Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It takes Wukong an embarrassing amount of time to notice.

In his defense, he’s spent the last four days since returning to Flower Fruit Mountain fixing up his hut -who left a hole in it?!- cleaning his things, throwing out old rotten food from his fridge, patrolling the grounds to make sure all the security seals are up to date and no one decided to mess with the vault while he was away. Oh, and take care of his monkeys. When he first set foot through the waterfall, their reaction had been unlike anything he’s ever witnessed. 

Wukong had never seen them screaming and shrieking and chirping like that before -and its a testament to how much they missed him. The first day Wukong couldn’t even move a toe out from the makeshift nest they made under the peach tree before they started snarling and hissing. A few of the younglings even bit his feet to keep him still -and his tail! The audacity!

So he spent the first day resting, eating the fruits his dear subjects offered to him and sleeping through most of the afternoon as the older ones worked their way through his fur. A month on the run plus the whole mess in the celestial realm left his fur matted and not as glossy as it used to be. During the race for the rings, it had been unbearable -knotted, dirty fur tugging when he moved and stretched, forcing the king to waste magic that should be stored up for a faster recovery on extensive visual and physical glamors. 

MK and his friends never noticed how quickly he physically recovered over the first week -and while MK’s adoptive father, Pigsy, had sent a few looks his way, Wukong is proud of how well he managed to slowly build up the glamors and hide away the worst of the grime.

So the first day?

Spa day, monkey edition.

Second day?

Cleaning.

So much cleaning.

Third day?

He goes sightseeing around his island, monkeys clinging to his shoulders and head like a shroud of little hands and tails. Chirping and fussing on him still as their king patrolled their home and made sure everything was in place.

So it’s the fourth day in the afternoon that Wukong, his chores done, finally notices. As he stands in front of his stone fruit tree, planted years ago from a single peach pit that Wukong hacked up after stumbling his way drunk back to Flower Fruit Mountain after a very very bad, very not good, frankly admirably catastrophic series of bad life decision, he’s almost too enraptured in counting the latest flowers beginning to bloom on the tree and wondering if maybe he should install one of the beehives inside the cave to make sure all of the flowers are properly pollinated when he finally senses it.

A little sting of magic in the air, so subtle he almost think its just his imagination; but when he tilts his head towards teh ceiling and activates his golden sight, he’s surprised at the faint, sineous trail of magic that is not his own languishing in the air, heading out from the cave.

Lost, curious and definitively weary -after such an adventure, he just wants to rest, train the kid and gorge himself on fruit, truthfully- Wukong takes the bait and goes to satisfy his curiosity towards this unusual pulse of magic that feels familiar, but is too faint for him to fully pick out.

Which brings him to now. He’s walked after this odd trail of magic like a sniffer dog locked on a scent, the particular celestial nature of this magic just dim and similar enough to the ambient magic of Flower Fruit Mountain it's no surprise that Wukong hadn’t noticed initially.

But he does now.

And the more he follows it away from his hut, through the rickety wooden bridge and right to the edge of the inside of the cavern where the rocks are damp and slick with humidity, the more that scent becomes familiar. The more it makes his eyes narrow with distaste, his lips pinch, his tail twists into knots because he does not want to deal with this mess now. By the time he locates the source -a simple inauspicious crack in the cave wall, barely big enough that Wukong could cram himself in if he’s very determined about it- Wukong is past wanting to deal with this.

Yet he still leans down, just enough to stare judgmentally into the hole and bristle when he sees something shift in the shadows. How the other managed to force himself into this tiny hole is beyond him -Wukong would never, ever be caught dead hiding in such a small, crushing space, it would remind him far too much of the eternity spent crushed under a mountain- but the intruder is nothing but a ball of fur and clothing curled up like a bird nesting in the worst possible location. 

It’s almost amusing how far this unwanted pest went to fit inside this tiny dent in the cave wall. Unfortunately Wukong is not feeling very amused right now. The king lets out a gruff noise, snapping his teeth together.

“Oi, I see you.” Wukong, with a lack of a better thing to say, states calmly. 

Two purple eye peers back at him, like the eyes of a racoon shining under a flashlight. Wukong feels his face scrunch up in a grimace as he takes note of the harsh glare his enemy, the Six Eared Macaque, gives him at the king’s gall of visiting the tiny crevice the shadow demon has holed himself up in. A hole in the wall, yes, but this is Sun Wukong’s wall and he’s not gonna let it slide.

He glares at the shadow, making note of the way the other is positioned. Macaque is laying on his side, facing the king; knees tucked to his chest and wrapped nearly fully in that dirty, weathered red scarf of his. Only his head and a low, flicking tail peaks out -though Wukong is not surprised to see a hand slowly emerge from the bundle of cloth, claws extended and ready to rip at divine flesh the moment Wukong dares put a single limb into this small space.

Still, despite being cornered, Macaque says nothing. Wukong sighs, and asks in a more deadpan manner;

“What are you doing here?”

No answer.

Wukong’s not that surprised; the air stinks of silent defiance, dramatics and bad decision making skills. Of course Macaque would try to ignore him. It’s a childish attempt at avoiding the situation that is so utterly Macaque in nature it makes the god let out a quiet huff of amused exasperation -and given the way he spies the shadows across around the hole rippling in response, the six eared intruder definitively caught that and he’s not happy about it.

It’s almost entertaining that Macaque has the gall to seem indignant when Wukong should be the furious one. Wukong just caught him red handed trying to break into Flower Fruit Mountain, after all. How he got past the barrier the Sage has no idea -well, he might have one, but he’s not going to admit it even to himself- but now that he’s spotted this unwanted guest, Wukong won’t be able to go back to resting with his monkeys while brainstorming for MK’s next training session until this unwanted dramatic pest is dealt with.

So armed with the desire of peace and quiet and no grimey shadow monkeys in sight, Wukong squats down further and glares into the thin fissure the demon has huddled himself up into. Macaque glares right back, silently defiant.

Maybe the other is embarrassed about getting caught so quickly? 

Who knows.

Wukong scrutinize every inch of the other’s face. It’s not often he can do this -neither monkey can stand each other, and every moment spent within the same area code is spent trying to break bone, sunder flesh -inflict enough hurt that the other backs down and limps away into the shadows to scheme for another day. Because despite how much Wukong hates the shadow and the feeling is mutual, he’s crossed that line once and that is enough.

Speaking of…

The more he looks at the clearly agitated shadow, the more Wukong notices something off about the other. Macaque has his glamors up -thick lines of arcane magic weaved so tightly together like the weave of a handbasket not even truth sight can peer through them. But despite these protections hiding his scarred eyes and ears, Wukong knows those extensive glamors are as heavy as they are stiff, a work of art even the greatest of demons would be jealous of -yet all that power behind them comes at a cost. The magic is too high strung, trying to change them would be like trying to remove wool strings off an intricate carpet to add new, colorful wool; a daunting task. Like trying to reforge a helmet while wearing it. It’s impossible or at the very least, extremely risky. Any wrong move could cause it to break and snap like a taut string, wasting an intricately made glamor and forcing the caster to spend hours remaking it.

Not something Macaque would risk, as self conscious as Wukong knows the other is of his ears -and, well, his eye too now, the king remembers with just the slightest unease.

So while the spell covers Macaque's weak points, it does little to hide the mottled bruises across his face or the deep eyebags the demon sports. The way his body occasionaly trembles, or the faint stink of sick in the air. And just like that, it clicks for Wukong why the other isn’t cursing him back to the next decade, putting an actual curse on him or simply fleeing into the shadows before Wukong can throw him out himself.

Macaque’s not acting out because he’s in no position to fight.

He’s injured and trying to rest.

Oh. It falls in place -Wukong should have seen it coming. The fight against the Lady Bone Demon had only been four days ago and Macaque had taken the brunt of the damage given he’d fought Wukong while the witch had him under her control. Merely thinking of that fight opens up a unwanted hole in his stomach - a disorganized, frozen fog, flashes of combat overwhelmed by the memory of how hard it had been to hold back, to strain against her control and stop her from reaching for the shadow demon’s neck and break it under his hands as if it was a toothpick- and he doesn’t want to entertain any reminder of her any longer than needed, so he pushes it to the furthest corners of his mind and turns his attention back to the parasite huddled up in a literal hole in the wall of his home.

Of course Macaque would pick Flower Fruit Mountain to recover. Anywhere else would leave the injured shadow extremely vulnerable to attacks from other demons, a thought that leaves a pit in Wukong’s stomach for some reason. The ancient mountain is the safest place for a creature like him -a person with no allies and plenty of enemies. Flower Fruit Mountain is warded against intruders -at least, it should, how the hell did the shade get in in the first place?- and it was mostly uninhabited in the present day.

Gone were the days where it was overrun with all sorts of mythical creatures -whoever remains now are simply native fauna, immortal monkeys and one single king. The island only has Wukong and his subjects as intelligent life and while he is plenty a threat to the six eared thief, their animosity no less lessened by that brief moment of fighting together against the witch, a promise is a promise and Wukong had given his word that he wouldn’t start anything with Macaque to MK. At least, unless the pesky shadow started it first. Which makes the king blink and toy with an idea.

Would this count?

This is technically breaking and entering.

Macaque’s not wanted here, not on Flower Fruit Mountain.

(Not anymore.)

By all means, Wukong should be free to reach an arm into the hole, grab the unwanted demon by the scruff of his neck and throw him out. Maybe right into the lake outside -from the smell of sweat, dust and old blood that makes his nose wrinkle, Macaque could surely use a bath. An unwanted house guest and a assaulter of noses -double crime, making his expulsion more than warranted.

He toys with the idea the longer the other doesn’t answer. Goodness, he could be relaxing under his favorite tree but no, he doesn’t even get a full week of peace. Frustrated, Wukong intones with thinly veiled calm:

“You need to leave.”

Macaque bares long, white fangs in response. 

Bite me, his eyes seem to say. 

Wukong raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Hardly the first time Macaque threatened to bite him -their fights often ended in bloody grapples and unfortunately for the Six Eared Macaque, the shadow demon lost the ability to pierce the Sage’s stone hide about three immortalities ago. Most often than not, it ended in broken claws for the pesky shadow. Which while hilarious to witness, also meant the shade more than often goes for his eyes during their fights.

Wukong’s not feeling like regrowing an eye today, thank you very much.

So against his better judgment, he stands up. Macaque tenses even further within his little hidey hole, seemingly ready to fight tooth and nail, but that’s no concern to the king. He merely half-glares in exasperation at his unwanted house guest. Wukong has better things to do than bother with the shadow. MK is coming tomorrow and he’d prefer not having to explain to the kid why the cave is thrashed and there’s a monkey-shaped hole in one of the walls of the cavern.

No, dealing with an ornery, injured Macaque is more trouble than it's worth. Who knows what curses the demon has under his sleeve? A desperate demon is dangerous, and better left be. As much as Wukong would like to grab a single hair, make a grapple stick and use it to get the aggravating demon out of his home, regardless of how much Macaque screams and thrashes like a racoon ushered out of a garbage can, they’re both recovering and this is just… not worth it. 

Not worth it at all.

Especially if MK catches wind if Macaque comes whining to the kid. Wukong just knows the shade will find a way to spin this in his favor. Sure, the cave used to also be Macaque’s home, but that was a long, long time ago and Macaque only ever visits -or rather, breaks in- to Flower Fruit Mountain with murderous intent ever since… well, ever since he came back.

(Resurrection is not a word Wukong likes to use to describe the shade’s return. It brings too many reminders. Fills his mouth with the taste of failure, iron, and blood.)

Out of preferred options, Wukong turns away and throws a glance over his shoulder at the crevice from which two glowing purple eyes glare at him. 

“Don’t touch my stuff.” He recites after a moment, resigning himself to this mess. The Sage makes note of how the other’s eyes half-widen at this, only to quickly narrow -no doubt trying to find what the trick is. It’s always like this with Macaque, now. He always doubts, always reconsiders every word, festering in the idea no one could ever say the truth, that no one would do anything without asking for a price. A long time ago, he'd ben gently eased out of that habit -but now its back, a sickness returned tenfold, distrust carved deep into every scar that Wukong inflicted.

Forcing that train of thought away, Wukong pushes through it and rattles off. “Don’t eat my peaches. Don’t go into my house. Don’t hurt the monkeys.”

This gets him a loud, furious hiss from the shadow, as if the mere thought that Wukong would think him capable of that infuriates the demon. Wukong doesn’t care. He’s already being generous enough, he’s not going to give Macaque any wiggle room out of this -though he knows that the moment he catches the other off guard and out of that tiny crevice, he’s throwing him out. Being near Macaque and not fighting is never good.

Sometimes though some things are not worth the effort, and Macaque really, really isn’t.

“And finally-” Wukong pauses, letting the silence hang between them, only the roar of the waterfall piercing through the tension thick in the air. “I don’t care what you do, just get the hell out of my cave.”

With that, he turns away fully and walks back to his house, tail head high and categorically ignoring the feeling of his enemy glaring at his exposed back.

He doesn’t need to make a fuss about it. Wukong has time on his side -Macaque will eventually get tired of acting like an unwanted guest and leave the cave.

Wukong shouldn’t concern himself with a living reminder of his failures.

Chapter Text

Macaque doesn't move from his hiding spot for an entire day.

Propped up on his cloud, his monkeys curled up all around him, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven surveys his home, mouth full of peaches as his eyes lazily drift across the cavern. Not for the first time, it lands on the spot along the wall beyond the wooden bridge, where he can sense but the faintest lick of shadow magic.

His tail flicks in annoyance. One of the older monkeys croons against his head and starts grooming parts of his mane with greater but no less gentle gusto. Wukong relaxes into it… but not fully.

Because no matter how sleepy he’s getting, he can’t keep staring at where he knows the loathsome shadow is hiding.

After the initial discovery, Wukong puts a clone shifted into a bird on duty to keep an eye on the trespasser. He knows that Macaque is in no shape to try something, yet it’s better to be safe rather than sorry. Spite is a great motivator to push through the pain and Macaque is full of it. No doubt the shade is seething, having to rely on Wukong for safety. Oh, it must eat at him and just the mere thought of how furious the warrior must be for his own weakness brought a smile to Wukong’s face. 

Though, for the continued sake of the Sage’s sanity and his promise to MK, it's better to ignore the antagonistic demon hiding in the wall of his house. So Wukong, armed with the knowledge his nemesis isn’t doing much besides acting like a cockroach, turns his focus fully on making sure Flower Fruit Mountain is in pristine shape.

The orchards are checked over, just to make sure no disease or infestation has spread through the trees while their caretaker was away. While Wukong prefers leaving Flower Fruit Mountain in its wild state, he still likes some sense of direction to how the island flourishes. Hands off is always a good approach, but making sure there is a certain balance upheld is important; especially when the land itself is thick with primal magic, granting it its incredible fertility. 

That in itself is a problem. Flora and fauna dwelling within the forests of the island live far longer than their mainland counterparts. That also means plants spread faster and animal populations sometimes thrive all too well. He still shudders to think about the seagull infestation from a few years back. 

He’s yet to eat another egg of any species since then.

Regrettably, by the end of the next day, Wukong finds himself with a terrible lack of things to do. Well, not terrible, but certainly there’s little to distract himself from the big, hairy, ugly little problem dwelling in the walls of his home like an unwanted fungus.

What is it, the fourth day Macaque was hiding in there? Couldn't be. This had to be less than three days. No way he got to Flower Fruit Mountain first… though, he did leave the group very quickly after the Lady Bone Demon was defeated. Okay, Wukong begrudgingly decides. Maybe he did get here first. It would explain why Wukong didn’t sense him breaking in.

But if so, how is he getting out for food and to relieve himself without Wukong noticing? Shadows. Definitively shadows.

But if he could do that, why rest here?

Surely there’s other, better spots across the island than the most damp section of Water Curtain Cave. Yes, there’s something off about this but the king can't quite put his finger on it. 

And it eats at him.

Pathetic.

The shadow demon isn’t even actively antagonizing him and he still manages to be a bothersome, unwanted tick. Wukong clicks his teeth together, frustrated. Part of him wants to just drag out the subject of his confusion from his tiny lair by the scruff of his neck and shake the demon until some modicum of an explanation falls out. Another part of him knows better. Manhandling the shade will only result in an all out brawl. 

Certainly one Wukong will win, but not before his nemesis deals an ample amount of damage to the inside of the cavern.

And MK.

Can’t forget about MK.

Macaque is just the right sort of dramatics to limp to the boy and spin a whole sob story that will take weeks to straighten out. The other had always been the best storyteller Wukong has ever met -and when… while in the past it had been a source of ample entertainment for the king and the rest of the mountain-dwelling demons, now its a weapon Macaque will without a single sliver of doubt brandish at Wukong if given the chance.

Because Macaque is just that sort of petty.

Petty, and little.

Wukong forces himself to look up at the ceiling. He chirps, and one of his older monkeys comes down the celestial peach tree with a plump stone fruit in her hand, which he takes happily.

“Thanks,” the Sage tells the little cream-colored monkey. She merely looks at him, chirps, and flops right into his side like a cat, curling up in the spot between his arm and his side. A perfect ball of fluff within moments, she makes herself happily at home there.

… alongside the three other monkeys already piled up in that specific spot, all dozing.

Wukong should take a page out of their book. He eats the peach quickly enough, feeding some small slices to the monkey near his head grooming his mane. Task done, he rests his free arm on his chest and forces his eyes closed. The sun is shining down from the cave entrance above. It’s warm. Nice. The cloud? Fluffy and perfect as always -also nice.

MK? Likely having the time of his life making sure reparations at his city were going well. The kid’s fine last time he astral projected to Wukong. Healthy.

Also nice.

Truly, nothing can really ruin this.

Well, not nothing. Inevitably as with all things Macaque, something will go wrong, Wukong knows.

But for now?

The king is content drifting off to sleep upon his cloud, a veritable court of little monkeys crowded around him, dozing away.

.

.

.

Wukong first wakes to the sound of chittering.

Hardly the first time he hears it, the King barely twitches in his sleep. The sun has reached its apex on this lovely day, casting a warm radiance that enters the cave from the top entrance just right enough to grace him, bathing him in a golden light. It's warm, his cloud is soft, the monkeys gently tugging and grooming his hair are careful as they continue their task.

As far as the Sage is concerned, this is heaven.

Thus it's no wonder that this little moment of paradise is slowly unveiled by a certain someone.

Wukong jolts up when a loud snarl cuts through the chittering of before, reverberating across the cavern like a gunshot. The monkeys attending him or sleeping on him scatter as the king jumps to his feet on instinct, tail lashing as he immediately heads towards the wooden bridge. Following the sound of panicked chirps -and low, cavernous rumbling- the Sage quickly reaches the fissure in the wall of before.

And what he finds makes him bristle.

A group of young monkeys are crowded around the hole, with only a flicking, angry black tail peeking out from the shadows as a sign there is something there. The little ones have shrunk back at the warning snarl, chittering nervously among each other, unsure after the warning call that emerged from the fissure. Some notice Wukong’s approach and quickly run his way, climbing up his legs and perching his shoulders as they chirp and squeak rapidly.

Scary shadow!

Fangs!

Mean!

Again and again, they chitter against him, rubbing their little faces against his head and seeking shelter inside the folds of his scarf. The king allows it absentmindedly. 

“Yeah, he’s mean alright.” Wukong agrees gently with a murmur.

From the hole, his ears catch the sound of a low yowl. Two golden-yellow eyes glare at him from the darkness, daring him to do something. Wukong sighs -and that, seems to be enough to get Macaque going off with a tired, flat rumble:

“I didn't hurt them.” The shadow immediately snaps out. “They were fuckin’ pulling at my goddamn tail.”

Disgusting language aside, Wukong’s eyebrows raise slightly at the immediate defense. “I know you didn't.” He pets one of the baby monkeys on his left shoulder. It lets out a little pip against his hand, nuzzling into his palm and curling its tail around his wrist.

From his little hideout, Macaque looks at him with no small doubt of skepticism. Wukong meets his gaze head on, undaunted. He lets nothing show on his face or body gesture -nothing for the shadow demon to go off on, a fact that the shadowmaster notices.

There’s no small ounce of satisfaction in the way the warrior looks away, shuffling further back into his hole. At the movement, one of the baby monkeys still on the ground makes a half-attempt at grabbing the slick black tail. Wukong immediately bends down and swipes the child off the ground before they can complete his plot. The child whines in his hand, instinctively clinging to his forearm.

Tough luck, kid, Wukong thinks, knowing better than saying it out loud less it antagonizes his unwanted house guest even more. Macaque’s not a good playmate.

(He used to be so good with the little ones before.)

Which, speaking of house guests… Wukong adjusts his grip on the baby monkey, lifting them up and putting the young one on top of his head. It grabs onto his mane immediately out of instinct, strong little fingers digging deep into the golden-ginger fur. Satisfied, Wukong looks down at the hole in the wall. As a matter of dignity, he doesn’t bother bending down to look inside -he can see the outline of Macaque’s face half-hidden in the shadows. He’s mostly wrapped in that dirty red cloak of his, and it covers his head like a hood as well.

He looks like some sort of street rat. Wukong shoves the thought away, focusing on petting the monkey on his shoulder as he speaks up:

“MK’s coming tomorrow,” Wukong starts off simply, glancing down at the other celestial monkey and finding his gaze every bit as hateful as before -yet there is a dawning realization in those eyes, one that quickly darkens before Wukong is even done speaking; “I don’t want a peep out of you.”

Macaque’s lips curl back.

“Fine.”

Wukong’s not even bothering fighting the glare. “I’m serious.”

“I said fine.” Oh, the way the sarcasm drips right off the other’s lips? Wukong can smell the malicious intent and it makes him bristle.

Fighting really hard the urge to simply drag the shadow out by the tail, the Sage growls; “Macaque-”

“Fuck off, Monkey King.” Ah, there it is. The venom that Wukong has grown so familiar with, deepened by the unsympathetic, detached addressing of him with his title and not his name, as the shade normally does. Wukong doesn’t let it show how it makes him clench his teeth, frustration curling low in his gut.  Amber eyes turn to him, narrowed as their owner curls his lips back, baring long white fangs. “Don’t worry, as far as MK will be concerned, I won’t even exist.”

Wukong glares at him.

He’s not sure why that declaration bothers him.

liar 

He shoves that train of thought away, focusing on straightening his spine up and looking as imperious and detached from this entire disaster of a situation as possible. “Good,” Wukong says to begin with, curling his tail high as he peers at the unwanted squatter. “Then we have an understanding.” He finishes tightly.

Macaque glares at him from the hole. “-no need for me to stain your day with my presence.” The shadow jerks his head up slightly, a nod as if to shoo him off oh how dare he- “Now, shoo.” Macaque says with feigned disinterest. He’s not even bothering to sound convincing and that pisses Wukong off more than anything, more than being ordered around by a lowly demon. “Leave me alone.”

Wukong hisses. “Fine.”

“Fine.” The shade replies back with just the slightest hint of mocking.

There’s a sudden urge to kick at the other’s face that Wukong only barely holds back. His mind races, trying and finding another angle to channel his ire.

“Stay in your…” Wukong tilts his head up, smirking as he watches the other obviously try to adjust his position in that minuscule fissure. It has to be wet in there, humid and damp -all sorts of bad things that get into one’s fur. What a fall from grace, for the Six Eared Macaque. Certainly something Wukong isn’t above hitting.  “...hole, I guess.” The Sage finishes with a sniff.

Golden eyes flash purple. Macaque makes no noise, but there’s a quick half aborted grimace that appears on his face for a split second… before being replaced with a vicious sneer.

“Well excuse me, princess, but not everyone has a whole ass’ mountain to themselves.” Macaque replies cooly, expression schooled into something more placid and uninterested.

Wukong’s mouth nearly falls open. He feels his tail jerk up, flicking angrily. The monkeys on his shoulders let out entertained chitters that only further sent a flood of indignant anger through the Sage’s veins.

“Princess?!” Wukong can’t fight off the bristle or the indignant sound that leaves him. “Didn’t you get the memo? I’m a king.” He finishes as a snarl, glaring at the mischievous shadow that had taken up residency in his home.

“And I’m a cantaloupe.” The reply is as dry as it is nonsensical.

“That doesn’t even make any -you know what,” Wukong takes a deep, deep breath, just like his master taught him. Just like he remembers practicing over and over again on the road under the monk’s calm gaze and kind voice. He opens his eyes and stares down at the unwanted shade. “I’m done with this conversation.” Wukong quips.

Macaque hardly blinks.

“Great,” he says flatly.

Wukong sneers. “Good.”

“Shoo.” Again flat, uninterested. Wukong doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t. He's above such lowly emotions!

Yet tail lashing, he can't stop himself from clenching his hands into fists and snapping back;

“Okay, bye then!”

Fuming and feeling like he’s lost a fight he didn’t even know he’d partaken in, Wukong spins around and stomps away, monkeys scrambling after him.

Who cares? Not him. Wukong just needs to be patient.

Macaque will leave eventually. 

Wukong can’t wait for the day he gets out of his hair.

Chapter Text

Wukong cleans up Water Curtain Cave thrice before MK shows up.

He’s not nervous, he’s just being thorough. At least, that’s what he repeats in his head when that ugly flighty feeling in his chest becomes too much to handle. Nervous? No. Pah, that’s not an emotion a king like him should ever feel. He’s being thorough in his task, that’s all. There’s an important difference there and Wukong clings to it like a lifeline.

Not nervous.

Nope.

Just a bit of a perfectionist. This place, this mountain, this cavern is where everything started, after all. Wukong has to give it the respect it deserves.

The cave whose discovery led to him being crowned king has undergone many changes throughout the centuries. Wukong might have been given the title by simple little monkeys, yes, but that moment is one of the few pivotal events in Wukong’s past he looks back on fondly -and that is reflected on how this cavern is his home no matter how much time passes.

Needless to say, as with every other aspect of his very long, very complicated, very problematic life…

...it's a mess.

The him of a year ago would have snapped his fingers and urged his new little buddy to clean for him, hiding the truth behind a veil of honeyed words and promise that it's some obscure form of training. Then just lay back on his cloud while MK runs around with far more energy and, well, enthusiastic zing for life than Wukong has ever felt in the past hundreds of years. Looking back at this particular time of their student-teacher relationship makes Wukong wince silently, the shame that had never quite fully left blooming once more in his chest.

(After that whole incident with Macaque, he’d dropped the matter of cleaning masked as training completely and just employed a sudden mass army of equally golden monkeys to maintain the cave better.

MK definitely noticed, and looked far more enthusiastic in training.

Wukong feels ashamed just thinking about it.)

It could be worse, Wukong knows.

The him of a decade ago would have left the mess to fester. Floated on his cloud, silently watching the garbage and dust piling up and observing as birds, insects and the occasional mammal went through the steadily growing pile -until it grew too vast, the little ones complain and something in Wukong clicks back in space inside a blank mind and he remembers that immortal or not, maybe he should at least try to breathe -and if he can muster the will to do so, maybe he should clean his home.

At least, for the little ones.

Maybe there’s not much difference there, Wukong thinks absentmindedly as he tosses one last bag of trash to one of his clones to take to the mainland. The copy immediately takes the black bag, turns into a bird and flies out of the cavern, heading straight to the mainland to dispose of it in the nearest city. Wukong isn’t going to just toss it out, after all -the plastics humans use now are a lot more biodegradable, but that doesn’t mean he should be a king without manners. Human-junk stays in his cave or gets tossed to the rubbish. 

Any alternative could result in the wildlife getting into the trash and Wukong already has enough headaches from the last time he wasn’t careful. He’d tossed a half-eaten stone peach into a nearby trunk after a food binge that definitely didn’t start because of a particularly lonely New Years that he’s never going to mention to anyone, ever- and now a hundred years later he’s still dealing with that particular immortal racoon that loves to swipe more stone peaches when he’s not looking for the perfectly acceptable trade of the occasional pile of nuts, dead birds and berries left in his doorstep.

How the raccoon figured out bartering, Wukong still doesn’t know. Does he want to ask? No, because that could end up with the raccoon learning archaic mandarin. That’s an idea Wukong isn’t going to touch with a hundred foot Ruyi Jingu Bang. 

Horrifying enough is the thought of what mischief the little creature could get himself into.

I already have one unwanted houseguest to keep an eye on, the immortal king thinks sourly as he glances at the cave entrance… or rather, the side of it.

To his dismay, one look towards where the pest in question took residence and offers nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all -nary a stray river rock out of place to justify Wukong being allowed to drag the scheming shadow out of his cave. The nervous king sighs, deflated.

Macaque hasn’t moved from his spot. Perfectly still the shadow monkey still sits, even after so long. It’s been a good eight or so hours from their conversation and he’s still not moving -not surprising in many ways, given how much stealth and patience Macaque’s particular craft of fighting requires. 

It’s still… odd.

Wukong stares at the crack in the wall, only just stopping himself from activating his true sight magic. A feeble few feet of stone wouldn’t stop Gold Vision, but… to do so, feels as odd as Macaque’s current behavior. Because if he looks, it means he’s giving Macaque time out of his day. That he’s nervous enough to keep a closer eye on the shadowy demon, that he…he…

….nope.

Just-

No.

Wukong’s not digging up that old skeleton.

He won’t.

(He can’t.)

.

.

.

“Woah! Monkey King, place’ looking nice!”

“Thanks, bud!” Wukong leans back against the tree trunk, preening as one of the little ones works on grooming his hair for what feels like the fifth time today. He gives the young man a gentle, if not slightly sly grin. “I even cleaned up the hole in the cabin!”

MK freezes like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, face growing red. Dawning realization and horror shines in his eyes, prompting Wukong to cock his head to the side and give him a raised eyebrow and humoring look as he continues with nigh perfect innocent mirth: 

“....say, know a lil’ something about that, bud?”

His poor student, of course, crumbles like a house of cards.

“I’M SORRY!”

At the teary eyed look that follows, Wukong can’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

There’s a special place in his heart for moments like these. MK splutters out a garbled attempt at sidestepping the topic, face red and arms waving up and down like the tail of a nervous monkey. It’s adorable, seeing his little student trying to justify something that’s clearly slipped his mind until Wukong brought it up. A story lurks there that the Sage is eager to find out -MK after all treats the staff with so much care, there’s no doubt the kid must have had an aneurysm after blowing a hole in the side of Wukong’s cabin.

Though MK did come here to train -so Wukong won’t probe his poor little protege on this. He can pry anecdotes of this little incident another time. 

They are taking it easy for now, after all.

“It’s okay kid!” Wukong laughs, entertained. “Can’t blame you for wanting to look around!”

“It was an accident, I swear -ow!” MK squeaks as Wukong smacks him over the head with the tail. “What was that for?”

“Buddy, don’t stress about it.” The Sage says, giving him a loopsided grin. “Now, how about some stretches before we get started, eh?”

“Aye aye, sir!”

And so they start. Wukong works the kid through stretches, getting the young man’s muscles ready for the sparring ahead. MK takes it on with enthusiasm and by the time Wukong deems it enough, plucks a hair out of his mane and creates a replica of his old staff, his student has a faint sheen of sweat already -but the way he looks at Wukong and grins, all pointy canines, shiny eyes full of determination and a simple zing for life tethers dangerously between heartwarming and dizzyingly terrifying.

Truth is, Wukong’s not used to this whole mentor thing.

But, he thinks as he watches MK lay down on the floor, panting quickly as he recovers from their three hour spar, maybe it’s just a matter of time and practice.

And honesty.

He leans down to poke his poor student on the side; MK rolls over, curling up into a ball and hissing weakly. The pitiful sound tugs at Wukong’s lip; he can’t stop the smile even if he tries, nor the cheerful question that follows. “Pulled a muscle there, bud?”

“Me? No, no, just suffering a little bit.” Lifting his arm just enough to peer up at his mentor with a single eye, MK squints at him. “-huh, that’s it for today, I think.” The kid grimaces, letting his arm drop. “Ow.”

Dutifully, Wukong makes a clone and sends it off to fetch a cold bottle of water from his cabin. “I think that’s fair.” He huffs, sitting down next to his exhausted student. 

MK lets out a pitiful whine in response.

Alerted by the sudden noise of pain, a few of the little ones come running over. Wukong barely holds back a snicker as the monkeys crowd around MK’s head, patting his hair and digging their tiny fingers into his shoulders in a clumsy attempt to soothe the exhausted human. 

To his credit, MK doesn’t jump away screaming at the sudden touch -at least, not anymore. So Wukong gets to enjoy a warm happy feeling watching the young man lay there as the little ones fuss over him like he’s their slightly oversized youngster. The mother monkeys are the worst, coming over with some small gifts of fruits chirping insistently until MK finally takes action.

“Man,” MK takes an offered pear and starts biting into it as he sits up, monkeys draped across his back. As the little ones chirping and squeaking as they continue to groom the young hero, MK continues with a small sigh. “...I missed this.” He shoots Wukong a lopsided smile. “No more road trips for the year.” He hums.

“Agreed.” Wukong answers with a barely disguised wince, sitting down next to his student. “How’s things lookin’ back in town?” He asks as nonchalantly as he can muster.

Thankfully, MK seems too busy chewing on his pear to notice.

“I’ll be honest, things have been pretty nice so far.” The young man answers, sighing in relief when the clone finally returns from the cabin, slides him a cold bottle of water before poofing out of existence in a gentle flash of gold. MK quickly opens the bottle, takes a huge gulp, chokes a bit, then leans back one more. Wukong fights back the momentary panic as the little monkeys chirp worriedly. MK shakes his head, waving them off. “T-There hasn’t been any fighting for the past few days, all I’ve been doing is running around helping fix buildings with the staff!” He coughs, setting the bottle to the side.

One of the older mother monkeys immediately steals the offending bottle of water and scurries away with it. MK makes a small noise of complaint at the theft, but makes no move to chase after it. Wukong barely resists a giggle as the monkey very clearly heads to the cabin to dispatch the bottle that caused his student’s coughing. 

“Really?” The amused king comments off handedly.

“Yeah!” Mk throws his hands up with a low huff. “This morning I fixed the rest of the street near my house -you should have seen the look on Pigsy’s face when I fixed the neighbor’s shop!” Wukong nods along sagely, already having a mental picture of what the chef demon’s expression must have been. Even in this new life, it seems as if Brother Pig is still as territorial as ever. “He looked at me like I set his restaurant on fire.”

Wukong can only imagine. “The betrayal.”

MK whines at his lack of reassurance. “I was just doing the right thing!” The kid half laughs, half decries at his mentor’s dramatically flat declaration. “Plus, it's not like the restaurant next door can cook better than Dadsy.” The young hero adds with a mutter, crossing his arms and skulking. Then he perks up. “Especially since Redson promised that he’s going to be helping out around the shop!” MK adds, smirking smugly.

That throws Wukong for a loop. What? “Huh, didn’t expect that.” He mutters half to himself, tail curling and twisting at this new development.

He knows Red Son, Mei and MK have been getting along side the battle against the witch, but to this extent? Maybe Wukong should drop by sometimes. Or often. Just to keep a closer eye on MK and his not-nephew.

“Apparently Red Son really likes cooking but only spicy food.” MK comments offhandedly, ignorant of Wukong’s further derailing thoughts.  “Princess Iron Fan said he gets that from DBK, actually.” The young man adds casually, shrugging.

That sends Wukong’s train of thoughts off a cliff entirely.

Wait.

What.

Wukong stares at his student openly. “You talked to her?” He squeaks out, mouth open.

MK simply beams at his startled expression.

“She came over to the shop yesterday. She and Sandy get along really well!” The young hero chirps, his words only serving to further throw the king off kilter. 

Wukong can’t stop his eyes from widening at this answer, nor the way he gazes openly at his student at a complete and utter loss.  MK merely smiles at this, perfectly innocent. 

“She says she’s only coming in for the food and tea, but we all know the real reason is to keep an eye on Red Son.” He reveals, petting one of the monkeys draped over his shoulder while Wukong just sits there, lost and baffled and so very much thrown off guard. “Bull King came along too, which was kind of awkward but not terrible.” MK adds, shrugging so nonchalantly while his mentor struggles to hide his surprise.

Wukong doesn’t know whether to feel conflicted or fascinated by this development. 

Or horrified. 

It’s a combination of all three truthfully.

To have the kid mention the Sage’s former sworn brother so casually.... or to know the Bull Family is mingling with humans so freely is fascinating. 

He’s not sure how to feel about it.

Suddenly, the prospect of dropping by at the shop from time to time like MK begged him to as part of their whole ‘no more secrets’ promise feels daunting. If he gets there at the wrong time, the whole shop could be gone by the time the arguing stops. The last time he saw Brother Ox was when the Spider Queen made her move during New Years -and that had been but a temporary truce.

Wukong knows very well just how deep the divide is between himself and his former sworn brother. And that’s not even considering Niu’s other half. He’s sure that if he tries to show his handsome face anywhere within a ten mile radius of the Bull Family’s home, much less stepped inside…well, Brother Ox might be louder, but personally Wukong does not want to even imagine what Iron Fan will do to him if he tries to be so bold. 

At the very least, she will toss him through a window.

And afterwards while he’s recovering from the concussion, she would likely lure him back in with the offering of putting all their ill omens to rest if only he oh so graciously fixes the window.

Then the moment that’s done she’s throwing him through that window again.  

Afterwards, she’d drop her mask and tell him to get lost, and that this is his only warning.

…now that he thinks about it, there’s really no relationship Wukong hasn’t torched. The realization settles in his stomach like a lead weight. 

Okay. 

Into the corner of things better left forgotten it goes-

“-he was pretty short about it, but I think that’s just DBK still being kinda mad that I stole his bling.”

Consider Wukong truly, fully lost.

“....what?”

.

.

.

Not too much later, after Wukong put MK through the normal post-training stretches, does the unthinkable happen.

“Say, Monkey King, have you seen Macaque?”

Wukong doesn’t squawk. He doesn’t. If MK hears a squeaking noise from his direction, that’s the little one perched on his head, not him. The king shoots his student a confused look -at least, he hopes he looks confused enough.

“M-Macaque?! Psh, you’re asking little old me!?”

MK gives him a look. 

Wukong successfully fights the urge to shrink back. Here he thought he’d be able to get away without approaching that topic. The Sage barely resists the urge to glance towards the cave entrance.

How would MK react if he told the kid the subject of his questions is hanging out in a hole in the wall -literally- not even a hundred feet away? Wukong ponders on this hypothetical conversation and quickly decides it might get a bit too messy for his taste. 

Worse case scenario, MK talks his ear off about leaving Macaque to nurse his injuries on his own or even worse, forces Wukong to take in the bastard into his house until he gets better.

And Macaque, in his cabin?

Eating his food?

Sharing his breathing space?

Yuck.

Wukong’s not even considering it, and that’s beyond the fact that the shadow demon still mildly stinks of the underworld even after so long since his resurrection. Though not the fault of the shorter monkey and plenty of Wukong, that unsettling coldness that follows Macaque like a veil is a reminder of what was done and can never be taken back.

Indeed, either of them being anywhere near each other always spells disaster.

So MK asking him about the whereabouts of the scheming shadow throws Wukong through a loop. Is it because they’re both celestial primates? He quietly hopes that’s why. Anything else inches towards a line Wukong doesn’t want to cross.

He can tentatively accept Macaque existing around MK, but anything more than that makes his stomach flip into knots and that’s Macaque’s fault. Wukong was perfectly fine before the shadow showed his face, and he’s going to be plenty fine when the unwanted demon is finally off his mountain and out of his sight.

“...so you haven’t seen him anywhere?”

“Kid,” Wukong sighs as dramatically as he can muster. It only makes him feel further uneasy, because MK’s staring doesn’t let up. “...do I look like the kind of person who wants to be around him?” He asks rhetorically.

The little one atop of his head baps his nose reproachfully. Wukong glances up at the audacious subject, snags him before the young monkey can scamper off and starts combing through the thick, fluffy fur atop of his head. Offended chirps and a flailing tail are the only defenses the little one offers against the Sage, who snorts. This at least makes for a good distraction.

MK watches it all with a raised eyebrow. “Touche.” The human mutters, just loud enough for Wukong to hear. Then comes a frustrated groan; Wukong glances up to his student, finding MK flopping back down to the ground and glaring at the ceiling of the cave. “Argh, when I find him-”

“If-” 

“When,” MK interrupts with a harder bite, a sudden cheerful smile forming on his lips and a tiny miny little part of Wukong distantly feels bad for Macaque at this rate, then thoughts of the shadows scamper away when MK sits up and smiles at him. Danger.  “...I want you guys to get along, okay? At the very least no punching.”

The Sage blinks. “Or stabbing?” He speaks without further preamble, his mind remembering the shadowy pest’s liking of all things sharp and deadly.

MK’s determined smile wavers just a tiny fraction. “-or stabbing.” He corrects himself.

Wukong tries to not sigh. “...look, bud, I know you want to be buddy buddy with him, but that’s, like, not my style at all.” He gently reminds the kid, observing carefully the way MK’s expression scrunches up at his response. “Ship’s sailed on that.”

MK gives him a pinched look. “Macaque’s not as bad as you think he is.”

Once, part of the Sage immediately comments. Wukong tries hard to not let the ugly feeling squirming in his chest show on his face. “Bud, I’m not getting anywhere near that.”

“Oh, come on!” MK sits up, scooting closer to him. He looks too earnest for a topic so… complicated. Wukong feels the heavy weight of failure bear down on his shoulders like another accursed mountain, a sensation only further deepened when the human pleads softly; “At least try!” 

“Kid….” Wukong hesitates.

He sometimes feels just the tiniest bit frustrated, how weak he is with MK.

“Okay, I get it.” MK lets out a low, frustrated huff. “You guys are… business that you don’t want to deal with -but that doesn’t mean Macaque is a terrible person-”

Wukong’s heart squeezes.

“I know,” The admission leaves him through gritted teeth, and Wukong’s own surprise is reflected by the equally dumbfounded look on MK’s face. His student’s reaction only dogs that ugly pit of feelings deeper in his chest.

Because despite not wanting to admit it, Wukong knows it’s true.

Out of anyone walking upon this earth still, Wukong is truly the only one to have experienced the deeper, more secretive side of the Six Eared Macaque. Indeed, there was a time -so, so long ago- when they were as thick as thieves. Of all the demons who sought out Wukong for companionship, Macaque was the first -and that had been a complete and utter accident because unknown to the Sage, the Six Eared Macaque had been living on Flower Fruit Mountain for a while before they met.

It had been by pure chance that Wukong caught the flighty shadow that had been plaguing his subjects. After months of suffering their food stores being pillaged in the dead of night, Wukong hadn’t thought things through, only reacted -a foreboding harbinger to what ultimately ended their friendship. But this fight, while vicious, did not end with Wukong’s folly for while it had been a nasty, vicious little affair, any desire for violence on Wukong’s end was abruptly snuffed out when he’d knocked off the mask the smaller demon had been wearing.

They saw each other face to face -and for the first time in his life, Wukong saw someone who looked like himself.

‘There were once four,’ Macaque told him long ago, quietly in the darkness of a moonless night, a few years into the shadow demon’s stay upon Flower Fruit Mountain. They’ve been up late into the night watching the stars, with only a dying campfire for light and each other for warmth. ‘...counting us. A Gibbon and a Horse-Monkey.’

Wukong remembers his own excitement. How he’d rolled over and crawled to Macaque, Liu’er Mihou back then -same name, but in a older, more familiar tongue, and grabbed onto the other monkey’s clothing with barely restrained joy at the prospect of others:

‘Where are they?’

He still remembers the way Macaque avoided his gaze, looking up at the stars.

Remembers how even his naive self got the message -and from how then on, he’d clutched Macaque tighter against him, cradling him close like a treasure. Macaque… Mihou had clutched onto right back, Wukong recalls. He remembers his claws digging into his back gently, and the way the six-eared monkey buried his face into his shoulder in search of something neither of them were ever able to quite put into words.

The memory makes his throat tight. 

“I know,” The Sage repeats softly, swallowing as he refocuses on MK and the pondering look upon his student’s face. “....but kid, you’re free to make friends with whoever you want, just don’t expect me to follow along.”

MK’s expression shifts, softening. “Wait, so you’re fine with me hanging out with Macaque?”

That has Wukong sneering, thoughts of a long forgotten past washing away as he lets out a single, outraged gasp.

“N-no!”

MK’s eyes narrow. “But you just said-”

“Macaque’s different, kid-”

“Monkey King.”

Wukong looks away, frustrated. Torn between chastising the kid further and trying to quiet down that ugly little ball of feelings in his chest, he settles for crossing his arms and grooming the little monkey in his lap maybe a bit more aggressively. The young one chirps complainingly; Wukong distractedly chirps back in turn, refusing to look MK’s way.

Even as his student lets out a weary sigh. “Just -please, try?” MK’s voice is soft, a tempting promise of something Wukong doesn’t want to face. “I know you and Macaque have baggage, but… I kind of want him to stick around.” Wukong fights the urge to lean away from his student as he hears MK scooting closer, the little ones chirping in turn as they disperse and resettle around them once more. “I don’t think he has anyone else besides us.” MK finishes, even softer now.

Wukong’s jaw clenches.

“...’kay kid.” The word leaves his lips in a tone that is far calmer than Wukong feels; yet despite this he finds himself turning to face his student. 

MK waits, sitting there surrounded by the little ones as if he was one of them -and maybe, just maybe, in a sense that’s what he’s become, another soul under his protection. He’s watching Wukong with a careful sense of calmness in his eyes, a silent encouragement that crumbles any further thoughts of disappointing the boy. Because he can’t do that, can he? Not after everything they’ve gone through. Not after everything his buddy means to him.

Wukong smiles weakly, “I’ll try.” He raises a finger in warning as MK perks up. “But that doesn’t mean I have to see his ugly face every time I go see you!” Wukong adds threateningly in a faint attempt at regaining a sense of control over this ever so spiraling situation.

MK must see through it, for he merely grins at him. “...that’s the spirit, I think?”

“That’s all you’re getting.” Wukong huffs, looking away.

“I can work with that.” MK responds; Wukong looks back and finds his student smiling softly at him. It’s a honest, warm smile, far nicer than Wukong deserves. And the glint in his eyes is full of determination. “Just a little smidge makes all the difference.” The boy says with a wink.

Wukong doesn’t even fight back the smile at those words being reflected at him. 

“...yeah, something like that.”

They lapse back into silence, the Sage’s heart far lighter than before.

.

.

.

Wukong ruminates on it for the better part of a day.

A whole day he could have spent lazing under the sun, eating fruits and being cajoled by his subject. A full day, uninterrupted by demon attacks, mortal problems or worst of the worst, any form of celestial business that would have the golden Sage crank up the wards around his island and go into hibernation for the better part of a decade. 

The gods normally stay out of his business nowadays and he stays out of theirs -though with the whole map and mad scramble to find a weapon against the Lady Bone Demon, Wukong supposes that this isn’t the last he hears from Nezha…

...in any case, today should have been a great chill day.A simple, free day, clear of problems and worries and full of warm sunlight, sweet fruits and the song of Flower Fruit Mountains’ wildlife.

And Wukong is wasting it on Macaque.

Why?

Why does MK even want to be friends with him? Macaque’s stinky, schemy and stole his power once! The kid should be wary of the shadow monkey -but Wukong knows deep down that while MK will be on edge when approaching the demon, he will somehow find his way through Macaque’s walls. The boy’s simply like that; no matter how much Wukong had originally intended for him to just be his successor -someone to pass the torch to, someone better than him that Wukong could use to give back to the world he’d taken so much from- MK simply has this air to him, this pull that is inescapable.

And that heart.

So young, yet so much drive.

So much determination.

A heart so well set in the right place, somehow. One that knows right from wrong so easily, one that holds onto its precious people in ways Wukong has failed again and again. Nothing can stop MK when he has his heart set on something. No demon, witch or, in one of the latest case, primordial world-ending flames.

Just closing his eyes, Wukong can recall that familiar, near intoxicating taste of ash and brimstone of the Samadhi Fire. How the very world imploded into a shrieking wail when that horrifying fire was reforged. The heat, the sheer pressure, the instinctive terror that the very sight of it instigated. How Mei’s dragon rose into the air, a calamity in the shape of an old friend, burnished red scales streaking across the sky like a bleeding wound.

He can perfectly recall that moment of pure dread and horror when MK willingly dove into the flames in search of his friend. How Wukong screamed and tried going after him and the flames pushed him back, savage and angry, remembering him perhaps, keeping him from saving his student his kid and MK simply strode forward through the world-breaking flames. 

One step after another, unending, unbending, determined to get through because Mei was on the other side of that wall and no matter how much the Samadhi Fire burned, how it lashed out shrieking and hissing for a single little human to stay away, MK stood tall and kept moving forward.

‘Mei’s my best friend! I’ll never abandon her if she needs me!’

…and he did save her, didn’t he?

In the end, with Red Son, with everyone.

After Wukong nearly got them all killed by rushing to fight the witch alone, not seeing it for the trap it was, for the perfect opportunity he was giving the ice demon. Blind to how he’d served himself up on a silver platter and nearly brought her everything she’d ever desired in a single, foolhardy move.

MK changed that.

He’d saved Mei, just like he promised. And he saved Wukong, too. And the world. Saved his friend and more, because that’s just how the young man is.

A far better friend than Wukong can say about himself.

He abandoned me first, Wukong thinks, skulking as he stares up at the ceiling of Water Curtain Cave, with only a horde of little ones for company. With MK long gone, he’s left to the loneliness of his own accursed thoughts.

Five hundred years under a mountain, screaming for my brothers, for Macaque, and he never came to see me.

Never even tried to save me.

The Sage shoves that train of thought into a dark corner of his mind out of practiced ease. Wukong has long accepted he will never get an explanation for that, at any rate. Macaque can barely stand his presence long enough to fight him -a civil conversation? Or at least a shambling attempt at one just to communicate what, exactly, happened?

Wukong doesn’t see himself walking out of that without getting stabbed at least once.

But….

For MK?

Maybe he could at least consider. Maybe he could give it a try.

Perhaps.

At least -at least for Mk. Anything for his buddy. If MK can brave the flames of the Samadhi Fire to save Mei, then Wukong can humor the kid by making it clear to Macaque that he won’t be biting his head off if the shadow decides to take up the kid’s offer for friendship. Or something. That’s what Wukong sticks to as the explanation, even within the safety of his mind.

It’s that thought that has him rising to his feet, letting the little ones rest beneath the stone fruit tree as he heads off to prepare.

The plan starts with mangoes.

At least, at first. Wukong picks the ripest ones from the northern side of the mountain. Then he heads southwest, to the nice grove of plums -and then east to the more exotic orchards, getting a couple of bananas from trees he's grown from seeds gathered from his travels.

Afterwards it's only a matter of returning to his house, swiping a bushel of divine peaches from his trees. These are not for his target, not if he wants Nezha talking his ear off about giving away immortality like it's free food… regardless if his squatter has already eaten the divine fruits long before this particular tree was planted.

Wukong got the tree fair and square from the divine realm anyways -or rather, threw up the peach pit lodged in his stomach during his drunken stumble back to the mountain after strategically dipping out of the Celestial Realm.

….regardless, his sworn brother can stuff it, Wukong’s not listening to whatever the Jade Emperor is having the Lotus Prince parrot at him.  The big man with the fancy chair is probably still skulking about the fact Wukong’s stone peaches are the best, at least according to the handful of gods Wukong has offered some fruit to. Flower Fruit Mountain’s very nature grants a fertility and vitality to its flora and fauna that can be found little elsewhere across the realms. It allows the stone fruit tree to sprout flowers that turn into peaches in a matter of mere weeks, instead of the months or decades the Celestial Realm is forced to wait for their whole orchard. 

A single tree, outperforming an entire garden of them.

Funny how things go. That fact still brings Wukong the giggles to this day. Today, however, he should not be giggling. Especially given his current unwanted squatter has sensitive hearing capable of hearing heartbeats from miles away.

Which is why he keeps from even speaking aloud his plan to the curious little ones who follow him from orchard to orchard, to all the way back to the cabin once his basket is full of what he remembers being Macaque’s preferred fruits.

To sweeten the deal, he swipes some dried dates from storage. 

That makes all of it, I think, the Sage wonders to himself as he heads out of the cabin. Wukong fiddled with the edge of the hand basket, nervous.

He has the peace offerings, now he has to face the subject of his ire.

Wukong makes his way to the front of the cavern; from a rock ledge comes down a clone, shifting back from the shape of a songbird to a monkey. The king glances its way, noting the way the clone shrugs.

“Hasn’t moved once, boss.” The clone oh so helpfully informs him, plopping down on a rock.

Wukong refrains from dispelling the clone by throwing an apple at it from the basket. He has manners and most of all, now’s not the time to cause a commotion.

“He hasn’t?”

“Nope.” The clone smacks its lips together as it speaks, leaning back on the rock -stretching on it like a cat basking in the sun. Clearly, it has been very dutiful of its task, Wukong decides. Clearly. “Hasn’t moved an inch!”

Wukong immediately reaches through his magic and snaps the connection.

The clone makes a little surprised squeak before it bursts into hair. Wukong eyes the single lock of fur as it flutters down to the ground, then shakes his head.

Lies.

Lies and a very useless clone, it seems. A running theme of Wukong’s hair clones, when out of combat. There’s no way Macaque hasn’t been running around while his back is turned. Probably waited until he heard the clone napping to run amok across the island.

Wukong fights down the urge to massage his temples in a valiant effort to fight off the upcoming migraine which is sure to follow. He walks over to the crack in the wall currently housing his pain in the back, eyeing the crevice with narrowed eyes.

“Hey, rat.”

Nothing.

He slowly crouches down next to it, shuffling close. Setting the basket to the side, he glares into the opening. 

There -he can see the bastard’s tail!

It’s just laying there, on the ground, barely peeking out of the shadows. Wukong pinches his lips together, frustrated. MK, he repeats in his head, I’m doing this for MK.

MK’s gonna be really disappointed at me if I bow out.

And I can’t bow out, I’m the Monkey King!

Hopefully as soon as he’s good to go, Macaque turns tail and runs like the little coward he is. Then Wukong is free from having to explain to MK anything, and Macaque is free to… well, whatever he does in this new life when he’s not off playing subordinate to some random ice demoness. Wukong doesn’t know what the other will do but as long as there’s no more scheming against Wukong involved, he guesses that well… it wouldn’t be his concern anymore, now would it?

If Macaque is to just drop off the face of the earth, that will be just fine too!

Perfectly fine.

Fine.

Just fine.

Wouldn’t be the first time they drop out of each other’s lives.

This would be just a little bit more… permanent.

Almost as permanent as dying, some stupid part of him mutters.

Wukong’s tail slaps against the ground, ire rising. He’s glad the basket is set off to the side, away from his hands, because that means the only thing he can dig his claws into is the fabric of his pants -far easier to repair than the basket.

“Look,” He harshly tells to the crevice, well aware the other has to be listening. This close and with those ears? Macaque can’t do anything else but listen, for sure. 

Wukong knows for a fact that the six-eared demon is a light sleeper.

“I know you heard what MK said and you’re not going to talk about it, so I will.” Wukong starts, having well rehearsed this disaster of a conversation a thousand times in his head. A necessary preparation for whatever the shadow will do in response, from running away up to outright attacking him. 

Wouldn’t be the first time Macaque decides to go for a surprise attack, after all.

So when Wukong leans down to peer at the crack in the wall, he’s very careful to be ready for anything. He can spy the faint shape of the other’s body, curled up in that horrid, dirty, smelly red cloak of his. More clearly, he can see Macaque’s tail, just in reach -strange since if the little ones have been bothering him and they never listen to Wukong’s warnings, the shadow would be wise enough to know to keep the limb tucked close.

Odd.

He eyes the tail tip, the only thing he can clearly see. The faint urge to pull at it wells up slowly within his chest, but Wukong shoves that thought down because really, now’s not the time to antagonize the other celestial primate.

Again, this is for MK.

If they can figure out some sort of truce, then MK is happy.

Happy MK is good.

Wukong wants his buddy to be happy.

Even if it means dealing with Macaque.

Angry, vicious, vengeful Macaque and the rotten corpse of a bridge between them.

“... kid’s not asking for much.” Wukong starts off slowly, keeping his voice low enough to not attract the little ones’ attention. He’s banished them to the peach tree and cabin, but who knows how long they will resist the urge to come over and bear witness to this mess? Wukong’s on a time limit before the furry peanut gallery shows up. “...so we can keep it simple. I’m not gonna comment on your ugly mug as long as you don’t look at my wonderful self. We keep out of each other's way and that’s that, got it?”

Wukong stops, straining his ears.

Nothing.

…okay, this was not part of the plan.

Wukong frowns. Surely Macaque’s not enough of a baby to play deaf? The Six Eared Macaque, playing deaf?

…actually, this is exactly the kind of petty Macaque would strive to be.

Curses to Wukong, who forgot how much of a bitch the shadow primate can turn into if push comes to shove. The urge to grab that tail is rising the longer the silence stretches.

Be the better person, Monkey King, he repeats in his head loudly. This is just Macaque acting childish. You’re the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, you’re above this.

This definitely isn’t insulting.

You’re not going to throw Macaque into the waterfall.

You are doing this for MK.

Repeat twice fold in his head for better effect.

…it’s failing. He breathes out a harsh, strained breath. He’s calm. Perfectly calm. Macaque’s not worth getting a few gray hairs on his magnificent golden mane. Nope. No. Not even one.

“Oi, Macaque, you can at least listen. ” He reaches to the basket, pulling it closer. Making the hand-woven creak very loudly from being moved, a sound that should entice the surely starving demon. “I brought you food, you can at least try. And here I thought you like MK.” Wukong adds that last part in for an extra jab -a strategic little insult to get the demon’s attention.

Except, Macaque doesn’t turn around and swipes at his eyes.

Nor does he portal the basket right over Wukong’s head to pelt him with fruit. An unwanted shower that will leave his fur sticky and ruin his clothing. The perfect revenge.

Instead, he does nothing.

Wukong swallows. He eyes that tail. That sleek, slender black tail.

‘...hasn’t moved once, boss.’

That still, unmoving tail.

“... Macaque.” If his strained call sounds faint to his own ears, it must sound downright feeble to the Six-Eared Macaque. Any moment now, the shadow demon is going to turn around and laugh at him.

Any moment now.

Wukong stares at that tail.

…any moment now.

He takes a long breath. Smells that now familiar faint smell of sweat, old blood and sick. Same as the  day when he first discovered the unwanted intruder.

(Stronger.)

His eyes fix on the faint shape of the smaller monkey, cloaked in shadows. Back turned to him, cloak wrapped around his body like a funeral shawl blanket. The sight brings him unease.

Wukong’s chest hurt. He forces his gaze back down, to the tail. Pulls at whatever faint cinders of anger in his chest, stirring them up -feeding that old, bitter anger, that frustration that guilt that has been living there for so long, eating away at his heart with each new fight.

“This isn’t funny.” He hisses at his rival, reaching forward. Towards that tail, to pull and squeeze and watch the other screech at him, anything other than lay there like a corpse. “I’m asking you just this once, listen to me-”

He grabs the tail and without a single ounce of shame, he squeezes.

A sudden tail lash, a snarl, a roar of his name. Claws at his throat, claws to his eyes. Rage carved in every line of that scarlet butterfly mask.

That’s what Wukong expects. He doesn’t get that.

The tail doesn’t even twitch in his grasp.

Wukong freezes, hand opening in shock.

That sleek, dark tail slides out of his palm only to fall to the ground, limp.

Chapter Text

Disconnected, Wukong watches the tail slip between his fingers and fall down to the ground.

Nary a sound comes from the impact, yet the quiet thump rings in his ears like a thunder strike. He is helpless before it, devoid of direction, unable to do anything but look at that unmoving limb as his thoughts slow to a crawl.

Not too far away, the waterfall of Water Curtain Cave continues to crash down against well polished rocks. Birds peep and sing in the lush forest beyond the cave, their melodies finding their way through the water to fill Wukong’s ears. He hears the little monkeys in the distance playing around, their squeaks and chirps a distant sound beyond the white ringing infiltrating his senses one by one like a disease, ripping away the world piece by piece, stripping him bare of sensation, forcing him to acknowledge the stillness of that tail -and with it, that of its owner.

Throwing his mind back, tumbling through hundreds of years, to a time where the land was fraught with danger and his back ached from the mountains that once chained him down -a freedom gained only to be shortly ended by a gift of a delicate golden circlet.

And oh how he’d fought and screamed at the beginning of the Journey.

The first years were the worst -Sun Wukong was a demon through and through, every bit as terrible as the tales spoken about him, his vicious nature holding true regardless of the divine power running through his veins. A demon king, to boot! 

To be chained so soon after being freed was a humiliation unlike any other -and by a mortal no less! 

Enraged at the gauntlets the gods had forced upon him, Wukong kicked and screamed and skulked every bit of the Journey, unwilling to give his companions an inch, reluctant to even make the smallest of small talk enjoyable or be kind in company of the one who tricked him. Regardless if Tripitaka didn’t plan on the circlet having such a terrifying function, it was through him that Wukong felt that agony, and it was him he was leashed to.

Unknown to Wukong, in a few years he would be put through an agony that nothing would compare.

Traveling with the pilgrims slowly eroded at his ire. Like a cliff before an ocean, he’d been worn down by warm food, jokes, laughter, companionship that he’d been deathly starved of after five hundred years of imprisonment -so while he could not return to his mountain, could not find his sworn brothers, the pilgrims took on that role… yet did not replace the family he’d had. 

No, their companionship was different.

The habits of a glory-thirsting demon lord are hard ones to shrug off, but the pilgrims slowly coaxed down his walls. Talks of overthrowing gods gave way to gentle jostling around campfires, listening with half an ear to a smiling but exasperated monk who took to teaching the group of misfit demons placed under his care with the moxie of an tired old woman herding a group of feral cats. 

They’d settled on a strange, temporary truce, the monk and him, something soft and strange that was unlike anything Wukong had ever experienced -something that looking back, ran deeper than the bond he’d had with his first teacher. Something that had been out of his hands from the start, as he'd been born of earth and stone -without direction, without guardian. It had been something he’d yearned for in his youth but could never truly put into words.

Tripitaka took that buried desire within the demon’s heart and gave it form. In a land filled with gods, demons and monsters of all forms, this singular mortal man stood his ground against the Sage’s threats. Quaking in his little boots, regardless of the golden crown the goddess of mercy gifted the monk to keep the fearsome king under control. Yet despite the danger, despite how badly they began the Journey together, the little human somehow reached across the great chasm and offered the Sage a helping hand. His actions, his teachings, softening the demon lord’s heart to the suffering of mortals, and teaching him to understand what among others of his kind was most disregarded. 

Kindness, compassion, responsibility.

Humility.

Empathy.

Things Sun Wukong had never really considered beyond the handful of demons he’d allied himself with, and the monkeys of Flower Fruit Mountain that in his young mind, had always been simply his. Little thought had ever been spared for others, much less mortals whose lives were so fleeting, and much, much less for the consequences of his actions in the name of satisfying his impulsive decisions.

Yet regardless of Tripitaka’s dutiful, patient teachings, Wukong still harbored old habits better left be. 

And maybe if the Sage had rectified them sooner, maybe then on that horrible night when the shadows came to life, things would have been different.

Maybe then he’d have caught his desperate, angry shadow and herded him away from the nervous pilgrims who had been helpless before the vengeful fury of the Six Eared Macaque. Maybe he could have held his best friend close and tried, at least tried, to soothe the old wounds caused by Wukong’s dismissal of his warnings against fighting the Celestial Realm. Maybe he could have held him close and whispered reassurances into those six gleaming ears, attempting to soothe what five hundred years of isolation had done to the shadow demon.

Maybe he would have also apologized -even groveled at the feet of the only other one of his kind, his newfound view on the world allowing him to bite back that stubborn, legendary  pride of his and tell his shadow the truth of this Journey, that it could be the answer to everything. That the Brotherhood’s quest to overthrow the Jade Emperor had been a folly, one best left in the past but their friendship should not. It fractured when Wukong once again dismissed his warnings so thoroughly before that final battle, but they could fix it. 

They could heal those wounds, mend the bridge that is cracked and hanging by a thread.

But that didn’t happen.

Because Macaque came to them that night angry and regardless of the monk’s teachings, Wukong was easily angered.

When those shadows came for them that night, snatching pilgrims and tossing them by the wayside in their quest for Tripitaka’s head, Wukong only reacted. The pilgrims had become his brothers, his family, and he would not stand to have them hurt.

So when Macaque drew human blood, Wukong saw red.

When Macaque saw him defending the monk that held his leash, the shadow had been aghast -a momentary confusion that only fed the shadow’s rage at being left behind for so long, at being discarded. To see Wukong alive, well-fed, free and laughing had been the final straw for the warrior.

So on that one faithful, horrible night when the shadows came to life, Wukong reacted in the only way he ever knew how.

An argument, a fight, blood spilled.

Even years later, he remembers coming back to himself. Tripitaka’s shouting fell by the wayside as he looked down, down the length of his golden staff, down down down until all he could see was blood, dark fur…. And a single, empty eye, staring off into the distance.

The crunch of bone when he pulled the staff out of his best friend’s skull haunts him evermore. He remembers how… calm he’d felt, staring at the bloodied staff, then back down at the other celestial primate. The clean, clinical detachment with which he’d observed the other demon at his feet. The boiling anger had returned to a faint simmer, as he waited for Liu’er to move.

As if he’s expecting Liu’er Mihou’s skull to stitch itself back together.

As if he never even considered another alternative than the shadow taking his next breath.

Yet only silence follows when he waits and waits and waits, and nothing happens. 

Waits and waits and waits even more, heart sinking as his knees give beneath him, strength leaving him as he is forced to stare at his dead friend’s disfigured face.

Most of all, he remembers falling next to that still, silent form. Anger gone, shattered in the face of something far greater. 

Remembers himself chirping quietly at him trying to coax the other to respond, his own sanity only held together by the faintest hope that he only needs to wait, that he made a mistake but Mihou is immortal he can come back, Wukong just needs to wait, he’ll apologize and Mihou will apologize and Wukong will pamper and hold his best friend tight and they won’t argue anymore, Wukong will apologize like his master taught him to and he will never do it again the only thing Mihou needs to do is wake up-

But nothing happens.

Mihou remains still.

And when Wukong dares to touch, he lifts a clawed hand delicately, only to relax his fingers… and watch it drop to the ground uselessly. Mihou remains as Wukong reduced him to, a twisted body on the ground, broken and defeated, his blood slowly darkening as time goes on.

Dead and limp, forcing him to confront the horrid reality his callous selfishness has thrust upon him.

He killed his first, and best friend.

Earth. Air. Solidity. Reality comes back to him gradually, chasing away the memories. Wukong can feel the ground beneath his feet, knees, and his tail. The humidity of the waterfall, mist clinging to golden fur and weighing it down gently. His own racing heart. He takes a sharp breath and feels his lungs expand with the motion, fresh new air finding its way inside, carrying with it the scent of old blood and sickness.

That acrid smell of disease is a hook, reeling him back to the present with its pungent scent. He stares at that black tail at his feet, the sudden clarity that hits him all at once frighteningly cold.

No.

No.

Macaque can't die.

He can't die.

It cements itself like an oath in his mind, a searing hot iron brand pressed into his skull. Ripping through his nerves, his bloodstream, forcefully making its way to his heart to smother the cinders of anger under a sea of acrid, bitter terror. Wukong scrambles into action as if lighting is ripping through his nerves. Lurches forward, stumbling as his knees hit the ground but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, only Mihou matters. 

It brings him to his knees. On all four like a pathetic toddler, he clumsily crawls closer to that innocuous crack in the wall which holds at this very moment, everything that matters in this world. He tries to chirp for the other -just like last, just like back then, is he merely repeating the tale?- but the sound comes out mangled, a jungle of croaks and half word, full to the brim with absolute terror; 

“Macaque, d-don’t-” No answer, only absolute silence , another stake through his heart. Wukong chokes on nothing, horror gripping his soul in an icy, merciless grip. He feels himself shaking like a leaf in a storm as he reaches into the fissure in the wall with desperate, grasping fingers. “Move, just do anything - no-”

Claws snag on fabric, still warm. 

Hope, fragile and fleeting, clings to his heart like the last wisps of flame upon a dying campfire.

Terrified at what he will find, Wukong closes his hands around what he feels and pulls, gently but not enough, panic plunging his nerves into a sea of ice and misery as he rips the shadow out of the confines of his makeshift den. With frightening ease, Macaque tumbles limply out of the crack in the wall and into his arms. No more lively than a doll, his roll comes to a stop when he collides with the Sage’s front. Head falling against Wukong’s arm, dangling, exposing his face and adding further dread to the solid slab of ice in Wukong’s chest.

Because everything he sees reminds Wukong of that day.

Pale face, closed eyes. The butterfly mask pattern across the Six-Eared Macaque’s face, normally so vibrant, has deepened into a darker, duller scarlet. Just like dry blood, just like Macaque’s blood after that terrible fight. And now it's happening again.

Even the shade’s carefully weaved glamors have been eaten away by disease and injury, revealing a sight usually unattainable for mortals and demons alike -for the Six Eared Macaque has always been protective of his namesakes. Today however, his greatest secret cannot hide from the only one the celestial primate has ever willingly shown it to. Six ears dangle limply on either side of the demon’s sweaty, pale face; the celestial shine of those lotus-shaped appendages Wukong remembers so vividly from their youth is nothing but a dull gleam, like dying stars. 

Once more, just like that day. 

And most of all, Wukong can finally see it. Not a glimpse in battle as before, a mockery from the shadow warrior to remind the Sage what he’s done. It’s here, in full view, right in front of Wukong for the king to take in in its entire horrid, grand glory. A scar, twisted and crude, ripping a grotesque path across the Six Eared Macaque’s right eyebrow down below a mangled eye. The skin of the old wound is raised, puffy and cracked, red.

Wukong’s breath is stolen from him at the sight. He freezes, air and voice leaving him, static filling his ears as he takes in his former friend’s unmoving face.

Yet-  

The Sage’s heart lurches when he notices something else, a detail that steals all of his attention away from the scar. Macaque’s not fully still, crumling the illusion that Wukong is being forced to relive that day. His nostrils are only just barely moving, betraying his breathing. His mouth is half open. In a daze, Wukong tilts his own head and all but shoves his ear closer to the shadow, usually so full of life. 

Silently begging to himself and gods that wouldn't care that he will hear it.

Miraculously, he does.

Ba-thump.

Ba-thump.

Wukong hiccups. The motion makes his entire body flinch and he shudders, smelling blood and sick and still somehow, finding that he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. He could be drowning in the deepest pit of the Diyu’s filth, and only weep in joy because he can hear the faint, stubborn heartbeat.

Macaque’s alive.

There's a chance.

Basket abandoned, arguments forgotten, Wukong gets up and runs.

Back through the rickety wooden bridge, back through the winding stone steps, through the clearing, past the stone fruit tree. Monkeys chitter and yelp as they dive out of the way, only instinct from their nimble-footed caretaker keeping their tiny tails or hands from behind stepped on and utterly crushed by the panicking monarch. 

Part of Wukong’s mind registers them calling out after him in a mixture of curiosity and fear but he can't listen, he can't turn to them, he can't give them any reassurance because he himself is stripped of it. There’s no time for it anyways, no time for the little ones right now, not when they are healthy and breathing and Macaque is only just doing one of those things.

The only thing that matters right now is the still, too pale body in his arms. The limp form he cradles close, almost to the edge of too tight if part of his mind isn’t shrieking at him to be careful, that he only has this chance, that he didn’t have it back then but now he does and he cannot squander it. 

(Because he never had the chance to save Macaque before. 

The final blow was absolute, stripping the warrior of his life. 

No amount of screaming from Wukong, no maddened demands to the heavens brought reprieve to his grief. Guan-yin never came to help, his brothers could only leave him to his sorrow. There had been no fleeting hope, no healing spell, no accursed magic that Wukong knew could save this -save him.

His friend was dead and gone, and the simplicity of that fact, the absolution of any hope it brought, was an agony not even the golden fillet could match.)

The hut is up ahead.

Wukong quickly closes in to the door in quick strides; in a haze, he realizes he needs to open the door and has no hands free to do it. Static echoes in his ears. 

The door is in the way and Macaque’s dying.

There’s no questioning it, not even for a moment.

Not slowing down, Wukong simply twists to the side, offering his shoulder to the door as he reaches it. Wood splinters, metal hinges screeches. Wukong steps through the chaos, making sure the aftermath doesn’t reach the precious bundle in his arms. He glances down. Macaque doesn’t even twitch in the chaos and that only makes things worse.

Distantly, he hears the little ones chirping in panic behind him; their cries that normally could have the Sage traveling across the continent if need be to attend them, fall by the wayside for now. 

They’re fine. 

Macaque’s not.

Macaque needs him.

Because he’s dying.

So the door's broken. Who cares? Not Wukong. Doors can be replaced. Macaque can’t. He’s been lost once and Wukong won’t let him slip away again; it's a hysterical, panicked thought, one that the sliver of Wukong that isn’t choking on pure terror balks at, yet any attempt at refuting this in his head drowns before the overwhelming, terrifying feeling in his chest.

Bundle tucked tight to his chest, Wukong makes his way inside. Marching through the splinters of his front door, gold eyes scanning the single room hut in a panic. His eyes land on the only furniture he owns that could be of use -his couch. A single, narrow wooden couch with thin pillows and blankets to soften them.

For the first time ever, Wukong stares at his home and something in his heart curls up like an agitated snake. The weight in his arms feels lighter -more fragile- than anything he’s ever held before.

This rickety wooden couch won't do. 

No time to waste. Wukong tightens his grip on his precious package before shoving a foot under the couch and kicking. Hollowly, he watches as the couch lands somewhere in the kitchen area with a sickening series of crashes. Littles ones chirp and yelp somewhere from the doorway as wood cracks and shrieks something foul, but he cares not about the chaos. Using his tail to pluck a strand of fur, he quickly brings it up to his lips and blows on it.

A bed appears in a dull flash of gold. A pillowy comforter lays atop of it, on the side too thick and fluffy, inviting Wukong to drop his package upon it. 

Almost reluctantly, he does so. 

Wukong’s careful and slow in ways he’s never been before in his long life, as he lays down the injured demon upon the soft cover, hissing through gritted teeth when Macaque fails to make even a single noise of discomfort throughout.

Reluctantly, he slowly slips his hands out from under that too frail form. Once more, he watches Macaque’s face for a sliver of reaction, and feels his heart drop when the shadow demon remains as he is, half-cloaked in his scarf, the faint flaring of his nostrils the only sign of life remaining. There’s a slight crease of his eyebrows, making the shadow demon look as if even deep in this unconscious weakened state, the pain from his injuries still chases after him.

Feeling even worse, Wukong stands back up and takes a step back -only for the back of his legs is a wooden edge. Startled, Wukong glances behind him. Oh.  The stand for his television and video games. 

It’s jammed far too close to the new bed that now takes center stage in the house.

Oh , he thinks dully, then realizes. My TV is in the way.

He doesn’t think about it.

A swipe of the tail- 

Crash!

He's only distantly aware of the yelping cries of surprise from his little ones.

Tv is dealt with.

Wukong turns his attention back to the silent shadow on the bed. No motion.

Time’s ticking. His mind races -he turns towards the kitchen area of the hut, scrambling around the bed, what remains of his couch and darting to the pantry. He opens the wood door carelessly, barely registering the splintering of wood beneath his fingers as he bangs the door open and dives arm deep into a shelf full of junk food. Shoving bags of chips, candy and other useless, stupid things that won’t help Macaque aside, his fingers catch onto the edge of a basket set at the furthest back of the shelf and he pulls, yanking it out as carefully as he can muster in his panic.

By some grace of the gods, he manages to hurry back to the bedding without spilling the precious contents of the wicket basket. He sets it down on the bed by the demon’s side, and now with medical supplies on hand, Wukong turns back to the source of his dread.

No time is wasted trying to save the soiled clothing of the Six Eared Macaque: Wukong’s claws part the old fabric as if it was silk. Macaque’s burnished red cloak goes first, the old scarf Wukong remembers wrapping around his broken body when he lowered his friend into the earth so so long ago. 

The memory pierces through the strange, hollow veil of panic, filling his mouth with the taste of bitter regret. Back then, he’d handled the scarf with utmost care; today, he peels it away with his claws quickly, ripping the fabric instead of trying to unwind it from Macaque’s neck. To jostle around Macaque’s head when Wukong hasn’t even begun to figure out the extent of his injuries is not worth it for a scarf.

He pulls the fabric away, hissing through gritted teeth as he dumps it off to his right. With one article of clothing done, he turns back to his patient and goes to grab the faded edges of that tri-colored shirt, narrowing his eyes as he notices the blackened, crusty color of the clothing towards the middle of the Six Eared Macaque’s torso. What the scarf had hidden, is now revealed to him. The smell of blood and illness is greatest there, only further cementing his conclusion that however manner the shadow demon has been brought to such lows, it begins with this.

You didn’t even try to bandage it? Wukong thinks, part of him wincing at the very thought, another bristling because Macaque isn’t that foolish, is he? The shadow demon has always been the more methodical of the two -but if so, why do this?

Why instead of seeking aid, he tried to simply haul himself in a hole in the wall, literally, and what, sleep it off? Foolish! Did Macaque want to be remembered as the fool that was done in by an infection? Wukong grinds his teeth together as he begins peeling the shirt back, turning his gaze to his former friend’s face- only to freeze, feet rooted to the ground, when he notices what other wounds the scarf had been hiding.

It takes him a moment to register what he’s looking at. A deep, dark ring of bruises all around Macaque’s neck, spanning the entire length of the demon’s slender neck and parts of his clavicles. It’s a horrible sight, one that drops like a stone in Wukong’s stomach. His hands freeze where they rest over the shadow warrior’s collar, still clutching at the edges of the ruined shirt.

He knows.

Knows what it means.

Knows who did it.

The memories come in flashes. Fire. Screaming. Mei. Anger, so vile it burned him from the inside out. Macaque, terrified and pale, scrambling backwards into the shadows only to be ripped out of their safety by Wukong’s unbending fingers.

Wukong suddenly distinctively, clearly remembers the feeling of that racing heartbeat beneath his hand as he dragged out the shadow warrior by the neck. He gazes down at bruises curling around the celestial primate’s slender neck. Years ago, so long ago it might have been a dream, the sight of bruises like this on his warrior would have sent the Monkey King into a fearsome rage that would have made even the Jade Emperor think twice.

Today, the sight of it strips him of air, and makes his stomach churn.

Because they’re in the shape of fingers. Bruises that if Wukong dares slot his own fingers over, would match them perfectly.

I did that, he thinks numbly.

I strangled him.

Wukong suddenly finds himself turning away from the bed, choking; the clawing, acrid sensation that seizes him is a terrible, deserved torture. He only just fights off the urge to throw up, forcing his lips together and squeezing his eyes shut. Fighting with all his mind to not spiral, when all he can feel is the sensation of Macaque’s throat under his merciless fingers. That hummingbird heartbeat, the vibration of the other’s voice as he desperately attempted to breathe through Wukong’s uncaring grip-

No.

No, Wukong repeats in his head, taking a long, deep breath. In slowly, out as equally slow. Just like his beloved master taught him. He turns himself back to Macaque, inhaling and exhaling slowly to keep the festering feeling in his heart from consuming him fully. 

He can’t afford to let it. 

Macaque can’t afford it.

Armed with that understanding, he observes the shadow demon. To his chagrin, Macaque has yet to move. He’s not trying to get away, nor is he faking sleep. He’s just…laying there. 

Bleeding. 

Dying.  

Because Wukong didn’t notice earlier.

(Because Wukong didn’t care to check up on him, knowing he was injured.)

Shifting his gaze to the other’s torso, Wukong reaches out with steady hands and finishes peeling the bloodied shirt open. The cloth is pried open far more slowly, the dark sash opened with gentle tugs as Wukong holds his breath, dread pooling in his gut the more he unveils. For what greets him, is everything he fears.

A wound covers half of Macaque’s torso. A long, jagged wound spans from the left of the shadow’s hip to his right, rising to end just below his right pectoral. It’s healing, or at least, trying to. The flesh is raised, puffy. It’s crudely stitched together with threads of shadow that wane and flicker with every passing second, threatening to unveil fully. It’s the source of the sickness, Wukong realizes immediately as he looks at the discoloration of the flesh around the wound. This injury is infected and has been left to fester for far too long. It’s redder in some parts, puffy just like the scar -Wukong is certain that this is the cause of the demon’s illness.

…but when did this …?

Frowning deeply, he tries to recall any time something sharp had been taken to the demon’s body, but finds himself unable to remember. Mei, as terrifying as she is, didn’t manage to land a serious blow on the Six Eared Macaque as far as he knows. MK is too sweet to have done something like this -and none of the others could have landed such a blow on the Six Eared Macaque-

…did Wukong do this, too?

When the witch… His stomach drops. Perhaps. It makes sense. His possession by the ice demon is a whirlwind of cold flashes of memories and empty void, too disorganized for him to make sense of. Back then, it had been MK’s words -the kid’s magic, unwavering and warm- had guided him out of that cold darkness, letting him become coherent enough just for a sliver of a second to disobey -and put his hand on his old staff, accessing its magic.

His eyes rest on the horrid wound spanning across Macaque’s stomach. This… this is more than enough to kill a demon, but truly even one who is twice over immortal? Thanks to Wukong’s teachings and the gift of a stone fruit from the Celestial Realm, there should be little that could injure the shadow demon.

Unless Macaque’s…resurrection negated those immortalities. That conclusion only adds to his growing dread. Wukong nearly bites his lower lip through at the thought. His eyes linger on the infected wound, trying and failing to recall when he’d done this.

He would remember doing this, even under the witch’s influence.

…right?

Wait, he reminds himself, shaking his head and leaning back. That rolling, terrifying weight in his stomach lurches inside him like a lead weight. What am I doing?

Macaque’s bleeding and sick. That’s what Wukong should be focusing on right now. Mentally slapping himself over the head for his own foolishness, the Sage immediately turns his attention to the warrior’s torso. And oh, once more what he sees makes his stomach churn.

But as long as he can see that faint rise of Macaque’s chest… he can do this.

Reaching over to the basket he brought from the kitchen, Wukong starts looking through the different items. As he picks a healing balm with Guānyīn ’s seal on it and sets it next to Macaque, he clenches his teeth. He’s never felt as grateful as he does now, knowing that MK is the reason he’d restocked his medical supplies.

Snagging another bottle as well, he pries off the cap of the glass bottle. Turning back to the wounded, too quiet, too small figure on the bedding, he plucks a hair out of his own mane and creates a small towel. Ignoring the way his fingers shake as he douses the towel in the bottle’s contents, then sets himself to the task of cleaning the wound.

Upon the alcohol-soaked towel touching the injury, Macaque’s entire body twitches. His expression changes, nose scrunching up like a displeased cat. Ears lowering, vibrating slightly like the wings of a work3r bee. Wukong feels only the faintest sense of shame at the reaction -a tiny flicker compared to the waves of relief he feels. Macaque’s moving. This is the most reaction the shadow demon has made since retrieved from the literal hole in the wall he tried to die in.

At this point, the Sage will take anything.

He pulls the towel away when he thinks it's sufficiently clean to proceed. Tossing the crusty, blood soaked item off somewhere in the corner of the hut, Wukong snags the balm he’d picked out earlier and starts generously pouring the rare concoction over the wound. This time, Macaque doesn't react beyond a tiny shiver at the sensation of the cool salve being spread liberally across the injury. It rattles his too thin frame and almost gives Wukong pause.

Almost.

Tossing the half-empty bottle aside and categorically ignoring the sharp sound of glass breaking, Wukong raises a hand over the covered wound. Here he stops, taking a deep breath. It's been too long since he’s done this -rarely are the little ones wounded badly enough that the Sage needs to use his medical supplies. As for MK, the boy has never been injured to this level. He came close, but never like this -at least, not until the witch and by then, Wukong’s power was all but depleted. He’d been useless.

Not today.

He gently ushers his magic out from his fingertips, forcing himself to focus and relax just as Guānyīn taught him to. Casting a proper incantation or drawing a seal isn’t needed with this type of magic; the balm does the work for him, the healing attributes inherit to its components harvested from the Bodhisattva’s gardens doing the casting for the Sage. 

Magic is intent after all, and right now Wukong’s heart is heavy with only one wish.

Beneath his shaking fingers, the paste he’d liberally applied to the wound lightens, a glow spreading from Wukong’s palm and into the concoction -into the wound. The Sage keeps a careful eye on the injury and on the demon’s expression as he observes the magic spread out through the injury.

Eyes flashing gold, Wukong watches with his True Sight as ethereal, smokey flicks of shadow magic snaps at his own magic helplessly. The shadows are weak beneath the celestial radiance of Wukong’s magic; unfortunately for the dramatic demon currently in the Sage’s care, his shadows can only dazedly bat at the intruding magic with all the grace of a drunken cat.

It seems that even on the brink of death, the shadow demon is trying to refuse his help.

Typical, part of Wukong snorts, before another part of him mutters, it must be by instinct.

That chases away any minuscule sliver of humor he feels. 

He looks down at the shadow’s face, feeling a flutter in his chest -the faintest feeling of warmth, piercing through the cold veil that has plagued the Sage since the grisly discovery of the demon’s condition. Wukong gives into it cautiously. The hand he has on the badly stitched wound stays resolutely where it is; Wukong’s other hand, however, is free to move and does so almost of its accord. 

Fingers graze droopy ears, feeling the silk-soft specialized fur at their tips. After hundreds of years, their softness triggers a painful mix of emotions in his chest. Wukong doesn’t linger; there’s a weak flutter from the appendages and he quickly pulls his hand higher up, not wishing to bring the shadow any more discomfort.

It’s been years since he’s touched Macaque in any way that isn’t with fists. Centuries since he’d last laid his hand over the Six Ear’s forehead. Beneath his palm, the other's dark hair is clumped, sweaty; yet Wukong finds himself unwilling to pull his hand away. He gazes at the other’s pale, unmoving face. At the way that nose that moves just barely, and the slight crease of his eyebrow. Pain and discomfort carve deep lines across the Six Eared Macaque’s face.

A sight that only makes Wukong’s stomach drop even further. Not nausea this time -something heavier, more guilty. Stained with old blood and even older memories, of centuries spent contemplating his mistakes and that familiar, faint spark of hope he’d felt so long ago, when he first caught sight of Macaque nearly a century after his death. It had been a fleeting reunion; Wukong still remembers that brief sliver of existence when he’d felt light -and then Macaque went for his throat and it all collapsed into a bitter rivalry that lasted to this day.

But even if they are enemies…why didn’t Macaque say anything? If he is daring enough to seek shelter within Wukong's own home, surely he could overcome his own pride to save himself...right? Macaque is a practical little bastard. He would realize that asking for Wukong's help would be his best chance to recover quickly and smoothly. In this state, not even Wukong would turn him away. Macaque should have told him... but he didn't. And it eats at the Sage's insides like a bitter poison.

You know why he didn't , part of the Sage mocks, a part that tastes like bitter regret and perhaps the faintest chill of ice. 

Half of these wounds are your fault. 

You hate each other.

Why would he seek help from his murderer?

Wukong flinches. The mixture of shame and helpless anger that follows makes his chest burn better than molten copper. Gold eyes shift away from Macaque’s pale face to the wound he’s pouring magic into, then back at the shadow’s face. 

Macaque looks utterly pitiful, and it's all the shadow’s doing. At least, that’s what the Sage repeats in his head. It doesn’t work.

So he tries to be more convincing.

“You bastard,” Wukong finds himself hissing through shaky, clenched teeth as he continues pouring his magic into the limp, unmoving dark form on the bed. Macaque, ever so a little shit, remains as he is. Silent, still, and small on the comforter that seems to all but swallow him. Fragile as a leaf, oh so easily swept away from Wukong by the smallest breeze. The droopy ears that barely glow only makes it worse.

This is not Macaque. It's not the frustrating, irritating, vengeful shadow he's spent the past hundreds of years fighting. Yet for all the blame Wukong wishes he could lay at the feet of the shadow weaver, it will amount to nothing. Macaque will remain where he is and Wukong will continue to lament in this miserable flux of emotions.

“...what were you even thinking?” Wukong mutters under his breath.

Macaque, the brute, says nothing.  Wukong is left staring at his almost dead body, wishing to get an answer out of him but the very thought of prying Macaque from his rest, of trying to shake him awake makes Wukong’s very being shut down. He can’t do that. As much as part of him wants to slap the shadow warrior awake, shake him by his shoulders and force the demon to answer him - to explain himself, once and for all, and to muster some ounce of regret for making Wukong feel like his heart is going to crawl out of his own chest- the Sage knows better.

Besides, the flighty, panicked creature in Wukong’s heart shudders in terror at the very thought of jostling the other in his current state. Illogically, as if Macaque would simply drop dead from it. The Sage closes his eyes, teeth clenching together as he fights off a sudden sense of anger, and nausea.

How dare he, part of him thinks.

“What was your plan?” Wukong grumbles, far more to himself than the unconscious man before him. “Laying in that hole until you felt better or you died?” He gazes down at that pale face, at the butterfly marking that is nowhere as bright and lush as he remembers it being. “Is that it?!” He hisses, hating the way his voice rises into something shrill and terrified.

Macaque selfishly doesn’t answer.

Why would he?

He’s still dying.

No, no he’s not, Wukong chastises himself shakily as he pulls the hand he has over the other’s forehead away. Slowly, he also removes the one pouring magic into the shadow’s midriff -holding his breath and looking over the wound, Wukong lets out a sigh of relief when he sees that the wound is fully closed. The outline of the jagged cut remains, but only in a pattern of reddened skin.

There. 

Macaque’s not bleeding out anymore.

Knowing this doesn’t unwind the knots in the king’s stomach. It remains where it is, wickedly keeping him captive. Wukong leans back, teeth clenching as he looks over the too still body on the bed. The ring of bruises around a slender neck, the lotus-shaped ears that hang limp and droopy on either side of Macaque’s sweaty, exhausted face. The Six Eared Macaque is the picture perfect image of pitiful and it's undeniable to Wukong how much this is affecting him.

Fortunately, Wukong can do something to change it -and he can start by wrapping up the now closed wound. Determined, but still far too aware of the lurching bitterness in his chest he can’t chase away, the king turns to the basket by his side. Snagging long, clean wrappings, he sets to work -not just to finish caring for the shadow’s wounds, but finally quieten the cold dread still seeping through his bloodstream.

The shirt still clinging to Macaque’s side is fully ripped off with some careful use of the Sage’s claws and divine strength. Tossing the ragged, bloody, sweat-soaked clothing aside, Wukong turns back to the shadow demon before him and pauses. Right. If, if he wants to bandage the wound, he needs to get it around Macaque’s torso.

That means lifting the demon’s upper body up, if only just enough to slip the wrappings around. Swallowing, Wukong stands up, mind racing as he sits down at the very edge of the bed. The hand free of bandages hovers over Macaque’s chest, hesitating. He deliberately avoids bringing his fingers too close to the bruised neck.

After a moment of contemplation, he hesitantly leans down and slips his free arm under the Six Ear’s chest. Macaque’s head tilts as Wukong slowly lifts him in a half-sitting position, gravity bringing the shadow demon’s face to lean into the crook of Wukong’s arm. His breaths are warm, short and puffy; the ticklish brush of air against his fur makes Wukong’s tail twist and flick with a mixture of uncertainty and something else. A flutter in his heart that brushes against his ribs and mixes with the lingering dread.

Distracting himself by refocusing on the task at hand, he slips the bandages under Macaque; beneath his fingers, he feels the shadow’s short, dirty fur. He feels the sweat clumping the dark pelt and grimaces; a bath is definitively in order, as soon.

Just the thought of forcing the Six Eared Macaque into a bath gives him a bit of a headache. A foul magical curse is all but assured. Some kicking and screaming, and most definitely the destruction of Wukong's bath for certain. Thr longer he dwells on the scenario, the more uncertain he becomes.

Macaque… used to very much like staying clean -Wukong remembers with a heavy heart how the other used to collect all and any interesting brushes they would find when raiding human settlements in the cover of the night, all in the name of finding the perfect one to work on his thick, double layer pelt. Wukong himself never escaped the shadow’s grooming attempts, and in a past long distant and too painful to dwell on, the Sage remembers more than trying to flee only to fall into a shadow portal and end up in the hot springs of Flower Fruit Mountain.

That is, if the warrior felt merciful. Wukong knows he himself was a particular brand of exhausting little shit when he was younger and there were plenty of bodies of water on the island for Macaque to drop the stone monkey in. He knows better, at least this time.

But what of now? Would Macaque even accept his help when he wakes up?

No, he wouldn’t.

He would try to run, Wukong decides and immediately his mind races. Trying to talk to the ailing demon would only result in arguing. Holding him down will just make his wounds worse. No, he’ll need to approach this strategically -give Macaque plenty of space to scream, thrash and throw things while not leaving the safety of the cave…

Oh, he’s going to have to close the cave entrance seal because of this idiot isn’t he-

Wukong freezes as he feels small, but sizable lumps beneath his fingers as he makes another pass of the bandages under the demon. For a brief panicked moment, he thinks it's a wound on his back -but when he trails his hand carefully over it and feels how the symmetric divots going up the shadow’s back, his heart drops.

Spine.

That’s Macaque’s spine, that he can feel frighteningly well without even applying pressure.

“You haven’t been eating.” He mutters, horrified, more to himself than the limp demon before him. “...why? You can steal anything you want. Food’s free for you.” Wukong wonders out loud.

Of course, Macaque doesn’t answer. And of course, this leaves Wukong to his own musings as he finishes wrapping up the shadow’s torso. He can almost believe all of this to be some form of miserable trick. That is, he didn't check with his true sight only to be greeted with exactly what he fears.

Dim, flickering magic. Bruises and hastily healed broken bones. A canvas of scar beneath knotted, dry fur that can never hope to hide the malnourished muscles of the shadow. When Wukong directs his attention to the necklace of bruises surrounding Macaque’s neck, he can only clench his fists and bite down the acrid feeling in his throat. As much as he wishes he could shake the demon, force him awake and force him to explain, it's no use.

He can't do anything else than finish wrapping up the wound, and wait.

Unable to satisfy his desire for answers, the king accepts the current state of affairs reluctantly. Quickly finishing up with the wound, he gently sets the shade's still form on the bedding with baited breath. Touching Macaque brings a mixture of feelings -the uncomfortable familiarity of his ragged fur and the sight of those ears Macaque so obsessively hid away during their youth from the prying eyes of all but Sun Wukong himself… at least until he too, lost such privilege.

He’s never been so physically close to Macaque before since their friendship ended. Not in a thousand years, never in a position where they’re both so still and he can take in every detail of the other’s ragged appearance. Seeing him up close outside of the heat of battle, much less asleep next to him, leaves Wukong’s mind and body at odds with each other. They’ve been fighting longer than many cities stood. 

Blood and bruises, tricks and curses are the bedrock of their relationship -to have the Six Eared Macaque within reach sets off all of Wukong’s instincts to be on guard. 

The shadow is a trickster, a manipulator, another old friend Wukong had utterly turned away. A danger Wukong considers carefully as he looks at the dark shape sprawled across the bedding. The plush comforter has all but swallowed the shadow demon. 

It makes him look small. 

Fragile.

Leaving the image of the grinning, self-assured trickster as a pile of broken half-warnings at the king’s feet.

It leaves the god at an unpleasant crossroad. Or rather, he can see the crossroad in the distance, an impending doom slowly coming into view the longer the minutes trickle on by and the chances increase of the demon before him waking up. A confrontation is inevitable. Wukong wants answers. Macaque wants his blood. The resulting clash will without a doubt be catastrophic.

Despite the risk, Wukong’s heart knows what needs to be done. He’ll keep tending to the shadow -perhaps not out of the kindness of his heart but because it is the right thing to do. His master would agree, regardless of the risk Macaque poses.

What happens after they reach that crossroad, Wukong dreads.

But, for now… the tired king shifts down from the beddings, sliding to the floor. Resting his back against the bed, the god tilts his body to the side to keep facing the shadow. Witnessing Macaque’s silent form stretched out before him is a strange situation. He still can’t wrap his head around it. His heartbeat still refuses to truly settle in the Sage’s chest either.

If he hadn’t noticed, if he chose to ignore that silent dread creeping up his spine… this peculiar situation could have gone very differently. In ways he doesn’t want to think about, in manners that leaves his mouth dry and his stomach like an insurmountable weight in his belly, dragging him down.

The king lets out a sharp hiss through clenched teeth, eyes drifting to the ceiling of his home. If he thought not looking at Macaque would soothe the hollow, wounded sensation in his heart, he’s sorely disappointed. Wukong knows it's not a spell, but at this moment, he wishes it’s some sort of curse. It would make things simpler. Clearer.

Instead he’s stuck with a half dead demon, too many unanswered questions and a crippling sense of dread. All because of Macaque.

“You’re a terrible person.” He mutters quietly into the still air of the cabin.

No answer. He’s not surprised. Wukong’s gaze falls from the ceiling back to the quiet, dark form on the bed. No movement. Just the slow rise of that too-frail, bruised chest and the near silent sound of the other’s breathing. No change. Not yet.

Wukong moves himself to be better angled towards the other demon. Only to keep a better eye on the trickster, the king concludes. Propping up an arm on the bed and resting  his cheek on it, he stares at the messy black hair and closed eyes of his oldest foe. 

To see Macaque so vulnerable…

…it leaves Wukong with a feeling he can’t quite place.

Sucking in a deep breath, he looks away. His eyes wander across the floor of his home. The broken shards of his wooden couch, the crumpled mess of plastic, metal and electronics that remains of his television, slumped against a wall. A distant part of him murmurs that he should clean it up, that he should react to having his belongings destroyed so thoroughly, yet that realization fails to spur him into action.

He just needs… needs to wait. Yes, he’s going to wait, the Sage decides.

Weary golden eyes turn back to the being that has upended his day so thoroughly.

“You have a lot to answer for,” He tells the other tiredly.

Macaque, the bastard, stays asleep.

Chapter Text

Macaque doesn’t move the entire night. Nor does he move the next morning.

Wukong doesn’t dare sleep for a moment. From the top of his head down to the tip of his tail, he remains resolutely still as if he's quite literally a stone monkey, a simple statue and not the being who brought the very heavens to its knees. Once, this simple act would have been impossible. Within seconds he would feel that crawling sensation he'd come to hate, the prickly feeling akin to ants rushing under his skin that left him tapping the ground anxiously, swaying back and forth or wringing his hands together until he finally moved.

But, that was in his youth, when Wukong was a very different man. He's changed. Hundreds of years spent crushed under the weight of a mountain have armed him with a level of calculated patience that had only been tempered by his Journey. Taking his eyes off the ailing shadow feels like a slight. 

He has clones fetch more supplies from his vaults; some more for food. The medicine basket is restocked, as well as his damaged pantry. In a moment of clarity, he realizes that maybe the current state of his home has much to offer and has another start clearing some of the debris inside the house. It’s a success at first, yet when Macaque’s ears start fluttering dangerously with each sweep of the broom it stirs something akin to panic within the Sage’s heart. Feeding that looming sense of dread, filling his mind with too soon what-ifs that make his jaw clench and his hands feel numb.

Even half dead and merely sleeping, Macaque has a negative effect on him.

 He could be doing a lot of things instead of keeping constant watch of the other's breathing. A distant part of the king recognizes that perhaps he should clean the house now that the demon's recovery is ensured, but it doesn’t work. He can’t muster the courage to set another clone to make sense of the destruction Wukong brought upon his own home; no, too risky. Macaque would wake -and wake up earlier than anticipated. 

He’s not ready for that. Wukong’s not ready for that.

So he sits.

Here, in the dark.

With only the faint glow of lotus-shaped ears for company, the Sage continues his watch. Unable to do little else but wait for time to pass by -but there's an advantage to be found there.

Because regrettably for the Six Eared Macaque, Sun Wukong starts to scheme.

.

.

.

A change in the shadow's breathing is the first sign.

Wukong goes alert when those ears start flicking. That's the real tell, he remembers with a pang in his heart. 

With a monkey, it's always the tail that tells all -but Macaque is hardly the kind of individual to live up to stereotypes, even if Wukong does personally think he most likely lives in some deep dark decrepit building to match his loner persona. No, Macaque’s tells are always in his ears. Their twitching, the vibration, the glow, the angle. All those details built up an intricate little language only Wukong has ever been granted access to.

Over the years, the Sage thought he’d forgotten.

Thousands of years since they’d been able to even stand each other’s presence, he finds out that perhaps he’d been mistaken.

No time to dwell on it. An almost invisible quiver travels those lotus shaped appendages, followed by a ripple of color across the long, silky fur adorning the edges of the demon’s ears like feathers on a bird’s wings. Macaque is awake. Fully aware. And that ripple of color is his surprise shining through.

So the Great Sage takes a calming breath, then speaks evenly:

“I know you’re awake, dumbass.” 

Sun Wukong, wordsmith extraordinaire.

His master would weep, but Zhu Bai sure would be proud.

Clearly realizing the pretense isn't worth it altogether, Macaque's eyes snap open. A glare as scorching as fire is sent his way with utter revulsion. As if Wukong is nothing but a walking, talking, monkey-shaped mass of unwanted bed bugs. The Sage almost wants to comment on the shadow's grimace, but the sight of the other’s milky eye sends his stomach churning, quickly making him refrain.

Macaque glares without a word, clearly trying to re-center himself and work out a strategy before he tries anything. Wukong can almost hear the gears turning in the demon's head. His confusion is written in every downward tilt of his brows, in the pinch of his lips and the raised ears. Macaque has always been a demon who holds his cards close to his chest. It's in his nature. He leaves nothing for his opponents to pick upon. 

Yet to Wukong, who knows him painfully well, his masks are tells and his tells are only for the Sage to know. Knowing what lies ahead, Wukong tries to relax. Or appear at least to, to put at ease Macaque from the idea this could turn violent at any time.

This is the crucial moment that will make the difference.

Unfortunately for his sanity, handling Macaque is handling a live bomb he has no idea when or where it will go off. Unfortunately for Macaque, Wukong’s tired… but not that tired. And the shadow deserves at least a fraction of the misery he put the Great Sage Equal to Heaven through yesterday. Injured or not, retribution will be swift and creative.

Macaque isn't helping his case with the way he's looking at him. His expression shifts into a deep scowl, one that reveals not much that Wukong doesn't already know about the volatile shadow.

 "Why am I here."

Ah, there it is. Wukong grins hollowly, something that has the shade's eyes narrow. 

"That's a really funny story," he starts, noting that minuscule twitch of the right set of ears, then the almost invisible bristle of the other's coat. Macaque's always been a master of disguise but to Wukong's relief and consternation, it's not hard to read for him. "...see, I was having a perfectly fine day and like any respectable host, I decided to check if the uninvited street cat-" The other demon hisses at this and Wukong can only raise an eyebrow. Macaque certainly isn't beating the cat allegations now. "But then what do I find, hmm?"

His drawn out question only serves to make Macaque’s ears twitch all over the place in an odd little dance; it's hard to look away from them and refocus on the unhappy shadow’s bared fangs. "Get to the point already, you shitty-"

"Oh I know!" Wukong cuts him off theatrically, keeping his voice just under the cusp of what he knows is acceptable volume for the other. Macaque’s ears fold down for a split second, his expression growing more furious as Wukong leans back on his heels and looks at him imperiously. “The great Six Eared Macaque, too proud to have someone take a look at his wounds, just digs a random hole and lets himself die.”

He definitively bites that last part out. Silence follows.

Macaque glares at him for the longest time. Wukong wonders if he’s even going to answer, or simply skip this entire conversation and get to the good part -which likely, would involve punching the Sage in the face and then making a break for the windows or the front door. Tough luck, because Wukong warded all exits while he slept. Specifically against the furious, idiot shadow, they will hold no matter what.

Just when he thinks he’s going to bear witness to the most humorous escape attempt in the past century, Macaque finally opens his mouth.

“...that hole was already there.”

Wukong’s eyebrows quirk up at his sheer gall. “ That’s what you’re focusing on?”

His voice is higher pitched than expected. Macaque glares. “Fuck you.”

“That’s it?” Wukong leans back on his laurels and crosses his arms as he raises an eyebrow at this idiotic monkey. “Now you’re not even trying to argue.”

“Doesn’t matter, Wukong.” Macaque hisses threateningly. It doesn’t work, because at the same time the shadow wiggles beneath the blankets, unsuccessful at pulling himself free. Wukong made sure to bundle his torso, hips and legs well in the fluffy blankets. “Get out of my face. Now.” The demon spits out with a sneer, moving to get up.

Wukong glares. “Get up and I’m tying you to the bed.” He threatens flatly.

Macaque’s sneering expression shifts into a gotcha smirk. “At least ask first, you ape.”

Wukong feels his face flush. “You little-” He catches himself before the humiliation sweeps him over; instead he takes a long, deep breath, before giving the shadow a flat glare. "I'm not doing this." He spits out, feeling very much drained by the brief exchange.

The shadow demon always did this, before. Well, close to this, and in a much lighter tone. While with the Brotherhood Macaque had always been reserved -a behavior that looking back, made a much wiser Wukong hate his past self for dismissing the shadow’s clear and obvious discomfort among the demon lords and former celestials Wukong gleefully accepted onto Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque had always been shy, but when he got comfortable? 

When he knows his audience? 

With Wukong? 

He’d acted so much more lively and most of all, snarky. The flighty shadow made way for the impish demon with a joke for every occasion. He’d always have a comeback to Wukong’s comments ready and he always had good stories to tell. They matched each other on snark beat for beat but Macaque had a special theatrical flair for the dramatic and ridiculous Wukong couldn’t pull off nearly as smoothly. On the battlefield, Wukong feels at ease. On a stage, Macaque shines.

The shadow was always ready to entertain. They’d spent many days sharing quiet little joking whispers shared between fruits and other delicious treats. Offhand comments that would have Wukong squealing and snorting out wine through his nostrils. Many times Macaque had confessed that the latter had been his goal all along, and he would time his comments for when Wukong would be distracted enough to take a sip of his drinks. All to get them both wheezing and snorting with laughter.

That was then, though.

A time long ago, crushed centuries away beneath the weight of a mountain, betrayal and death. The Macaque of now is not the same jokester as before who wanted to see Wukong coughing wine in between each bout of laughter. Now his remarks all crude, disgusting and specifically made to piss him off and while he can't blame Macaque, at least not fully, he certainly is once more reminded of who he's dealing with; a petty, vindictive demon.

Adding further oil to the fire, Macaque looks at him with all the self assured smugness of a miserable bastard too proud to get medical attention. "Then what are we doing, oh great Sage?" The shadow says mockingly. The comment is familiar to a time long lost, but the threatening flash of fangs is not.

Wukong only glares in response, unwilling to acknowledge the pit in his stomach. He’s not going to humor the demon, not anymore. Without a word, he gets up, stares down his ungrateful guest, then walks away. He comes back in a matter of seconds, only needing to get up to snag the bowl he’d prepared only an hour ago from the fridge.

Perfectly poker faced, he sets it down in front of the shadow demon. 

Upon seeing what he’s dealing with Macaque’s glare falters. Wukong observes with no small amount of growing glee how the shadow’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the contents of the bowl. He looks up at Wukong, expression shifting through an array of emotions, from anger to confusion and disbelief like he can’t expect him to be this petty. 

But Wukong is . 

He’s the pettiest of them all, enlightenment be damned. His master will forgive him for this. Wukong is, after all, taking care of someone out of the goodness of his heart -regardless of the gray hairs he’s surely getting from just being in the proximity of the devious demon.

Oh well. Not like Wukong can’t rock gray hair if he wants to. He’s the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, after all. 

Adding further salt in the wound, he nudges the bowl closer to the injured demon, grinning at the hiss Macaque lets out. For sure the shadow demon knows he remembers, and Macaque’s not having any of it. In his bundle of blankets, the very same demon that has fought demons lords and gods alike at his side wiggles back like he’s being offered poison.

Wukong fights off the urge to grin like a madman, instead smiling politely. Too politely. Kill them with kindness, as his master would say. Or not. He would probably disapprove. Or at least feel vaguely conflicted about this particular brand of torture.

“Bud,” The Sage says, tone just perhaps a tad bit more gleeful than he wishes it was. “...just eat it.”

“No.” Macaque’s expression is one of fury. 

Wukong nudges the plate closer. Macaque leans his head back like that will help matters. It just makes him look more ridiculous. “Yes.” The Sage retorts plainly, like he’s talking to a child. If Macaque was in a healthier state, he’s sure this would get him stabbed.

“No.” It’s meeker now. Macaque knows he’s in a corner and he can’t escape his fate. Like a feral cat about to be subjected to a bath, he resorts to hisses. “I will throw it at you.” The shadow threatens with a vindictive snarl.

Wukong pauses, just enough to let Macaque think he might have a chance.

“And I will bring more.” Macaque’s expression that had been quickly turning smug shatters at his words. Wukong leans over, uncrossing his arms and opening them wide.  “With a few clones? I could fill the entire house.” He says with glee, enjoying the way the shadow’s expression shifts for a split second into something more defeated, before settling into disbelief. “From the floor to the walls! You can have it for every breakfast, dinner and supper!”

Macaque watches him with wide eyes. Clearly, despite how much they hate each other, he didn’t expect Wukong to be this vindictive.

“You wouldn’t.” He breathes out with a wheeze.

“Really?” Wukong lets his arms drop on his lap and stands up.  “Do you think I will run out of fruit here ?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Falling silent Macaque only glares, clearly defeated. Wukong isn’t expecting anything else, truthfully. The Sage leans back, crossing his arms again. He doesn’t even try to not look smug -this, this is his reward. To have the shadow warrior so frustrated and unable to muster the strength to connect his fist with his beautiful face? 

Now this is perfect.

He watches the weakened demon glare down at the bowl, then back up at him. Macaque’s mouth opens as if to finally muster up some form of retort, before closing again. The shadow’s tail slaps against the bedding, betraying his frustration. Finally, the six-eared menace lets out a low snarl.

“I don’t even like cantaloupe.” Macaque hisses through gritted teeth like a petulant child.

It’s utter music to Wukong’s ears.

Far better than the silence, at any rate.

He pushes the thought down before it goes anywhere. Not now.

“It’s good for you.” Wukong hums, tail swaying in delight. He doesn’t even try to stop it, even if he can see the shadow demon’s ire growing with each casual thump of the limb against the hardwood flooring. Macaque’s pissed but he can’t do anything about it. It’s funny and most of all, distracts Wukong’s mind from the reminder of what state he’d found the other in.

This is more familiar. 

Something Wukong can handle.

Out of options, Macaque can only glare. “I’ll figure out how to undo the wards.” He warns, switching topics.

Wukong almost raises an eyebrow at this.

Ah. 

So he already noticed the not so subtly hidden warding Wukong hastily put up while the demon slept. While he knows he’s not the most amazing at this kind of arcane work, Wukong feels confident enough that the patchwork wall of spells now warding the hut and keeping the shadow in will be able to do the job. At least, for the next few days.

He’d been wondering when the shadow would notice them. Wukong isn’t that surprised; given his line of work and fighting style, Macaque has always been extremely attentive to his surroundings, no matter what state he’s in. Even -even before, he’d always been on alert thanks to his ears, and a horrible light sleeper ready to bring calamity to whoever dared disturb his rest -regardless of the little fact that the most recurring culprit of such a crime was Wukong’s snoring.

Like clockwork, the recollection of those kinder times makes his stomach churn. He quickly tries to switch his attention away from it, refocusing on the shadow’s infuriated expression.

“That I don’t doubt, bud.” Wukong allows himself to sneer, chasing that faint wisp of satisfaction in his heart when Macaque bristles as a result. “...but you won’t have the power to break them.”

The shadow’s smug expression drops into a scowl. Out of cards, Macaque resorts to staying silent.

Unimpressed, but certainly not surprised by this final action, Wukong plucks the peach from the little one’s hands and gives the fuming shadow a half-smirk.

“Eat your damn cantaloupe.”

.

.

.

While Macaque is entertaining himself with the cantaloupe and hopefully not as Wukong's mind immediately conjures up, gleefully smearing the fruit on every available surface the shadow demon can reach, the Sage decides to take this opportunity to be productive.

He slips out of the cabin, safe in the knowledge that even if Macaque is stupid enough to get up and pull at his still healing wounds, he won’t be able to leave the house. Wukong has at least a few hours before the shadow demon figures out how to break the binds, and a few days more before Macaque even has enough magic to be able to take a crack at the seal.

Despite this amount of leeway, he only really needs a couple of minutes. 

Wukong goes over to his one immortal peach tree and plops down among its ancient roots. A few of his subjects gather around, chirping questions and glancing at the cabin curiously.

‘Is Six-Ears alright?’

‘What happened?’

‘Danger? Is there danger?’

‘Who is he?’

Wukong half winces at the youngsters’ questions. Of course they wouldn’t know Macaque. These little ones were born after Wukong returned from his journey, long after… after everything happened. They’re too young to know and most of the older troupe just doesn’t like talking about the Six Eared Macaque. 

Part of him always squirms at the knowledge they avoid speaking about the only reason the troupe avoided perishing completely in the fires following Wukong’s failed rebellion against the Jade Court. He didn't order that, and deep down he doesn't want Macaque's feats to be swept under the rug… but the selfish part of him feels grateful for their avoidance. A sickening reaction unbecoming of an enlightened being, but… if the Journey taught Wukong anything, it's that he can tame the beast but he can never fully discard his most awful traits.

Only be more aware and ready for them, as his master would say.

His eyes stray towards the hut. A terrible idea creeps into his mind, one that soothes some of the shame away.

“Say,” he begins, turning to the curious younglings awaiting his every word. “...why don’t you go keep an eye on him?” Wukong gets a series of interested chirps that all but force a smile on his face. He winks at the excited little ones while the elders gather against his side, watching. “Just to make sure he's resting and eating his food!”

That does it. His disciples, especially the younger ones, are always delighted when Wukong asks something of them and today is no different. If anything, it seems to have added on top of their fascination for figuring out Macaque, and they are quick to bolt away from their king. Happy little chirps and swishing tails are all Wukong gets as a coherent response before the most daring of the younglings dart off towards the hut. 

Utterly remorseless, Wukong watches as they make their way to the open windows and start pouring in like an unstoppable horde of fluffy limbs and lashing tails.

Macaque doesn't yell at the invasion as much as he lets out a startled shriek.

It's music to his ears.

I'm going to the Diyu for this.

Well, that’s Macaque’s problem to deal with. For all their hatred of each other and the rules he’d established for the shadow demon after discovering him in that damned hole, Wukong knows he wouldn’t dare hurt one of the little ones. Especially when he has no way to escape the Sage’s ire right now if he decides to be so foolish.

Wukong’s safe to turn his attention elsewhere.

With a monkey on his lap and another on his head, he turns his focus inwards. His magic is dangerously low after the fight with the Lady Bone Demon, but he’s got more than enough for what he needs. Wukong breathes out slowly as he reaches for that familiar source of heat deep in his chest. Grazing it, he plucks at his magic, gently coaxing it outwards, concentrating on the memory of another’s magic that is almost too similar to his own.

He opens his eyes to find the cave changed. Every tree, every leaf, every rock and every part of the cabin is now bathed in a lustrous golden hue. And before him, sitting cross legged on the ground, frowning at something Wukong cannot see as quick fingers mash the buttons on a controller at frantic speeds, is MK.

Wukong does what any self respecting game enthusiast would do. He puts on his biggest smile, shoves that lurking pit of misery in his stomach away, and calls out loudly:

“Hey bud!”

“Agh!”  

The controller goes off flying from his startled successor’s hands and Wukong winces, making mental note that most likely, he’s going to have to buy the young man a new one. For all his quick progress MK still has a few more years to go to fully control his newfound strength. It wouldn’t be the first time he accidentally broke something because of Wukong.

The amount of new phones the Sage had to buy for him the first few months of training is still fresh in Wukong’s mind. While his bank account is near unlimited given his merchandising deals -and that is not even counting the literal piles of gold in his vaults on Flower Fruit Mountain- trying to get MK to accept the gifts had been a challenge. He still doesn’t get why. It’s not like Wukong is going to run out of treasure within the next millenia.

Whatever unfortunate fate strikes the controller remains unknown as MK’s attention turns to Wukong. The kid might not be a monkey, but Wukong can almost see the happy tail wagging when the boy spots him -and the wide grin the young man gives him when their gaze cross washes away the rest of Wukong’s unease.

“Monkey King!” His successor chirps, rocking side to side as he sits cross legged, ever so full of boundless energy even after spending several weeks of road trips across China to save the world. Wukong can only admire him for it. “You surprised me!” He glances off to the side, seemingly towards where the poor, poor controller went off. MK winces.

Wukong makes note to inquire if the kid broke an apartment wall again at a later date. Nothing like some impromptu teaching session on matter manipulation with the staff can’t fix. Pigsy at least will be happy about the lack of actual construction work interrupting his restaurant shift.

“Am I interrupting something, kid?”

“No-no!” MK’s eyes turn back to him. The boy laughs weakly, scratching the back of his head nervously. “I’m just on break right now -most of the city’s infrastructure is still down and well, Pigsy kind of told me not to overdo it…” The boy’s voice is reduced to a surly grumble; Wukong senses there had been a pretty intense conversation between his successor and Pigsy.

Wukong can make a healthy guess on how that ended. Blood be damned, the cook is every bit the proper demon parent in the way he caters to MK -and beneath all that distrust, hardass attitude, Wukong knows there’s a real soft spot in the pig demon’s heart for the boy and his entourage. After all, that must be the only reason his master’s reincarnation can get away with so much free food.

“He sent you to your room, didn’t he?”

MK lets out an offended gasp and straightens up. “My apartment, actually! Because I'm an adult, remember?” The boy points out with the self-righteous offended tone of a young adult taking his first steps to independence…. only to then deflate and smile sheepishly, “But huh, yeah he grounded me.” MK practically whispers but Wukong hears it, and it doesn’t fail to make him smile at the mental image that revelation brings.  “Said I needed a break so he kicked me out of the restaurant and marched me upstairs.”

That however has Wukong’s gaze sharpening as he looks over his student. Oh? The chef wouldn't do something so drastic without reason, and the Sage is quickly noticing many reasons. Not quite baggy eyes, but getting there. That hair has seen better days, the kid needs a shower. That shirt? Hmm, a few stains, but it might be passable… 

It paints a pretty clear picture.

“Bud, have you been overdoing it?” he asks perhaps a bit more sternly than preferred.

MK shrugs, groaning as he rocks side to side. “I mean, kind of?” He says and Wukong gives him a look that has his student squirming even more. “Not really? I get that I need to rest and all but when I can just do-” The kid mimes pulling out the staff from his ear and slamming it on the ground, before raising his arms dramatically in the air. “-poof! Make things look brand new, it really helps with the rebuilding!”

Wukong raises an eyebrow. 

“How’s that going?”

MK’s expression lights up. “Pretty well!” he all but chirps, almost like one of Wukong’s little disciples in the way he preens. “I -well, Mei’s parents have been talking to the temporary mayor about that. We got a new one. You know, not possessed. Mei checked. We fixed up most of the district and it's really just a lot of snow leftover..”

“Nothing a good summer day can’t fix,” Wukong makes a small noise, impressed. It seems like a big laundry list but from the look of things, MK literally needed to be forced to take a break. That kind of selflessness had never been instinctive on Wukong’s part. One other reason why MK is the perfect person to pass on the staff. “That’s great bud! Seems like you did your part-”

“Yes, but!” MK’s expression scrunches up with dissatisfaction. “Pigsy told me I did enough and sent me off when I could be helping with the snow!” He groans.

Ah.

Wukong is starting to see the bigger picture here.

“Don’t know bud,” He starts off casually, watching MK deflate upon realizing his mentor isn’t exactly siding with him. “...maybe you should let others do the shoveling. You kinda fixed several dozen buildings yourself, right?” The Sage points out. MK hesitates for a moment but nods at his words, so the king continues; “I think you saved people from the worst of it. A little bit of snow cleanup is a tiny problem compared to needing entire buildings repaired.”

MK hesitates.

“...maybe? I mean, I guess you’re right…” He seems to ponder it a bit too long. The boy suddenly grins, excitement clear as he practically bounces in place while talking; “Oh, oh also -after I did some fixin’ a little old lady gave me the biggest bowl of jian dui I’ve ever seen.” His eyes light up. “It was awesome.” he sighs dreamily.

Wukong seizes upon this opportunity with both hands.

“Then it sounds like you did your part!” He gives the boy a thumbs up. “Don’t worry too much about it, kid -everyone needs rest!” His hand drops down as his expression turns into a frown. MK predictably looks down like a scolded monkey cub under the weight of his gaze. “Though, remember to double check stuff you get with gold vision, alright bud?” Wukong keeps his tone light, but only to keep the mood up. “That’s a one-way ticket to getting a demon-sponsored tummy ache, kid.”

MK freezes like he’s been caught with a hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. His bug-eyed gaze is almost identical to Wukong’s younger disciples when he finds them inside his vault. Pawing at mountains of very shiny, very dangerous artifacts, using the weapon racks like jungle gyms and generally attempting to compete for the fastest time to injury.

Predictably, Mk lets out a nervous chuckle. “Psh, I totally already do that!” He says, all while avoiding eye contact.

Wukong cocks an eyebrow up at this. He doesn’t even need to dwell on it too much; his bullshit meter is going off like crazy and by the nervous look on MK's face, the boy knows his excuse is not flying. Adding more evidence to the pile, MK raises his hands and quickly changes topic; 

“Anyways, whatcha checking up on me for?” He asks to divert Wukong’s attention away from his blunder.

Thankfully for MK, this time his tactics do save him from further reprimanding. Because Wukong has bigger fish to fry and a very awkward situation to explain. He’ll pull the boy aside and chastise him for taking a stranger’s offerings without checking later. As of right now, MK gave him the perfect opportunity to encroach on a certain six-eared topic.

Here we go, Wukong decides. He’s going to have to think this through carefully.

“It's huh, less of a check up and more of a ‘keep you updated on the situation’ kinda call, bud.” MK frowns like he’s sensing something is wrong so before he decides to come over, Wukong just skips right to it. “...no need to worry, I found Macaque!” He says with mock cheer.

The boy looks at him blankly.

“...he was at Flower Fruit Mountain?” MK whispers in disbelief and the way he says it rattles something in Wukong’s chest. He doesn't like how the boy puts it, even if it's not really MK’s fault. Macaque was from the mountain once, why would it be so surprising? 

Even if MK doesn’t know about that particular fact, it’s still, well, an island full of monkeys! A single extra one wouldn’t be too out of place… 

“What is he doing there?” MK leans towards him, eyes wide with concern. He gives Wukong a sharp look that the king doesn’t particularly like. “Is he okay?” he says insistently, peering up at his teacher expectantly.

Hmm, the implication of violence aside, perhaps not a good way to put it. Wukong tries to act as casual as he can muster as he shrugs, petting one of his disciples as he retorts;

“He’s fine, bud!” He laughs perhaps too casually, because MK’s squint feels vaguely judgmental. So he explains; “Found him squatting on the mountain, actually.”

“...did you kick him out?” MK says after a moment. Wukong hesitates, not liking the defensiveness of his successor’s tone. Kid knows Macaque far too little to get this attached, right? “Monkey King, he kinda helped us a ton, can you give him at least a few-

“Nah nah, he’s still here.”  Wukong shrugs, exuding as much nonchalance as he can muster.

Mk pauses. “Really?” Once again, the boy looks at him in disbelief. 

Wukong is really starting to not like that.

“Yeah,” he says as casually as he can muster, shrugging his shoulders when MK makes a little insistent noise as if to encourage him along. “...turns out dude twisted his ankle a few days ago and he's been just skulking around the island trying to heal it off on his own!” “but grandpa sun here sniffed him out, so-”

“Wait.” MK’s brows crease as the young hero puts things together. “Are you saying you’re taking care of Macaque?” MK’s voice rises to a higher pitch with incredulity.

“Yes?” Wukong tries not to make it sound absolutely painful.

MK looks like he wants to come over and check on the shadow demon personally, just to make sure Wukong isn’t holding him hostage. Ha.

If only he knew.

“So, tell you what -you take a big break and spend some time with your friends, and I’ll keep an eye on Macaque!”

“...willingly?” MK questions. His expression shifts into a squint as he looks Wukong up and down. “You didn’t tie up Macaque somewhere, did you?”

…well, kind of. 

Wukong’s smile freezes on his face.

He knows he can’t say the truth to MK. If he even implies how close to death the shadow master came to, MK will be breaking down a wall of his cabin in his hurry to check up on him. It’s not like MK and Macaque have much of a relationship -at least not as far as he knows, and he knows MK well, thank you very much. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Nevermind that, it’s just how Wukong’s successor is; a good person to the very end.

So best keep his mouth shut about the details. Wukong does not want to handle the fallout of that.

“...Monkey King?”

Oh shit. He’s been quiet for too long!

Wukong grins sheepishly, lifting his hands in an appeasing gesture. “He’s getting the five star treatment, promise!” He says with as much jovial energy he can muster.

MK doesn’t look like he believes it.

He'd taken too long to answer. The Sage barely fights back the urge to flinch. Bad Wukong. Pay attention. Especially to the kid; of all the people he’s wronged within the past year, he’s one who suffered the worst due to Wukong’s inadequacy. That and he's going to figure out Wukong did kind of slightly commit a bit of an illegal detainment upon Macaque.

In his defense, the jackals deserve it.

Plus, it's not like it's unwarranted or Wukong doesn’t have the right to do it. It’s his territory after all, and as the king of Flower Fruit Mountain what he says goes. Which means, Macaque doesn't leave the cabin until Wukong is sure he won’t pull another hiding-in-a-hole-like-a-genius stunt. As much as the shadow demon seems to enjoy cosplaying a feral cat with a bad attitude and a laundry list of health issues, Wukong’s not having it.

Not because he cares. Macaque just can’t die. Not on his watch.

It’s as simple as that and there’s no need to dig further.

Wukong sighs. MK keeps watching him, unimpressed. “Look,” The Sage finds himself uttering after a moment, voice falling back to a more calm, normal tone. Faking it won’t work with MK... and he doesn’t deserve that.  “I just wanted to let you know -you seemed pretty worried about it, bud, soooo -don’t worry about it no more, alrighty?” Wukong says, watching MK’s expression soften at his words. "You told me to try. This is me trying." Wukong insists. It comes out gentler than he wishes.

MK's expression softens. “Are you sure you can do it?” He says after a pause.

"I'll handle him, bud." The Sage nods. “I’ve dealt with sick monkeys all the time.”

“It's Macaque.”

He's pretty sure MK is joking at this point but its better than nothing. Still, Wukong groans in exasperation. “I'm not going to hit a sick monkey!” 

“It's Macaque.” MK repeats in the exact same tone and yeah, perhaps, mayhaps , he has a solid argument. “You can barely stand breathing within the same two miles as him.” The young man oh so helpfully points out.

At a loss of words, Wukong can’t fault the kid for that statement.. Especially given his own history with the Six Eared Macaque.

“Bud,” -it will be fine.” MK raises an eyebrow. Wukong just pushes through. “I’ve been managing the past few hours, haven’t I? It’s no big deal I just wanted to keep you up to date since you've taken a shine on that disaster monkey.”

“Monkey King, you're one to talk-”

“BUT! ” Wukong interrupts loudly and a few of his sleeping disciples startle at the sudden sound. He makes note to give them extra treats later in apologies. “You don't have to fear, I'm not going to throw Macaque into the sun.”

Unless he stabs me.  

“...I know,” MK says to the Sage's surprise, seemingly convinced but by the look in his eyes, Wukong knows this isn’t over. “I’ll trust you on this, Monkey King -but I expect updates!”

Wukong grins and bows his head. “Your wish is my command.” He says with mock courtesy.

In response, Mk waggles a finger in front of his face. 

“And make sure he eats his greens!”

“I'll try,” Wukong grins. “Best I can do is some cantaloupe, bud.”

Chapter Text

Wukong walks into the hut to find pandemonium.

“Sun Wukong, get them off now!”

He takes in the sight of Liu'er Mihou, the legendary Six Eared Macaque, an assassin and warrior unlike no other that has sent countless ageless demons fleeing in terror, utterly cowering on the couch. It’s as hilarious as it is shocking to see the shadow demon in this state; fur fluffed up in a sad attempt to threaten his attackers, ears pinned back and teeth barred. As weakened as he is there’s no wisp of shadow gathering at his fingertips to defend himself, but he isn’t fully defenseless. 

Not with the way he’s all but death clutching the fluffy, plush comforter Wukong created for him. 

A mighty weapon, this thick blanket seems to be his only hope of victory in this battle Wukong is witnessing; the last barrier between the desperate shadow demon and a veritable horde of chittering, excitable monkeys crawling up and down the bed from all sides and taking no heed to the sharp hisses Macaque gives them in warning.

Against these enthused youths and their curious grabbing and prodding, eager to meet this strange monkey only a handful of them remember, Macaque can only erect a pitiable defense. While most of the horde is made out of the younger members of the troupe, a few elders came along -and from their little fuzzy fur puffed out in outrage, lashing tails and reproachful looks they give Macaque, clearly they have something to say about the troublemaker refusing to take care of himself.

The evidence for that? Beyond the entire… situation, a certain little plate has been left on the table next to the bed. A glance at its contents tells Wukong that it has been reluctantly picked at by a frustrated shadow, but half of its contents remain. 

From the lack of lip licking or chewing among Wukong's subjects, none of the monkeys touched the forgotten cantaloupe. They’re outright ignoring the tasty treats in favor of circling Macaque like sharks. Excited, curious, judgemental sharks. Even without Wukong telling them, it seems his little disciples figured out the Sage's misbehaving patient is supposed to be working his way through the bowl… and he is most definitely not following doctor’s orders.

Thus the current sight before him. Macaque hissing and growling in a desperate attempt to fend off the monkeys circling around the edges of the bed like hungry sharks. All it would take is one chirp from their king to let loose the horde. 

From the way the swarm is posed to jump… Wukong is almost tempted. 

Almost.

“I don’t see a problem here.” He comments to his ungrateful patient, watching him try and fail to stare down the troupe of younglings and mothers who can't be bothered with his attitude. The children are too bold, the mothers too well practiced in handling disgruntled delinquent monkeys to care. They half crawl up on the couch, poking at the shadow’s foot or tail and chirping in delight at the way Macaque squirms away like a snail exposed to salt. “They’re just curious.” Wukong adds casually.

Taking his eyes off the horde, Macaque’s expression is both baffled and thunderous when he turns his eyes to him.

“One bit my foot.”

One of the baby monkeys squeaks proudly.

As worthy an explanation as the infant's confession is, Wukong brushes it off with a shrug. In a strange twist of fate however, right then and there a different monkeys tries his hand -or teeth, in this case- to commit exactly that once more. Enthusiastic as the little one is, his speed is no match for his adversary; Macaque immediately curls back with a yelp, protecting his feet with the comforter just in time.

All and all, this is prime entertainment. It's hard for the Sage not to look smug at the scene unfolding before him.

“Don’t worry, they had their shots.” Wukong responds in turn as casual as one can ever be. “You can't give them anything.”

Macaque looks particularly sour at that. “Joy.” The demon deadpans.

Wukong shrugs in response before heading towards the kitchen. He skillfully avoids the debris he’s yet to clean up, not giving them any mind out of, perhaps, more embarrassment than anything. A few of the older monkeys trail after him, brushing against his legs in comfort.

As he checks out his wrecked pantry and picks out a few ingredients, Wukong pointedly ignores the sensation of being watched. Without looking, he knows Macaque is glaring at him from the couch. Probably with his ears pinned low, lips pinched, trying to figure out a way out of this situation. Of the two of them, Macaque had been the most patient.

It's strange to think how the tables turned in that aspect, Wukong realizes with an uncomfortable quiet churn in his belly he chooses to ignore. No words are being spoken but the shadow’s impatience and ire blankets the air like a foreboding cloud. One Wukong does best to disregard it as he turns on the stove.

Miraculously, even after months of being gone the kitchen works fine. He takes out a wooden cutting board before pilfering some fruits from his pantry. The dish he makes has no real finesse; he just roasts some peaches and pears until the sweet scent of fruit fills the cabin. A quick check of the pantry allows him to retrieve some chestnuts, which he roasts on the side. 

Throughout every moment, he feels the eyes of his former friend staring into the back of his head. Upon smelling the food, a few of the monkeys leave Macaque to his fate in favor of perching around the kitchen to watch Wukong work his magic. He's not the best cook, but part of him enjoys the vote of confidence.

Another small part of him takes a sickening amount of pride in the fact he doesn't turn to face the shadow once. Not until he gathers up his meal on a plate -leaving some in the pan for the stove to keep warm- and gives most of the roasted chestnuts to the little ones to divide among themselves.

While the disciples chitter excitedly at the treat, Wukong walks to the narrow kitchen table. He sits down in absolute silence, sets his plate on the table and only then, when the silence starts becoming too heavy to bear, does he look. Macaque's expression is that of pure frustration.

From his seat at the table, Wukong looks down at him with perfectly manufactured innocence. “What is it?” he asks.

Macaque’s tail flicks like that of an aggravated cat. “Give me that.” He orders flatly. As if it's a given Wukong will fold.

No, no. Clearly Macaque doesn't understand the trouble he's in.

The damned panic Wukong doesn’t want to examine too closely is still too fresh in the king’s mind to let the slight drop by the wayside. Wukong makes a show of glancing at the abandoned bowl of fruit near the demon. Then he pointedly looks at his unwanted, ornery patient, a sadistic part of him enjoying the bristle traveling through the shadow demon’s obsidian fur.

Finally, he opens his mouth. “Perhaps.” He shrugs, picking up a piece of roasted fruit with his chopsticks. He doesn't miss the way Macaque's pupils expand at the sight of the food. 

He takes the bite and spends an obnoxiously long time chewing. It’s only fitting that as a king he takes his time enjoying the rich flavor of his kingdom's fruits, as well as the oh so fine entertainment his unwilling patient provides; with every passing second fury gathers in the shadow's eyes, a mixture of anger and comical disbelief at his petty behavior that soothes the ache in Wukong's chest further and further. Once he swallows and he's certain Macaque is on the edge of lunging off the bed and throttling him, he says;

“...once you finish your fruit, that is.”

Macaque's expression is all but murderous as his voice drops to a hiss. “It tastes like shit and you know it.”

The king scoffs. “You big baby.” His remark isn’t as much of a jeer as the king hoped it would; an emotion Wukong doesn’t want to consider softening the mockering into something more fond. He ignores it, focusing instead on the reaction he gets; enjoying perhaps a bit too much how Macaque’s ears start twitching left and right like the ears of an aggravated elephant. Or a cat, conflicted and irate. “...bud, you got like, less than half left. Eat that and I’ll make you some food.” Wukong adds slightly more quickly, to get the shadow to respond and distract himself from the invasive, mushy feeling in his heart.

More ear flicking. Macaque looks no less enthused as he weighs his options.

“I’ll just steal your food.”

Childish it is then. Wukong shows his teeth in a very deliberately human manner. “Get up and do it then.” He sings songs. A dare.

In spite of the danger, Macaque instinctively rises up to the challenge. He moves in a flurry of blankets and tries to step off the couch; then his foot touches the ground. 

Baited. All at once, a flurry of movement breaks out as the baby monkeys hiss like aggravated cats. Making a show of their teeth, they inch closer and closer like sharks circling prey.

Wukong’s never seen Macaque backpedal faster.

In a flash, the same man that has felled armies by Wukong’s side folds himself back onto the bed, lifting his foot out of reach of mischievous claws and wicked teeth. A smug silence follows. Some of the troupe chitter in delight. One swipes some slices of Macaque’s untouched food as a reward.

The resigned sigh that comes after is simply the icing on Wukong’s cake.

“You’re happy about this, aren’t you?”

Fighting the urge to smile wide enough to hurt, Wukong feigns innocence by leaning his elbows on the table and offering his patient a shrug. 

“Me? Pah, no! What makes you think that?” In truth, he’s being a big fat liar. There’s plenty to enjoy about the scene unfolding before the king. After the prior events, he needs to see this. 

Now matter how strange it is to think about. 

That after centuries of fighting, seeing Macaque in front of him awake and breathing is a need that overrides everything else. A relief. Childish to admit, he revels in the sight. Even if the shadow is glaring at him, brows brought low in an adorably frustrated scowl that reminds the king far too much of their childhood. Particularly when Wukong did something terribly cross with their neighbors -like, for example, calling dibs on an ancient tomb that turned out to belong to a nearby demon king’s many times great’s ancestor but it’s not like they were using the literal coffin full of jewels, now were they? Truly, looking back it had been only a matter of time before he ended up squashed beneath a mountain.

Wukong wisely keeps his thoughts to himself. It would only add fuel to the fire and give Macaque a wound to sink his fangs into. An opportunity to witness a weakness in his armor and exploit it until the sorrow and fear melted away and from the ashes rose his ire towards the other demon once again. Macaque is exceptionally skilled at drawing out the worst in him. Only fitting, after everything. As the one soul who stood at his side the longest, Macaque is well equipped with the knowledge of knowing where to dig in and make it hurt-

“I fucking hate cantaloupe.”

…which is why Wukong doesn't feel too bad about being a less than perfect host. He rolls his eyes at the comment, a move that earns him another baleful glare from the skulking demon.

“Yeah I know, you don't like the texture. I’m the same with papaya.” Wukong snorts, plopping another piece of roasted fruit in his mouth. It's only when he's done chewing that he notices the silence, and Macaque's troubled expression. “What?”

The shadow’s face relaxes into a calm mask. “You remember.” He responds, voice dipping with an emotion Wukong can’t pin down.

It’s not what the king expects. Rancor, irritation at bringing up a long dead past perhaps, but not this quiet bemusement. It’s too simple, yet too heavy still. Brimmed with bitter memories yet innocent in its surprise. Macaque’s expression is carefully controlled to feign indifference, but his eyes are not as dark and mistrustful as the king has grown used to.

“Of course.” Wukong's mouth feels oddly dry. He needs to look away, now. He does so, quickly finding distraction in one of the little ones climbing his lap, chittering for his attention. “The amount of complaining you used to do is unbelievable .”

Just like that, it's back to glaring for his patient. Macaque hisses, more cat than monkey.

“As if. Are you sure you’re not projecting?”

The Sage doesn’t even blink at the clipped reply. He blames his lack of sleep for the shrug he gives in turn and his nonchalant reply. “Whatever helps you cope, dude.” He says with mild humor.

Not getting the effect he’d been fishing for the shade looks away at this, disgusted. “The hell is papaya , anyways.” Wukong hears Macaque mutter under his breath. It's purposely just loud enough for him to hear. “Doesn't even sound real.”

For some reason, the sheer innocence of that comment draws out a snicker from the Sage. “Nah, it totally is,” Wukong turns back to his food. He toys with the idea of going down to the northern beach to gather some of the fabled fruit -but finds himself reluctant to move just yet. It’s just a feeling; a gut feeling Wukong decides to favor for now.

As if Macaque would even bother to sit down and eat a fruit Wukong gifts to him. Their past is not one that can be shunned so easily. The shadow demon entertaining such an act without using it as an opportunity to get under his skin almost childish levels of wishful thinking.

“...I'd think you'd like it.” Wukong ends up murmuring.

A snort is his response. “Given your bottomless pit doesn't want to touch it, I think I'll pass.” Macaque intones dryly. His complaint isn’t as irritating to the Sage as he expects. If anything, it makes the king want to poke the shadow a little bit more and he indulges.

“Ouch!” Wukong mocks flinch as if wounded. “Right through my heart.” 

Macaque looks at him in a deadpan manner.

“Good.”

With that, the six-eared menace spitefully turns his back to him and flops down on the bedding. It's clear what's happening. A thousand years, a thousand lifetimes, yet some things dont change and Wukong’s ability to pick up what the warrior is doing hasn't, either.

Macaque is skulking.  The only card he has left, and he’s playing it masterfully like the giant baby he is.

Wukong glances back to the unattended bowl of fruit he'd given the sullen demon earlier in the day. Macaque has hardly touched its contents -and the Sage is wise enough to understand that he likely won’t even touch the fruit unless Wukong literally forced it down his throat. Something he has plenty of strength to do and Macaque is too weak to fight back, but not an option that feels right.

His gaze wanders back to Macaque’s back. Even buried beneath the blankets in a weak attempt to hide himself from the Sage there’s no ignoring the unhealthy thinness of his frame. Some of the monkeys have gathered around the shadow demon and from the way they cock their heads down at Macaque, then glance at Wukong for pointers, they see it too.

Biting back a sigh, Wukong gets up.

A good twenty or so minutes later, he approaches the bed in the middle of his cabin, hands full with the fruits of his hard work. Macaque doesn’t move an inch, trading the safety of facing Wukong and knowing what he will do next in favor of making his displeasure felt.

It’s fine, not like Wukong wants to fight right now.

Wordlessly, he sets down the roasted fruit bowl in front of Macaque and steps away. 

Never facing the bed, he tries to shift his focus on clearing up the shards, broken wood chips and destroyed electronics littering his once pristine home. The damage is no great loss. He can buy everything back with ease and truthfully, it's not like he's truly attached to any of it. As an immortal bring he's gone through quite the laundry list of items due to the simple stress of time. A lot of modern things could last but nothing made by mortal hands stood up to the test of time as well as Wukong does.

As he quickly gets the cabin under control, he finally hears it. The faint click of porcelain and the sound of eating makes him fight back a small grin. 

It shouldn’t make him as happy as it does, but he’s not about to look at a gift horse in the mouth. Not while he remembers the feel of the other’s spine against his fingers. Wukong was correct in his assumption that despite his skulking, Macaque would ultimately swallow back his pride long enough to take care of himself. As he should. Even if it’s preferable that the damned shadow did so before it got to the point where he was dying in a hole on Wukong’s front lawn but hey, small steps.

…Wukong should try not to dwell on it.

Back in the corner it goes.

Clean the cabin and stop this, he tells himself as he finishes filling two garbage bags’ worth of ruined furniture and walks to the door. He’s not too keen to leave the island to drop off the garbage at appropriate human facilities, so he plucks a hair from his mane and conjures up a clone to deal with it.

With that task done, he turns around to take a look at the state of his house. The television and everything over that corner of the hut is well and truly ruined, pushed to the side to make way for the massive bed he’d conjured for Macaque. Wukong eyes the thrashed furniture, knowing full well he can’t get started on that mess with Macaque in the way. 

He’s quickly running out of things to do.

The king doesn’t like it. He also despises the silence that fills the hut. Wukong doesn’t do silence. Not unless he’s alone and even then it's an uncomfortable experience, to be left to the mercy of his own thoughts. He’d spent far too long experiencing that kind of oppressing silence -far too many years breathing in the dust and dampness of caves to be able to tolerate it anymore.

So he tries to break it.

“How’s the-”

“Up yours.”

How automatic. Wukong fakes a small, dramatic flinch that earns him irritated tail flicks. “Ouch.” 

Macaque finally lifts his gaze off his bowl of fruit. His eyes are dark and his lips are pressed thin together. “What were you expecting?” He offers, tone short. With his shoulders drawn in, it paints a strange picture to Wukong. Like the shadow is expecting the Sage's response to be less than amicable and he’s bracing for it.

Wukong doesn’t have the energy for a fight, but he can still be petty.  Cocking his head to the side, he responds innocently. “A bit of gratitude, to be honest.”

He might as well have slapped Macaque across the face. The shadow’s nose crinkles at the dismissive retort, disgusted. 

“Even you’re not that much of an optimistic fool.” The ungrateful demon utters with a mixture of annoyance and skepticism that has Wukong's tail twisting into knots. As much as the Sage wants to respond in turn, he swallows down his ire, finding his irritation not as strong as it should be for being insulted by the very demon he opened his home for. Flinging insults and threats are not going to get him far with Macaque.

Even if it is practically instinct from him to do so by now.

“Old age sure is catching up to you, isn’t it.” Macaque continues, voice dripping with false indifference. “Turning back to stone any time soon, old man?”

Oh, he’s going there. Wukong gives him an unimpressed stare. “Pick some better insults, bud.” The Sage grumbles, unamused. “Or you know, go back to bed. You look like crap.”

It's a testament to Macaque's acceptance of his sad state that he does little else but make a sour face. 

“I'm fine.” His voice drips with impeccably crafted indifference. The hand not holding his bowl of roasted fruits and nuts pokes at the bandages around his midriff. His frown deepens, yet there's a shift in his eyes which the Sage can't quite put his finger on. Thoughtful. Defensive. 

Combined with how he looks now, it's a pitiful image for the Sage. It makes Wukong’s jaw clench and the urge to do something settle like a burning weight in his chest.

He wants to dismiss it as a simple annoyance, brought on by Macaque being, well, simply Macaque. Both at the shadow demon’s words and his actions. Maybe Macaque nitpicking wounds he spent so much time painstakingly disinfecting, applying balms to, pouring his magic into and then carefully bandaging as if his patient is a delicate glass figure and not the undead demon who tries to kill him on the regular has something to do with it.

Or maybe it's how he looks so much like how he used to be; a time long ago when Wukong led them into danger and the shadow's flesh didn't hold up as well as the King's stone skin did. There were many times where that happened; many opportunities that upon looking back, could have cost the warrior his life before the rebellion or the mountain, or the Journey that came after. Yet it never ended in any other way but the bloodshed of Wukong's enemies and a night spent tending to each other's wounds. Applying stolen medicine to ward off infections and picking at hastily wrapped bandages wondering just how well this time it will scar.

…maybe it is Macaque simply being Macaque that’s bothering him after all.

Just not the Macaque he’s grown used to. The angry, withered shade which lurks in the shadows, waiting for a chance to settle a score that while regrettable, the stoic, cold part of Wukong refuses to see as anything but deserved. Or at least, that's what it repeats to him.

“I can bet.” Wukong replies, absent-minded, eyeing the shadow's movements. His stomach twists and jumps into tight knots. “How did it happen anyways?” Wukong blurs out all at once.

If Macaque’s posture was vaguely defensive before, it is now. He draws his shoulders in and narrows his eyes at Wukong, food forgotten.

“None of your business.” Macaque says curtly.

This is dangerous territory. Wukong slowly straightens up from against the counter, never taking his eyes off the injured demon he’d opened his home to. Macaque’s demeanor increases tenfold at the movement; his tail stills, his jaw visibly clenches. His ears, luminous as Wukong remembers, do that long forgotten fold back like the ears of a rabbit -exactly the movement the Sage remembers when Macaque is deeply upset.

The sight fills him with a strange sense of loss.

“Humor me.” Wukong’s voice dips into something soft, dangerously so. Macaque’s expression hardly twitches, but there’s a change in his gaze. His anger shifts into something unknown. Something equally dangerous; it wraps an invisible hand around Wukong’s throat and squeezes in warning. He sucks in a quick breath that sounds far too much like a sigh to his own ears.  “....the least you can do after giving me such a damn fright.” Wukong utters gently.

His words echo in the absolute silence of the house. Why is it so quiet? Even the little ones have grown silent -Wukong almost wants to look at them, to check -to see if they are alright… but tearing his gaze away from Macaque’s own feels like a slight.

Especially when the shadow’s attention is not wholly hostile, for the first time in centuries. His posture slumps slightly; a nail picks at the edge of a bloodied bandage absentmindedly as Macaque finally looks away, like looking at Wukong is asking too much of him. It breaks some of the spell. 

But what comes next shatters in entirely.

“....I didn't ask for help.” It’s not a mumble, but it’s a near thing.

His words take a moment to register in Wukong’s ear -and when they do, they bring up what he wishes to never remember. The blood. The smell of rot. Absolute stillness. Velvet soft ears that lost that characteristic glow and hung limply on either side of a pale face, a sight he’s now witnessed twice in his lifetime.

Twice too many.

Wukong can’t help it. He lurches to his feet, stepping forward. He hears the hand he’d been resting on the counter drags against its surface, causing a dangerous creak that echoes loudly as he exclaims:

“Why were you bleeding out on my front porch then!?”

Just like that, the tension returns and Wukong regrets the way Macaque's shoulders draw up defensively, the shadow's lips curling back in a sneer. He hates it. Hates the reaction, hates the venomous snarl that follows from his former friend. “Not everything revolves about you, Wukong.” Macaque hisses. 

The anger in his eyes is familiar. This is more familiar. It chases some of the unease in Wukong away. This is more like he knows. More like he can understand; a familiarity woven from hundreds of years of clashing. Staff against staff, claw against claw, lashing curses and reminders of promises long forgotten.

“That doesn't answer the question.” He hears himself say bluntly as Macaque glowers, clearly preparing for the ensuing argument that will inevitably follow. Or perhaps the fight.

Wukong can see him getting ready to brace. It's almost second hand nature for the Sage to notice it, after so long spent fighting. The only time they are ever around each other within the past hundred years is in the heat of battle; where venom spills from their lips and Wukong is left aching, blood dripping down his stone body to feed a battle scarred land.

It’s almost comical how different this situation is from that routine. Macaque’s never been this deep in Flower Fruit Mountain’s territory since his rebirth, and Wukong’s never felt such an urge to not even touch the shadow demon, less he kneels over dead. Never felt such a desire to grab the fool by the shoulders and demand who left Macaque at the brink.

Not since the rebellion.

Not since the journey.

He can try to tell himself it’s simply logical. Macaque’s wounds are a mystery he should pursue, less it could come back to bite him at the most inopportune time. It would be the cautious thing to do. No creature who can harm the Six Eared Macaque so thoroughly is one to ignore.

But Wukong doesn't have it in him to keep prying at that wound. 

And it makes him feel vaguely pathetic.

Worse, it isn’t like he could lock himself away in the safety and familiarity of his cabin to stew on that ache until it finally fades. Macaque is here. Macaque is in the walls of his home, invading his refuge -and it’s not like Wukong can be angry at him for it, not when he’s the one who willingly brought the other’s half dead carcass inside. It’d been a necessity. Even trying to consider otherwise is a travesty.

The alternative would have been to leave Macaque in that makeshift grave of his, to bleed out or die of rot and sickness. And that, that brings forth a dreadful sense of horror as old as it is familiar to the Sage. One he doesn’t want to face….never wanted to face.

But what’s done is done, he thinks sourly as Macaque’s glare fails to waver.

It kills the anger in his chest. Wukong inhales slowly, then exhales, ignoring the weight of the shadow’s skeptical gaze on him as he speaks once again, this time thankfully far calmer:

“...but, if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine.” He says , eyes wandering away from Macaque’s blazing gaze…before ultimately landing on the shadow’s lap -specifically, the half-empty bowl of roasted fruit. An idea comes to Wukong and he latches onto it like a lifeline.  “Did… did you like the food?” He blurbs out with a rush.

Immediately, Wukong wants to wince. It sounds a lot lamer than it did in his head. He can't swallow the words back though, only brace of the inevitable blowout that’s sure to follow.

Yet it's silence that greets him in turn. Macaque’s expression is unreadable. His eyes hold a strange, sudden dullness in them now, burnished gold deepened to cautious copper.

“It’s… adequate.” The shadow says after a moment, stance slowly uncoiling. Wukong preens. Macaque catches it, because even if half blind the man is as perceptive as ever in every other matter besides being a healthy member of society. “Don't flatter yourself. It's passable.” Macaque says sharply. “...you've done worse.”

Wukong feels a small grin tug at his lips.

“I'll take it.”

“Don't let it get to your head.” Macaque scoffs, tapping the side of the bowl. “Compared to that time you argued you should add rocks to your diet because ‘stone monkey’ and proceeded to do so, this is shockingly edible.” He says with a surprising lack of bite to his tone.

Wukong feels himself frowning. “I don't remember that.” He rebuffs gently.

Macaque lets out a little humming noise.  “Figures.” The other picks at one of his claws, nonplussed. “You were roaring drunk and later sobbed to me about how it was a bad idea because it would count as cannibalism.” He adds with a voice dripping with disinterest.

Oh. Yeah that might be it.

That’s just the right kind of dumb thing a young Wukong would do.

It’s… off putting that Macaque remembers this. For a split second, Wukong feels a budding sense of joy -only for that hope to twist into a sinking knot of lead in his chest.

There's too much history to try and bury beneath appeasing words. Too many old scars and weathered bones that once rested in a grave Wukong dug with his bare hands. Too much to say yet too little that can be said to even attempt to reach out to the ghost before him.

But this ghost is different from the many that haunts his restless nights. It doesn't share attendance with the others, judging him for his mistakes behind the veil of time. It turns its cheek and proudly denies joining the echoes Wukong sees when his thoughts turn to old friends he put in the ground. By all right, this ghost should be part of them -yet it refuses. It goes against the grain and digs jagged fangs deep into his flesh, holding on with far more strength than a mere curse or haunt could. No, it makes its own space, its own stage upon which it seizes Wukong's guilt between greedy claws and denies him peace. This ghost is of flesh and bone, spite and anger and so much roaring life that emerged from a grave that stood unattended for so long. This ghost is real. It sits within his home right now and regards him with a face marred by that final blow he never meant to land.

This ghost lives.

And damn everything, Wukong realizes quietly, he'll make it his mission to keep him breathing.

Suddenly, the shack feels too small for the both of them. He straightens up abruptly, startling the little ones that had gradually congregated around his feet. A sudden surge of uncomfortable energy seizes him all at once.

Macaque stares up at him, confused. He finds himself unable to stand it.

“...Wukong, what-”

“Holler if you need anything.” He mumbles out with a bit of a hitch.

And before he can leave the opportunity for Macaque to reply, he’s out the door.