Chapter Text
“And he that smiteth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death”
-Exodus 21:15
Matilda snarls, and Rip bares his own teeth threateningly. The older man with a pale rusty colored dog dæmon flinches away from the gore covered mess that is his Matilda, but the other man simply tilts his head. At his side, a German Shepherd watches with cold and assessing eyes. The flashlight burns his eyes and it means he can’t see the men clearly, but none of their dæmons are wearing vests that signal a Police Dæmon. The snapped off axe handle is a comforting weight in his hand as Matilda draws herself up to her newly discovered height, towering over the older dæmons despite her lanky limbs and puppy soft fur.
(Matilda hasn’t changed since little Sophia came into this world, only to leave without so much as a whisper of golden Dust around her. Those too big paws dug her little grave while Rip cradled his baby sister close to his heart)
“Let’s put the stick down and tell the dog to heel” the man the others deferred to said, his German Shepherd’s ears swivelled forwards with attentiveness. Matilda snarled, the sound ripped from so deep in their chests it was painful, while Rip swung the handle. “You want it? Come fucking take it then!” he snapped, real fucking sick of men who thought they could order him around because they were bigger than him and their dæmons meaner. Matilda was big and mean now, and Rip would catch up soon. Then nobody would push them around. The flashlight pointed their attention towards the gun aimed right at Matilda’s skull, her ears going back in fear. Rip let the axe-handle fall, willing to take the bullet but entirely unwilling to watch Matilda go down.
“You’re in some trouble, son” the man said. Matilda kept her head slightly down, growling but not showing teeth as the German Shepherd trotted forwards to sniff at her thick scruff, still visible in her youth. It takes an effort not to bristle when they call him ‘son’ like they have any fucking right. The shepherd seemed to pick up on that, as well as how she hasn’t quite grown into her paws and the crack in Rip’s voice despite the rage. Her syrup colored eyes soften with something dangerously like sympathy and Matilda snaps at her muzzle on fucking principle. Adults don’t get to turn a blind eye, don’t get to look the other way when Rip comes to school with a broken arm, and then look at them with fucking pity. They don’t get to pretend they’re here to help and call them ‘son’ like they weren’t holding a gun on them while talking about Momma and Darby or his baby brother, Jesse and his little kitten dæmon and the waste of Dust that killed them.
Matilda scoffed, shaking blood and viscera from her ashy coat. “No fucking shit” she and Rip said in eerie synch. The story of their fucking life.
The shepherd and her human shared a look before waving them outside. The promise of food has Rip moving, even if it’ll end in a cop car and handcuffs. His momma raised him to never turn his nose up at food, even if it’s a shitty, too-warm sandwich from the bed of this guy’s truck. The sun makes his head hurt, but Matilda stays standing at his feet, her body angled between the adult pair and Rip in a way that makes him feel safe enough to focus on the sandwich while Matilda answers their questions about how much experience they have on a ranch.
“Do you know what she is, boy?” the German Shepherd, Mr. Dutton called her Duchess or something, asked once he put the sandwich down.
Rip looked at Matilda, shrugging. “A dog” he said blandly, “just like everybody else ‘round here”. You couldn’t wag a stick in Montana without landing on a dog dæmon, with domestic cats and small wild cats only being slightly less common. Rip and Matilda used to watch movies with Momma where people in California had exotic birds or big cats or colorful insects for dæmons, but they’d always found them oddly impractical. And besides, Matilda was bigger than any other dog he’d seen before. Mr. Dutton and Duchess chuckled in agreement, but their eyes were calculating.
“Matilda, right?” Duchess checked, and waited for their nod before continuing, “she’s a Boz Shepherd, do you know what that means?”. Rip and Matilda shook their heads, having never heard of the breed before. “It means she’s a wolf-killer, a fighter” Mr. Dutton said, “a guard dog who would kill for its charge”.
Rip purses his lips grimly. Sounds about fucking right.
“We don’t start fights, sir” Matilda growled, they’d never started a fight in their life. They took what their dad, their teachers, the cops, older kids gave without a fuss. “We just finish ‘em” Rip added. From now on, they would finish whatever someone tried to start. They would never be too small, too scared or too weak to keep what matters safe from the ugly in the world. Duchess’s golden eyes seemed approving, not warm or kind, but the kind of distant approval a soldier had for a weapon or a general for their army. The kind of approval of a weapon that would work correctly when needed. It had both Rip and Matilda straightening their spines.
“It will cost you” Duchess said, unyielding to their childhood as Mr. Dutton observed them.
“We don’t have any money” Rip said. That sonnova bitch sperm donor had ensured that.
“We don’t mean money” Mr. Dutton said, and it didn’t come out like a reassurance, but as a warning. “It’ll cost you everything else, but you’ll have something to fight for and someone to fight for you. We reward loyalty at the Yellowstone. It’ll require pain though, for the rest of your time with us”.
Rip and Matilda looked at each other, entire conversations passing between their eyes. Rip, with his bloody face, broken nose and heart aching for a purpose that mattered. Matilda, long limbed, ashy white coat stained red, too big and too small all at once and hungry for a place to sink her paws into and keep. No place to return to, no people to claim, nowhere to go and no one but each other. Nobody’s son, nobody’s daughter.
“Well sir” Rip sighed, tired beyond his years and resignation sitting around his neck like a noose, “pain is something we’re used to”.