On the sixth morning, it was Nico who arose first, seemingly ready. He'd slept like a rock, between getting his rocks off and a nice shot before bed, and he'd already gone to the raider for his hunting clothes by the time Tros stirred and realized Nico had beat him to the punch. The old fox would stumble out of the tent, his glasses lifted, rubbing his eyes as he meandered nude to the nearest tree to empty the tank, murmuring "y' rip roarin' ready to go, huh polecat?"

"Yep. Today's the day," Nico said, having just donned his cap, "i'm gonna get one this time. I can feel it." 

"I betcha will," said a drowsy Tros as he waggled his dick before dawdling his way to the raider as well, preparing coffee first and foremost, before even getting dressed. Nico, it seemed, was far less distracted today, though, the fox inspecting the rifle as he'd been shown to do, checking the chamber to make sure it was empty, as well as making sure the safety was on, the young boy waiting excitedly in the dark of the early morning while Tros went about waking up.

It felt like ages to poor Nico, who had been ready to go since his eyes had first opened, but after a coffee, some breakfast, another bathroom break, a wash of his face in the water, and dressing, Tros was finally ready to go, and only just then did he seem awake. It felt like Nico had gotten them up even earlier than Tros had...

The two trudged along with Nico carrying a flashlight this time, taking the lead as Tros followed behind, keeping close behind his grandson. Nico was carrying the rifle today, and he had a spring in his step that Tros could only hope would prove to be worthwhile. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in Nico, moreso he knew deer to be finicky, and he didn't want to risk ruining Nico's good mood by pointing out that seeing a deer one day didn't mean he'd see one again today. Still, the boy was so sure of himself, Tros thought, it'd be better to see how it unfolds rather than fill his head with any ideas.

Eventually, at the hunting spot, Tros would prepare the bait as before while Nico got things ready, and after a short while they were sitting together, as before. Knowing well that Nico would be cold before long, Tros had offered him to sit in the same place as before, the awkward tension over the pair thankfully quelled as Nico made himself comfortable, the events of last time happening just as expected this time around as well. Tros was only a man, after all, it was hard not to rise to the attention regardless of who it was.

This time, though, Nico seemed entirely undistracted by it. Though he would remark on it as he made himself comfortable, not meaning to compliment the old fox but honestly informing him "I hope mine gets's big as yours when I'm older."

"Th-thanks bud," Tros would say with a heat tinting his face, a blush invisible amidst his greying red fur but certainly able to be felt. 

The two's conversation was far less tense this time around, casual, like they were good friends that had never spent a day apart, though it did remain at a nearly silent whisper as it had before. Nico was intent this time, it seemed, and as the sun began to rise and the light would cast itself upon the earth, he felt like he hadn't flinched in the slightest in the past half hour. Tros, however, was having a much harder time waking up, and it was only as sunrise came that he realized why: Nico had woken them up an hour earlier than he had. That may have been easy for a teenage boy, he thought, but it was hard on him, and his coffee was doing it's best to keep him awake but it was struggling to carry his eyelids.

Another thirty minutes passed, mostly silence broken by idle conversation, and Tros felt he could barely keep his eyes open. He was nodding, here and there, and Nico could feel it, the way the old fox's snout would occasionally caress his neck before jolting up, and eventually the boy would pat his shoulder and whisper "y' can sleep for a little, granddaddy, i'll tap y' if I see one."

Tros had no arguments to that, a little shut-eye to brighten his senses. He would nestle down a bit, his head on Nico's shoulder in a tender manner as he closed his eyes, eventually falling asleep. The boy struggled to focus at first, though, the bristly beard and mustache of his grandfather on his neck, such a close and intimate area. Not only that, but having gone from sitting with his weight leaning on Tros to Tros leaning forward a bit, leaning his weight on him, the boy realized that he was the one holding up his grandfather as he sat there with his rifle at the ready. Unlike last time, if he took the shot, he'd have to bear the brunt of it, as Tros wasn't braced against the tree to discharge the kickback.

An hour would pass.

Then, Nico would see it. Coming into the field, quiet as ever, were several doe, and a buck. Eight points, he believed, were on the horns of the male, who was keeping a close watch on the ladies he seemed to be courting. The fox would very carefully click off the safety and prepare himself. He worried, though, that patting Tros awake would make the older fox stir, and Tros had done a surprisingly good job of not snoring in the position he was sleeping, so Nico could only hope that this wouldn't startle him. The boy lined up the scope, and found his mark: the neck, just like last time. 

Though, as he took his aim, he found that his buck had stopped, to look at something it seemed, in their direction. He must've detected the fragrance of their bait, Nico thought, but didn't want to move toward it. He was motionless, save for the flicking of his ears and tail, and the foolish boy would take that stillness as an opportunity to get greedy. He had a perfect shot already, but he would move a bit, aiming upward, and as the trigger clicked and the resounding blast of the rifle would fill the air with noise, Tros would bolt upright, snorting to life as his eyes peeled open, a confused look on his face as smoke hung in the air around the boys.

The deer were gone. The chamber was open, and Nico would click on the safety as he eased Tros' weight off him, handing his grandfather the rifle before standing, his legs wobbling like gelatin. It was clear the teen boy was shaken this time around, though his movement was quick to the sight of his shot, but as he was heading towards where the buck had been, Tros was already right behind him, rifle in hand, only to look down and see what Nico saw.

"You shot 'im the fuckin' head?!" Tros asked with absolute shock, looking down at the beast, dead on the ground, a bullet wound through the side of his face, Nico looking down as well with a much quieter "yeah" replied.

Tros had initially wanted to scoop Nico up in a hug, spin him around, bark about how proud he was, but the quietness of Nico's response would prompt Tros to look to the boy, who had a solemn stillness to him, like this was perhaps a bit more than he was ready to witness. Tros would scoot a little closer to Nico, who's eyes hadn't left the deer's head, and would put an arm around the boy, pulling him in for a side hug as he asked "...y'okay, buddy?"

"Yeah," Nico replied with that same quiet to his voice, a slight stammer and upward pitch of tension as he added "it's just kinda bloody."

"Hunting tends t' be, buddy. The next part's even bloodier, though. You wanna maybe sit down over by the tree while I handle it?" Tros asked. The young boy, though, would clear his throat, shaking his head as he insisted he would stay to field dress the deer, and would even help. Tros made it clear what field dressing was, and how messy it was going to be. Nico, despite the warnings, was sure of it. Before the dressing, though, Tros would have Nico kneel by his kill and hold up the head, having brought a camera amidst his tools to take pictures of the boy if he'd actually succeeded. There was a light in Nico's eyes as he took the shot, a pride in the boy that he'd been seeing grow throughout the week but seemed to be peaking here, having felt truly like he'd made his grandpa proud.

Tros had, indeed, showered the boy with praise throughout the process, but as Nico had seemed to come down from the initial shock of the kill, Tros followed through with his original plans, bear-hugging the boy so hard he lifted him off the ground as he sang his praises.

"Y' make me so proud t' be your granddaddy! You've grown up so much! Just wait, just WAIT 'til your daddy finds out y' bagged a buck on your first trip AND got a headshot."

After Tros had eventually calmed down himself, he once more prepared Nico for the process of what was about to happen, making it clear to the boy, "it don't make y' no less of a man t' not wanna do this part with me yet. It's pretty rough."

Despite that, Nico insisted, and as Tros got on his knees and made the first cuts under the tail, Nico looked with horror at the scene despite Tros explaining exactly what he was doing. The boy's fur seemed to go pale, and as he sat there with Tros cutting out the deer's backside, he wondered how anyone had first steeled themselves to do such a thing.

"Next cut's just real simple, from the base'a the ribs down to the sex. Y' wanna try?" Tros said. Nico nodded, apprehensively, and before Tros handed over the knife, he'd ask Nico again for certainty, the boy nodding again.

Nico made a clean incision, and he didn't cut too deep, as Tros had told him, but as the skin opened and organs were made suddenly visible to the boy, he would quietly close the knife and hand it back to Tros, wordless, scooting back on his knees facing sideways, away from the deer. 

"Y' good?" Tros asked. Nico nodded, but there was a look about his face, a look Tros knew well, as a parent.

"You're gonna puke, aren't y'?" Tros asked, Nico answering not with words, but with a sudden, almost silent vomit onto the grass. He would lean forward and hold his stomach as he puked again, no retching, just an instinctive purge of the contents of his stomach as Tros could only sit and nod, understanding. It was almost comical, how quietly the boy lost his lunch in the grass, his body doing almost no heaving. The old fox proceeded as Nico collected himself, Tros eventually encouraging him successfully to go pack up the rifle and all the other supplies while Tros scooped out the entrails. 

Once things were packed up, Tros would take the back end and Nico would take the front, and they would walk the deer back to camp, where Tros would have Nico help strap it to the hood of the raider. After changing out of their hunting clothes back into casual clothes, Tros would stand with his hands on his hips as he looked at the buck strapped down to the vehicle, crossing his arms as he pondered about what they should do now. 

"Meat won't be no good if we don't take it home today, but that means cuttin' the trip a day early..." Tros said, tapping his foot in the grass.

"Am I goin' home if we go early?" Nico asked.

"Nooo, no no," Tros replied, "we'll take your boy back t' my place, I'll skin him and get his meat in the freezer, you can unpack my stuff and run some laundry for me and we'll have ourselves a little movie night or somethin'. And i'll tan his hide for ya and everything." Tros said. With all that on the table, it was easy to convince Nico to tag along. The pair would pack over the next hour, everything loaded down into the raider, and they'd be on their way back to Tros' place. The raider had a distinct smell now, amidst the stale tobacco and musty interior. It smelled like Sionnachs.

Tros had an old farmhouse on a rural road, not particularly close to anyone but not far away either. His yard was full of clutter, a few old cars, some on cinderblocks, an unused chicken coop and pen for farm animals off to the side, now full of clutter as well. He had a garage he used as a work area and a few sheds, and as he parked the raider in the dirt driveway he'd look up at his old home, at the stillness of it waiting for him. The upstairs had two windows that faced the road, both of them with different confederate flags acting as curtains. The front porch was covered, with no banister around the edge. Tros liked to sit with his legs hanging off the side and drink, watching the cars go by, enjoying the tranquility of being alone. 

Today was not a quiet day, though, and the old fox wasted no time opening his garage, entering from the side door before manually yanking up the large sectional door and returning to the raider, pulling the deer carefully off the hood of his machine so antlers wouldn't scrape the paint before dragging it inside, onto the concrete.

"Alright buddy, this is about as grisly as the first part, so how bout y' take my keys and carry our stuff inside and get t' cleanin'!" Tros said. The boy was happy to follow orders, no longer itching to partake in the bloodiest parts of the hunt. He'd carry duffel bags and backpacks inside, setting them all down just in the living room. Tros' farmhouse had a fairly simple setup. If you entered through the front door, you were in the living room. The bedroom was to your left, straight ahead was the den, then to the left of that was the kitchen, where a side area contained his washroom and the back door. In the living room to the right, though, was the stairway to the upstairs, which Tros mainly used for storage nowadays. It was a lot of house for one man, what with the garage and various storage buildings as well as the basement, and as Nico unpacked bags and carried dirty laundry to the washing machine, he wondered if Tros ever got lonely.

The floor was all hardwood, the walls plaster in some rooms, paneled over with particle board wood paneling in others, decorated with outdoorsy themes and taxidermy. It had been built in the early 1940's for Tros' parents, and he and his wife had moved in after Dardanus passed away, taking care of Tros' mother Reta Mae and raising five children in the home until they all moved out, Maidean following years later. What had once been a house of eight had slowly been reduced to just one, and as Nico dumped laundry into the machine and started the wash, he wondered if Tros had was happy with that. It was a question that he didn't want to ask, though, and risk ruining their trip. Maybe next week...

Nico had long since finished drying and folding his grandpa's laundry when Tros entered the house through the back door a short while later, in the afternoon, shirtless and hollering "hot DAMN's a big boy you nailed, buddy! Got him taken care of, though!". The old fox would undress and toss his clothes in the washer before heading to the fridge for an ice-cold beer, standing in the nude in the kitchen as he gulped it down. What a man he was, Nico thought.

"Gonna go take a shower, done look like I killed a man. Wanna wash up with me?" he'd ask. The boy was happy to oblige one more moment of intimate camaraderie with his grandpa before the week was done, forgetting that, as he had grown older, Tros' shower had stayed the same size, a utilitarian box in which washing was purely for one's solitary comfort. The pair would take turns standing in the way of the water's stream, the other standing cold while they waited to rinse themselves off, an awkward tango of unappealing body brushing as they would shift spots, dicks rubbing butts in a manner not even a pubescent boy could find himself desiring in the moment. Perhaps it was for the best.

As the pair stood drying off together, fresh and clean from a week's worth of camping, Tros would remark "S'funny, doin' that again with you growin' up. I remember when I still had plenty'a room in there even with you next to me. Hell, I remember bein' on my knees beside the tub with your pudgy little ass splashin' around in the bath. Don't know how y' ended up so twiggy, you were a fat little fucker as a baby, all doughy'n soft. We thought you were gonna turn out just like Ganymede."

"Preheat the oven," Tros said after the pair left the bathroom, dressed in his pajama pants, "I wanna give y' something for your achievements today."

Tros would head off to his bedroom while Nico started the oven, the fox walking to the doorframe between the kitchen and den, wondering what Tros could possibly have in mind, the distant sound of rummaging able to be heard several rooms over as the old fox dug around for something in particular. Eventually he would return, approaching Nico and standing at attention, addressing his grandson with "Private Polecat the 2nd! Attention!"

Nico would scramble to attention as well, having no idea where this was going, but standing curious, alert.

"Excellent form, private. At ease." Tros would reply. As Nico slacked his posture, spread his legs apart a bit, Tros would look to him.

"For your meritorious conduct in the forest this week, I would like to award you with this patch. 

Thank you for your service." Tros said as he handed to Nico a patch, a shield emblem, a gold edge to it with red background, gold castle wall details around a sword in the middle. It was a Vietnam patch, Tros had sat Nico down and shown him his patches and pins not long ago, and Nico remarked about how cool they were. Now, here he was, holding one in his hands. He was radiating with a contained excitement, but just as he wanted to react, Tros would continue.

"And for excellent marksmanship, I would like to award you with this, as well as the formal title of 'sharpshooter'. Great work, soldier." The older fox said, placing in Nico's hands a pin, an iron cross with a target in the middle, a piece hanging off it that said "rifle". It was a sharpshooter's pin, and the fox would wordlessly clutch them in his hand as he leaned in and squeezed his grandpa tight in a hug, a tight hug that pressed his face to the softening skin and downy fur of Tros' belly.

"So proud'a you, polecat. Don't ever forget that" Tros would speak quietly, hugging Nico back with the same fervor he received.

The oven's bell would ding a short while later, and Tros tossed a pizza in the oven while the two debated over what to watch for the night, eventually settling on a Vietnam war movie, and after the first 20 minutes were spent watching and chowing down on dinner at the same time, Tros found himself leaning on his side of the sofa with his grandson laying sideways, head in his lap, Nico watching the film intently despite Tros regularly pausing to give various anecdotes like "it ain't exactly go that way". Much of it, he said, was fairly on-the-nose, but much of it wasn't, and Nico was only about 15 minutes shy of the final scene before he fell asleep. Tros could tell, glancing down to see the boy's eyes closed, out like a light. He'd had a big week, he couldn't blame him for nodding off, even with how cool the upcoming turret gun scene was.

It would've been easy to slink off to bed, Tros thought, to slip out from under Nico and replace thigh with pillow, tuck him in, leave him there, but the old fox didn't wanna do that. Family, he thought, should be savored, and as he pulled the handle to recline his side of the sofa back into as much of a bed as it could be, he'd pull his blanket from beside the sofa and cover his feet, setting his glasses on the floor and closing his eyes. His bed could wait. This, he thought, was too good to pass up.