Work Text:
Like cattle, bearing the weight of your herd. No—like sheep, wandering among the grass with a heavy flock. Creatures are driven by necessity alike, regardless of form. Within the aforementioned animals exists a common source of internal struggle: hunger.
On her bed, she stares at her shoes, quivering.
God, why did she have to remove them? Why did Hohenheim ask? Why crush her entire existence so ruthlessly with this petty experiment?
She understands that, in the name of Limbus Company and her continued employment, she must agree to nearly any task. It's not unreasonable to suppose some requirements would push one to their psychological extremities, either. But still, a part of her desired, regardless of practicality or personal investment, an iota of regard for her humanity.
It's humiliating being the monster for whom people remind themselves that, deep down, beneath the appearances, lurks something malicious and repellent—especially when her apparent status as such is continually imposed upon her by outside observers.
Is it selfish to believe she deserves freedom? Actual, concrete freedom—beyond what they would assume and delegate. Freedom from this imposed thirst of the mother whose children now exist only within her head. She wants to feel the soil, smell the wildflowers and wheat fields of distant hills, and gaze at the twilit skyline with naked feet.
Without Rocinante, the sole concept that flows is nothing short of 'food.' Drink it; take it in. Please hurry and spare this parched throat from death. It's freedom from one pain, but it brings another. Now it's nothing short of 'take,' 'drink,' 'recover,' and 'rip into flesh'—'ravage their souls and soak in the pool'.
Because that's your duty as a predator; live. Uninhibited. A Bloodfiend needs no dignity nor righteousness, and the Kindred that dare dream of heroics are delusional hypocrites. If she were a characteristic Bloodfiend that lacked the ambitions of nobility, maybe her fate would've differed—less dramatic, less melancholy, but significantly easier.
Alas, Don Quixote made the choice to pick up a weapon and wield it, if only so no other children would fall by the sword.
Interrupting her thoughts, there's a knock at the door.
"O-Oi, lass?"
Don Quixote flinches, snapping upright.
Out of the Sinners that could potentially arrive at her door at this specific time, Faust would've made sense to discuss what transpired—or Vergilius to discuss what other practical steps needed to be taken going forward.
But Heathcliff is a welcome distraction.
He's been pacing Mephistopheles' Backdoor hallway. What to say, how to phrase this without coming across as inept. Really, he wouldn't blame Don Quixote if she decided to ignore him altogether—ultimately, if his interference contributed slightly to the Rocinante incident, he really can't force her to entertain a single word from him.
"...Enter," she permits, staring at the door.
Hesitantly, he cracks the door. Just far enough, sliding half his body within. He wouldn't be able to sleep if he didn't at least offer the courtesy of acknowledgement to her after being treated like shite for routine evaluation.
"'M sorry if, uh... this ain't really proper coming from me. And, uh, knock yourself out telling me if I'm makin' things worse with what I say. I'm checkin' on you 'cause..." His shoulders lift with a sigh.
Because those eyes, starry-eyed with ardor at the simple promise of escapade, were so, so sad. Despair brimmed at the reality that yes, her inherent traits were set, unmalleable, and uncontrollably intense, and when she expresses them, her closest confidants suffer with her. The trust is broken, mental shock, panic, genuine disgust of people she thinks so highly of—torturing them with her inability to muffle the voices.
They will never forget the terror of seeing their colleague reduced to a savage predator, let alone the phantom sensation of having limbs severed to a degree. Even when the clock turns back, they exist side-by-side with the Don Quixote who dragged them into the monsoon.
She wants to be normal. Whatever would satisfy, even if it's temporary. She wants her noblesse oblige to matter wholeheartedly, not be a trait she relies on an artifact to accomplish. As if it isn't embarrassing enough knowing Hohenheim called her a coward for initially hesitating on Rocinante's removal.
"Sir Heathcliff... I appreciate thy courtesy. After mine previous shame, the least I might expect is chastisement."
"Nah, what? I ain't gonna criticise that—they knew full well what they were signin' up for. Plus, you remember when I... y'know..." His eyes flicker to the floor, scratching at his forehead. "Basically, what I'm yammering about is—I'm here to check if you're faring right. Has Clockhead delivered anything yet?"
"Aye. Manager Esquire had just delivered mine nourishment in liquid form." She points to a crate with several packets sitting inside, each bearing labels—artificial blood, generously provided by LCA. A relief to alleviate longing for archetypal prey. Fixer posters swarm the metal walls next to them, larger than life, propaganda-branded, and stick-vigilantes ready with fist raised, embossed with flashing rays. Cute stickers, too; there's the Black Silence, the Red Mist—probably some others Heathcliff doesn't recognize.
But, unlike the giddy hyperfixations of that unequivocally peppy Bloodfiend, Don Quixote wears an ill-fitting, worn, and fatigued smile, absentmindedly hunched over. Zwei, Hana, and Oufi Association membership recruitment pamphlets line the floors in scattered paper.
The playpen carpet under her bed, resembling rainbow patchwork quilts, bears traces of spilled blood, dust, and dirt, whereby several toys congregate close to the bed's legs. A red car, for example. Stuffed animals. A pinwheel that, if provided with the perfect gust, whirls by itself. Unfortunately, little ventilation permeates into the Backdoors unless born from the Sinner's sheer mental desire for fresh air.
"Here's to hoping they work out." He approaches, "May I... come in for a stretch? Unless you'd prefer to be on your lonesome at the minute."
She waves her hand forward. "Any ally of mine shall remain sans consequence. Thou mustn't burden thyself with mine shame."
The bigger question is, "are you afraid of me?" Do you fear to linger close to the carnivore? Did she screw up Heathcliff's perception of her, too? Reduced to an object of pitiable tolerance that, the longer it exists, must inevitably wreak harm upon everything around it?
What an awful existence. No wonder why Hohenheim treated her this way.
"I'm not a shallow bloke who'll bugger off to avoid a hassle. Be a right dick move to leave you in the cold. I wanted to discuss what happened earlier, if that's fair." Despite his nervousness, he persists in showing a bold face. "Or at the very least, can I offer any other option that might... take the edge off things?"
As he grows closer, his expression slackens. She's really defeated—tear tracks marking the length of her cheeks. "Someone to talk to, about anything. Even your Fixers or whatnot. Don't think I know much, but—" He keeps a small, tentative distance at her bedside, bat pinned to his side. "I wanna hear. Genuinely."
"...Ah...well. Verily, mine dreams will require reconstruction from whence that performance was laid to rest." Her lax expression spills into something miserable, gazing at her yellow shoes. "I... pondered what would come had I declined LCE's request. Ten years of a record stating mine lack of participation would wound me sorely... yet, in truth... perchance declining would have spared mine dignity." With a flustered sniff, Don Quixote rushes to brush lingering wetness.
"Forgive me. I trusted myself the braver sort. Not a feckless creature ruled by selfsame whim."
"If I'm honest, it ain't like they would've let you hide in the wagon for long. That bloke ain't daft. He was pressuring you into saying yes, and in the pursuit of science or whatnot, he probably would've ended up tricking you into giving an actual go either way."
She coughs weakly. "Forsooth, forsooth. I only wonder if there might have been another way. To expose mine innermost shame before public spectacle is hardly courteous—least in a troupe of respectable companions such as thou, Lady Faust, Lady Ishmael..." her ears burn with mortification. "Simply put, I loathe losing self-control more than aught else. To have it repeated unto me only adds salt to the wound."
"Yeah," he hums sympathetically. "Especially with the whole mother situation. It's mental that a colleague of mine is essentially a reservoir for an entire Family's thirst."
"I want not to be reduced to mine father's successor. I... loathe it. In truth," she gives an incredulous laugh. "Their voices... all of them, demanding their meals in unison. Beseeching me to fulfill mine duty and allow them to sate their endless hunger. At that moment, it seems impossible to refuse... they sound so tormented. Yet to do so by that ravenous entourage costs me friendships and reputation. I cannot thrive beneath weight."
A dry, helpless sob pours forth.
"I desire—t-to run unshackled."
Heathcliff sits beside Don Quixote on her bed, dropping the bat near his knees. "Man," he's only an arm's width away from being able to lean on the other's shoulder. "Sure understand what that's like. Back in Wuthering Heights, the fields of heath... the only ones retaining the color T Corp. drained... I wanted to explore every nook. I knew there had to be a horizon beneath," he vaguely gestures.
"Aye. The horizon I shall... never behold. And no matter how far it stretches, I have naught to strive toward. Every morsel I take must be scrupulously budgeted for mine future existence. Nobility is naught but a vice now. Naught here belongs to me beyond Rocinante—no claim to past, present, nor future."
"That ain't true. You don't know that," Heathcliff interrupts, Don Quixote raising her head in disbelief. "Yeah, uh, your choices ain't limitless right now. That's obvious. But Limbus Company's thrown unexpected opportunities already, bad and good. So yeah, it's bleak, sure. No view to stare towards beyond your shoes. But eventually..."
He laces his fingers, stretching his arms upwards and glancing around. "Fixerhood," he says. "Runnin' an office. Goin' places no one's ever been—Outskirts, Ruins, wherever. Doin' the whole hero bit." He shrugs. "That's what you desire, hm?"
Where she can embark on glorious expeditions around the City, displaying the colors of her righteous profession with every heroic deed on the windy wings of courage. Inspiring youth who, like Don Quixote, feel stifled by the system that robs them of a normal, content life. The pinwheels on the floor could drift with this supposed second wind, eager to spiral off wherever adventure awaits.
"You'll get there, won't you? Whatever it takes. This world won't perpetually be rotting and rubbish." Heathcliff tilts his head with a crooked smile. "Or this-or-that. For both of us, if we reach proper highs, it's gonna turn around. Hell, if this plonker Heathcliff can think positive... you, who shines brighter than a star, ought to look on the sunny side more than our lot."
It's always Heathcliff who brings her some brand of respite, isn't he? Often it comes through spats, butting heads with each other on differentiated values. Unlike how one views the down-to-earth logic of Faust, Heathcliff carries a sincere optimism. Disbelieving he is truly any type of symbol.
When Don Quixote watched him distort, she remembers the primary conflict on his face was heartsick dread for what shall become of Limbus Company should he descend into an irreparable frenzy—vengeance drowning him in spite of his kindness. Those violet eyes clawing inwardly. She understood that, if the cycle repeated, she'd free him, kicking, struggling, until the convulsions ceased.
Would he do the same?
Would he write of her in beastly, misshapen terms, exceeding her habitual foolishness, dismissing her morals if the chips fell right? Call her unknowable in an impersonal sense, like Faust would. The red to his violet.
Could Heathcliff reach toward Don Quixote, rescuing her from a bottomless descent into monstrosity without resentment?
She thinks he could. He's that type of man.
"Sir Heathcliff," she starts, weakly smiling. "Thou... art so wonderful."
Don Quixote slides the distance until her temple taps the crook of his shoulder. He blushes, squeezing the handle of the bat tightly. "If thou believest, I could surely mirror thine perseverance. A day at a time," she draws a shaky, pained huff, "until this distance reaches a sense of civility."
"Right then. I mean, they gave you those packs of artificial blood, so you needn't hurt yourself to acquire similar. Have you tasted some?" Heathcliff continues awkwardly, staring ahead at the box in his peripheral vision.
"Not yet. Mine spirit felt smothered, and I prayed for silence 'til I might find my footing. But... mm, perchance 'tis better to acquaint my palate sooner than later." She squirms on the bed, shifting over towards the crate. Gingerly, she extracts a sample.
"I'd not be able to tell they were artificial," Heathcliff answers plainly. "But I ain't a Bloodfiend, so. Wonder what the taste's like to you."
"Wouldst thou fancy a taste?" Don Quixote smirks.
"A taste of—blood, you mean? I..." He blinks, pausing. "Suppose there's no harm. It's not like it's real blood... yeah, sure, why not."
He takes the packet, looks at her, glances at the artificial blood pack. Quickly and messily, he stuffs the rubber within his teeth and tears the edge open, withdrawing before it sticks between. A small sip, he gathers it around his mouth and—nothing. Almost empty of flavor. There's copper, sure, but even that's tepid. Most peculiar was the artificial consistency of a sticky film lining his mouth. Why he's trying to suss every aspect of artificial blood is beyond him.
She takes the remaining portion and laps at the streak of maroon dotting the inside, draining the fluid rapidly.
"You like it? Barely tasted of aught, except warm metal." Heathcliff comments, scratching the bridge of his nose.
"Mm, thy verdict matches mine perception." Don Quixote gulps the fresh sachet, rubbing her finger through the bloody seal. "It serves a function, naught more. Settling mine thirst while being considerably kinder to quarry—with but a fraction of the cruelty inherent in prey."
"Aye. That's good," he nods. "As long as it does the trick." He taps the metal bat beside him, fidgeting. "Well, you've got to rest now, yeah? I don't wish to impose, so if you need me to piss off..." He gets to a stand, slipping a free hand into a pant pocket.
While it would be pragmatic for her to retire and wash the aches of Rocinante from her mind, Don Quixote shakes her head. "Actually, I would cherish the chance for more conversation. If thou wouldst be amenable to lying beside me... to maintain community would soothe mine grief, shouldst thou remain available."
Surely if she wasn't quite that earnest, Heathcliff would decline and claim he wasn't mentally equipped. He wouldn't do this with his other colleagues—she knows it.
Well.
"Yeah, aight. Suit yourself," he sits back onto her mattress, ignoring that awkward pounding in his heart. "Go ahead and get... comfortable."
Don Quixote peels her uniform coat and bundles it tightly, plopping it on the playpen carpet a distance. "Make thyself welcome. Thou deservest camaraderie as much as I." She lies on her side, wiping a residual, shimmering line of tears from the corner of her eye.
Heathcliff sheepishly casts the bat away, realizing belatedly how crude he might've seemed perching so visibly armed. Don Quixote's bed is rather plain and cramped, albeit still lavish and remarkably accommodating compared to the Backstreet bars with ratty fabric clinging onto pipes. He could sleep on the bare metal if the invitation hadn't been extended. "Don't fret, I've kipped in leerier spots and made do. It's your bed, after all. So uh, pardon if I knock into you a bit."
He props himself up with his elbow, lying behind the Bloodfiend who occupies the outermost crevice of her mattress. Her sheets have the five-pronged ubiquitous star scattered along every strip, and from this view does the merry-go-round caged behind Mephistopheles' prison bars glitter and trill faintly. If observed closer, he could see the view that Don Quixote typically enjoys for hours a night: bodies pierced by the galloping carousel mounts.
Instead, he's staring at her, heart quickening. When he moves his palm, he gently slides it past the slope of her waist and where the waistband of her pants lies, immediately growing scarlet and scrambling back an inch. He'd best think before settling his touch anywhere too precariously. It's not like he dislikes it, but overstepping when she's opened herself up—he'd never forgive himself for it.
"S-So about those Fixers," he blurts, panicking, "got any I should know?"
"...Sir Heathcliff, hast thou truly never crossed paths with a Fixer in all thy years of employment?" She smiles, obviously biting her humor.
"Oi. I'm trying to show a keen interest," he asserts, shutting his eyes. "Since when were you the cheeky one? What do you usually ponder near this time of night, then?"
"Tis well-spent to lie idly in good fellowship. Prithee, make thyself comfortable—though I fear mine humble bed shan't accommodate thy mammoth frame."
"M-Mammoth? I ain't even the leggiest in the lot! That blighter Meursault's a mammoth." He throws a forearm over his eyes to cover the building heat on his skin. "Mammoth dimensions... psh. You've got it dead easy being a pint-sized noblelass," Heathcliff huffs with mock vitriol.
Don Quixote exhales, giggling. Her breathing, previously flickering with hyperventilating anxiety, has mellowed substantially.
Heathcliff hopes he's accomplished something, for once, rather than let his loutishness paint another smear onto his growing number of blunders. He wants the best for her; really, he does. Whatever the best he's qualified to give is. He could hope—against hope itself—that Don Quixote's skewed life carries a smidge on the periphery of a common good.
She's a fantastic girl.
He closes his eyes, murmuring, "mm. These pillows are... not half bad."
Nothing replies except for the merry-go-round and Don Quixote's now-sleeping breathing. Somewhere along the way, between Heathcliff's failing lucidity, he shifted ever so closer to her. His nose nuzzles in the rift of her shirt collar, drifting into her neck.
"Night."