Work Text:
“Aww, don’t you just look so adorable?”
Rodya runs a hand through the woolly puff of Faust’s jacket. Its fluffy texture traps heat, and there’s a small bead of sweat gathering at Faust’s forehead.
“Faust does not recommend coming near a Sinner in this state.” She states plainly, giving Rodya a cautionary glance. “When an EGO’s traces remain after battle, it may cause a wide range of problems best left alone.”
“I know, I know~. But this thing’s just so warm and soft! Wish I had one during the winters in my hometown.”
“Haah…” Ishmael rubs her forehead, too exhausted to bother correcting anything coming out of Rodya’s mouth. “Don’t the nails hurt, Faust?”
“Yes, you would be correct to assume so.”
Ishmael’s face pales, equal parts concerned for Faust and herself. She’s already got a few EGOs herself—she’d rather not imagine herself looking like a botched sewing attempt.
Faust grabs one of the nails wedged into her shoulder, drawing it out slowly without any sign of pain. A small spurt of blood trickles out and wets her jacket. Rodya fights back a disgusted groan.
“Good job, Rodya. You’re being so brave about it.” Ishmael smirks. As Faust removes another nail from her side, Rodya makes a poor imitation of a rusted hinge.
“Are ya gonna get Dante to fix that?”
“Soon, yes.” Faust takes out a pristine handkerchief, soaking up the excess blood before it can drip and run. “However, administering first aid will come first in this case.”
Rodya doesn’t keep her eyes off Faust, right until she retreats into her own quarters. The coast is clear. She grins wickedly from ear to ear.
“...What is it?” Ishmael bites, throwing Rodya the question she’s craving. She’d put off hearing it for as long as she could.
Rodya sticks a hand under her jacket, rifling around and brandishing a cardboard box. It appears to be something from her snack stash—chocolate chip cookies.
“Ta-da!”
“Huh? You really didn’t want to share your snacks with Faust?” Ishmael blinks, staring at the deep blue package. She’s not very familiar with the packaging, which depicts a teddy bear sitting obediently.
“These aren’t just any old snacks.” Rodya taps the box. “This fell from Fau’s pocket during battle! I was gonna give it back to her, but there were barely any cookies left.”
Ishmael can only roll her eyes. Typical Rodya, pinching food and keeping it for herself. She takes the box and shakes it a few times, flipping it around.
“There’s no list of ingredients or nutritional information.” Ishmael points out. “Maybe it’s one of her scientific creations. I wouldn’t put that near my mouth.”
Rodya shakes the box, emptying out two cookies into her hand. “They look and smell exactly like a normal cookie to me. I’ve seen dodgier packaging on worse days.”
She’s right. They do smell appetizing—those with less common sense would pop them into their mouths without thinking. But Ishmael’s survival instincts are polished, and no amount of rewinding would lower her guard to such extent.
And in all honesty, she was rather curious. Enough to let Rodya be the guinea pig.
Ishmael watches as Rodya takes a nibble, her eyes lighting up at the delectable burst of sweetness inside her mouth. Watches the rest of the cookie follow shortly.
There’s a sudden pained yelp, and Rodya’s hands fly to her lips. Blood drips down her fingers, quickly staining her slacks. The whimper that follows confirms the sinking feeling in Ishmael’s chest.
“Are you all right…? What happened?”
Rodya lets out a sob. Ishmael had half-expect her to spring back up, cackling at her for falling for it. But there’s tears—real tears in her eyes. Fear and pain they know too well.
Ishmael knows she won’t like what she sees. “Show me,” she pushes Rodya’s bloodied hand away, peering into her mouth. There’s something small and reflective inside her mouth, stuck right into her gum.
She quickly pulls it out before Rodya can bite. A wounded scream comes out of her, a few more sobs escaping her blood-filled mouth. As Rodya curls into herself and muffles her cries, Ishmael brings the object closer to her gaze.
It’s a small nail. It had lodged itself into Rodya’s oral cavity, hiding innocuously inside the cookie. Ishmael grabs one more from the box, splitting it into two halves. Another nail drops into her palm.
“I guess it was dodgy EGO.” Ishmael lets out a dry huff.
Still, she feels sympathy. Not many things shut Rodya up, including pain. She gives her a tentative shoulder-rub.
“Come on up. We'll have to do something about the hole in your mouth.” Ishmael sighs, taking Rodya by the arm and tugging up. “Don’t worry, I won’t be telling Faust yet. I know how to patch up a puncture wound or two.”
Rodya trails behind her wordlessly, her face smeared with fluids.