hunger for every word he could get his hands on, made him appreciate him every one he’d heard a thousand times before and every new one he could find.
Whatever the word for this was, he liked it.
————————————————
“What’s this?”
Espio’s heart dropped when he saw the bit of paper that Vector held. “It’s just —” He lunged across the desk and snatched it from his hand. “Nothing.” He folded it and attempted to stuff it into his glove. “It’s nothing, don’t worry.”
Vector’s teeth glittered in that teasing grin. “Was that a poem?”
“No!” Espio snapped. “It’s just — a list. It’s a list of words. You told me what punk meant the other day, after you called that guy a punk, and it had a lot of meanings so I wrote them all down.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“. . .Yes.” He glanced down at the paper and felt his face growing warm. “Sometimes.”
Punk
It ’s a movement it’s a thought it’s anger and scrappy gritty dark grim but big loud bright sharp sharp teeth and old smoke
It ’s fashion and sharp spikes and big big boots to stomp and kick and fight, it’s fighting and raging and demanding more
It ’s rude, it’s gruff it’s mean it’s a grumpy old man thing to say, you tell me, it’s something to call kids too big for their boots who sneer at you even if they may have right
‘doesn’t that make them it itself?’ I ask you ‘Anger against those who speak down and yet you do yourself with the words they choose themselves’ and you say ‘yeah that’s true’
I ask ‘are you one’ and you said ‘once, not anymore, but I still like some music’ and you show me and it is loud and shrieking and brave and filthy vulgar raw dangerous in its uncleanliness and daring in that and I can see you there once and here now still with the bruises on your scales and the smoke in your sharp sharp teeth
“It’s not. . . poetry, it’s just me trying to remember a word. Or a moment with a word.”
Vector chuckled. “You ever heard poetry?”
“Not in this language, no.”
“Well, that’s it. That’s a poem.”
“. . . Oh.”
Vector tilted his head. “That was me, right?” he asked slowly. “The you in the poem? I remember talking about that.”
Espio looked down at his shoes. He felt his face warming up. “It’s. . . yes, that was you.”
“. . . Huh.”
“Huh, what?”
Vector shrugged. “I dunno,” he mused, turning back to the desk he’d been rifling through. “Just cool to see how you see me.”
Espio shuffled his feet, squeezing the crumbled paper in his hand. “Was it. . . unflattering? I apologize if it was, I —”
Vector scoffed and waved a hand. “Don’t ever apologize for thinkin’ one way or another of someone,” he said gruffly. “Anyways, you didn’t say anything but what I said. And I liked it. The poem. It was good.”
Espio blinked. “You did?”
“Yeah. It was really cool. You really got the word, I think.”
Espio looked at him, then the paper. After a moment, he stepped forward and set it on the desk.
“You can keep it,” he offered, carefully masking that cool deadpan look over his face again. “If you liked it.”
Vector looked at him in surprise. “Really?”
“I have others. Other words. Other poems. You can keep this one.”
Vector smiled and took the paper, folding it much more carefully before tucking it into his own glove. “Thanks, kid.”
“Mhm.” He turned back to the board and tried to master his color and hide the red that was flushing around his frill.
Espio hunched over the logbook on his desk and tried to make the numbers form before his eyes. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t puzzle them out. They were fading in and out between long lists of black and red ink and the image that refused to leave his eyes, drilled in every time he blinked.
It had been six months at Vector’s. Six months that he’d liked. He had broken into that office hoping for nothing more than a bit of money and something like stability. He hadn’t expected room and board to be part of the deal — but perhaps that was just how things worked in this city. Espio had needed it, so he hadn’t questioned it. He’d figured that he could put up with living with his employer for a while, just enough to save up a bit of money. But he liked Vector, far more than he’d thought he would. He was good to work with, really fun to argue with, he was good at teaching him to read (even if he got impatient when Espio asked too many questions). And he had good music taste. Lots of people didn’t have good music taste.
It had been a big case. Missing person. They’d had a couple before — kids running away to their friend’s house, a guy hiding out from someone he’d scammed and stiffed. Espio thought he could do missing persons.
Instead of a person, they’d found a body.
Espio had found a body.
He’d gone frozen, numb, weak and distant. He didn’t even remember speaking, but he must have said something. ‘Found him. . .’ Vector had been at his side within a second of him opening that door. He’d shooed Espio outside, and there he’d stayed as police arrived, as the client came rushing in and broke down in wails at the sight of her dead husband. And Espio only stood and watched. Numb. Helpless.
He had almost wondered if he’d been forgotten, if he’d disappeared without meaning to, when a heavy hand had landed on his shoulder and Vector had guided him home.
“There’s nothin’ else we can do, kid. . .”
Espio had taken the logbook as soon as they’d returned, despite Vector insisting that he should get some rest, take a break. “It’s still business hours, I need to be productive.”
He’d been sitting for two hours, staring at the numbers with a pen hovering just over the page. But he couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.
He couldn’t see anything but that long-dead body.
All these months of careful language, of masking his every emotion — as well as he could, anyways, Vector was funny sometimes — all undone for a man that he didn’t even know. This wasn’t even the first death he’d seen, not the first body he’d seen bloody and abandoned. Why had this undone him? Why couldn’t he control himself? All that he had worked for was slipping through his fingers like a thread unraveling a scarf, all because he couldn’t fucking think.
There was a knock at his door. Although he hadn’t shed a tear, Espio quickly wiped his eyes — felt like he bruised himself in his haste — and hunched over the logbook again.
“Espio?” Vector called cautiously. “How you holding up, bud?”
Espio sniffled. “I’m working,” he croaked.
“Can I come in for a second?”
He sighed and rested his head in his hand. He wanted to turn him away, but he was still his boss. That’s what he decided on. Not that fact that Espio himself might just want some company.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open. Vector shuffled inside, making a clear but unsuccessful attempt to be quiet as he moved his massive bulk over the creaky floorboards. He set a glass of water on Espio’s desk. Espio stared at it in confusion for a moment. What had he done to earn that?
Vector cleared his throat. “I, uh, got us another case!”
Espio fought a groan. “Already?” he mumbled.
“Yeah, pretty urgent.”
“What is it?”
Espio’s bed creaked as Vector sat on it. “It’s, um, it’s the craziest thing.”
Espio finally turned in his seat, frowning at the crocodile. He was holding a small cardboard box. One that Espio recognized. It was from that sweet shop down the road, the one that was too expensive but whose mochi looked absolutely delectable.
Vector offered a hesitant smile and opened the box. Inside were three of said mochi — pristine, round, lightly dusted with flour. Espio’s eyes widened.
“That, uh, candy shop wants us to figure out which of these tastes best,” he ventured. “I’m not much of a mochi guy — it gets stuck in my teeth — and I don’t think beans should be sweet, it’s unnatural — but I told ‘em you like it, so I figured you might want to take charge on this one.”
Espio kept his eyes on the mochi as his brow dropped over his eyes. That would cost at least a day’s lunch, for both of them, a full meal tossed out for some sweets. Just because he couldn’t handle his emotions.
“I’m not stupid,” he mumbled, digging his fingers into the chair below him.
“Should be easy then, huh?”
“I know you’re just doing this to make me feel better.”
Vector sighed. Espio finally met his gaze. The croc shrugged helplessly.
“Is it working?”
That, somehow, the earnestness in his face, was what prompted Espio to take the bait, to slide off his chair and join Vector on the bed. The bait itself wasn’t so bad, either. Though he knew there was no such case, he still commented on each one as though he were ranking them.
“The taro is far too sweet,” he mumbled after finishing the first one.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. It’s overpowering.” He picked up the second and took a bite. “Is this coconut?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“It’s good. Not coconutty enough, though.” He swallowed. “Aftertaste of soap.”
“Huh. Good note.”
“The matcha’s really good.”
“Good.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes more. Espio slowly finished the last bit of the mochi, then dusted off his fingers on the paper wrapper before dropping it back in the empty box. Vector shut it and set it aside. He sighed heavily.
“Wild day, huh?” he muttered.
Espio snorted. He wiped his eye again. “Arduous.”
“That’s a good one.”
“Learned it yesterday.”
“Nice.” After another pause, Vector glanced at him. “You doin’ okay?”
Espio looked away and shrugged. “I’ll be alright,” he mumbled. “I think I was just startled.”
Vector patted his shoulder. Espio cringed away, and he withdrew apologetically. “I’m really sorry you had to see that, kid,” he sighed. “I should’ve gone in first.”
Espio sighed. “It’s just —” He shrugged. “I knew. Remember? Our third day on the case, I said, ‘I bet this guy’s just dead.’ I knew he was already dead. I don’t understand why it struck me so hard.”
Vector shook his head. “Still not fun to see, even if you were expecting it.”
Espio sighed. He curled his tail tightly around his wrist. “I guess.” He picked at a loose scale on the side. He was due for another shed soon. Just what he needed on top of everything else. He shook his head again. “I keep thinking, if we’d just been quicker. . .”
“Es. . .” Vector shook his head sympathetically. “It was over by the time we even got the case. There was nothing we could’ve changed, it was already done.”
Espio sniffled but said nothing more.
Vector cleared his throat. “So, Espio, listen,” he began slowly. “If you — after all this, if you don’t — I mean, I understand if you don’t want to do this anymore.”
Espio’s heart dropped. His eyes widened, but he couldn’t look away from his suddenly frozen hands.
“I’ll help you figure something out, make other arrangements. Y’know, we can find you somewhere to stay that —”
“You’re firing me?”
“What? No!”
Espio squeezed his tail in both hands, twisting slightly, hoping the light pain would distract him from the tears clogging up his throat again. “Can I ask if there’s anything else I’ve done to warrant this termination?” he whispered. “Aside from my averse reaction to the victim? Just so I can be aware at my next position.”
“Es, nobody’s firing you,” Vector repeated, grabbing his shoulder. He didn’t pull away this time, for some reason he couldn’t name. “I said if you want to! This is up to you!”
Espio shook his head. “I’ll be prepared next time,” he rasped. If he spoke any louder, he knew he’d break down. “I’ll control myself, I won’t —”
“Espio, I’m not upset that you’re crying,” Vector insisted. “I just —” He groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Gaia, I don’t want you to get hurt doing this, kid!”
“I’m fine!” Espio cried, finally looking up at him. “I’m completely unharmed!”
“There’s more ways to be hurt, and you know it.”
“Don’t make me leave!”
“I’m not making you do anything, kid, I just don’t want to keep dragging you into these messes!” Vector sighed and rubbed his brow. “This — I don’t know what I was thinking, but this isn’t a good idea for a kid. I wanted to help, but I don’t want to make everything worse.”
“It won’t!” Espio pleaded. “I can’t leave now! I can’t leave and have that be the last thing that happened!”
Vector shook his head wearily. “This won’t be the last time this happens.”
Espio turned to face Vector more fully. “And what if next time, there is something we can do? What if we can help but I’m not there and you don’t find them in time and it doesn’t change?” He was scrambling, now, digging frantically for the right words. “You wouldn’t have found him without me! I was the one who thought of the link between his work and running group, I was the one with those connections in the black market —”
“Yeah, you haven’t gotten out of explaining that, by the way.”
“— and if I’m not here and you need me then you find another death!” He stuttered over what he knew was a grammatical error but was too stressed to address. “Anyways, I —” His train of thought was derailing, sputtering. “And I —” I like it here, I like working and living with you, I don’t want to be alone again, I don’t trust anyone but you, please don’t send me alone out there again.
He turned away. “I — I don’t know of any other place that would so willingly employ a twelve-year-old,” he mumbled.
Vector scoffed. “Gaia.” He chuckled sardonically. Espio half-wished he would try to pat his back again, but he didn’t. “Alright, kid. You wanna stay? You can stay.”
Espio exhaled heavily. His shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I deeply appreciate this second chance, I promise —”
“Take it easy, kid,” Vector sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “You were never in trouble. I just wanted to check on you.” He crossed his arms and frowned down at Espio. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
Not even a little bit. But he looked up and nodded anyway.
“Alright. Get some rest, yeah? It’s been a long day.”
“It’s been a strenuous day.”
Vector chuckled as he closed the door. “Yeah, you’ll be alright.”
As long as he was still here, Espio could believe that.