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A lot of things are happening at the same time, but Twisted Fate doesn’t give them much of his attention. That is between his partner and the yordles; T.F. knows that the small furballs wouldn’t represent danger for Graves at the moment (it takes a lot to anger one of them. T.F can testimony to such fact).
So, anyway, there had been a lot of things happening at once while he watched Graves fighting with the Mustache Yordle, so really, it may have been his fault for not giving more attention to his surroundings , but in his defense, it is Graves's fault for picking up a fight with yordles.
The last thing T.F. sees is Graves, now brandishing the Mustachy Yordle like a living shield, easily dodging the shining purple ray (something that happens a lot, since everyone always assumes the man is slow) before everything turns into purple.
T.F. makes a sound- a yelp, far too high pitched for his own pride, when his sudden fall is stopped by rough stone. Someone roars something T.F.’s almost sure is his name, but he can’t really focus on it with the way his ears are ringing, aching as if ten gallons of water had just infiltrated in his brain, forcing him to raise his arms to stop the way every little sound hurt- or try to.
His actions – along with his heart, are suddenly stopped when something big scoops him up, overwhelming T.F.’s mind with the instinct to flee. It takes him a second to realize the screech came from him when he successfully climbs up something… fleshy?
Then he is captured again.
A hand. There’s a hand holding his entire body, tight enough for it to hurt and prevent his lungs from expanding all the way. T.F. is still processing it when a angry voice cuts his eardrums again, but he doesn’t have it in him to listen to what it’s saying, because there’s a hand holding him. T.F. tries to move again, and just then he notices how wrong his body feels – too hairy, limbs far too short, small.
Graves is roaring something – because of course it’s Graves, T.F. would know that angry voice anywhere – somewhere near, but T.F. is too dumbfounded by the blackish purple paws that should be his hands. Moving them also has the effect of reveling the knuckles of the person holding him.
T.F. has the sudden urge to bite the dumb idiot he calls his partner, who’s currently holding him with one hand, the other angrily gesticulating to the yordles. He tries to escape again, now aware of the mini claws in his paws, not all that worried about scratching Graves – the asshole has survived worse, and after putting T.F. into his mess, he does deserve it – but said man barely gives him any attention, grumbling something and moving to press him against his chest, not different from the way someone would hold an angry cat.
The comparison makes T.F. want to act like the damn angry cat, but his adrenaline levels are falling – it’s Graves and some yordles, after all, he is safe despite being uncomfortable – and his senses are all but drunk with Graves so close, making his usually easy going, flirty mind short circuits
Lady Luck gives him a break, but he’s pressed against Graves’ chest.
“-ow long?!” Right, Graves is trying to be the responsible for once.
“I don’t know? Maybe eighteen hours?” T.F. is fairly sure the voice belongs to the Cannon Yordle, but it’s a bit difficult to be certain in his current situation. And fuck if his heart is taking that part well. “Lulu?”
“I don’t knoooow!” that one is hard to misplace, the childish voice quickly raising at the end “a day? Not more than two, I swear!”
Graves grunts, unpleased like he isn’t the responsible for this whole mess, shaking his head and sighing – both actions that T.F. can feel rumbling through his body – before the childish yordle speaks again, now closer, considering the volume of her voice.
“Here, let me see!” it’s pronounced like a request, but comes out as a demand. Graves answers by taking a long step back and pressing T.F. more against him – what, yeah, any other time he would feel smug about the possessiveness, but right now he’s a bit too small to press.
“No way, you purple baby witch!” Graves exclaims, and T.F. had the urge to laugh at the childish way it sounded in his high toned voice. Too bad he doesn't even know how to formulate a sound.
“Ouuwn, c’mon! Pretty please? One minute?”
“Not even ten seconds, back off” now it really sounds like two children fighting for a toy. If the yordle was the same height, T.F.’s sure Graves would be raising his arm so the other couldn’t reach him. Now that T.F. isn’t so drunk on the novelty of Graves being so close, he can feel the start of annoyment at being handled like a toy.
Unfortunately for him, his voice comes out as some strange squeal, probably the sound of whatever thing he is normally makes. At least it's enough to draw everyone’s attention.
“Look! He wants me to hold him” the child thing says again, and if T.F. is sure os something, it’s that he mostly certainly doesn’t.
Graves shares of similar opinion, barking one of his strange brute “ha!”
“You two fighting to hold him won’t help anyone. Put him in the ground and see where he runs to” The mustached Yordle says, reasonably.
What is he, some orphaned dog?
Graves starts to squat, probably to do as said and put him in the ground, when the outlaw freezes midway.
Yeah, T.F. muses to himself, they’ll probably drag this on and on much longer than needed. He resigns himself to try to relax, Graves’s hold in him now loose enough to be comfortable, the fur making it easier to close his eyes and try to rest.
“Is it… him?” the question takes T.F. by surprise, the almost fragile tone – not enough for him to open his eyes, though. “ I mean, if I let go of him, will he be my partner or some wild squirrel?”
What a surprise, Graves being reasonable! But T.F’s mind can’t really focus on it even if he could talk, busy with nuzzling against Graves’ clothes. Sure, Graves isn’t one of the cleanest men out there, but he bathed recently, and his smell is enough for T.F. to feel almost content.
“Probably?” Childish – Lulu? – answers sheepishly “I mean! Most of the time people are people. Seven out of ten! Fifty percent?” T.F. isn’t worried about that, since he already knows which part of that percentage he fell on, but Graves certainly is, stretching his arm – T.F. almost makes a sound of protest at the lose of his current pillow – so he could look at him. The concern there makes T.F.’s annoyance shrink a bit. Just a bit.
“You there, partner?” straight to the point, like always. T.F. would have teased him about it if: A) he could talk, and B) he wasn’t currently busy deciding which one of his four fingered paw is considered the middle finger. He probably takes too long to answer, since Graves shakes him, a bit roughly, voice a tad more panicked “Tobias?”
T.F. takes pity of him, raising his head and making his best attempt of a greeting. Graves sighs, surprising T.F. with the sheer relief in his eyes, and moves to get to his full height, when Childish interrupts.
“Hey! Put him in the ground, we don’t know who he prefers!” really?
“Really?” Graves voices his thoughts, voice deeper now that he isn’t in a hurry. “ ‘kay, I guess”
T.F. is finally put in the ground, and now that he’s free he finds Graves’s hold much more comfortable. Still, he has a image to keep, so he first looks at the table his cards were, just to find them peeking out of Graves’ pocket.
Well, what a shame. He tried.
Graves makes a pleased sound when T.F. turns to his direction, not much different from a kid being proved right, and scoops him up with both hands, now surprisingly gentle for someone his size. Before he could hold him like before, though, T.F squirms until he looses his hold, allowing him to climb onto his shoulder.
It's only the size of his ears that allows the mage to hear the “bossy” Graves grumbles, but he pays it no mind, instead eyeing the vacant space between his partner’s throat and the poncho collar.
T.F. is fairly sure it would hold his weight.
“Well, if we’re done here, bye bye wish you a good day!” the Cannon Yordle hushed, all in one breath, dragging the sulking one behind her and following the other two Yordles through some of their random portals, all in one fluid movement that left Graves no time to react.
"That sure was something” Graves starts, turning his head a bit to look at T.F (a bit to close in T.F. honest opinion, his nose almost touching his head. While Graves may not care, since T.F. is a squirrel, he should know that for the mage he is still the very same attractive dumbass and T.F.’s weak heart does need a break here) “so… sorry?”
T.F doesn’t dignify that with an answer, instead deciding that yes, fuck it all, and moving to lay against his partner’s throat. The poncho hold him just fine, loose enough for it to be comfortable yet tight enough for him to feel Graves’ steady heartbeats.
T.F doesn’t really see what picks him up; one moment he’s fighting off Graves’ hand, who’s been trying to move him from his current rest place, the other something snatches him up, much smaller hands circling his torso with quick speed.
"What the -! Get back here you runt!” comes Graves yell from behind. The hold in him is loose enough for T.F. to move, reveling a boyish face portraying a toothy smile.
“But it’s so fluffy! Can I keep it?” the boy calls back, head turned and not bothering to check on where he is going.
“Absolutely fucking not!” Graves yells. The boy’s torso is thin enough for T.F. to see Graves’ brute frame running behind them, pure annoyance in his face.
T.F., on the other hand, isn’t even annoyed, already resoluting himself with being a hundred percent harmless to anything bigger than a boot.
Still, he has to pull his weight here, nevermind how light it is, so he starts writhing around until he’s able to find a finger and bites, hard enough to taste blood.
Well, maybe not so harmless after all.
The kid shrieks, making T.F. feel almost guilty at bitting him, but for his credit he doesn’t drop him, merely transferring him to his other arm so he could check on the bloody wound.
The fact that he stops running to do so shows how little importance he has been giving to the angry outlaw chasing him down.
The next second Graves is there, hand locking around the kid’s forearm so he couldn’t escape.
The boy is taken by surprise, his eyes traveling around, looking for something he could use to his advantage, but T.F knows it’s to no avail. Nothing short of three or four bullets wounds could make Graves move, and even then it would be troublesome.
“Quit yer runnin’ already?” Graves asks, giving him no mind as he walked further into some alley, dragging the boy behind.
“Ow, c’mon, that’s not fair!” the boy whines, hugging T.F. with his free arm like a damn teddy bear.
“Life ain’t fair, boy, now gimme him back” It’s always funny to hear Grave’s trying to be intimidating when they’re not in danger or robbing a bank or similar. The dumbass somehow always manages to be more intimidating when they don't need to, a fact T.F has complained about a lot of times for the dismay of Graves, who keeps on not using his deeper voice for assaults.
“Sure, what do I gain?”
Wow
Talk about bravery. Or dumbness.
“Ha! What you gain is a unharmed face, kid, now let’s be done with this, I ain’t buying what’s mine already”
What the fuck Graves is the first thing T.F. thinks, followed close by flushness that makes his skin- his fur feels like a furnace. Flirting has always been his to-go for not feeling this kind of thing, supported by his (damn great) poker face; being stuck in a voiceless, strange body makes it ten times harder to control emotions.
“Can you tell me where you got it, then? I want one too!” the boy finally accepts defeat, but keeps holding T.F. like a coin for negotiation, as if Graves wasn’t a hundred pounds heavier than his scrawny body.
Said man raises a eyebrow, and T.F. can see the shining mischief sparking in his eyes, invisible to everyone who doesn’t know him.
“Sure. You and a friend of yours go find the old diving hat in the docs. If you see a purple Yordle, tell ‘er you wanna vibe like a squirrel. It's a passcode” T.F. snorts, or whatever it is that a squirrel is able to do. If Graves sees it, he doesn’t knowledge it, already dressed with his own poker face.
“That’s all?” the boy asks, untrustful.
With reason. T.F. ponders. Well, bad for him.
“Yeah, that’s all. She loves squirrels, and so do I, gimme mine back” Graves says, impatiently, waiting with an open palm straighted.
“ ‘kay, thanks old man!” the boy exclaims, roughly shoving T.F into Graves hand and running for the docs.
T.F rolls his eyes, since that’s the only kind of social interaction he’s able to do at the moment, and starts to climb back into Graves’ shoulder, but this time he doesn’t let him, instead putting arm across his chest and laying T.F. over it.
“Don’t gimme that look, Tobias, it’s only while we’re in the open” Graves explain, defensively, adjusting his poncho so that most of it falls over T.F. covering most of him aside from his tail. T.F. decides to just roll with it. It’s not like it would be uncomfortable, and while his situation may be unpleasant, to say the least, he will make the most of it. Enjoying Graves’ physical contact surely is something worthy of a day as a one foot furball.
He spends some minutes trying to find the best position, for the chagrin of Graves, who keeps having to adjust his arm or the poncho all over again, but it’s worthy when he finally finds a good position, happy with resting while Graves makes the way back to the inn they had been sleeping. For once, T.F is grateful that the way back is long.
Even more when, in the middle of the way, Graves rest his other hand over T.F. back, scratching at the fur there.
It's night when they reach their room, a excuse of rain serving as background sound while Graves cleans Destiny, having made peace with the fact that T.F would be using his poncho as bed (truth be told, T.F. only went back there to see when Graves would get annoyed enough to get him out. He didn’t). After who knows how long, Graves finally decides that Destiny is clean enough (certainly cleaner than it’s user), and T.F. has a welcome surprise when he lowers his head a bit, just enough for him to lightly rest his chin over the squirreled mage’s back.
“Ye ain’t movin’ anytime soon, are ya?” Graves asks, voice slurred with sleep.
T.F. ignores, nuzzling the point where Graves's heartbeats are stronger. There’s something charmingly calm in the steady thu-duns that he can’t quite put his fingers- paws on.
“Thought so” Graves says, moving to put Destiny over the coffee table and then leaning his back against the couch. “You hungry? I ain’t gonna get anythin’, but I know ya like yer formalities” he continues, sleep more and more clear in the way he starts dragging the consonants “don’t know what squirrels eat, though”.
Truth be told, T.F. is a bit hungry, but Graves’s chin on his back is a surprisingly welcome weight. A moment later, he feels Graves moving a bit, probably crossing his arms over his chest like he always does when he’s about to sleep sitting somewhere.
Well, T.F. thinks, the soft snores of Graves starting to lure him into drowsiness, there’s worse ways to end a day.