Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Whatcha doin’ Houndy?” Walter asked curiously from the bed. It was pissing rain outside, banging on the tin roof like bullets. Bloodhound was in nothing but their knickers and setting folded sets of clothing on their small dining table.

“Planning,” they hummed, pulling out three inhalers and setting them beside a pair of pants.

“For what?” He stretched out like a cat to a chorus of crunches and pops, then settled with a hollow thud against the mattress. The bed was in the corner, separated from the door by a set of bookshelves that went halfway down the built-in bedframe. From his vantage in the far corner, he could see most of Bloodhound’s house, and all of their near-naked body.

Usually, they never hesitated when telling him what they were up to, but this time, they did. He couldn’t see their face, but their hand, holding two rolled up bundles of socks, floated unsteadily over the other clothes for just a moment. If he didn’t know them as well as he did, he wouldn’t have caught it. “Just a hunt, mitt Walter.”

At that, Walter sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. He watched as they started packing more clothes. “Lot of stuff for a jaunt in the woods,” he said.

“Long jaunt,” they replied.

“I think if it’s long it ain’t a jaunt anymore, mate.”

They shrugged, humming. Now Walter was getting a little bothered. He and Hound, they had their own lives, their own things they did, outside of each other. But they usually had an idea what the other was up to; Bloodhound usually knew if he and Mary went out drinking, and he usually knew if they were on a hunt or something, that kind of thing. Being open and blunt had come naturally to their relationship. Walter didn’t expect perfect transparency all the time, but with the gear they were packing, and that they were suddenly avoiding the subject-well, it didn’t settle right with him. “You ain’t going to the woods, are ya.”

They glanced back. “What? I am.”

“These woods?” He gestured out the window at the surrounding forest.

“Ja.”

“Bloodhound.” He said, gathering their attention. He rarely used their full name anymore. When he had their eyes, he pointedly looked at their packing. “D’ya think I’m stupid?”

Their eyes got suddenly wide, and they held up their hands, waving them quickly. “What! N-no! No, no, no. Never. Where is this coming from?!”

Again, he gestured at their packing. “I can do basic math mate. We’ve gone huntin’ together, what, dozen or more times now? For you, that’s two weeks of clothes, and you got two back-up inhalers, so you’re plannin’ on being somewhere pretty far out. And that’s your big pack. The one you literally told me you only take if you’re going out longer than a week. So, you’re up to something.” He looked at them, realizing it as he said it. “And you were going to totally lie to me about it.”

They had frozen, hand covering their mouth. Those pretty green eyes all wide with a kind of expression Walter didn’t have a word for, besides maybe guilty. It almost made him feel bad, but that was just because it was Bloodhound. He scooted out of bed now, standing at the same height as them and crossing his arms over his chest. “What the hell, Hound?”

They visibly swallowed, scrunching up at the shoulders. “Um…I…” He waited. “I’m sorry,” they said at last, quietly.

“Uh-huh. You really didn’t expect me to say anything? You’re literally right there,” he nodded toward the table.

“I, um. I didn’t realize um.” They winced, hugging themself. “I…did not think you would pay that much attention.”

He rolled his eyes. “Your arse is great love, but not quite that distracting.”

They snorted, almost laughed. They turned away to keep putting together clothes; Walter said nothing because he’d figured out a while ago that Bloodhound preferred doing something with their hands when trying to have any sort of serious talk. And this was one of their more serious ones; Walter was really trying not to think about it too much, but the fact of the matter was they were hiding something, and they were lying about it. The more he thought about the lying, the more ruffled he got.

“I’m going to Talos.” They said, finally.

“Talos!” Walter exclaimed. “Hound, what the hell, mate?!” He didn’t need to add the reason behind the what the hell. Describing Talos as dangerous right now was an understatement.

They sighed. “Aaand that’s why I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“That makes it worse, you know?” He felt his temper flick on, suddenly mad as a cut snake. “We’re you seriously going to wait until, what, you were planet side and could be gone doing whatever the hell it is you’re wanting to do so I couldn’t stop you?”

Their silence betrayed the truth: that was exactly what they were going to do.

“Un-fucking believable.” Walter didn’t realize it, but he was raising his voice. “I’m your partner, aren’t I? What if you were hurt? Or went missing, and I couldn’t find your sorry arse?”

“Walter I-”

“No!” He swiped his shirt off the floor, pulling it on and walking past them to get his pants.

They stepped in front of the coat rack by the door. “Walter!”

He reigned in his voice just enough to stop himself from straight up shouting in their face, giving a barely controlled rumble of a “no, Hound.” He didn’t have the wherewithal to explain further how much he needed air, right now. He weaved around them, grabbed his coat off the rack so quickly it started rocking in place, and threw it over his shoulders. “I-fuck.” He looked at them, really looked at them for a second; their hands gathered up around their chest, their eyes not moving a centimeter from his face. They were scared. The madness deflated, enough that he could take a deep, steadying breath, and calmly button up his coat and pull up the hood. “I need a minute, Bloodhound.”

They watched him with some amount of caution, then slowly nodded. Their voice was soft when they spoke. “Be careful. The river could flood.”

“Yeah.” He stepped out of the door and managed not to slam it. His boots were on the porch, protected by the long eaves of the house. He pulled them on, tied them, and started walking, the sticky squelch of mud following each step.

He didn’t get mad often. Not like this, at least, at people he really cared about. Always hated the feeling, hated the ick it spread through his limbs. He could never understand how Mags handled it roaring through her all the time, but that was probably why they had gotten along. Neither of them were exactly good but they balanced each other’s worst traits. And they weren’t always good mates to each other, hindsight let him admit that, but they always looked out for each other regardless. And thinking about that, right now, made him ache.

Used to be, if they weren’t living together, he could drop by her place after a row with whatever partner he had at the time. She’d hand him a beer and let him scream his head off if he wanted to, kick furniture. One time he dented her wall (and broke his hand) over a girlfriend that cheated on him. He let her do the same, though that only happened a couple of times since Mags, to quote, “don’t think with my teke.”

He wasn’t such a hot head anymore. Learned how to deal with his temper when it did rise up, like right now. But damn did it make him miss Mags. It was better than thinking about Bloodhound right now. He loved them, he really did, but lying was probably the thing he hated the most in any kind of relationship. He probably shouldn’t have snapped, or at least asked them why they were going before he did. But what was done was done, and he’d gotten out before saying or doing something he’d really regret.

He changed course toward the river. He and Bloodhound had looked at it during rainstorms before, from a far distance. Ketil was probably there anyway, watching from up in a tree with a walkie-talkie and a whistle, ready to radio the village in case of a flash flood; the whistle was for anyone nearby that might miss a broadcast. Ketil himself put trust in the sturdy oak tree he perched in.

As he thought, Ketil was there, and upon seeing Walter, waved. Walter waved back. They didn’t talk, they never did, and most of the village thought he couldn’t understand them anyway. So, he settled against a tree a few paces ahead of Ketil. The water was high, over the riverbank but just barely. Brown water, churning rapidly, even faster under the surface. He picked up a stick, chucked it in the water, and watched it vanish in a blink, not emerging again until it was several dozen yards downstream. He shivered and pulled his hood further over his head.

He wasn’t scared of much in life, but losing Bloodhound and falling into that stream were high up on his list.

He wasn’t sure how long he was standing out there, but he figured it must have been a while when he heard footsteps and looked back to see Bloodhound. He was right, at least; the walk, some fresh air and time to think, it had tempered his anger considerably. Still felt raw, though. “Hey, Hound.”

Bloodhound nodded to him, then looked up at Ketil and nodded to the side, indicating they should walk away from prying ears. Walter nodded and walked alongside them until they were a good hundred yards away, not out of eyesight, considering the river, but out of earshot. They stood and faced each other. Bloodhound had dressed quickly, shoving pajama pants into boots and probably not wearing a shirt under their long coat. In the overcast light, he could see they’d cried. That hurt.

“I should not have tried to lie to you.” They said, surprising him. They hadn’t had a lot of arguments, and he was pretty sure nothing like this before, but Bloodhound tended not to apologize first regardless.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Walter replied.

They shook their head. “Don’t. It was understandable.” They cleared their throat. “And I will admit made me realize ah, how horrible my idea was.”

He almost laughed. “Maybe. Still.”

They shrugged. Shifted their feet. “I…I did not want to tell you because I didn’t want you to worry, and because I thought if you knew I was going to Talos…you’d try and talk me out of it.”

Walter thought on that. “You’re not wrong love. But ya ever consider I’d want to know why, first?”

“The why. Yes.” They actually did laugh, a little puff of it. “You always ask. I am foolish to think you would not. There is a place, deep on Talos, that I want to go to. That I am going to go to, before it is gone, if it is still there. A cave.”

Walter raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It was a good place for me. For…for my family.” They held out their hands, scarred and becoming ruddy from the rare Solace chill. “My mother, father, uncle and I, we all went there when I was very little. It was the only time they ever all got along, I actually remember it because of that. And Uncle Artur took me every year after they passed. He said it was spiritually important. And some other things I do not quite remember.” They frowned, not looking at him entirely. “I wish I would have listened better.”

Walter closed his eyes. Of course, they had a good reason to go to Talos, it was Bloodhound. “Jesus, Houndy. I’d never stop you from doing something like that.”

They took a deep breath, tucking their hands into their pockets as the rain began to increase. “I realize that now. I don’t know where I got the idea that you would, really.” They said this with a nervous chitter to their voice, gripping at the insides of their pockets. “And I apologize for it. I did not want you to worry, and I did the opposite. I hid, instead of talk. This whole argument is because I’m stupid.”

“Quit that.” Walter said on reflex.

“I think I can call myself stupid this time.”

Walter pretended to mull it over. “Yeah, alright, this round you earned it. And I’m a bit of a dick.”

“Shush. You, ah, what’s the term? You freaked out, but I…was telling you I’m going to run off to an exploding planet on my own, so, fair!”

He finally did laugh. “Yeah, alright! I think we’re both, y’know, reactin’ alright for the situation.” He felt lighter. This whole thing was stupid, and Bloodhound always learned, and he hoped he could say the same for himself. So, he re-routed his focus. “Alright. So, you wanna go on a dangerous excursion to visit a cave on Talos. Nothin’ else?”

“Basically.” They said. “I stopped visiting so frequently after…after my uncle died. I try not to think of it too much, which is why I never said anything before. It is one of the few places in my life that has only good memories. Only one, really.” They smiled, but it was pained. “I realized recently how long it has been since I went. Many years. So, I want to. I need to go. One last time.”

Walter frowned, raising a hand up to their cheek where he gently brushed his thumb over the distinct, aged scars that spread over most of their face, like little bolts of lightning. He made his decision before he spoke. “I’m coming with you. You can go in the cave alone if you want, but wherever the hell you’re going on this trip, I’m one step behind you, Houndy.”

Tears started welling up in their eyes again; they did their best to blink them away. “I…it is a very long, dangerous trip, Walter.”

“All more reason for me to go, mate.” He said. “It’s one thing to go runnin’ off for, what, a week?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks, on your own in some critter infested hellscape ya know like the back of your hand when it’s stable. But it ain’t stable anymore, mate. If something happens, I don’t like the idea of you facin’ it alone. Even though you can kick everybody’s ass three ways to Sunday.”

They held his hand against their face and grabbed his other with their free hand. “I…You make a good point. Come with me, ja?” They smiled, just slightly. “Even if it’s mostly walking and freezing, two weeks with you, and the cave…perhaps it would make a good final memory for the place.”

He returned the smile, not saying how much he was not looking forward to the snow, but being part of a good memory for Bloodhound made up for it. Besides, he was always looking for something new to try. He pulled them closer, kissing their forehead then resting his against theirs. “Let’s do it. Make a proper plan and shit.” He glanced to the side. “After we get back to the house.”

Bloodhound glanced with him, at the river that was suddenly pouring over the ground, visibly rising in front of their eyes. “Hm. Yep. House first.” They held his hand firmly and, together, they ran, Ketil’s whistle echoing behind them.

--

The ensuing flash flood gave the couple ample time to plan together, jokingly calling the trip ‘The Expedition’. The cave was a little over a week’s travel from New Dawn, meaning two weeks of travel there and back. Bloodhound was originally going to cut through a meadow that would take a day off but conceded to Walter’s insistence of the path around it, as the area was less and less stable since Hammond started mining. It added a day of travel, but it’d be worth the peace of mind, even with Bloodhound whinging that the clearing was just fine and wasn’t like it would be a lava pit. Walter was firm, though, after looking at the other map of Hammond mining centers outside of New Dawn.

The biggest hazard, outside of that and some minor earthquakes, would be the freezing weather, and prowlers, but to Walter and Bloodhound, they were speedbumps. Goliaths were hibernating this time of year, so they didn’t have to worry about those either. Walter wasn’t looking forward to snow, he’d never hiked in it really, but, hell. They were out on an adventure at this point. They set themselves up to leave that weekend when the weather was supposed to be reasonable.

He told Maggie about the trip on the dropship. She looked at him like he said he’d decided to take up knitting. “You are goin’ on a hike through the snow on an exploding planet?”

“That hard to believe?”

She snorted. “Ain’t hard to believe you’d go on some expedition for a new piece, nah. Snow’s catchin’ me though.”

He glared. “They aren’t a new piece, Mags.”

“Mhm. You come back in one piece after spendin’ two weeks freezing your kiwis off in the woods, I’ll believe ya. Hell, I’ll dance a jig.”

“Bet on that?”

“Not on your life, cunt.”

He snorted, leaning against the wall beside her. It’d never be like it used to, but they had started getting along better since he read that bloody letter she sent before she was supposed to die, technically for the second time. They’d gotten a little chummy, he supposed, though it was hard not to when you know each other practically from the cradle. It was easy to fall back into step sometimes. It was also easy to notice new things, like the pin on the inside of Maggie’s jacket when she pulled it back to grab her pack of smokes from the inside pocket. “What’s that?”

“Huh?” She nudged him, holding the cigarette between her lips. He tossed her his lighter; the Syndicate would let her buy cigarettes in prison, and smoke them on the ship, but wouldn’t ever give her a light.

“The pin, mate.” He nodded. “New one.”

She lit her cigarette. “Eh, found it on the ground.”

“What’s it say?” She opened her jacket again, thumb obscuring the bottom half of the pin. It was blue, with VIOLENCE on it in big letters. He nodded and she closed her jacket again. Bullshit you found that on the ground, he thought. Syndicate didn’t let her have any of her normal clothes in the prison, and no way they’d let anything vaguely sharp in there, either. In the Games? Pshaw, they combed all of their maps.

“Wanna make a bet, Mags?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’re you on about, Wally?”

He thought for a second. “I come back in one piece, you tell me where ya really got that pin.”

“Hmph.” She looked thoughtful. Mags always liked a good wager. “I’ll make a bet with you, but not on that. I’ll tell you where I got it if you bring me somethin’ I’ve never seen before. If you don’t, I’m tellin’ your little sweetheart ‘bout that time in Matakana.”

“They already know you saved my stupid arse.”

“No, the other time. With the spandex shorts.”

Walter’s eyes widened. He wasn’t embarrassed about much…but that story still made him want to crawl in a hole. What had Mags never seen before that was on Talos? Probably a plant or something. If they were (un)lucky, they could run into a goliath, he could get a horn. There were some other critters around too, though. Probably could get a trophy somewhere. He glanced at her again, at her jacket, getting an inkling that there was something there. Walter was a curious man, and prone to taking risks that wouldn’t necessarily pay off. So, he held out his hand. “Alright, bet.”

They shook on it.

That weekend he and Bloodhound were on a transport to New Dawn. They each had large packs with a few changes of clothes, enough rations for three weeks, flashlights, headlamps, solar batteries, flare gun, tents, sleeping bags, a gun each, bullets, hunting knives, climbing gear, the list went on. Artur stayed on Solace; rarely did Bloodhound leave him behind, but there was quite frankly no room for him in the tent, and it got too cold at night to leave him outside. And he would fuss if he felt Walter wasn’t walking fast enough.

They hit New Dawn and had an easy time crossing the destroyed city into the nearby wilderness. There they put on all the gear they would need; thick thermal pants, boots, fur lined coats, hats, gloves. Bloodhound was essentially wearing thicker versions of their usual Apex gear, minus some of the body armor. It was winter on Talos, and even with it fracturing at the seams, spurting lava into the most unlikely places, it was freezing-arse cold.

“Regretting this already?” They teased him lightly.

“Naw, why’d you say that?” He stamped his feet until the boots felt right, then tucked in his pants. He had never worn so many damn clothes in his life.

“You look, hm. Displeased.”

“That’s because it’s freezing.”

He could hear the smile in their voice. “It only gets colder, mitt Walter.”

“Uh huh,” he patted the pockets of his pack, making sure his water was in the side pocket, and his jerky in the other. Then he processed what they said. “Wait it gets colder?!”

Bloodhound laughed aloud. “Let us start the walk.”

Walter shook his head, wondering if he would keep his balls the whole way. “Let ‘The Expedition’ begin, Houndy.”

Chapter Text

Day 1

“Okay,” Walter wheezed, flopping down on his backside by the fire. “I regret it now.”

Bloodhound couldn’t bite down their chuckle. “Want to turn back?”

“Naw, me Mum didn’t raise a sook.” He inhaled deeply and coughed. “Jesus, it feels like someone poured snow in me bloody lungs, mate!”

“Ja. I think there technically is, considering the air.” They shrugged. They were in their element on Talos. Walter, well, Walter had hunted in the snow with them once or twice, but it was nothing like this, deep in the woods without even a glimmer of light from New Dawn. They’d never needed all this gear, and he’d never had to walk so many miles in snow. He could feel that hot burn in his calves and thighs and knew he’d be sore as hell tomorrow, and that was with Bloodhound slowing their own pace, so he didn’t fall too far behind. No wonder they had such killer legs if they did this their whole bloody life. “Do you want to cook or put up the tent?” They asked.

Walter looked at the fire. “I’ll cook.”

Bloodhound didn’t say anything, but with their goggles around their neck, he could see the amusement in their eyes. They set about putting up the tent while he started skinning a rabbit they’d killed earlier, finding the task supremely more difficult with numb fingers. But he managed, got the thing on a spit and started roasting. They sat close together when they ate for warmth as much as affection and quietly reviewed the map. Bloodhound had done all the math and calculations; the trip should take 7 days one way, estimating six to eight hours of walking, breaks, and some hunting and taking into account Walter’s slower speed. They’d stay an additional night or two at the cave, then walk back, which should take maybe a day less than the walk there, since they’d generally be going downhill. At their current pace, they’d keep to schedule. Walter was happier to be with them on this insane hike than not, but he was not excited to become used to not feeling his face.

The map was folded up and put back into Bloodhound’s pack, and then both packs were put in a hollow in the snow the hunter had dug out earlier; the packs were waterproof, so they’d be fine, and they didn’t have to try and sling them up a tree every night to keep supplies away from prowlers. (They were, apparently, unable to sniff out anything under the snow because their noses got too cold, which Walter found interesting).

Walter leapt at the chance to sleep. They both knocked the snow off their boots and stored them in the corner of the tent that was just as freezing as the outside and crawled into some insanely insulated sleeping bags. Walter zipped himself up as far as he could and then wiggled over to Bloodhound. “C’mere you human heater.”

They laughed, their breath a cloud in the light of the lantern that hung from a hook in the center of the tent. “Oh, so now that’s a good thing.”

“Yep!” He cuddled right up to them. “If I could zip these bloody things together-” He stopped, sharing a look with Bloodhound as they both had the same realization. The two climbed out of their sleeping bags, and after some teeth chattering and maneuvering, found if laid out flat so that one zipper was on either side, they could in fact zip up one giant sleeping bag. When that was done, they climbed back in and had a real cuddle, arms wrapped around each other. Walter might have made a joke about his little human heater again, or something about their freezing cold hands, but the moment the two of them were settled comfortably he was out like a light.

When he woke up, he could feel sore muscles from his ankles to his asscheeks.

This was going to be a long walk.

Day 2

They were making good time. Walter was sore as hell, but it was that good kind of hurt, and he was keeping a lot better pace with Bloodhound. Or maybe they were keeping a lot better pace with him. Eh, either way. It was a lot of walking, and a lot of quiet because he didn’t really wanna open up his mouth and let any more cold in, but it was pretty. Mountains skinny and fat, with rings of clouds obscuring their peaks. Snow up to their thighs in some places, much more than he’d ever thought there could be in one place, it followed the contours of the earth like a blanket. And when the sun started coming down? It was like watching glittering, multicolored diamonds.

They made camp on a slab of rock under a tree, mostly absent from snow. Walter felt his neck and winced. “The bloody hell? It feels like I’ve got a sunburn!”

Bloodhound looked over. “That is because you do. Have you not been using the sunscreen I gave you?”

Walter looked over, confused. “There ain’t any sun, mate! I mean, there’s sun, but we got all this gear…”

“Everywhere but your neck and some of your face. It reflects off the snow, Walter.”

He paused. “Ooooh.”

“Heimskr man.” They chided, reaching into their pack and pulling out a teabag. They put a small pot of snow over the fire, and once it was boiling water, added the bag and soon set it aside to cool. “At least you’ve been wearing your goggles. You can go snow blind, you know. I told you about that, too.”

He cleared his throat. He was glad that he had been wearing them, though he hadn’t given the idea of the snow making him fucking blind a thought, he just didn’t like his good eye feeling like a snowball jabbed in his head. “Yep, you did.” Note to self: listen more when Houndy’s talkin’ about shit that can kill you.

Bloodhound took out a roll of bandages, pulled out a certain length, and cut them with their knife, then dropped the bandages in the tea, let it soak as they ate dinner, then pulled and wrung them out. “Come here, mitt love.”

Walter came closer, and they started wrapping the bandage around his neck, where the burn was the worst. “Lemme guess, one of your home remedies?”

“Mhm,” they hummed. “Keep it on overnight and the sunburn will be much better. And wear your sunscreen.” They punctuated this point by snapping the bandage lightly after making sure it was snug.

“Kinky,” Walter muttered.

They whacked his chest. “You wish.”

By next morning, Walter’s sunburn was a very weird tan line, and he made damn sure he put on sunscreen. His asscheeks were not as sore as the morning before. He counted it as progress.

Day 3

One of the things Walter figured out about Bloodhound early on in their relationship, before they were more than friends, was that they had a terrible sweet tooth. If you wanted candy, Bloodhound had it on them, always. Their favorite was salty black licorice, which was the only thing they and Maggie agreed on, closely followed by chocolate paired with pretty much anything. But they’d throw anything in that chest rig of theirs as long as it was primarily made of sugar and generally nonperishable.

So, when the two of them settled down for camp on their third night, Walter was unsurprised when they pulled out a box of Sweetarts. “Gonna spoil your dinner Houndy,” he tsked jokingly, poking at the pot of beans and hotdogs over the fire.

They rolled their eyes, popping one of the round, colorful candies into their mouth and looking up. Walter followed their sight, drinking in the endless stars. No words were needed for ‘em, really. The nature had always been his favorite part of roughing it back on Salvo, and that sentiment remained on Talos. Bloodhound could probably spin a worthy description with that poetic tongue of theirs, but they didn’t feel the need to try. The sky spoke for itself.

Walter was pulled from his trance by a nudge to his shoulder. He looked over at Bloodhound. They held out their closed fist, knuckles ruddy from the cold. He raised an eyebrow and held out his hand flat. They dropped a single Sweetart into his palm. “A sweet-tart for my sweet-heart,” they said, immediately bursting into giggles.

He snorted, then laughed, feeling a fuzzy kind of warmth in his chest. “Come ova here, you silly goose.” He said, guiding their head over for a quick peck on the lips. They smiled into it, then laid their head on his shoulder. He popped the candy in his mouth, beaming up at the sky. Nature was always his favorite part of roughing it, yeah. But sitting next to them, their head on his shoulder, and the tart sugar on his tongue, he decided nature was second favorite, next to this.

Day 4

By the fourth day, Walter didn’t hate waking up in a tent that was coated in frost on the outside. He was actually…starting to like it, not just because he was there with Bloodhound, or because he could see how happy they were when they checked the map each night and saw how well they were progressing. There was a kind of rugged appeal to this whole thing. Huge heavy packs, geared up to their eyeballs, pulling out icepicks to traverse steep terrain and climb more than one rockface, feeling the burn in his legs, his lungs, his face, his ass. It was the only heat he felt at all, besides the hand warmers in his pockets and the sides of his boots that eventually ran cold. But just doing it was enough for him to feel manly as fuck. And sometimes a man just liked feeling manly as fuck.

They didn’t walk as long that day, setting up camp a ways up a hill, then walking back down with the intent to get a deer so they could save some rations, have a little bit of a feast when they got to the cave. The couple hunted with a bow and arrow like Walter recalled doing with his old man, but with the added difficulty of moving in ankle-deep snow without huffing for air so loud the deer were startled. He never understood how Bloodhound managed this with their fucked up lungs. Maybe it was the mask? He spotted the doe Bloodhound had tracked ahead and readied his bow.

 He managed to get a shot in, but Bloodhound had to take it down with their own bow. All in all, the beastie was a few hundred yards away, and they only made it halfway there before a pack of prowlers appeared, ready to take the kill for themselves.

“Finally, some excitement!” He exclaimed, pulling out his hunting knife.

“You and your excitement,” snapped Bloodhound, though it was humorous.

He took a swipe at a prowler, which grabbed onto his metal arm. Only made it easier to stab at the bloody thing. “Don’t act like you don’t love it!”

They didn’t respond, given there was a prowler trying to swallow their hatchet. Three in the pack in total; Walter got rid of the one on his arm swiftly, and Bloodhound flung the one after their weapon off, rolled out of the way and got a very impressive shot through its eye with their bow. The last was biggest and most brutal, requiring a good few rolls out of the way of sharp claws from both of them, but damn, was it invigorating! Walter played bait, waving his prosthetic arm around, throwing snowballs and making noise until the prowler decided he was the most annoying and therefore first to die. Bloodhound took the opportunity to leap upon the beast’s back, giving Walter a flashback of the night they had gone on a hunt friends and left lovers.

The prowler swung around, trying to buck Bloodhound off, but it wasn’t their first time riding a giant mammal intent on their demise. They held on, Walter ready with the 30-30 he’d packed in case. They wrapped their arms around its neck, took the blunt end of their hatchet, and whacked the prowler on the top of the head, between the eyes. This dazed it enough to stumble. Bloodhound then moved their arm around its head, under the jaw, and slid the blade of their hatchet across the animal’s neck. On prowlers, the jugular vein was massive, and Bloodhound knew just where it was. That meant horror-movie levels of stinking blood spewing across the snow and the trees, and some on Walter, but it was also a reasonably swift death for the prowler, which quickly fell to its side.

Bloodhound jumped off the animal before it hit the ground, landing on their feet. Their masked breathing was loud and labored. They wiped the blade of their hatchet off on their pants, but Walter could hardly see where. Their boots, ankles, and the arm they had wrapped around the prowler’s jaw were all stained a vibrant red, kin to their hair that had come half undone from its bun. Chunks and flyaways fell around their ears and over their goggles, which they lifted up, surveying the mess with sharp eyes. With some effort, they took a great big inhale of air, exhaled noisily, and looked at Walter. The skin around their eyes crinkled, and they said breathily, “that was pretty fun.”

Walter grinned, chest swelling with pride and love for the crazy bastard standing before him. “That was hot as hell, Houndy.”

They pulled their mask down, showing cheeks that were rosy, and he suspected it wasn’t just because of the exercise. “Not now, mitt Walter,” they half laughed, half wheezed, shaking the inhaler and taking a puff from it. They spoke while holding their breath. “Dress the deer, ja?”

“With pleasure.” He moved past the prowler carcasses, other prowlers and wildlife would take care of them just fine. The deer needed to be dressed and then hung quickly if they wanted the meat to be any good. He knelt down, dug his knife into the deer’s gut, and did just that, reciting a prayer in his head that Bloodhound always said after a kill. He wasn’t religious himself, but he had come to find the practice kind of calming, and he knew it was important to them, even if they never asked him to do it. Allfather, may this slatra glorify you, may this animal rest in your hall for the einherjar’s hunts, and may it fall painlessly for their fests. It was him thinking the prayer, but in his head, he always heard Bloodhound’s voice.

After dressing, Bloodhound helped him lug the deer onto a tarp with ropes attached, which would make sure no weird microscopic beasties got on the inside of the deer. Bloodhound tried to help Walter drag it, but he gently whacked their hands away. “Such a gentleman,” they joked.

“Can you tell me Mum that?” He joked back. They’d done the heavy lifting in the earlier fight, so he’d do his now. Once the deer was back at camp, they hung it far out of the reach of any other critters. Bloodhound would cut it up into what was manageable for a couple of game bags the next day. In the meantime, they ate, zipped up their two-person sleeping bag, and were dead to the world soon as the lantern was off.

Chapter Text

Day 5

They left late that day because Bloodhound wanted to make sure the deer had fully gone through rigor mortis. “I do not wish to consume shoe leather,” they told Walter, who had absolutely no issue with staying in place a few extra hours. In fact, he ended up falling back asleep in the sleeping bag until Bloodhound woke him up, having bagged the deer and cleaned up the whole camp, minus the tent. “It is the time to go sleepy beauty,” they sang gently.

“Wha?” He half squinted, sniffing, processing his existence, the cold, the world. The fact the trip wasn’t even half over, and he could feel all of his muscles. “Fuck me, my ass.”

They smirked. “Well, you did complain you needed to start doing squats again. Consider this a head start?”

He stared at them with half-lidded eyes and blew air between his lips, making a raspberry noise. “Funny, possum.” He pulled himself out of his cocoon of warmth, getting his boots on first. He turned around to start unzipping the sleeping bags. The moment he touched the zipper, Bloodhound smacked his butt as hard as they could. He couldn’t do much more than yelp in surprise before they’d managed to leap out of the tent. They even had the door closed before he turned around. He stared, hand on stinging butt cheek, and slowly shook his head. He was gonna get them back.

He rolled up both sleeping bags quickly and got dressed in all of his gear besides his gloves, needing more nimble fingers to take down the tent. Bloodhound was bent over, looking for something in their pack. He approached quickly, wound back his arm, and then swatted at empty air when they jumped to the side. They turned and looked at him; their respirator was on, but he could see the mischief in their eyes. “Almost, mitt Walter.” They teased, bouncing away when he tried again. “Good attempt!”

“I’m gonna smack that butt, Houndy.” Walter said with determination.

“Perhaps,” they said. “But for now, we are wasting time. We should finish packing the tent.”

He huffed but considering the late start, they had a point. Butt smacks would be shelved. For now.

They cleaned up quickly, Bloodhound handing him a chunk of cooked deer to eat as they walked. With a few extra hours of sleep in him, Walter made better time than he had before. Today they would reach the meadow that Bloodhound had wanted to cut through, and which they were, again, badgering him to cut through. He remembered one of the older people in the village, Gerda, telling him one of their nicknames as a child was the Norse equivalent of ‘pest’. She said they had grown out of it.

Moments like this, Walter would, with some affection, argue otherwise.

The ground began to rumble occasionally, taking his thoughts away from how he was going to achieve his butt smacking goal. It had happened before, but never hard enough to be notable, by Talos standards. And as they walked on there was less and less snow until there was none at all. A great expanse of mostly dirt was exposed. Still frozen, judging by the sound when Bloodhound hit the dirt with their heel, but snow free.

Within another couple hundred yards, Walter could see the wavering lines in the air, and for the first time in five days, he took off his gloves, and pulled off the hood of his jacket and his goggles. They were climbing an incline, one which would peak and then dip gently into a meadow. As Bloodhound had (repeatedly) explained, one could cut through the meadow and walk a few miles and be at the base of the mountain that held the cave they wanted to see. Then it was a simple climb up, eliminating a day or more of travel. The route Walter had, and still, insisted on, meant following the peak to a natural land bridge that curved over the meadow and then became a wide but winding trail between some smaller mountains.

When the couple reached the top of the peak, jackets, for once, unzipped, they looked at what was supposed to be a meadow, and was now a literal pit of lava. They both just stared at it. Then Walter looked at his partner.

“Not a word,” they said evenly, and turned to follow the land bridge.

Though the lava river below them provided a surprising amount of light, the two had to break out headlamps the deeper into night they got. The trail was indeed wide, but there were narrow parts that had Walter’s blood pumping, and with all the lava, he was maybe a little more anxious than he’d like to admit. It was nice to walk with his jacket around his waist for once, though. They stopped at a halfway point under an overhang of rock that looked over the molten meadow. Camp was made, deer was cooked, and gear stored in the back, cooler part of the cave. It wasn’t actually all that hot where they were but compared to the tundra they’d been traversing the past five or six days, it was balmy. Bloodhound stared moodily at the meadow below, as if they blamed it for deciding to become a lava pit.

“Sorry about the meadow, Houndy.” Walter said lightly, thinking some of those good memories were lost, seeing it all, well, un-meadow-y now.

He saw the tilt of their head when he spoke, and heard the deep inhale, hold, and slow exhale, the kind of sigh that almost took a half minute. “I hear your worry, Walter; don’t. I was very fond of the meadow. It had flowers that grew through the winter that I was hoping to show you.” They half turned to look at him, backlit by the faint red glow from below. “But I’m mostly annoyed you were right.”

He eased up his shoulders at that, smiling. “Ol’ Houndy admitting I’m right! Novel.”

“Shush.” They walked over, pausing by him, regarding him with one of their looks he hadn’t quite figured out yet. They reached up and ran their fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp as they smoothed it. “You’re so handsome,” they said with matter-of-fact idleness, like he was something as pleasant and constant as the warmth of a summer’s night. And it made Walter Fitzroy blush. A lot. And that made them smile.

“Bit of a stunner there yourself, mate.” He said, though it was more of a flustered mumble.

They slid their hand down to his shoulder and kissed him. He leaned in, pulling them by their waist instinctually. Their other hand was on his other shoulder, then they were tilting their head, catching his lower lip, biting-and then all at once they pulled away with a gasp and notched their head into his neck. Not expecting the change, Walter nearly knocked his head into theirs. “Hound?” He said breathlessly.

He could feel their hot breathing against his skin. They whined. “We can’t.”

Walter frowned. “Aw c’mon, why not?”

“We must rise in six hours.”

Walter groaned petulantly, hands clasped over the small of their back, keeping them close. They could both function on little sleep, but even hot and bothered he could acknowledge there was a minimum with the kind of travel they did every day. “We don’t gooottaaaa.”

They lifted their head. The sexual frustration amped up about 11 points when he saw their face framed in lava-light and flyaway hairs. Fuck he loved when their hair was falling out of its tie. “Elskan, we will need the whole day to reach the base of the climb. The winds tomorrow are to be ferocious, and there is-“

“Isn’t any cover ‘cause were just walkin’ over a sheet of rock so we could fall in the lava.” He finished.

“Or several hundred feet to the ground on the other side.” They sighed. “Exactly.”

Walter was really kicking himself for sleeping in right about then. He was half tempted to propose spending the next day and night where they were, but he had studied the map and weather patterns for the month as many times as Bloodhound had. If they weren’t careful, the wind could trap the two of them in the little enclave and either force a retreat or outright kill them, and Walter wasn’t young or dumb enough to risk his life in order to avoid blue balls.

He finally let them go, feeling a cool breeze between them. “Guess we should get on to bed, yeah?”

They nodded. They looked as disappointed as he felt. But, well. They both knew they could get carried away. “Lets.” They ran their fingers through their hair, pulling it completely out of its tie and then scratched at their head, ruffling the half waves and curls. They both went to bed then. It was warm enough they didn’t have to, but they slept in their jerry-rigged double sleeping bag anyway. Just as they settled Walter remembered his previous goal of the day. He hugged Bloodhound, kissed them, ran a hand down their back like he would if he was going to rub it, then pulled his hand back and smacked their butt, hard.

They yipped and whacked him in the chest as he cackled. “Walter Fitzroy!”

“If I say I’m gonna smack ya butt, Houndy, I’m gonna smack it.”

They rolled their eyes and flopped their forehead against his chest. “Go to sleep. Heimskr man.”

Despite his earlier frustrations, Walter didn’t need to be told twice.

Day 6

Rising early was the right call.

The winds roared like a goliath and carried stinging snowflakes that felt like they were branding Walter’s cheeks every time they hit his face, which was basically constant until he was too numb to feel them. He and Bloodhound were walking on a long slab of rock, connected by rope tied around their waists so they didn’t lose one another if the winds (or more accurately, the blizzard) got worse. They leaned against the wind and watched each and every step they took. The left side of the bridge was fraught with black ice, while the right, due to the heat from the lava, was wet and slick enough Walter tripped twice within the first hour of walking. If it wasn’t for the high red sun of morning, they wouldn’t be able to see too much past their arms.

“This is bloody insane!” He shouted at Bloodhound, who led the way.

“So are you for agreeing to this!” They shouted back, humor intermixed with a rare bit of fear.

“You know,” he puffed, “you know, how they say the test of a relationship is-fuck!” He tripped again, except worse; he had slipped. Tripping, he caught himself pretty immediately with his hands, the grip on his boots keeping him from going ass over teakettle. This time, though, he hit the ice. His foot flung to the left and, being unable to perform a split at his age, the action made his right foot catch and his ass hit the ground and all at once he was hanging over a fall with no visible end through the snow, retching at the rope squeezing his guts.

“Walter!” Bloodhound was yelling, screeching. He didn’t act on thought. Instinct made him grab the rope, pull himself up, pull his mind from the terror of a blizzard shrouded fall and look at Bloodhound; he could only see their head and shoulders, their hands, on the rope. The wall of rock beside him was jagged, uneven. Between it and the rope he had a good grip, ironically better than he did on the path, and the instinct that had him grab the rope made him climb, and then take Bloodhound’s hand, and then he was on the path again, and Bloodhound was gripping him so tightly he felt cartilage in his back crack. He hugged them back, listening to their breathing to make sure he was alive.

After a long pause, he said, “given you had to save my arse, I guess you could’a done this alone just fine, mate.”

Their laugh was breathless, shaking. “I can’t decide if I want to kill you or vomit.”

When he pulled away with an equally unsteady laugh, he saw his hands trembling. Bloodhound’s were steady. “Holy shit, mate.”

“Yeah.” They said.

“H-how did you catch me?”

They swallowed thickly. “I hooked my feet on the other side.”

“You beauty.”

They took barely a minute to rest. Pure necessity kept Walter’s legs steady as they went forward, both more determined than ever to get off the damn bridge. Usually, Walter kept track of how long they were out and about during the days, how far they’d gotten in however many hours; it was an idle way to keep himself from getting bored in the long periods of nothing. This time he didn’t spare a single thought for anything but walking slowly, planting his feet firmly, and checking the knot of his rope periodically, even though it had more than proved itself.

Slabs of rock and a mini peak snuggled up against the side of the mountain they would have to climb tomorrow, forming a shield from the weather where the two exhausted adventurers could finally collapse and take the first real breathes since the very-very-very close call of the morning. Or afternoon; Walter had lost track. It didn’t truly matter, anyway. They had both gotten out of that walk alive. He’d count his blessings.

Being a, perhaps, worryingly practical pair, Bloodhound and Walter set immediately to stripping off their winter clothes and making camp with barely a word between them. They decided to forgo the fire on account of the downright pleasant natural warmth, but they also wanted a warm meal, so Walter proposed seeing if they could cook a piece of deer over lava. Bloodhound agreed, but also dead refused to let Walter near the edge of their shielded path. He was not about to argue and watched them rig up some metal wire and string to dangle a hunk of deer far down over the once-meadow. It worked surprisingly well, and with a bit of warm food in the belly, and security in knowing no one was going to be flung into lava or a death fall by gale-force winds, their respective nerves finally began to settle. Walter got himself situated in the tent, staring at the top while Bloodhound pulled out a book beside him.

Normally they’d read out loud to him while giving him a good-natured ribbing over his shit reading speed (“English is not my mother tongue and yet I read it better than you, Walter Fitzroy.” “You insultin’ the Salvonian education system, mate?” “Yes.” And then they’d both laugh) but Walter wasn’t sure they could keep a steady tone, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear about The Poetics of Aristotle after he had just possibly gotten the closest he’d been to dying in a couple decades.

Really, they both needed a moment alone, something they often did in each other’s company.

Walter didn’t speak until Bloodhound turned on the lantern to keep reading. Actually, he counted 1,000 seconds after that, then cleared his throat. “We’re almost there.”

They paused, slowly laying their book on their belly. They looked at the top of the tent, flat on their back, like he was. “We are,” they said quietly.

“How are ya feelin’ ‘bout it?”

“I am feeling…many emotions.”

“Mixed emotions?” He asked.

They nodded slowly. “Ja. Ja, mixed emotions. Mostly good ones. Good…good memories.” They breathed deeply, shakily. “But damn, Walter.”

He tilted his head over to look at them. Pert nose, haphazard hair, half-lidded eyes, and lips chapped by the cold no matter how much ChapStick and Vaseline they lathered on them. It wasn’t until after he was back on the path that he thought he might not ever see them again. “Yeah. But you saved my ass. It’s over. It’s done.”

Their mouth opened like they intended to argue, but they stopped the thought. “It is,” they said. “I do not want to take that path back, though.”

“We could take a different one.”

“There is going down the mountain.” Bloodhound said. “But it will take 10 days, give or take.”

“This one’s takin’ seven.” He shrugged. “We packed extra rations. Hunt a bit more and we can manage, yeah?”

They turned their head to look at him now. “You are crazy, Walter.”

“Crazy ‘bout you.” He thought if Bloodhound could roll their eyes any farther at that one, they’d roll right out of their head. “Really, mate. I ain’t exactly keen to go back over it either.”

“Alright.” They chuckled. It was like sunlight cracking their countenance, breaking through the worry they’d been holding on to since they were on the bridge. With a gentle pull on their shirt, he had them snuggled into his side. They were there, and he was there. It was alright.

“Can’t believe your folks did this with you as a kid.” He said, trying to inlay some humor in the statement.

“To be fair, we did it in summer,” they replied, with their own bit of humor, which made Walter feel like he could let his chest relax. “Talos was much warmer before the meltdown. Climate was completely changed after that.”

“Ah. So, your uncle, he took ya in the snow?”

“Mhm. The first time, I was five. Only six months after my parents perished. I did my fair share of walking but,” they chuckled. “He made a sled out of Talosian pine bark, comes off in sheets with a good knife. I was so little I didn’t make a dent in the snow. He was waist deep, pushing me ahead of him.” They chuckled more, eyes trained past him, looking at a memory. “He would rest in the path he made, and I would be on the sled, feet above him. I remember thinking how big I felt. And thinking how funny he looked when he was annoyed with me for chattering.”

“You were a little terror, weren’t you?” Walter looked at them, catching their eyes when they looked away from their remembrances.

“Oh yes.” They said readily, making him laugh. “I had energy and no verbal filter whatsoever. My tongue got me in more trouble than my legs, running from one bit of trouble to the next. But I tried to help whenever Uncle Artur needed it, or anyone else in the village. I think that’s what kept my skin on my hide, so to speak.”

“Endearin’ rascal instead of a nuisance.” Walter mused. He reached with the arm he had wrapped around them, pulling hair out of their face, glancing over the scars that spread from their mouth outward, kind of like spiderwebs. “Y’know, I think we woulda’ gotten along as kids. Theoretically speakin’.”

“We probably would have blown up the planet before Hammond did.” Bloodhound said.

“Ha! Ken oath, mate. Woulda’ shown ya my shed. Filled that thing with explosives.” He popped a finger up as he listed examples. “Classics: gunpowder, magnesium, potassium nitrate, but ‘course I had oodles of other goodies in there. Loved makin’ fireworks, could make some real pretty ones. Copper for blue, potassium for purple. Hundred others but I used those most, easiest to get. Mags was blue, I was purple.”

“I would have guessed the opposite,” they said, idly drawing circles on his chest.

“Yeah, I know! I ‘member bein’ pissed for weeks because blue is my favorite color, damn it! Turned out she was mad she liked a ‘girl color’. Which was weird ‘cause Salvo doesn’t really do the whole gender color thing much. And weirder ‘cause, I mean, it’s Mags. Mags never gave a shit what anybody thought.”

“Except when it came to purple, apparently.”

“Apparently! And now it’s her favorite damn color too.” He rubbed his face. “Oh my God, I’m mad about an argument about firework colors over forty years ago.”

He felt them laugh into the side of his chest. “I still get mad about an argument I had with Arne when we were children-you know, my neighbor? We got in a fight over moss.”

“Moss?”

“I told him moss grows North. He said it grows South. It does not, but he insisted. We got so mad about it we ended up knocking out each other’s teeth. I won because I was right, but also because I only knocked out one of his baby teeth. He knocked out one of my adult teeth.”

Walter nodded. “I wondered why you only had three canines.”

“You paid attention to my canines?”

“They’re weirdly large, mate.”

“This is a fair assessment.”

They continued on the topic of childhood injuries, Bloodhound being one of the few people outside of Salvo who Fuse had found could match him in the quantity of scars gotten before reaching his majority. It was a fun conversation that eased the rest of the weight of the day off of both their shoulders until he was practically asleep. Curled up, facing Bloodhound. They were just as droopy, yet conjured a question Walter just barely caught. "What was it you were going to say, my love, before the winds took you?"

He squinted at nothing in thought. "Uh, it's um...oh, right. I was sayin' uh, you know how they say the test of a relationship is, yknow, travelin' together?"

"Mm. I think that typically refers to those roadtrips. The ones with air conditioning and snacks." They said. 

"We have snacks," he said. 

"We do have snacks," they aknowledged.

Walter yawned, voice a half whisper. "I was just thinkin' with this bloody trip we," he yawned again, letting his eyes fully close. "We passed that test. Think we'll last and all that."

"I think you're right," they mumbled with a soft smile to their voice. 

Less than a moment later, they were both asleep. 

Chapter Text

Day 7

Finally, they would reach their destination. It was all climbing today, climbing with heavy packs and all their gear on, the cold biting harder the further up they went. Though Walter recognized some residual anxiety in Bloodhound’s voice, he still opted to take the lead; while they were both good all-rounders in term of physical ability, Bloodhound’s strength was in their legs and feet, while Walter’s was in his arms and hands-before and after the prosthetic. Pointing this out reassured them somewhat, though what helped them both was tying their waists with rope again.

Walter was a bit unfamiliar with the climb, but it was made significantly easier by footholds placed intermittently, seemingly dug out by a pickaxe or similar. He asked Bloodhound about it when they reached a ledge about halfway up and took a break, but they said the holds had always been there, ever since they could remember. “All them old gods were diggin’ for diamonds,” Walter joked.

“There are not diamonds in these mountains, Walter.” Bloodhound responded.

“It’s a joke, Houndy. Y’know, Minecraft?”

“What’s a Minecraft?”

 “Never mind, love.”

Walter put his hands on his hips, leaning back carefully to look at how much of a climb they had left. Thankfully there were smaller ledges on which to stop as they went, but still they climbed for a good three hours off and on. But after that they finally, finally, reached the mouth of the cave.

Nothing seemed very special about it, though Walter did not voice this thought out loud. It was framed with rock that looked like it had pooled around the narrow entrance in an attempt to create a proper doorway. There were a few meters of rock ahead of it, which he thought of as a porch. The view from the ‘porch’ was mint, though. Could see the spec that was World’s Edge, and if he leaned carefully to the side and looked behind the mountain, he could juuuuust make out a tower of Talos’s capital city. Alcyone, if he remembered right.

“My arms hurt,” Bloodhound huffed the moment they were on steady ground.

“You did mention you needed to start lifting more again. Consider this a head start, mate?” Walter teased.

They pulled up their goggles, so he saw their narrowed eyes, and made a succinct ‘up yours’ gesture with their arm.

Walter just grinned.

It wasn’t a moment later that they were heading into the cave. At first, it was just a basic looking cave. Then Bloodhound led him to a narrow crack in the wall. He squeezed his arse through it and was in awe of…another basic cave. So grand. But there was a light at the end of the tunnel, literally. When they got to that light, another narrow passing point, he saw frost around the edges.

This time he squeezed through and was in actual awe.

Huge spikes came from the walls. Longer than ten men stacked head to toe, and as big around at the base as boulders, and all made of cool, blue ice. The same ice covered every surface of the ginormous space, following the curves and crevices of the rock similarly to how the snow outside followed the contours of Talos’s earthen surface. The ceiling stretched above him, and the pathways within the cave were weaving, spikes of all sizes gathering in clusters on the ground, shooting straight up or dropping from the ceiling. When he stepped on it, he didn’t slip, and when he breathed out in shock, he didn’t see it. It was warm in the cave. Shuck his jacket off immediately kind of warm. But when he reached to touch one of the spikes, it was as cool as the ice that almost killed him the day before.

“Holy shit.” He whispered. The general jangling of clasps and equipment in his pack were loud in this space, the only thing louder being Bloodhound’s masked breathing. He walked forward, standing in a dip of the ice, pathways branching to either side of him around monumental spike clusters. He could barely see the top of the cave. The sides expanded beyond what he could imagine. He turned to look at Bloodhound. He couldn’t see their expression, but he knew they were looking right at him. He spread his arms wide. “Holy shit!”

Their laugh hummed through the ice, echoing like some ethereal music that just made Walter jump in joy or shock or awe or accomplishment-something. He didn’t have a lot of words right then. Bloodhound didn’t seem to have any. They just stood at the entrance, looking around, breathing, laughing. They removed their goggles and mask, which unclasped with a hiss that slithered around the cave. Walter went up, grabbed their face, and kissed them. “We made it!”

They nodded, smiling without restraint in a way Walter really couldn’t recall seeing before, at least not quite like this. There were drying tear streaks down their cheeks. “We did,” they almost whispered. Walter was worried there was something wrong for a moment, Bloodhound usually got as loud as he did when they were excited (and alone), but that thought was pushed away when they leaned forward and kissed him back. Then they laughed into the kiss. Then they pulled away and laughed more, louder, and finally pumped their fists up in the air and shouted, “We made it!”

Walter, feeling particularly enthusiastic to have survived the trip and a bit romantic, scooped Bloodhound up and twirled around, eliciting a shocked and elated squeal. When he placed them back down he finally asked, “so how the bloody hell do these work?” He gestured at the spikes.

They shucked off their coat, tossing it beside the cave entrance like they might have coming home after a long day, and grabbed his hand. “I have had my theories. I think you can guess. But I want to show you something.”

Walter, amused, simply nodded, and allowed himself to be led down the right fork of the path. Spikes grazed the top of his hair, and at one point they had to duck under a spike protruding from where the wall met the floor, so large he wasn’t sure if he could really call it a spike, because the pokey end was hidden in one of the clusters of smaller spikes coming from the ceiling. Were they stalagmites or stalactites? Which one came from the ceiling again? Could he call them either of those things without distinction since they were ice and not rock?

They stopped in a space where the ground was relatively flat, with a clear wall to their backs and a column of spiked ice in front of them. The path left or right was half obscured by gigantic spikes. Bloodhound gestured for him to follow to one of these massive spikes. It rose from the floor at an angle, sort of like a narwhal’s horn when they were poking their heads out of the water. He wasn’t sure why that was what came to mind, but he’d argue it was accurate.

Bloodhound started rubbing at the spike, at which point Walter realized it wasn’t clear blue, but slightly frosted. He used his metal arm, he wasn’t interested in making the other one feel numb. It took a mite of work, but there was soon a small window into blue tinted ice. Something was in it. “Bloody hell?” Walter mumbled, leaning forward and squinting. “Is that a butterfly?!”

“Mhm.” Bloodhound smiled.

Walter put the pieces together in an instant. “The flash freeze. Came up in ‘ere and froze everything in place, right where it was. It’s coolant, not real ice. That’s why it’s blue. Don’t know why it’s all pokey though.”

“The spike part is still a mystery,” they nodded, grinning. “But you are correct.”

“And it insulated the cave?” He said.

“Ja.” They laughed lightly. “Uncle Artur and I figured that out first. Though it took us years to understand it was coolant instead of ice-no one who survived saw it outside of the storage tanks on the base. I walked out with a piece once, little,” they held up their thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Stuck in the grooves of my boot. It never melted. That was when we knew.”

Walter nodded along. The enthusiasm in their voice was infectious, and adorable. “What about the whole spiritual thing?”

They half shrugged, dropping their pack near the wall. “The quiet. The unexplainable phenomena,” they gestured at the spikes as they said this. “Even before the flash freeze, it was frozen on all sides in the middle of summer, when my parents and Uncle Artur brought me here as a child. Beneath this coolant, there is still ice.”

“That’s fuckin’ mint,” Walter half mumbled, listening, but he’d gone back to scrubbing away ice, realizing there was another butterfly in there. A little white one. “Do you know how many butterflies are in this spike, mate?”

“I know there are quite a few.” They seemed content to let Walter polish ice, taking their sleeping bag from their pack. “Uncle Artur told me this cave was filled with butterflies before the freeze. Another one of the reasons I think he called it spiritual. Thought it was a good place to commune with the Gods, offer praise. When I was young and bored of meditating sometimes I’d-“ They stopped.

Walter looked up from his scrubbing, only to see they weren’t there. Then, suddenly, they were at his side, then they were laying on their back on the floor, sliding back on the opposite side of the spike from him. He paused, watching them disappear beneath a sheet of spikes. They grunted a few times, cursed in Norse, then there was a small pop and uncharacteristically upbeat ‘aha!’. They re-emerged with what was definitely a bottle wrapped in some kind of animal hide and a manic grin. “Whaaaaaaat’s that?” Walter asked.

They pulled the animal hide away. It was a long-necked, clear glass bottle with an equally clear liquid in it. The top was corked and sealed with a gratuitous amount of red wax. They held the bottle by the neck, swinging it gently. “Vooooddkaaaa.” They sang.

Walter stepped back. “Bloody hell, mate! How old is that?”

They giggled, head falling back as they held the bottle to their chest. “I don’t want to do that math!”

“Aw, c’mon!”

They stood with the bottle. “About…well I’m thirty-seven so…ugh I’m thirty seven…”

Walter snorted. “Don’t even start.”

They visibly bit down a smirk, looking at the bottle. “About twenty three years old.”

“Ha, we got a vintage!”

They rolled their eyes. “I suppose…”

“And how did lil’ Houndy get their hands on this, eh?” He nudged them with his elbow. “Klep it from ol’ Uncle’s stash?”

They shook their head. “Nej. This girl I was friends with, she left our village a while ago to get married, her father made vodka and she swiped me a bottle from him. I was supposed to hold on to it until we could go get drunk with some other kids in the woods.” They looked at the bottle fondly. “I stashed it in my pack, I always kept it half ready for a trip. Soon after Uncle Artur and I made a trip to this cave, and I realized I’d brought it with me by accident. He found it and was not happy. Vodka is not a drink for children, Blothundr, and you’re old enough to know better and blah, blah, blah,” they made a talking gesture with their hand. “Ugh, that man could lecture.”

Walter’s chest shook gently with a restrained chuckle. “So I hear.”

“Heh. Well, either way.” They set the bottle snugly in their pack and pulled out their sleeping bag. Walter set down his pack and did the same. “It was an argument, but that time I…made a bet with him.”

Walter raised his eyebrows. “What I heard’a the guy, that doesn’t really seem to be his…style.”

“It wasn’t. He thought bets were childish at best, but like any good Norse he couldn’t resist once in a while, especially if he was sure he’d win.” They grinned as they said this, they and Walter setting up the sleeping bags as they usually did. “I proposed that if I could hide it in the cave in thirty seconds, and he couldn’t find it for the whole two days we were camped here, then when we came back the next time, we would share the bottle.”

Walter sat on the sleeping bags. “You won the bet.”

“I won,” they agreed, and sighed deeply. “I came back the year after he died. I was fifteen. I thought to take it then, drink to him, but it did not feel right. I did not come again for several years…. didn’t feel right then, either.” They shrugged.

“And now it does?” Walter ventured.

They looked at the bottle. “Well…yes. But not tonight. To be honest, I am…very tired.”

Walter let his shoulders relax, and almost immediately it was like a brick had hit his chest. He hadn’t been somewhere completely safe like this in over a week of hiking, hunting, and just bloody surviving. “I’m bushed too.” He said, letting himself flop back onto the sleeping bags. “Ow-sonouvabitch!”

“Perhaps I should remind you this cave only protects us from our enemies, mitt Walter.” Bloodhound said. “Not ourselves.”

Walter closed his eyes, touching the tender spot where head had met the cold, hard coolant floor. The sleeping bags were…not that thick. “Smartass.”

They made a point of gingerly sitting down and slowly laying back beside him. “Dumbass.”

He chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “Love ya. Fuckin’ dickhead.”

They closed their eyes and smiled. “I love you too, Walter.”