For tohellwithromeo. Prompt: Fakir/Duck, the scene in episode ten.


Fakir liked animals. He always had; why it surprised anyone, he wouldn't ever understand (not that he made a habit of revealing it). He wasn't very fond of people; that was true. But, were he a betting person, he'd be perfectly willing to put money down on the fact that for every rotten, mean-spirited misanthrope in the world, there were a large number of happy ducks fat on bread and crackers. Sure, animals had all the same problems people did: they were stupid, selfish, and constantly trying to get in your way. But they at least couldn't help it. They weren't trying to get into his business; they just stumbled in without knowing any better.

That said, Fakir hadn't ever known them to stumble in twice.

You again? he thought, though in this light he could barely make out the little duck. He wasn't even sure why he thought it was the same one. It was a little funny looking, but surely there was more than one odd looking duck swimming around. Really, it was just a feeling he got, that same strange sense that the duck was actually watching him, not just looking his way. Not that it was uncomfortable or anything; just a tad on the strange side.

Not quite so strange as the duck actually approaching him though. That was definitely new. It was almost like it could see he was upset. Well, he couldn't have that, could he? Animal or not, it was bad enough that he was crying. He didn't need sympathy.

But . . .

If he didn't know any better, he'd say the duck was actually upset for him. Again, it was something in the eyes, something remarkably close to sentient. And maybe even . . . tears?

"Are you crying for me?"

It didn't respond, of course, but he couldn't help but feel confirmed as it continued to stare up at him. Definitely an odd little duck, he thought, but even as he finished his lips quirked into the slightest hint of a smile. Maybe it was odd, but so was Mytho. Clearly there was a pattern in his companionship.

Mytho . . .

His eyes burned again and before he knew what he was doing, he'd wrapped the little bird tight against him. The wet feathers quickly soaked through his shirt, but he didn't let go. For whatever reason, the bird was letting him hold it; even seemed to be leaning into him. It was mindless comfort--he knew better than to give it that much credit--but it'd have to do for now. He didn't have time for weakness like this, not now. There was no one else to rely on, no one but himself.

Luckily for him, that was all he'd ever had needed.