Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“STUPID- PATHETIC- HUMANS-!!!!” The Great and Terrible Papyr-Edge. Edge does NOT deal with raccoon problems. Okay- They said it was a thief, not a raccoon, but it was obviously being dramatized! If you call ‘human’ for every wolf monster, no one’s going to believe you! Or- well- what was the human version of that saying? NEVERMIND. Why should he care????
Edge repeatedly kicked a soda can in a back alley, waiting for some supposed thief. Couldn’t they have chosen someone else for this???
Something shuffled underneath one of the dumpsters.
“HA!” The thing flinched at Edge’s voice- “I KNEW IT WAS A RACCOON!” The thing scurried further under the dumpster. Edge walked over to it, bending down to look under it. “YOU’RE JUST A PATHETIC LITTLE FERAL- WHAT THE HELL?!?!??!” Edge got a knife to the face, and he stepped back from the dumpster.
Maybe it was a thief after all.
Still pathetic and little and feral though!
Edge stepped back up to the dumpster, this time more on guard. “I KNOW YOU’RE UNDER THERE! I CAN LIFT THIS THING, YOU KNOW!” Edge heard the thing scuffling. Edge stood there for a moment, before he heard a quiet clang. He sighed in annoyance, and lifted the dumpster up.
And this, children, is why we shouldn’t have storm drains this large. Seriously, a bear could probably fit through that thing.
“DAMN IT.”

…
Nic kicked open the door to his little shack, balancing multiple boxes carefully.
“HELLOOOOOOO, SATAN!” He yelled, dumping the boxes unceremoniously onto the floor. A husky ran up to him. “Aww, aren’t you such a bad little girl~?” Nic gushed, leaning down to scratch at the dog’s ears. “Yes you are, Satan, you’re such a little hellhound~ oh yes, oh, yes, don’t worry. I got some little boxes for you too…” Nic picked up one of the boxes, opening it and going back outside with it. Satan followed. They went over to a makeshift fire pit, Nic leaning down to rearrange some of the stones, and the sticks left from last time. Satan went off to get some more sticks, and when she came back, Nic pet her affectionately and took the sticks, arranging them in the firepit and lighting them with an old zippo lighter. Then he stood back, dusting off his faded trousers. It’d be a few minutes before it was hot enough to cook on, so he figured he might as well start prep. Honestly, it’s amazing the stuff people just throw away…!! He had managed to get a full package of hot dogs- they weren’t even expired, why would someone throw them away?
Not much later, Nic and Satan munched on their food, Nic occasionally reaching down to pet the other.

Edge stormed into the mansion (the mansion, not his mansion, he kept reminding himself), slamming the door hard enough to make the whole frame shake. His usually spotless coat, covered in dirt and bits of garbage, was flung across the room without a second thought. The look on his face was a mix of fury and indignation, like someone had just insulted his entire lineage.
Pact, seated at the kitchen table, glanced up from his food, raising an eyebrow. arms were folded over his chest, and his expression was neutral, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Oh look,” he muttePact, taking a bite of his burger. “Boss is back. How was the big thief hunt?”
Edge shot him a venomous look. “DON’T START WITH ME,” he snapped, dragging a chair out from the table and dropping into it with a heavy thud. “You won’t believe the kind of ridiculous nonsense they had me doing today. Some idiot calls about a ‘thief,’ says it's some sneaky mastermind—gets me all the way across the district—and what do I find? A pathetic little street rat hiding under a dumpster.”
Pact didn’t flinch, calmly chewing his burger. “Uh-huh. So... a raccoon?”“It wasn’t a raccoon!” Edge barked, slamming his fist down on the table. “It was some low-life who thought he could hide from me! They’re out here calling me for this? I’m supposed to be guarding more important things than some alleyway full of trash.”
Pact leaned back, unimpressed. “Well, when you’re the big man in charge, Chief, I guess everyone thinks you’ve got time for every little problem. Sounds like they’re keeping ya on your toes.”
Edge’s face twisted in frustration. “I’m a high-ranking officer! Back home, they would’ve had me handling the security of the capital, not chasing some street-level thief like a glorified rat catcher.” He crossed his arms, fuming.
“At least ya caught it. Woulda been pathetic if it got awayyyyyyyyy… you didn’t catch it?!” Pact asked incredulously, starting to laugh as he read his brother’s expression.
“UGH! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! There was a storm drain under the dumpster, if you must know, and it stabbed me in the eye!”
Pact leaned forward, his laughter growing louder as he struggled to catch his breath. “Wait, wait—stabbed you? So, not only did you get stuck with some low-life thief job, but they actually shanked you and ran?”
Edge shot him a death glare, pointing at the faint cut on the side of his face. “It’s not funny, Pact.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious, Chief,” Pact wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “You went out there all high and mighty—and got stabbed by some sewer rat with a knife and they still got away! You couldn’t write this stuff!”
“I swear, if they call me for one more of these low-tier jobs, I’m going to—” Edge stopped himself, gritting his teeth as Pact’s laughter continued.
Pact finally leaned back, still grinning. “Don’t worry, Chief. I’m sure next time, you’ll get ‘em before they slip through the storm drain. Just maybe watch your eye next time, yeah?”
Edge growled, but this time, the anger wasn’t as sharp. “Next time, I’m dropping the whole damn dumpster on them.”
Pact shook his head, his perma-grin painfully wide. “I’ll bring popcorn. In the meantime…”
Edge groaned, starting to walk away already.
“Go see Pyre!” Pact yelled. “Ya bleedin’!”
“I WAS GOING TO!! I’M NOT THAT STUPID!!! LESS STUPID THAN YOU AT LEAST.”
Edge muttered under his breath, still stewing but not quite as firedt up. “If they call me for something like this again, I swear I’m going to...” His voice trailed off, and he ran a hand through his nonexistent hair. “Whatever. It’s their problem now.”
Pact let out a short laugh as he opened the fridge. “Sure, Chief. Just make sure you don’t let another raccoon slip through your fingers.”
Edge grabbed an apple from the table and chucked it at him, but Pact easily dodged it. Edge went the rest of the way upstairs, knocking on Pyre’s door. He’d known Pyre long enough to notice that he really was as selfless as he advertised.
And part of Edge hated that.
Not because he thought less of Pyre, but because a small, nagging part of him was... jealous. That kind of pure, unwavering selflessness was something Edge had never fully mastered upon entering this world—nor did he think he ever could. Pyre was a constant reminder of how little patience he had, of how much hate was still shoved inside of him.
Not that it mattered. If he went back… The remaining hate would be useful. He shoved the thought aside, however. There was no point in dwelling on something like that.
After a moment, the door creaked open. Edge straightened up, his expression shifting back to neutral. This wasn’t the time to get lost in thoughts about who deserved what.
Pyre opened the door fully, his bright smile immediately lighting up the room. “Edge! What happened to your face?!” he asked, stepping aside to let him in.
Edge grumbled under his breath, but walked inside, hand brushing against the small cut on his cheek. “I just need this patched up. Nothing major.”
“Sure, sure. But you did get stabbed by something, didn’t you?” Pyre grabbed a small first-aid kit from a shelf. “Sit down, tough guy. Let me take a look.”
Edge, still frowning, sank into the nearest chair, allowing Pyre to hover over him. As Pyre rummaged through the kit, humming to himself, Edge let out a sigh. The usual sharpness in his demeanor had softened now that Pyre was fussing over him like a mother hen.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t come to me sooner when this stuff happens,” Pyre said, gently tilting Edge’s chin to get a better look at the cut. His hands were surprisingly steady. “Could’ve avoided that whole ‘infected wound’ situation last time, Nyeheheh.”
Edge rolled his eyes. “I’ve had worse. This is nothing.”
“That’s exactly what you said last time, and look where that got you!” Pyre started cleaning the cut with a soft touch, dabbing at the wound with antiseptic. “I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked making my job harder!”
Edge grunted in response, but the usual snark was absent. It was hard to snap at Pyre when he was being... well, Pyre. The guy never let anything faze him, and it was irritatingly comforting at times like this. For a few moments, the room was filled with the quiet sounds of Pyre working. The bandage was applied with the kind of precision that came from someone who had patched up far worse injuries in the past.
“NYEH. What did happen?” Pyre queried suddenly.
“...Thief.” Though Edge trusted Pyre, he wasn’t quite ready for the amount of teasing he was sure he would get from the happy-go-lucky version of himself. It would seem pathetic even to a (better) person like Pyre.
Pyre, predictably, perked up. “A thief, huh? Oh man, you really do get all the exciting jobs!” His eyes lit up with curiosity, and Edge could practically feel the questions bubbling up. “Was it a big job? A heist? Ooooh, was it one of those ‘phantom thief’ types? You know, the ones that vanish into thin air—poof!”
Edge groaned inwardly. He’d known this was coming. “No,” he said shortly, not looking at Pyre. “It wasn’t that kind of thief.”
Pyre didn’t seem deterred, though. “Not a phantom thief then... So, what, some regular guy? I bet they had some tricks up their sleeve! You get them in the end, right?”
The question hit a nerve, and Edge stiffened even more. He knew Pyre meant well, but the fact that he’d let the thief get away still stung.
Edge’s voice dropped, becoming more guarded. “They slipped away. Down a storm drain. Wasn’t worth the chase.”
For a moment, Pyre didn’t say anything, but Edge could sense the wheels turning in his head.
“Well I’m sure you’ll get them next time! You’re like, super strong, aren’t you. Nyeheheh. Even stronger than the Great Papp-Pyre.”
Edge glanced at Pyre, eyebrow raised.
Pyre puffed out his chest dramatically, grinning from ear to ear. “You heard me! The Great-legendary even-Pyre! Strongest of the strong, fastest of the fast! Nyeheheh.” He flexed an arm with exaggerated bravado before breaking into a laugh. “But even I must bow down to the might of Edge, Thief Hunter Extraordinaire!”
Edge groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’m not playing into this.”
But Pyre, undeterred, continued his performance. “Oh, come on! You’re like the unstoppable force, right? No mere storm drain can stand between you and justice! Next time, you’ll lift that thing like it’s made of paper—wham!” He mimed throwing a storm drain lid aside with ridiculous effort, his whole body moving in a dramatic flourish.
Edge fought to keep his expression neutral, but Pyre’s antics were relentless.
“Nyeheheh, you’ll show that thief what happens when you cross THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE EDGE!” Pyre said, poking Edge’s shoulder as if nudging him into playing along. “Stronger than me, faster than lightning, and no one, not even raccoons, can escape you forever!”
Edge’s lips twitched, fighting back a smile. Pyre had heard the conversation downstairs, that little eavesdropper. He hated to admit it, but Pyre’s relentless optimism was wearing him down. “Yeah, well... next time I’ll catch them before they scurry into the gutter.”
“That’s the spirit!” Pyre clapped him on the back, his grin wide and genuine. “I’ll bring snacks for when you do. We’ll celebrate! Raccoon-proof snacks, just in case.”
Edge let out a long, defeated sigh, but this time there was no edge to it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are, patched up and ready to go!” Pyre sang, clearly pleased with himself.
Both of himselves. He was glad to see Edge so happy.

Chapter Text

The store’s lights buzzed overhead like trapped insects. Fluorescent lights cast everything in uncomfortable clarity—dull produce under timed misting, the hum of refrigeration units, the faint whiff of fertilizer from somewhere nearby. Australis stood in front of a tray of seedlings, skull tilted as he read the tag on a pot of creeping thyme. He liked the quiet parts of stores, forgotten corners.
Eventually, with a packet of seeds in one hand and a smear of soil on his sleeve, he wandered toward the food aisles. His thoughts stayed soft, loose around the edges. At the end of the snacks section, something shifted. Not sound—movement.
A figure. Thin, but not in the way models were. He moved like someone with practice staying invisible. Layers of clothing hung on him, stiff with wear, bunched in strange places. It wasn’t cold. His hair looked slept-in, his posture said he was ready to bolt before anyone could ask why he was there.
Australis slowed. He didn’t know why. Just watched, quiet.
Then—there. A flick of fingers. Too smooth. A snack stick vanished into the folds of a coat, and a mutter under his breath, too quiet to hear.
Australis blinked. Stood still a moment longer. Then he stepped forward.
“Hey,” he said. Soft. Just enough.
The guy spun fast, jaw set. Eyes sharp, hollow. “What,” he snapped. “You following me?”
“No.” Australis met his eyes. “I saw you take that.”
The reaction came quick. “What, you store security now?” he said, voice a harsh hiss. He glanced over to the register and then back. “Gonna write me up for petty theft?”
Australis didn’t move. “You looked hungry.”
“I’m not,” the guy said, too fast. His hand dropped instinctively to the pocket where the food had gone. “This is a survival tax. I’ve earned it.”
“I didn’t say you hadn’t.”
A pause. Sharp silence between them, edged with pride and something harder to name.
“Then turn around,” the guy said. “Act like you didn’t see anything.” His voice held heat, but not fire.
Australis stepped in without closing the space. “I wasn’t going to report you.”
“Oh, great,” he muttered. “You gonna offer me a sandwich? Is this the part where you get to feel better about yourself?”
“I was going to offer to pay for it.”
The guy barked a short laugh. “You think I want your pity?”
For a moment, Australis said nothing. He watched the set of the guy’s shoulders, the way pride held them rigid.
“No,” he said. “I think you’re hungry.”
Something twitched behind the other’s eyes—reflexive, defensive. He smothered it fast.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I don’t.” Australis’ voice stayed level. “But I know what it’s like. When you start telling yourself what doesn’t count as stealing.”
Silence stretched out, austere. Uncomfortable.
“…I’m still keeping it,” the guy muttered.
“I said I’d pay.”
“No. I’m taking it. That’s different. That’s mine.”
Australis nodded once. “All right. If you want anything else, I’m getting groceries. You can come with me.”
The guy looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“What are you even doing here?”
“Looking for basil,” he said. “And potting soil.”
A beat.
“…You garden?”
“Yes.”
A snort. “You sound like a rabbit.”
Australis shrugged. “Rabbits eat well.”
That got no reply. But the guy didn’t leave, either.
When Australis moved on, he followed. One aisle behind. Not speaking. Not asking.
Close enough to keep the food, far enough to pretend it wasn’t about kindness.
The walk back felt longer.
Not in distance, though. Just weight. Grocery bags in one hand, the pot of basil cradled in the other, soil flaking from the rim. He could still feel the stranger’s words sitting somewhere behind his ribs, like smoke caught in a jar. You don’t know anything about me.
Fair enough, good sir.
The mansion came into view just as the sun dipped low, stretching gold light across the porch like something sacred. And there was Pyre—knees tucked up, arms around them, chin resting on one wrist.
He brightened when he saw Australis. “You survived the wilds of suburban commerce.”
“I did.” Australis held up the basil.
Pyre smiled, but not wide. “That’s the good kind. The kind that doesn’t die immediately.”
“It still might,” Australis said gently.
“It still might,” Pyre agreed. His gaze lingered on Australis for a beat too long, studying him.
They stood in the light for a moment, saying nothing more. Then Pyre pushed the door open and Australis followed him inside.
The house was cool. Quiet. That sort of expectant stillness before the chaos remembers to be itself.
“Edge tried to fry rice again,” Pyre offered as they stepped into the kitchen. “The pan didn’t make it.”
“He could’ve waited.”
“He doesn’t believe in patience. Or thermometers.”
Australis set the basil down. His fingers ghosted over the leaves like an apology. Pyre drifted to the counter, not hovering, just... there.
Then came the sound of slippers dragging on the stairs.
Borealis emerged with a half-zipped hoodie and mismatched socks. He blinked once, like the room was too bright for memory.
Then he grinned. “Excellent. You brought meat.”
“There’s no meat in that bag,” Australis said, not looking at him.
“I meant him.” Borealis tilted his head toward Pyre. “You’re basically jerky now, yeah? Bit of salt, low heat. Crackle crackle.”
Australis didn’t respond. He moved to the cabinet and started unpacking. The sound of glass tapping glass. Tea boxes shuffled into line. His silence was defensive—it filled the room with tension.
Borealis shrugged, unbothered. “No one in this house appreciates the classics. You know, cannibalism used to be a perfectly logical winter solution.”
Pyre glanced over, half a scowl. “Do you remember the last time you told that joke and didn’t get banned from leftovers?”
“Nope,” Borealis chirped. “You can’t hold it against me, though. Head trauma. Legally unaccountable.”
Australis closed the cabinet. Quietly.
He never said anything. He didn’t need to.
Borealis drifted off again, muttering about boiling lentils and “nonconsensual roommates.” He didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t get one.
Once he was gone, Pyre leaned against the doorframe. Not relaxed—just perched, thoughtful. “He’s in a mood.”
“He’s always in a mood.”
“Yeah, but it’s the kind of mood where he starts assigning imaginary spice rubs to people’s thighs.”
Australis rinsed his hands and set the pot on the windowsill.
The basil looked better in the light. Everything did.
There was a pause. Pyre shifted, glanced sidelong.
“You okay?”
Australis rinsed his hands. “Someone was stealing food. At the store.”
Pyre straightened slightly. “Did you stop them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you… do anything about it?”
“I paid for it.”
Pyre didn’t answer at first. He watched the water spiral down the drain.
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Australis shut off the tap. “I know.”
Pyre nodded. Something quiet passed between them. Not tension—just recognition. Like standing next to a version of yourself and wondering which of you went first.
“You wanna plant that basil, or should I give it a eulogy now?” Pyre asked eventually.
Australis allowed a faint tug of a smile. “We’ll plant it.”

Chapter Text

The shack didn’t creak—it settled. Like old bones deciding to rest. Nic sat near the front, back against a stack of flattened boxes. One leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. Satan was curled beside him, chin on Nic’s boot, eyes half-closed.
The floor was mosaic in the wrong sense of the word: dirt mostly, though someone had laid down two sheets of plywood that didn’t match. One had bootprints in dried paint, the other had a corner warped from damp. A couple of floor tiles—green and white, 1970s maybe—had been pressed into the soil like someone meant to finish the job and just… didn’t. A cracked crate served as a table, though one leg had been replaced with a brick. The milk jug beside it was clouded plastic, half-full of water that tasted like the hose it came from. The radio in the corner was missing its antenna and most of its buttons. It hadn’t worked in weeks, but Nic hadn’t moved it. It sat there like it might judge him if he did.
Nic chewed the end of a plastic straw. Nothing in it. Just habit. The snack stick from earlier was long gone, devoured in silence. He hadn’t said a word while eating. Neither had Satan.
The dog sighed, tail giving a slow, lazy thump. Nic reached down and scratched behind his ear.
“I know, buddy,” he said. “I should’ve saved you a bite.”
Satan blinked up at him like he knew that wasn’t true and didn’t care.
Nic flicked the straw at the crate. Missed by a mile.
He got up, restless. Pacing in slow circles. Checked the edges of the place like something might’ve changed. It hadn’t. He sat again. Stood. Scrubbed his face with both hands like that could shake loose the thoughts.
That guy—Australis. What was his deal?
Who just pays for food someone else stole and doesn’t make a thing of it?
The words echoed: No. I think you’re hungry.
It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even kindness. Just… noticing. Like it didn’t cost him anything to care. Like he wasn’t waiting for something in return.
Nic hated how that stuck. Hated how soft it felt. Like it was safe. Like maybe he was allowed to take it.
That kind of thing? That got under your skin.
He kicked at the dirt by the door, then crouched, resting his arms on his knees. Satan leaned in and nudged his elbow with his nose. Nic glanced down, smiled faintly.
“I know, I know. I said no more stores with cameras.”
Satan gave a short sneeze, then laid his head on Nic’s arm.
“You’re not wrong,” Nic said, gentler. “I’ve been weird about it. Just… doesn’t make sense, is all.”
The light outside dipped to that golden hour glow, slanting through the cracks in the boards. Dust swirled in the warmth like it had nowhere better to be. Nic’s stomach growled again, same as before. He ignored it.
In the distance, the suburbs shimmered like a mirage. Raised garden beds. Compost bins. Basil in sunny windows. Nic wondered if the guy had planted his yet.
He almost laughed at himself for wondering.
He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, eyes tracing the ceiling.
“It’s not charity if you take it,” he said.
Satan shifted, curled tighter against him.
Nic let the silence settle.
“You’re judging me.” He looked at Satan suspiciously.
Satan gave a low whuff, then stretched and rolled to his feet with a grunt.
The light was fading. Cooler now. Evening settling in like it meant to stay awhile. Nic stayed sitting a little longer, watching dust shift in the air.
Then he stood, brushing off his jeans.
“C’mon. Walkies.”
Satan wagged his tail.
They wandered. No plan, no real destination. Just letting the city do what it did while they kept to the edges. Nic avoided stores—habit now—but slowed near corners, watched faces. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.
Australis hadn’t said where he was going. Didn’t offer anything permanent. Just the food, and that look. Like he saw him. Not in a creepy way. Not even with kindness.
Just… clarity.
Nic hated how it lingered.
He didn’t expect to see him again. But that didn’t stop his eyes from scanning crowds, checking alleys, hovering near streetlights when he’d normally cross the block.
He ended up near the laundromat. It was closed, neon sign still buzzing like a drunk mosquito. The vending machines out front were mostly empty, except for a few stale candy bars and a bottle of something radioactive blue.
Satan sat on his haunches and looked up, patient.
Nic slumped onto the curb.
“I don’t even know what I’d say.”
Satan tilted his head.
“If I saw him again, I mean. That guy. Australis. Whatever his deal is.”
He dug the toe of his shoe into a crack in the pavement. Thought about the bag of food he didn’t ask for. The way the guy hadn’t waited for thanks. Hadn’t even stuck around.
“What kind of name is that, anyway?”
Satan sneezed.
Nic huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t matter.”
They sat a while. Night settled harder. Somewhere down the block, music floated from a second-story window. A saxophone, or something trying to be one.
Nic stood again. Restless. Always. He turned toward the busier streets on impulse. Started walking.