Work Text:
Byleth has always had a habit of picking up strays. From half-starved cats to disturbingly rotund rats—Byleth, thankfully, had had his rabies shots at that point considering the number of the times that those little bastards had bit him, lesson never quite learned—and depressing-lookin’ puppies fit for an emotionally manipulative animal cruelty commercial, Byleth has brought a number of creatures back home.
Not particularly bright considering that they essentially live in the whitest suburb in Fhirdiad—Jeralt ignores the fact that he and Byleth are both very white, members of that particular racial statistic—in an already very white nation.
White people, if anything, hate strays. That’s why they even have a HOA in this part of the city. While Jeralt doesn’t like them—no one besides the busybodies and bored, nosy housewives likes the homeowner association—he has to tolerate them. They live here after all.
He doesn’t want his neighbors bitching at them and snooping around their property. Considering their livelihood, part of it anyhow, consists of hunting stray monsters and beasts—actual beasts like werewolves and other (owing to television and young adult novels) hokey shit like zombies and ghosts—it’s better not to attract any more attention than necessary.
Rather difficult matter considering his son’s habit of feeding strays. Everything from felines to canines to now remarkably pudgy raccoons—Hansel and Gretel witch shit considering how much Byleth feeds them—and everything in-between. Hell, Jeralt had even found Byleth sleeping in his room with the window once; windowsill lined with freshly peeled grapes, apple slices, and oranges, raccoons feasting upon the colorful offerings. Those bastards even had the gall to stare at him with their judging, beady eyes when he has tried to shoo them away.
Absolute fucking headache that child is! Jeralt loves his son dearly, but objectively, he is an odd young man. A bit willful on the strangest of matters.
And rather unfortunately, Jeralt is staring at one of those matters presently, eyes locking onto Byleth’s impassive gaze soon after. Jeralt is glad that Byleth had deigned to return late tonight from his job. Little to no room for curious eyes and for the ones that are out and about, drunkenness would solve the issue.
“Kid.”
“Yes, Father?” Little shit that Byleth is, he only blinks at Jeralt, innocent as always as if he hadn’t just bought work home. Very, very smelly and huge work at that. Jeralt hadn’t even thought it possible for spirits to stink this badly. Couldn’t be the other one, the vamp. As immaculately kept as the purple one’s hair is and with that blindingly neon shade of hair dye, Jeralt doubts that the pungent aroma is from him.
And Byleth, despite his tendency to literally sleep cuddled with trash-burrowing raccoons and giant sewer rats, knows to keep clean.
“What is that?” Jeralt makes a motion toward the two figures standing behind Byleth. To Byleth’s left, the large blond one is currently huddled behind his son—poor attempt at hiding considering his size dwarfs Byleth—and opposite of him, the purple twink is glaring at him. As if using his son as a shield, both of them have their hands on Byleth’s shoulders.
Still blinking in that distinctive catlike manner of his, Byleth replies, “Persons.”
“I can see that.” He could really see that considering the size and musculature of the blonde one. Outside of the disheveled appearance, eyepatch, and rank odor, he looks more fit to be in a modeling or gym advertisement. “What I mean”—Jeralt emphasizes the word—“ is what are they doing here? I sent you on a job.”
Taking care of the monsters terrorizing northern Fhirdiad—so many reports of missing people, spooked residents, and fatal accidents lately!—does not constitute bringing home two strange men.
“And I finished it.” Byleth nods, unabashed and entirely too pleased with himself.
“They should be dead!” Or rather, not undead. Perhaps ground into a fine paste or burnt to ash as customs call for. According to Alois and some of his other friends and acquaintances, the accounts had matched up to a vampire and restless (or more accurately, extremely vengeful) spirit.
Fairly big nuisance compared to the normal routine considering that the two were reportedly working together but nothing that Byleth couldn’t handle—little prodigy that he is.
That is what Jeralt had assumed anyhow.
At his words, the purple twink has the gall to look offended, brow scrunching up in a manner not unlike that of a irritated puppy, paw accidentally stepped on by a careless owner. “Rude!”
And his son, in return, merely pats his head, carefully combing his fingers through the gaudy purple strands. “There, there, Shez. My father doesn’t mean it.”
Jeralt does mean it, but there are more important concerns to attend to than correcting his son’s lies.
“You named them?” Jeralt questions, aghast. Much like with a backyard chicken or a cow, it’s a bit harder to put them down once there is a moniker attached.
“We already had names,” the blond one interjects, hands still on Byleth’s shoulder. Peeking out from being Byleth as he is and with his height, it’s a poor attempt at hiding. Like a Husky in the midst of cowering behind a kitten.
“His name is Dimitri,” Byleth contributes unhelpfully.
“That’s not the point, kid,” Jeralt says after a moment. He doesn’t want to upset his son, but this isn’t exactly what he had expected when he had sent him off earlier. Would the smell cling to the flooring? The dripping blood? They have been here for a relatively long while now. “Why are they here? I asked you to kill them.”
Byleth pats Shez’s head again, stilling a protest. “I tried, but they seemed so sad. I couldn’t do it.”
His son’s statement raises many questions, most which Jeralt doesn’t particularly desire the answer to. But still, Byleth doesn’t pay any mind to his father’s concern. He only continues, nonchalant as always as he pats Shez’s head, palm soon, much to Shez’s displeasure, swapping to Dimitri’s head in response to the tightening pressure on his shoulder and the little pitiful whine, almost inaudible if it weren’t for their close proximity.
Combined with the pouting Shez, little fangs poking out in an obnoxiously cute manner, it is a surreal situation, circumstances made even more absurd by the state of his son and his…friends.
Did they really all walk here as they are? Soaked in blood and clothes ragged? Byleth is even bandaged up. While the drunks are out in full force at this hour—classic Faerghus alcoholism at work—it’s an easy way to blow their cover. Jeralt doesn’t want to pick Byleth up from a jail cell, and with the smell and date, it isn’t as if Byleth could use the Harvest Festival and its custom of costumes as an excuse. They’re in the middle of spring, and Byleth isn’t old enough to feign senility.
At his silence, Byleth continues, “I can take care of them. Feed and dress them.”
Bath them, especially the blond as well, Jeralt almost adds out of fatherly instinct before stopping himself. These aren’t dogs or cats. They can’t keep two grown men—do they count as men?—on their budget, and moreover, they’re both murderers. That’s the whole reason for this shit in the first place!
“On what? Your salary at Garreg Mach isn’t much, kid.” With the added expenses of their side hustle, tenure isn’t enough. In this economy, bullets, guns, and other weaponry aren’t cheap. With Almyra’s current embargo on Fódlan, the stock, the good stock, is a rarity.
“We’re self-sufficient! We can feed ourselves!” Shez argues, immediately pausing as Byleth looks at him. As eccentric as Byleth is, even he could understand that Shez’s reasoning is a poor argument.
“On what?” Jeralt asks pointedly. He knows the answer. Hell, it’s the damn reason for this entire mess. A vampire and spirit duo is an especially dastardly combination—one to feed on the blood and the other on the soul and mind—and Jeralt still doesn’t understand how Byleth had gotten them to come along peacefully.
Let alone the reason for why the two seemed so attached to his son.
“Never mind that,” Byleth interposes. “I can take care of them. They’re harmless.”
“They’ve killed twenty people in the past month.”
“Actually, it was more than sixt—“ An oof leaves Shez as Dimitri elbows him. At least one of them has a semblance of sense. Jeralt only wishes that it were his son and not the walking dumpster.
Ignoring the earnestness of his companion, Byleth tilts his head slightly, eyes pleading. “They won’t cause any trouble. I’ll make sure of it.”
Ah. Did Byleth really have to look at him like that? No father wants to make his child sad. But still, it’s not like he wants to keep these two bastards around. How would they even feed them? And the odor? The HOA already gets on his ass about the occasional corpse stench and messy yard (which he then promptly makes Byleth clean up).
“Byleth,” Jeralt says finally, “we can’t.”
“But they’re peaceful!” The apparently more than sixty deceased would disagree, but before Jeralt can respond, Byleth nudges Dimitri forward, motion reluctantly complied with even as Dimitri’s hand remains on Byleth’s shoulder. “Look at him. He’s so sweet and adorable.”
Sweet and adorable are not how he would describe Dimitri—he looks like he has rabies and a very bad case of fleas—but Byleth soon gestures toward his head. “Try petting him. He won’t mind.”
What? By the flabbergasted expression on Shez’s and Dimitri’s faces, they hadn’t expected that either.
“Kid, this isn’t a do—“
“Just try it please.” With his big doe-like eyes and pout, all carefully crafted for maximum effect, Byleth reminds him of Sitri. She had the same habit of manipulation. “He doesn’t bite.”
The animalistic growl that leaves Dimitri’s throat when Jeralt reaches forward—damn his inability to resist!—contradicts that, but Byleth’s quiet, stern “Dimitri” ends that. Really, if Jeralt hadn’t known any better, he would describe it as somewhat similar to himself and Sitri. Despite her fragile and soft appearance, she had worn the metaphorical pants in their relationship.
A rather good thing considering Jeralt’s admittedly poor sense of self-control at times.
Would the smell stick permanently to his hand? It feels like petting a tumbleweed. Not that he would tell Byleth. Pleased as his son looks, Jeralt couldn’t crush his happiness. It’d feel like a war crime.
Considering Dimitri’s displeased expression, he feels much the same.
“What about the smell then?” Jeralt finally asks, hand withdrawing from Dimitri’s head. “The neighbors will complain.”
“He can shower!” Before Jeralt can stop him, Byleth, on his tiptoes, leans over and whispers the directions to the bathroom in Dimitri’s ear. After a few moments, Byleth frowns before continuing, instructions startling Jeralt.
“He can’t wear my clothes!” For one thing, spirits couldn’t shower or change their appearance all too much. Mess with the environment and cause general mayhem, yes. Otherwise, no.
“It’s only temporary!” Byleth argues as he shoos away Dimitri. Much like an especially obedient (and massive) puppy, the man complies, shuffling toward the upstairs. “I’ll buy him clothes later. He just needs a set for now.”
“He can’t even wear it!” Jeralt makes a motion toward Shez. “And what about him? What’s he going to eat?”
They can’t feed Shez people. It goes against their entire reason for doing this, and more importantly, Seteth would get on his ass for it. Maybe involve Rhea too, and if anything, Jeralt fucking hates his mother-in-law. Her and her passive aggressive nagging. In Rhea’s opinion, Jeralt had never been enough for her kind adopted daughter.
And the insistence on weekly visits…
In true grandmother fashion, Rhea loves Byleth and coddles him, always bringing along an assortment of gifts despite the fact that his son is now a twenty-six year old man.
“I can eat on your hunts!” At Jeralt’s blank stare and accompanied by the gurgle of the upstairs shower, Shez explains, “We’re great at fighting, and it’s not like we’re picky. We’ll just eat whatever Byleth finds.”
Byleth nods, looking at Jeralt once more. “Please?”
Protocol (and his sanity) requires that he just simply shoot them now—take Shez and Dimitri out back like shaggy dogs—but with the way that Byleth looks at him, Jeralt would, quite frankly, feel bad.
After a few moments, Jeralt sighs. “Fine. But if anything happens, we kill them.”
Byleth doesn’t reply, nothing besides a beaming smile. Having returned to Shez’s head earlier, Byleth hand continues to pat him. Goddess, does his son really think that this was a puppy? Actual puppies would be cheaper and safer than this considering that they could simply go outside and to the pound to adopt one.
Though, current matters aside, Jeralt does have one question still.
Gesturing toward Byleth’s bandaged neck, Jeralt asks, “What’s that about?”
While it is normal to get injured on business, Byleth’s normal armor includes neck protection, a gorget. If there are any faults in the design, he would need to fix it. Jeralt would never forgive himself if his son were to die to something as simple as malfunctioning armor.
However, Jeralt hadn’t expected his son to blush or for Shez to shift awkwardly, a light tinge of red also coating his cheeks. Entirely concerning.
“Have you’ve been feeding him?” Jeralt asks, aghast. Unless fed recently, vampires do not flush.
Before Byleth can reply with a half-baked excuse, the stairs creak, noise signaling the return of a freshly cleaned, now lavender-scented—Byleth’s body wash as it were—man garbed in his nice jacket and pants.
Taking his place behind Byleth again, Dimitri glares at him, hand resting upon Byleth’s shoulder once more. Different as their statures are, it would be comical if it weren’t for the circumstances.
Goddess, none of this makes any sense. How did Dimitri even shower?
Did Byleth just bring home a man? What sort of spirit is capable of this? Two men?
Everything only causes Jeralt’s forming headache to worsen.
Further unhelpful is Byleth’s poor attempt at fixing the situation.
“They can sleep in my room,” Byleth asserts, sheepish. Last that Jeralt checked, Byleth’s room could only fit one bed.
Though, the resounding “no” doesn’t deter his son.
Fuck, Byleth really does take after Sitri.