Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cafe was a cool, quiet place, carved so deep into the rock of the Crimson Waste that very little of the desert's oppressive heat reached past the door. It hardly seemed a part of the world outside; the shouts of traders were replaced by customers' quiet murmurs, and a rudimentary sound system played gentle string music instead of bawdy bandit tunes. Blue lanterns lined the rock walls, completing the removal of this enclave from its unforgiving environment.
  Overseeing this peaceful domain was a man of the mammalian variety, leaned against a wall behind the front counter. He looked part rabbit, part human, with short pink fur and a nose that twitched with boredom. He was clad in a dark tunic in the slitted Crimson Wastes style. He looked over his little oasis in satisfaction. It had taken years of hard work and the end of the Universe War, but his restaurant was taking off. A newer side to the Crimson Wastes had emerged recently, a softer side fueled by the influx of Brightmoon tourists: just what his business needed to grow.
  The door of the shop swung open, and heads turned with mild curiosity towards the new arrival. A young human woman, light-skinned and with a tangle of black hair falling into her eyes, stepped into the room. The sight of her red-and-white shirt made shoulders tense around the room. That was the kind worn by Horde soldiers. There was no Horde now, and no war for a soldier to fight, but the war was still fresh in everyone's mind; no-one had escaped unscathed.
 The young woman bowed, her left arm swept in front of her. "Hareold the teamaster!" She exclaimed, bouncing excitedly to the counter. "It's so great to finally meet you! Well, it will be great, you don't know me so I guess we haven't met yet, but-" She stopped herself. "But I've heard so much! Is it true your techniques came from the First Ones? That they learned it from watching the stars? Are the legends true? Are you hiring?" She stared at him, green eyes wide.
Hareold shrugged noncommittally, aware of every eye in the room on him. "I'm interviewing, yes. And I don't know of any legends. Were you interested in an interview?"
The woman nodded earnestly, succeeding at flipping even more hair into her face. "I'd be honored to study below the teamaster," she said in a reverent tone. Laying it on a little thick there, Hareold thought, but he held his tongue. Unlocking the side of the counter, he walked to the front door, locking the mechanism that allowed new people in. He then turned to the tables, and his very-obviously-snooping patrons. "We're closed. Finish your drinks and leave. If you steal or break anything, I will find you." He liked to turn that Crimson Wastes charm on now and again.
Opening a door in the back of the shop and leading his interviewee through it (and locking it behind himself, just for good measure), Hareold walked past storage rooms and into a small living room of the same earth as the rest of the establishment. A plush blue carpet covered the floor, and several cushioned Brightmoon chairs were arranged in a semicircle on it, facing a large darkened screen. He collapsed onto the nearest chair and began undoing the straps of his sandals. "DT, you idiot," he complained. "I had just gotten the Princess Alliance off my back for 'potential First One's tech misuse.' Now I'm gonna end up dealing with a whole new set of rumors."
His guest blinked, then chuckled. Fading briefly into a dark, starlit shape, they shifted and stretched, becoming taller, greener, and considerably more stylish.
"Do you conduct all of your interviews like this?" Double Trouble asked in fake shock. "No wonder you don't have any employees." They settled onto a chair across from him, smirking like the winner of a chess game.
"Welcome back, asshole." Hareold shook his head, grinning. "You haven't changed a bit."

Chapter Text

Hareold had changed, Double Trouble reflected, inspecting their comfortable surroundings. The last time they'd seen him— what, three years ago now?—Hareold's business had been a dusty tent pushed up against the Valley of the Lost's rock, with no seating and certainly no doors to lock. There was nothing of value in it, either— except his kettle, of course, but that was a secret unlikely to get out. Now, their friend seemed to have planted roots, as unpalatable as that seemed.

"Tell me, bunny," they said, "what gave it away? I thought I'd gotten the hapless enthusiasm down perfectly."

"It was the enthusiasm, DT. You think there's any happy Horde soldiers out here? Maybe what's-her-name who's the 'protector of Etheria' or something, but she was a turncoat. Most of them are terrified, confused or paralyzed with guilt. They're not popping into tea shops and asking to apprentice below a master."

 My sample size was a little small, Double Trouble reflected.

"Mostly, it's that nobody spreads rumors about my tea. Gifts from the First Ones? Really?" Hareold sighed. "I wish people would rhapsodize about my teas like that. But even the Brightmooners don't get that emotional about their beverages."

"It's the Crimson Waste. Nobody gets emotional about anything." Double Trouble shifted, forming into a muscular figure with light blue skin. "There is no feeling in the Crimson Waste," they intoned. "Only suffering, and endless fights." They brightened. "Hey, I see why you like it here."

"This is why nobody likes you, DT."

"Can't talk. Must fight that cactus."

"In all seriousness," Hareold said after they'd shifted back, "why come back out here? There's been more traffic from the kingdoms, but still not a lot of appetite for your kind of... theatrics."

"Yes, but there's considerably fewer princesses. I heard Huntara was out helping the Alliance while She-Ra went on a space quest or something, and figured I'd visit an old friend." They flashed their most winning smile.

Hareold blinked. "You're avoiding princesses...  You got on the Princess Alliance's bad side?  I didn't even know they had a bad side." He glared at them. "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing terrible! I took a couple of jobs during wartime. One was with the PA, one was with the Horde. Don't really feel like running into either employer." True, at least.

Hareold looked less than convinced, and Double Trouble decided to bring out the wheedling. "Bunny, really? Where's your trust in our friendship? If it was that bad, I wouldn't have come here and put you in danger." Also true, they realized. 

He sighed. "Fine, let's say I believe you. Why are you here? Other than to see my smiling face, of course."

"I think I want to get a real acting job. No more spywork for now— it's far too stressful for me." A lie, and both of them knew it. DT thrived on stress like a cactus on sand. "And you have to be so unfailingly nice to your employer as a spy. They always expect you'll become friends." At least, Catra had— but this wasn't about Catra. They had finished that job. There was nothing more to think about.

"And I suppose that after waltzing in here, upsetting my customers and putting me in danger of PA investigations, you want a place to stay?"

They grinned. "Well, if you're offering~"

"You have to work at the cafe, at least part time. And if you get into shit I won't cover for you." This was undoubtedly the best thing about Hareold: he'd never danced around an issue. Not a trait DT shared, but one they could appreciate.

"If I get into— still no trust? After all we've been through together?"

"All we've been through together is why I don't trust you. Do you accept my terms?"

"Well, I don't know, bunny. Customer service is just so manipulative! I don't know if I could do that!"

"Go to hell. Are you accepting or not."

No help for it, they supposed. "Yes, of course. And— it's good to be back." True again. Damn, am I getting soft? The two shook hands, pink fur against pale green skin.

"I missed you too, DT," Hareold said. "To be honest, someone needs to mess with the tourists more. I don't like how comfortable they're getting." He stood up. "Don't make me regret this, though. Want to see your room?"

Chapter Text

Years Ago

There had been a time when the trust was strong between the two friends— or at least, as strong as the bond can be between a liar and a thief. They'd met in Seaworthy, in a bar clinging to a cliff like dregs on the bottom of a glass. Hareold was fifteen and angry, running from the suffocation of family. He'd been looking for a fight, for work, for anything other than hopeless wandering through streets that didn't know him, and he'd happened on the pub instead.

After an hour or so inside at the bar, morosely staring at the muscles on the bartender, he was pretty sure it was time to join the Rebellion. The Horde was a thorn in Etheria's side and he'd pull it out. Never mind that his magical abilities were zilch and his knowledge of fighting stopped at throwing a punch, he could lie to the recruiters if he needed to. He could get tough. He should get tough. After all, what good was he doing here, wasting away in this nowhere place with no purpose-

He was pulled from his self-destructive thoughts by an impressive round of profanity from a nearby booth.

"You little shit! You dogshit Hordescum child of a drunk sailor! You thought you could fucking cheat me?"

Hareold swiveled around in his seat, looking towards the source of the noise, only to realize that everyone else in the bar stayed firmly turned away. Side-eyes and perked ears suggested their interest was still piqued, just more discreet. Ah well, too late.

The shouting was coming from a man in a side booth of the bar. A tall, scrawny-looking man with green skin and a hideous failure of a beard leaned bodily into the table, screaming at a teenager who sat calmly on the other side. The teen was red and slightly chitinous- likely a former occupant of the Fright Zone, then- and leaned back in their seat, seemingly unconcerned at the one-way yelling match across the table.

"I didn't cheat you," they said, in a calm, self-assured voice. "I read your poem- as you, of course- and she turned you down. Said she was flattered but uninterested. You paid me for the job, not for the outcome."

Their serenity only drove the man further up the wall. "That poem was perfect! Every line a First Ones' masterpiece! She wouldn't have turned me down on any account!"

"Evidently not." A tiny smirk flitted across the teen's face, and Hareold slipped off his stool and walked forward. This was going to turn into a fight soon, and he wanted in.

The man slammed his hands into the table, knocking over the two's cups. "Listen here, you little piece-of-shit exile," he started. "In case you haven't noticed, this is Seaworthy, not that fallow piece of shit you call a home. And when you make a deal here, it's a deal. So give me back my money-"

"Or you'll what?" Hareold asked conversationally. Two heads swiveled towards him, as he leaned a hand on the table. "Figure out more ways to show that you're a jackass? Shave your beard so you can look in the mirror in the morning? If you're looking for financial compensation, I think everyone in this bar would pay you to fucking leave." Patchy-beard's face darkened, and he grinned.

"Allow me to introduce you to my associate," the teen said behind him. "This is Fuzzy. He's here to make sure everything goes smoothly. I believe what he's saying right now is the deal's over and it's time to leave."

"Associate"? "Fuzzy"?  First Ones above, what he'd do for fights.

Patchy-beard laughed. "Oh, so now I'm supposed to be scared of a little bunny ra-" Hareold's uppercut caught him in the jaw before he could finish.

"You little shit." Hareold stepped back into the main barroom, and the green man unsteadily followed. Great, he was drunk too. This was going to be fun. "You think you can do this to me? I'm gonna wreck your-"

"Pardon me." A voice from behind the bar turned their heads. The bartender hefted a weighty crossbow, fishing nets attached to the bolts. "Neither of you will be wrecking anything. Get out."

"S'not my fault!" Hareold heard Patchy-beard whine as he booked it out. "It was all cause of- where in the fucking moons did they go?"

He ran for a while, not eager to take on the man in the foreign streets of Seaworthy. Not running away, of course, he could take anyone. Just... not like this.

After a few minutes he ducked into an alleyway, leaning against the stone to catch his breath. Where to stay? He was planning to doze on the bar counter, but that was out now, and he'd spent most of his hotel money on drinks. Maybe he could find a really cheap one further inland, look for a dockworker job later-

"Thanks for the help there, bunny." There was the teen he'd helped, leaning against the opposite wall like they'd always been there. Were they there a few seconds before?  "I needed a distraction to get free of that dipshit. You did me a service there."

Hareold's mouth moved without him. "Fuzzy? Really?"

They shrugged. "I've been working on my improvisation. Thought it suited you."

Hareold looked them up and down, trying to gauge them. Are they trustworthy? Nah, he decided. But what the hell. "It's Hareold. Actually." He held out his hand. They did not take it, preferring to check their claws.

"Unfortunate. You have my condolences." They looked up, a smirk sliding onto their face. "Now, Hareold, why don't you take a walk with me?"

What the hell, Hareold thought again. Why not.

Chapter Text

Hareold followed his new— Companion? Nuisance? Opportunity? Friend?— out of the alleyway. 

Seaworthy was tiered to its cliffs, with steep stairs connecting levels. From what Hareold could tell, the highest and lowest parts of the town were the best real estate— either the best views, or the best ocean access. He’d chosen a middle tier for his short-lived pub crawl, and planned to dip lower as his funds did. His compatriot, however, didn’t seem to have similar plans. They walked quickly and confidently upwards, towards the stairs that would take them to the highest cliff of Seaworthy (and the most expensive district, if they climbed). Hareold was Plumeria fit, but still found himself straining his legs to keep up with their pace. 

There were a few strange things about this person, Hareold decided. For one thing, the teenager before him had no resemblance to Patchy-beard; they were short where he was tall, red where he was green, and intelligent where he was an utter toadstool. So how could they have— what was it, “read a poem as him”? They were some kind of actor, apparently, but no skill in acting could account for the difference in size. And how could they have snuck up on him in the alley, for that matter. Hareold knew his reflexes were excellent (they were not). They also, Hareold realized, had not given them their name. And Fright Zone-esque or no, there was nothing remotely identifying about their clothing. They wore the loose shirt and and pants commonly found in Seaworthy, but had none of the usual embellishments that might tell an onlooker their social status, place of origin, or even favorite color. Their only adornment was a single earring with a purple pendant, swinging from their right ear, and that told him zilch.

Whoever this person was, they were an asshole— Hareold knew that. But that was about all he knew.And suddenly walking somewhere unknown with a stranger didn’t seem so appealing.

The stranger stopped under a Seaworthy streetlamp, still smirking, waiting for Hareold to catch up. He paused his own ascent instead, leaning against the nearest wall and letting his burning legs rest.

“So, did you use stilts or something?”

The stranger blinked, then smirked- deeper, somehow. “You’re going to have to be more specific there, bunny.”

“Well, I didn’t catch all of what Patchy-beard was saying back there”— Hareold stopped, as his lungs let him know they were not any happier about the walking situation than his legs— “but it sounded like you read some poor girl a shit poem while impersonating him. He’s got height on you, though.” He realized he hadn’t been enough of an asshole. “Quite a lot of height, actually. So did you use stilts? Secret cloning machine? Hide behind a screen while doing your best impression of a dickwad?” 

The stranger— oh, this wasn’t even a smirk anymore, it was some kind of sadistic grin. 

“Maybe it’s not so hard for you to do an impression of a dickwad,” Hareold amended.

“My apologies,” they replied. “I forget, sometimes, that my abilities are not… familiar. Allow me to demonstrate.” And they disappeared into a dark shape, swirling with bright points of light.

Before Hareold could scream, though, the shape reformed into something, unfortunately, familiar. Exactly where they had stood, Patchy-beard glared down at him. The expression broke, then, and the man— No, not the man, the teenager, Hareold realized—grinned, winked, and bowed.

“What the fuck?” Hareold whispered.

“I forgot to give you my name, how silly of me. The Two-Faced Thespian, shapeshifter,” said not-Patchy-beard. “A provider of all acting that my skills and abilities can deliver. That’s quite a bit of acting, bunny, I’m quite an artist.” They grinned down at their new skin. “Goodness. He was an asshole, but this green is growing on me. Maybe I’ll keep it.”

“What the fuck,” Hareold said, maybe a little louder. Then he got a hold of himself. This Two-Faced was a powerful shapeshifter. Hell, this was a princess-level show of power.  But he’d saved their ass 20 minutes earlier, because a princess level of power wasn’t adequate to keep them from getting into trouble with half-haired drunks. So not only did they owe him, but they were a massive dumbass. In balance, there was no reason he couldn’t find advantage in this situation.

“Well, Two-Faced. Sure is nice to meet you, but I am exhausted from saving your ass and tired of walking to First-Ones know where in the middle of the night.” He was also still a little tipsy, but they didn’t need to know that. “Would you like to tell me where we’re going? Or why we’re going? I’d take any reason you have for me to not fuck off to somewhere else.”

Two-Faced smiled again, placatingly this time. (It didn’t work, because they still looked like Patchy-beard.) “Right, of course you’re tired. My mistake. My intention was to take you to my hotel. I think putting you up for a night is the least I can do in thanks for your assistance earlier. We can talk business in the morning, perhaps.”

“Business?” Now Hareold’s ears were perked. 

“If you’re interested, of course.” 

Fuck them, of course he was. “I suppose I could follow you there, then. If you stop looking like that asshole. And if you tell me where we’re going.”

They turned into that unnerving, light-spotted darkness again, only to reappear shorter and scalier. “Of course, bunny. We’re headed…” they looked up at the cliffs arranged before them, lit dimly by streetlamps. “Right about there,” they said, pointing to a spot of light at the very top.

Well, shit. Maybe this was gonna be a good night after all.