Chapter Text
“Oh Bladie. Did I leave you alone for too long?”
Blade looks up at the woman standing in front of him. He can't remember clearly how he got into this situation, the only thing he's sure of is how dizzy he had begun feeling.
As he looks down he notices a dull knife on his left hand. He's not even left handed. He probably ran out of space on his left forearm, that's why he decided to cut on his right earlier.
He must've cut through a vein. It squirts out blood following the rhythm of his heartbeat. Slow then fast. Erratic. Blade can't really tell how many new injuries he has. He can see the fat layer on some. His arm is too bloody to tell much more.
At least this time he had the decency to put a towel on his lap before his episode started. He can't really tell what color it's supposed to be because of the red mess he's made of it, but an attempt was made.
He drops the knife and sighs like a child who's been caught writing his name on the wall for the tenth time this week. Somewhere he can still hear classic music, Kafka must've left her record player on before going into the bathroom to meet him.
He considers stopping the bleeding then decides against it. Kafka can do it if it's too serious, he can't be bothered to treat his injuries right now.
“I'm not a dog.” He decides to answer her instead.
He's lying. He is basically a dog to her. One who Kafka has carefully trained, who will follow her every command.
He's also the kind of dog that will destroy her belongings if left unattended for too long. Of course in this case he also qualifies as a belonging.
Kafka is Blade's owner in every sense of the word. If she wants him to be a dog he'll bark, if she wants him to be a blade he'll hurt. It's been like that for so long he can barely remember how he was before meeting her.
Was he anyone at all? He remembers Kafka's sweet intoxicating voice, urging him to be hers from the first ever second of his memories. Sometimes he remembers other people, a woman of white hair or a man of emerald eyes. For the life of him, Blade can't remember any of their names.
He comes back to reality with a hiss as Kafka presses down on his arm. She hasn't taken her gloves off and she's using the dirty towel to stop the bleeding. Blade feels his entire arm grow numb from the pressure.
There's this thing with Kafka. Because she's so good at words people often forget she's strong too. Strong enough to cut the circulation on Blade's arm. Strong enough to cause him more wounds.
She's never caused him any serious injury, though. Of course compared to his self-mutilation it's hard to find anything really concerning. Her mistreatment feels like kisses. Soft, intimate. The burn mark of a cigarette on his shoulder. A scratch on his face as she checks how sharp her nails are after filing them. A bite on his lower lip when she wants attention.
Kafka could stab him if she wanted to. Blade wouldn't stop her. Yet instead of enabling his sick tendencies she plays with him and treats his wounds.
“You're bleeding a lot, should we get a doctor?”
She always gives him the option even if she knows what his answer will be. Kafka's smile doesn't falter as she sees Blade shake his head. He never believes himself to be bad enough to need a doctor.
“I’ll just sleep it off.” That will at least get the dizziness away until he's stable enough to eat something and refill for everything he just lost.
Kafka shrugs, her pressure on his limb never faltering. She tells him about her day, about the next mission. Idle chat to keep him awake for long enough so she can bandage him up before he drags himself to his bed.
It takes a long time for the bleeding to stop. She dirties two more towels so she can get his arm clean enough to treat the cuts. She could use glue for most of them and call it a day but she decides to stitch him up. She hums to the music still playing outside of the bathroom, keeping quiet once the violin solo starts. Her left hand was holding his in place, but as soon as her instrument began playing she allowed herself to tap on his skin as if his veins and muscles were the strings of her violin.
Blade wonders where she would be now had she pursued the brightness of a stage instead of the darkness of crime. Kafka thrives on attention. She would’ve loved receiving all those bouquets and a standing applause after each concert.
Instead she got stuck in the shithole they call their HQ, bandaging the wounds of a not-truly-alive-not-yet-dead man who by lack of anything better to do decided to butcher his dominant hand.
Blade still doesn't remember why he did it this time. Or rather, why that arm in specific.
He is what his name says, a blade, a weapon for the Stellaron Hunters to use and exploit however they like. And as much as he isn't as skilled in combat as he used to be, he still needs his hand to punch or stab whoever gets in their way.
He scoffs. What a waste of her time. She could’ve done whatever she wanted, she could've gotten Elio or Silver Wolf to call for an actual professional and keep her hands clean from his self inflicted wounds. Now she’ll have to throw away a pair of perfect gloves.
But that wouldn't be like Kafka. She likes expensive but she also likes damaged. Blade has been in her room enough times to notice all the broken things in it. Her record player was old enough that she demanded Silver Wolf to fix it at least once a month. Kafka refused to get a new one, she likes taking care of her broken property.
Blade can see himself in that record player. Both are way past their prime, break themselves down for no true reason and wait for Kafka to return home and patch them up enough so they can be considered functional without being over the top.
Logically, Blade knows that's part of Kafka's manipulation tactics. It's less about ‘Bladie I need you’ and more of Blade not feeling human when she's not around. Her being the only one capable of getting him out of his psychotic episodes doesn't help at all.
“There we go, all fixed up.” Kafka's voice doesn't startle him as much as the loud slap on his shoulder to get his attention back on her. He stands up only to immediately rest his forehead atop Kafka's shoulder. He fee
ls it tremble as she chuckles. “Let's get you to bed now.”