Chapter Text
Mao Mao struggled to look at his father. He’d like to say it was the sun, shining off his armor like a flashbang, but something in his chest hurt more than his eyes. Mao Mao licked his lips and rolled his tongue. There was something he wanted to say, however, he did need time to figure out what it was. He nearly bit his tongue when Papa slapped him on the back again.
“So, you gonna invite me in or are we just gonna chill outside.”
“Right, right, right…” Mao Mao droned off, shaking the handle when it didn’t open.
Did he drop his keys, or did Jǐngtì take them? He’d have to make a copy when Badgerclops got back.
“You lost your keys? Tsk, tsk, tsk, you gotta learn how to be more responsible to take care and be aware of things.” Shin simply walked through the door, doorframe, and wall, smashing the front of the house.
Mao Mao barely caught himself from calling the hypocrite out, but he bit his tongue and swallowed his anger. He looked at the sky making a mental note to do something with the hole before it stormed tonight.
Mao Mao carefully stepped over the broken wood while Shin looked around. He watched his father prowl around the room, finger to his chin, lips moving as he mumbled. If he tried he could probably understand the mumbles, but he let the words gloss over his ears. It was the best way to be near his father. Mao Mao would rather not listen to this jackasses’ bullshit.
“Hey, Mao Mao,” Shin said, making Mao Mao turn up his head. “You’ve set a solid little place here. I’ve got to hand that to you.”
Papa laughed and walked into the kitchen. Mao Mao balled his hand into a fist and followed him.
Papa was making himself quite at home. Mao Mao watched him search through cabinets and drawers from the doorway. He could tell his father wasn’t moving aimlessly; he was looking for something. Mao Mao was going to ask when Shin glossed over the fridge and then doubled back. Mao Mao wondered if the idiot was looking for a bite to eat when Papa pulled off one of Adorabat’s drawings. He stared down at it intently: brow creased, rubbing his chin with a “hmm” sound.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A drawing.”
“Of course, but…”
He handed the drawing to Mao Mao. It was crude and done in crayon, but there were a few unmistakable things about it. Lined up on a grassy hill was Adorabat, him, Tanya, Jǐngtì, and Badgerclops. He had to wonder how long it was up there. He never noticed it. The picture had a distinct family photo-like quality to it. He had to find some way to spin this.
He handed the picture back. “It’s a picture from an admirer. A small child called Adorabat. She’s the blue one.”
“Odd color… who names their child Adorabat,” Shin mumbled.
Who names their child Mao Mao Mao?
“Who are the other people?”
He blinked a few times. “Those are just… some people I know. The one with the eyepatch -the black spot on his face- is Badgerclops. My partner. The brown one is Tanya Keys: a bounty hunter who was here a little bit ago.”
“What about this one?” Papa pointed at the brown cat.
Mao Mao took a deep breath. “That’s Tanya’s son.”
“Feel like I’ve seen his face before,” Papa snapped his fingers with a clang,” yeah. I’ve seen his face on wanted posters… in Queen’s Putland.”
“He’s... been headed down the wrong path,” he said.
Mao Mao didn’t notice himself drifting off. He only snapped back when Papa cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure his mother can get a handle on him,” he said.
“I hope she can.”
Papa picked up the magnet and stuck it back on the fridge.
He didn’t ask about the other pictures.
Papa moved on, sifting through drawers before he sighed and scratched his head,” Hey, do you know where you keep your fist aid kit?”
“Yeah, it's in the bathroom. Under the sink," Mao Mao continued,” why? You cut yourself or something?”
Papa gave him a look of utter confusion. An eyebrow raised, lips parted slightly, like he Mao Mao wasn’t speaking the same language. “What? No. I’m getting it for you. You’re trackin’ blood all over the place. You look like you gave someone an arm and a leg,” he chuckled uncomfortably.
Mao Mao looked behind himself at the splotches of blood he’s tracked all over the house. His first thought was how hard the blood would be to get out of his nice hardwood floors. Then the dull pain reminded him of his wounds. He felt some kind of concern; a need to drop everything and call for help. It was the dying gasp of whatever self-preservation instinct he had left. All that just seemed so exhausting. He didn’t come home to start stitching wounds or deal with his father. He just wanted to rest.
“I’ll clean it up,” Mao Mao said, already walking to get the mop when Papa grabbed him by the shoulder.
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” Papa said,” Why don’t you just... go have a seat.”
Mao Mao did as he was told. He limped his way to the living room couch and waited. He could hear his father rummaging around in the bathroom before coming back with the first-aid kit between his massive metal fingers and washbasin under his other arm. Everything always looked so small compared to him.
Mao Mao took the kit without hesitation. Papa sat down and watched him work. Only having one arm made things harder, his tail did help, but some things were more difficult than before. He started with his feet first, washing them in the basic, applying ointment to the worn away paw-pads, and then wrapping them in gauze.
The shard of glass in his side was next. A foreign object lodged in his lower right side below the kidneys and above the intestines. He supposed it was similar to a gunshot wound (although the shard of glass was larger and jagged), so he treated the procedure much of the same. He wrapped the gauze tightly around his torso seat-belt style to staunch the blood before getting a pair of tweezers to play a game of operation. He reached in, tightly grabbing the shard of glass. He ignored the fatigue burning in his only arm as he did his best to slowly and carefully pull it out.
Mao Mao did his best to focus on what he was doing, yet his mind naturally wandered. It bounced from fleeting topic to fleeting topic, although a few questions liked to show up. Jǐngtì was one of them. More specifically, why did Jǐngtì hate him? The question was like a hot stove. Every time Mao Mao got close he was burned by a stinging well of emotions. He turned his attention away from the stove but cattish curiosity always dared him to put his fingers to the burner.
Curiosity killed the cat , as they say.
It didn't help that the next thing curiosity would lead him to was his father which was arguably worse. He watched Papa out the corner of his eye. He intently watched his son work without being direct, sneaking glances or watching him in the reflection of the stupid golden armor. He leaned forward, dominant hand folded over the other. He wanted to do something; he wanted to help.
Papa did nothing. Of course, he did nothing. He never does anything. The only thing Papa ever taught him was to do everything on his own. If Papa really wanted to help he’d explain why Jǐngtì hated him.
A sharp pain yanked Mao Mao out of his thoughts. It's what he gets for not paying attention. He quickly set aside the freed shard of glass, parting the wound with his hand to get a good look.
It was a fountain of blood. Deep breaths. A racing heart won’t help.
Be calm and quick, he reminded himself. The first step was dabbing most of the blood away and cleaning it with water, check to make sure no debris is in the wound, then grab a needle and thread. There was a prick of pain as it pierced his skin, and the sting as the thread was pulled through.
Mao Mao didn’t let his missing arm stop him from doing things; his tail could work as a replacement more often than not, but there were some things best done with two hands. He held the needle in between his claws trying over and over to get the needle the other side. He grimaced at the painful pricks that were too shallow to pull the needle through. The bleeding hadn’t stopped; he was beginning to feel woozy. The tips of his fingers were numb. Was his anxiety from blood loss or knowing that he was having this much trouble just trying to finish one suture?
The needle fell from Mao Mao’s paws that were slick in his blood. Mao Mao scrambled to pick up the needle. He was so busy that he didn’t notice anything around him. It was only when Papa placed his paw over his son’s did Mao Mao stop.
“I’ll do it,” he said,” just be still.”
He didn’t have to tell him to be still; Mao Mao already was. He didn’t worry about blood loss either, because he was sure his heart had stopped.
Papa was out of his armor. Papa was out of his armor. He didn’t know anyone who’d seen him out of it. Not even his sisters had seen that. He was sure of it. He’d asked Brunhilde about the armor and she said it’d been grafted to his skin in a battle with a fire demon. Minori said that the armor was cursed by magic so he couldn’t take it off. Each of his sisters had a different story. All of them agreed on one thing: that Papa couldn’t take his armor off
There he was. A small shriveled up mockery of a man dressed in a weird-looking jumpsuit. And he was helping him. Was this Papa an imposter? Was it some stroke of luck? Did he fall into some strange alternate universe where Papactually cared about his son?
“What happened?”
“Huh?”
“How’d you end up like,” Shin gestured vaguely,” this?”
“I got into a fight.”
“Did you win?”
Mao Mao stiffened at the question. Whether he won, wasn’t important.
“Why’d you visit,” Mao Mao asked, quickly shifting the topic.
“You didn’t visit for the summer. We had to celebrate Tanabata without you.”
Mao Mao sank back into the sofa. He’d completely forgotten Tanabata was last week. This was the first time he’d missed Tanabata since he lost his arm.
“How’s the family,” he asked flatly.
“They’re fine. Nothing really, although everyone was asking about you. News that you’d settled down as a sheriff traveled fast. Funny, I always thought you’d stay a vagabond.”
Mao Mao felt something. It was a warm feeling that nearly made him cry. It reminded him of a hug from his mom. Had Papa finally grown a heart?
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yeah, you're mother asked me to check on you.”
Of course, he didn’t.
“Turn around so I can stitch up the wounds on your back,” he said,” Moo Moo. Moo Moo.”
Mao Mao didn’t move.
“Turn around, Mee Mee.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No,” Mao Mao shouted as he stood up,” and get out!”
“Wha- no! I’m not leaving you in… this shack.
“That! What is that? You suddenly walk into my home and you give me the vaguest hope that your not terrible, but every other second you act like the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You break down my goddamn door, you openly admit that you came here because my mother sent you instead of giving a shit yourself, and you ask if I’ve won the fight when you should be asking if we’re going to a goddamn hospital, you even call my house a shack. It's not a shack! It’s where I live!”
Mao Mao could hear his thumping in his ears. “All you do is antagonize me at every chance you get.”
“That’s no way to talk to your father.”
“You barely even count as my father. You treat every single one of my sisters better than me. I play sixth fiddle to every one of my sisters.”
“Now that’s just preposterous. Give me one example of how I treat your sisters better.”
“You know what to call my sisters, so I’ll ask this.” Mao Mao loomed over his father,” what is my name?”
“I-, uh-,” Shin stumbled over his words.
“I’ll give you a hint: it's yours too.”
“...Shin junior?”
Mao Mao didn’t know what came over him. All of the cold pain and sorrow that had built up suddenly burned red hot. He lashed out at his father. He only missed his father’s neck because Papa was as quick as he was short. He tossed the basin at his father’s head, flipped the table, and threw anything he could as he chased after him. He chased Papa through the kitchen, through the bedroom through the dojo, knocking, breaking, destroying anything and everything.
Eventually, the fire burned out. The chase ended where it started. Mao Mao slowed down, climbed on the couch, huddled himself into a little ball, and cried. He just felt so tired.
“Hey, don’t cry,” Papa said, tentatively taking a step forward.
“You,” Mao Mao sobbed,” you are why I’m always the last to show up on the holidays and the first to leave. You always manage to get under my skin....the reason I blew up this time is that...I just thought… you might have changed, or at least learned your lesson.”
Something clicked in Mao Mao’s head.”So that’s why he hates me,” Mao Mao said under his breath.
He’d heard those words earlier today. From the son to the father, and again from the son to the father. The tears had stopped; the sadness was replaced by an immense, deadening sorrow. He had become the thing he hated, the thing he detested with every fiber of his being without even trying.
“Did you know you're a grandfather?” Mao Mao blurted out.
Papa seemed genuinely shocked by this. His eyes went saucer-wide, and he stumbled back. “I’m what?”
“I have a son. He did this to me. I tried to keep him from suffering from the stuff you did to me, but it turns out that I did it to him anyway. Probably worse.”
Mao Mao let out a chuckle,” God, what is this shit? Genetic?”
Papa stayed quiet.
“You should go,” he told Papa.
Quietly, Shin slipped back into his armor, turning to face the door. “Goodbye,” he said.
Mao Mao stayed quiet.
He stayed huddled up on the sofa. He didn’t know how long it was, but by the time he started moving the sky was black and thunder howled. He got up and went to the kitchen. I the fridge he grabbed every can of beer he could find; in the cabinet, he grabbed every bottle that was and wasn’t covered in a layer of dust. He sat on the floor, cracked open the first of a long set, ready for the trip down memory lane.