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On some days, Ashveil would sleep in the refrigerator for days. Sometimes, a few weeks, and on rare occasions, almost a month, to sedate the endless pain from the ‘shadow’ sealed in his arms.
And in those sleep, he dreamt of both good and bad. The good dreams were once of the bygone peaceful days, where he and fellow comrades that once breathed and walked with him across the universe to fight the Void Rangers.
However, in those bad dreams, they were the same comrades or phantoms who wore the faces of his comrades as a mask, begging for that merciful death before they lost themselves completely. A few times, he would hear the devil’s voice from his sealed arm, to join them over the other side.
Most of the time, the Ashen Detective was firm and resolute, able to resist the temptation of those whispers to continue walking to keep his promise to his fallen comrades. Other times for the long and weary life he had lived through from cyro sleeping to avenge his fallen comrades...
Ashveil knew he had grown weary of this cycle, yet death would not come to him, nor would he find them. Because—
“Solostar Wolfshade!”
“Boss!”
The remaining Galaxy Rangers, though scattered across the universe, waited faithfully for his return. Even after he had told them countlessly their leader had died, abandoned them like a cowardly traitor.
They refused to believe it. Every single one of them.
Boothill would track him down across three star systems with nothing but a rumor and a blurry surveillance photo, and kick open door to door to locate him. Rappa would send Mister N back with more bananas than the fridge could hold, and a handwritten note scribbled in varying curvatures from other rangers.
They waited.
And Ashveil hated them a little for it, how their stubborn, foolish loyalty made it impossible to simply close his eyes one final time and let the cold do what the shadow could not.
So he endured.
Not for justice. Not for revenge. Not even for the promise anymore, if the former Galaxy Rangers leader was being honest with himself on those nights when the frost bit deeper than usual and the nails in his wrists ached like they remembered something he’d rather forget.
He endured because a pack without its First Fang would scatter. And scattered wolves died alone.
That was the arithmetic of it. Clean and impersonal, the kind of deduction a detective like him could live with--
“Ashveil!”
Then Caelus came along and ruined the equation entirely.
At the start of their initial meeting, there was a delicate misunderstanding when he saw that young man wielding that memetic virus to stop Sparxie’s chaotic plan in the Phantasmoon games. Old scars reopened and flared wildly just at the mere sight of recalling his friends being forced to turn into monkeys under that vile Enamator of Erudition.
The following day, he wandered into the Ashen Detective Agency to introduce his neighbors after taking over the Furbobo Weekly publishing house as the next president.
After a few idle chatters in between days of bumping each other time to time, Caelus, with one look at the refrigerator, said in a guileless, sincere tone of someone in the cosmic sense:
“That can’t be comfortable. Don’t you get cold?”
Ashveil, standing in front of his desk to filter flyers between spam and genuine case requests from his mailbox, had stared at the Trailblazer for a long, uncomprehending moment. “... That’s your question? Not ‘why is a grown man sleeping in a refrigerator,’ or ‘are you a fugitive,’ or even ‘should I call someone’?”
“Well, yeah.” Caelus squatted a distance away from the large, cold cabin to inspect it curiously. “I mean, it’s freezing negative degrees inside here. Though I wonder how March was able to sleep inside that Six-Phased Ice while drifting across the universe....”
On the table, Mister N had made a noise before his mouth was about to do his usual narration—
“Quiet.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your silence was very loud.”
The thing about this particular Nameless member, Caelus, which Ashveil had cataloged with the same clinical detachment he applied to crime scenes. Because acknowledging it any other way would require an emotional vocabulary he’d buried somewhere around his third Amber era of living, the young man didn’t try.
He didn’t try to fix Ashveil by dragging him back into the light, or deliver some stirring speech about the power of friendship, or insist that the shadows could be conquered if only he believed hard enough.
Caelus just… Showed up.
“Ashveil, Mister N,” Caelus popped his head over by the entrance of the small detective agency office, holding up a tray of two coffee cups and paper bags in both hands, and grinned. “Do you guys want some coffee? The Furbos accidentally ordered too much for a break, and we even got some donuts to go along—Wait… Does a monkey even drink coffee?”
He called up a few times to get Ashveil’s opinion on a case, and at times, he would assist along and nudge some hints in the right direction.
Detective’s Code, Rule... whatever number he was on now. Ashveil had lost count somewhere after the young man started leaving snacks on top of the refrigerator like offerings at a shrine. At some point, he stopped counting and looking forward to bumping into that strange young man to hear the absurd tales he had gotten himself into.
Not consciously.
That’s why—
=0=
“Come home, La Mancha.” The voices wore faces tonight. Archer reached out to him with his hands fully intact. Cole joined along with Coria, humming a melody that Ashveil had not heard in four hundred years but could still feel vibrating somewhere behind his sternum.
“Your pack is already here. They’ve been waiting so long.
“Don’t you want to rest?
“Don’t you want to hear Cole laugh again? Don’t you want to see Archer draw that ridiculous bow of his? The blood is warm on this side, La Mancha. Not frozen. Never frozen—“
“Not today,” With a single tap of the cane, the white void rang with refusal.
Ashveil stood where nothing had edges, and everything had memory. His cane rested against the ground that wasn’t there, the faint ripple spreading outward like a boundary he had drawn a thousand times before. The hand lingered in the air too perfectly still, along with those smiles carved on the mask.
The void shifted.
Subtle fractures threaded through the white, like cracks in glass that refused to break. Only to shatter to reveal a door, one that came from his small office in Doverbrook District. And behind it, a faint, muffled sound.
Knock, knock
“Ashveil!”
The phantoms froze for a second, and Ashveil’s gaze shifted towards the door, his lips quirking a weary yet rare genuine smile on his lips. “See? Looks like I’ve got a client waiting.”
The phantoms didn’t speak. The silence belonged to them for once. That hollow, affronted quiet of things that had expected to win and couldn’t fathom why they hadn’t.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Ashveil, come on! I’ve got another big case for you to look at!”
Louder now. Impatient. The kind of knocking that came from someone who had already tried the doorbell, found it broken, tried calling, gotten voicemail, and decided that this was the last warning before it was broken down by a bat.
The cracks widened. Light bled through — not the clean, surgical white of the void, but something warmer. Yellower. The cheap fluorescent of a second-floor office that buzzed at a frequency Mister N had once described as ‘aesthetically criminal.’
The phantom wearing Archer’s face tilted its head.
“You’ll come back,” it said. Not a threat. Worse. A certainty.
“Mm.” Ashveil adjusted his grip on the cane, already turning toward the door. “Probably when I got my retirement pension. But not today, and not because you asked nicely.”
He walked forward.
Behind him, the void folded inward like a held breath. The melody Coria’s phantom had been humming, distorted, slowed, and had become something thin and formless. The hands that had reached for him curled back into the white and dissolved like frost under a palm.
Ashveil didn’t look back. Looking back was for amateurs and tragic heroes, and he was neither—just a detective who’d overslept and someone on the other side waiting under that bright sunny sky.
He reached for the door handle to push open, then....
=0=
Thump…
“Hm?”
Thump, thump
“Strange… I don’t remember locking myself this tight.”
Thump, thump, thump—!
“Hold on, hold on,” A familiar voice groaned tiredly, seeming to hop off from somewhere to approach the refrigerator. A few rustling movements and a gentle thud of shifting a heavy object to the ground, they declared. “You can open now, Mr. Ashveil.”
The refrigerator door burst open with the graceless violence of a man clawing his way out of his own coffin.
Frost shattered across the office floor. Ashveil’s hand found the edge of the desk first, and he hauled himself upright through a curtain of frozen condensation. The particular full-body ache made him groan like someone whose blood had spent the better part of two weeks deciding whether to circulate or crystallize.
The office was dark. Late evening, judging by the angle of the Dovebrook streetlights cutting through the blinds. Mister N was standing outside of the refrigerator with his usual comical expression, and narrated, “And thus, from the frozen tomb emerges the Ashen Detective, defying death, logic, and several workplace safety regulations—”
“Stop narrating.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“You rarely are.”
Ashveil straightened slowly, one hand still braced against the desk. Frost slid from his sleeve in thin, brittle sheets, dissolving before they touched the ground.
His gaze flicked once across the room.
Desk.
Blinds.
Mister N.
Then—Hm?
... Caelus?
The Trailblazer curled up on the ground, letting out a light snore from his sleep. That earlier noise didn’t even wake up the young man, only to mumble something about one of the Furbos skipping duty for scolding before he rolled over and buried his face deeper into the crook of his arm.
Ashveil stared.
Then he looked at Mister N.
Mister N looked back with the serene composure of someone who was daring his boss to say something about it.
“... How long?”
“14 days.” Mister N held up a small notepad—one of the Furbobo Weekly reporter pads, covered in tally marks and what appeared to be a rudimentary mood chart. “He’s been here for the last three.”
“So, three.”
“Mm-hm.”
“On the floor.”
“Only tonight, I offered Mr. Caelus the desk chair, but he said the floor is fine and sat there waiting for you before falling asleep on top of the fridge.” A pause, carefully timed in the way only a narrator with a flair for dramatic effect could manage. “He also said, and I quote: ‘The chair’s Ashveil’s when he wakes up to eat. It’d be weird to sit if he’s gonna look for space to finish all the stock I brought for him.’”
“Food…” Ashveil repeated that particular word methodically, his dark gray eyes swept to his desk. On top of it, there were stacks of food ranging from tidbits and candies to instant noodle cups and homemade food still warm from the smell in the small office.
Mister N climbed up to the desk to pick up one of the tidbit packets thoughtfully. “We don’t have bananas anymore, and Rappa will not be visiting over anytime soon. So I told Caelus you needed food that was anything but that for a nutritional diet. Though… I should have been more specific in telling him what is required instead.”
“He bought all of this?”
“Over the course of three days, yes.” Mister N then picked up a receipt from the pile. Then another, and another, fanning them out like a losing poker hand. “Day one was reasonable. Day two, he asked me what I like to eat, and I told him noodles, but takeouts from restaurants dip in quality, so he bought instant noodles and... Apple juice, because he said you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach after a cryo sleep.”
Ashveil looked at the desk again, this time to scrutinize each and every one of them in detail. The Frostweave Salmon Bread Rolls occupied one sensible corner. The instant noodle cups — six of them, three different brands, stacked with architectural ambition — formed a second district.
There was a jar of honey. A dozen Trick Snack packets. Bottles of Energy Drink, Spring Water, and Steamed Puffergoat Milk. A bowl of Wild Herb Soup that smelled aggressively medicinal. A container of what appeared to be homemade Cosmic Fried Rice, still faintly warm, with a sticky note on the lid.
“You can borrow the microwave from our pantry. But make sure to slam the door hard before you heat up, Furbricato likes to hide there sometimes to mess with their colleagues — Caelus.”
Ashveil read the note twice. No, the handwriting was not illegible; it was something that did to the inside of his chest that he didn’t have a category for. Then, Mister N hopped down from the desk and headed to the exit. “I shall inform the Furbos that their Great Raccoon President will be clocking out for tonight. Do make sure to eat them all before your nutritional diet takes another dive again.”
With the door shut in a gentle click, Caelus had rolled slightly onto his side now, one arm tucked under his head, the other loosely curled near his chest. His breathing was slow, even, completely unbothered by the fact that he had apparently decided this was an acceptable place to sleep.
Ashveil stood there for longer than he’d admit. The faint crease between Caelus’s brows, the calluses on his knuckles, mapped every fight in his journey. The way his fingers twitched like they were reaching for something that wasn’t there.
No. The Ashen Detective stood there because the scene was wrong—like a painting hung without permission on a wall he’d been staring at for centuries, and the cracks underneath suddenly looked deliberate.
The young man had no business being here.
He had a train with a group of friends, a universe to trailblaze through, and places that were warm and well-lit and didn’t require sleeping on concrete beside a refrigerator that occasionally howled.
Yet, the Ashen Detective reached for the blanket on the filing cabinet to shake it out once. Twice. Folded out the creases with his hands, and then he draped it over Caelus.
The Trailblazer stirred under the blanket. Made a low sound, contented hum of a body registering warmth it hadn’t asked for but grateful, and pulled the fabric tighter around his shoulders without waking. And with a careful single movement, Ashveil carried up the young man into his arms, and sat on the chair with Caelus settled against his chest.
Surprisingly, the gray-haired young man weighed less than he expected. Or maybe he was stronger, hard to tell when he woke up after 14 days of cryo sleep.
Caelus shifted once, mumbled something, and went still again, his head finding the hollow of Ashveil’s shoulder like it had always been meant to fit there.
“… Haah… Detective’s Survival Rule No. 5: Never eat alone when you’ve got company.”
A beat.
“Even if that company is asleep and drooling on your coat.”
No response. Only the steady rhythm of breathing against the older man’s collarbone, and the faint warmth bleeding through layers of fabric.
A small smile curled fondly on the Ashen Detective’s lips. He glanced down at him to watch the uneven fall of gray hair over his eyes and the way Caelus’s hand had unconsciously tightened in the fabric of Ashveil’s coat, like letting go had never been part of the plan.
“No harm in waiting, I suppose…,” Ashveil murmured more to himself, his head leaning forward to press his nose and lips into the younger man’s head, and breathed in.
Warmth. Newsprint ink from the Furbobo offices. Shampoo — something clean and underneath all of it, faint enough that he almost talked himself out of noticing: Just him — Caelus, specifically, stubbornly, the way a scent settles into a person over time and stops belonging to anything else.
Slowly, Ashveil closed his body and found himself drifting back to a dreamless slumber. Outside, the Dovebrook streetlights held their small, unremarkable vigil. Inside, the refrigerator hummed its empty hum to no one, door still ajar, frost already melting into nothing on the office floor. On the desk, the food waited — congee and bread rolls and six instant noodle cups and a jar of honey and a box of tea that smelled like medicine and a Tupperware of porridge.
By the time Mister N returned with the group of Furbos trailing behind him to find their Great Raccoon, they found them still asleep together like this. The Ashen Detective’s right hand still rested limplessly on the side while the other settled, unconsciously and protectively, against the small of Caelus’s back.
Neither the little furry Imagenaes nor the monkey spoke a word as they glanced at each other. Instead, each of them raised their camera and phone together—
CLICK!
=0=
The next morning, Fluffy Across the Blue posted another special chapter on social media. A new development between Detective Ashwolf and Baseball Raccoon, as they were sent to investigate a case of serial murder who stole body parts for their vanity needs.
When the final page loaded after catching the criminal, Ashwolf’s ears were folded back with his muzzle tucked down, nose nearly touching the top of Baseball Raccoon’s cap. And its long, dark gray, furry tail curled around the sleeping companion comfortably and protectively in its sleep.
As for Baseball Raccoon, it was tucked sideways into the curve of Ashwolf’s side, striped tail wrapped once around himself and once, just slightly, around the wolf’s foreleg like it had happened in sleep and neither of them had noticed. One tiny round ear pressed flat against Ashwolf’s coat. The other twitched, mid-dream.
The internet did not take this quietly judging by the comments hitting over a hundreds.
@Is New Fluffy Out Yet: WAIT. WAIT WAIT WAIT. IS THAT REAL? BY FUCKING AHA, IS THAT REAL--
@cosmiccon_enjoyer: Blurry said she referenced a REAL candid photo from their hardworking assistant. I am going to need a moment. Several moments. Possibly a week.
@nibblescrunchy: the way baseball raccoon just. fits there. like he belongs. I haven’t eaten today, and this isn’t helping
@Panshipper: THE SHIP HAS NOT MERELY SAILED, IT HAS ACHIEVED ORBITAL VELOCITY
@furbobochronicles: Blurry. LORD AND SAVIOR BLURRY. Do you have SOURCES? I need them for my research. PLEASE 🙏
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: This is NOT canon-compliant characterization. Ashwolf would NEVER. Please do not harass the artist, but also, we are in a CRISIS.
@FrankDude: I have been an Ashveil solo stan for THREE YEARS. THREE. YEARS. And NOW—
@just_a_raccoon_fan: lmao the defense squad found the post
@nibblescrunchy: THEY FOUND IT
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: We are formally requesting that the artist clarify whether this is intended to be romantic or platonic. We are being very calm about this.
@cosmiccon_enjoyer: it’s a candid photo. of a real moment. what clarification do you need?
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: Ashwolf’s entire characterization in the main series is that he does NOT get attached. He IS a lone wolf. This is wildly out of character, and we have sources to back up.
@furbobochronicles: he quite literally said “treasure your companions” is a Survival Rule. I have the exact quote. Would you like it?
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: COMPANIONS. That means PLATONIC, and NOT romantic.
@Panshipper: he let the raccoon sleep on him, and he STAYED. what universe is that just companions?
@GalaxyCrimsonRose: In canon, he literally told the Nameless not to be a lonely hero. I’m looking at the lore page right now at special number 6—
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: That is a MENTOR relationship. Context is IMPORTANT here, as you can see, Ashwolf is just mentoring Baseball Raccoon on how to deduce the clues
@cosmiccon_enjoyer: the photo exists, dude. the REAL photo of the REAL people exists.
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: REAL LIFE DOES NOT EQUAL CANON CHARACTERIZATION!
@Panshipper: it does a little bit though
@Furbulitzer: it does a little bit though
@Furli: it does a little bit though
@Paraprince: it does a little bit though
@Joolyon: it does a little bit though
@Bruce Furlee & Tiger Furlee: it does a little bit though
@The Strictest Monkey: Technically, these characters do take inspiration from their real-life counterparts.
@Veil-Veil Fanclub: IT DOES NOT. He is a hot, single, DILF detective with TRAUMA. He is not in a headspace for love with a raccoon! This comment section has become LAWLESS. We are taking this directly to Blurry.
@HD_Bar_Colt: popcorn acquired. refreshing every 30 seconds; do not contact me. This is a throwaway account.
Offline, the damage was arguably worse—Caelus and Ashveil hunting their damn rascal companions to prevent any more photos from leaking out to the public, while dealing with weird mobs rioting outside their offices below. But that was a problem for the afternoon later.
