# Your Fiery Furnace Burns Ever Brighter

Title: Your Fiery Furnace Burns Ever Brighter
Status: Complete
Characters:
Rating: SFW
Classification: One Shot
Author: P.M.
​
>All Anon had to do was remember that Fang is non-binary
>Her pinpoint pupils, bristled wings, shaking hands, razor sharp teeth, all on display
>This was the absolute wrong time to fuck up. She looks ready to put those claws to use
>"Say. That. Again."
>Fuck. Why is it such a big deal? Even those weirdos online have moved on from this garbage. Why is she so insistent on it?
>It's so tiring dealing with this day after day, month after month, this minefield of words
>If his landlord hadn't been such an asshole by raising his rent, he might have had an edge when he negotiated Fang's stay in this apartment
>Could have gotten her to just drop this whole charade while the two were shacked together, rather than splitting money on rent
>Not even those extra video games leaning against his console are worth this
>"Look, I'm sorry alright? It just slips my mind every now and then."
>"Every now and then!? This is the seventh time this week!"
>Wait, she's been counting?
>"Why is it so hard!? You don't have any problem at all remembering some useless fuck in some shitty game!"
>Her hand waves towards Anon's desk, motioning at the computer sitting on top
>"Why can't you put in a sliver of effort into remembering what I am!? You spend hours posting Rock Ring trivia like it's nothing!"
>...how does she know that? He's been absolutely certain to turn off his computer before she comes home
>The only reasonable answer is she figured out his password somehow, breaking part of their agreement. He's not allowing anyone but the D.I.A. see his browser history
>"Fang what the fuck!? I told you the computer is off limits!"
>"LIKE YOU CARE ABOUT LIMITS!"
>Her fist punctuates the last word, slamming itself into the nearby wall. The drywall buckles under the impact as blood from her palm splatters onto it
>More shit the landlord is going to use against him
>She's completely lost it. Her mouth twists into fearsome grimace, her eyes failing to contain the tears behind them as they stream down her face
>"THE ONLY THING YOU CARE ABOUT IS GETTING LAUGHS FROM THOSE FUCKWADS ONLINE!"
>"AT LEAST THOSE FUCKWADS LET ME LAUGH! HAS YOUR BULLSHIT EVER MADE YOU HAPPY!?"
>Fang freezes, shocked still as Anon's outburst echoes around the room, before her trembling lips contort further. He can almost hear the bones in her jaw protesting
>"HAPPIER THAN YOU HAVE YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!"
>The wall receives another impact, the drywall shuddering out its last gasp before it falls away, opening up a new cavern in the wall
>"FANG!"
>Whatever Anon has to say, she's not sticking around to hear it
>Fang thunders towards the apartment's door, whipping it open with a crash
>More damage, more bullshit. Why does he even bother?
>"WHAT, GOING TO DROWN YOUR SORROWS WITH A NEEDLE AGAIN!?"
>That caught her attention. She whips around, murderous eyes meeting his
>"MAYBE I FUCKING WILL! AT LEAST IT'LL UNDERSTAND WHY! UNLIKE YOU, YOU RETARDED SCHIZO!"
>The door crashes shut, vibrations passing through the whole apartment, toppling over a few items and knocking a picture off the wall
​
>Anon slams down into his office chair, rolling it towards his computer, turning it on. That password must be changed, for his sanity's sake
>A few clicks and some keystrokes later, Anon gains a small victory. Fang won't be able to figure out this one
>How she got it the first time, he'll never know
>His eyes look over to the newly made hole in the wall. There's no way he'll be able to afford getting that patched up and get the new Rock Ring game coming out soon
>What he needs is something to cover it, at least for now
>He surveys his apartment. Bookcase? No. Entertainment cabinet? Too heavy. Cloth drapes? He's not a hippy
>The picture frame on the ground glints at him, beckoning him to it. It's just the right size
>Anon pushes himself off the chair, making his way over to it. He grabs at it, picking it up, flipping it over
>And just like that, all his bravado is gone, replaced with a pit in his stomach that threatens to engulf him entirely
>Encased behind glass, a picture displaying himself and Fang, taken right after they reconciled. Printed and framed as a reminder
>Small smiles, maybe forced, display themselves across both of them, a promise to each other of better times. A promise that strains and cracks every day
>He looks back around the apartment, the living space the two have made together
>...She'll be back to get her stuff for sure. Especially the bass leaning against the corner
>Should he even be here when she returns? It would be so easy to leave and come back later, to a place that is wholly his again. Get some floorspace back and pack up the second bed
>Go back to that lonely comfort he had. Sell some excess stuff to make up for the lack of income. Wait a year or two to test out that ro-
>The distant rumbling of thunder draws him out of his thoughts, announcing the arrival of evening rain
>A quick glance at the clothing hangers by the entry way confirms his suspicions. Her jacket remains on its hanger, untouched
>...Fuck. What if Fang is serious? What if she's going to go find a dealer and inject away her sorrows?
>Even without mind-numbing drugs coursing through her arteries, she could freeze to death out there. Another casualty added to some nameless roster
​
>Anon places the picture frame down as he makes his way to the entrance. His coat slips over his shoulders, hands frisking the pockets of their contents
>His required excursion equipment is all there. A knife, a can of bear spray, a flashlight, his wallet, his keys, some medical supplies, and his phone
>There's something missing, something he knows he'll need
>He strides over to the kitchen cabinets, opening up a drawer to pilfer its contents
>A full packet of menthol cigarettes and a lighter enter his pocket as he makes his way back to the entrance, grabbing Fang's coat and a pair of umbrellas
>He checks Fang's coat for her keys and wallet. If she's not going to return home with him, he's going to make certain she has a place to stay
>He knows where to go. The place they met, the place she finally recognized him
>She still hasn't revealed why she goes there to cool off. Perhaps she wants to relive the memory they made there
>He's going to hate this
>But, maybe not as much as he'll hate himself if he goes back on his promise
>The door opens and closes with a squeal, its previous use having warped the hinges
>He'll have to take those odds
>The tenants milling about in the hallway all turn to Anon he locks the door behind him, ready to make their grievances heard
>It's not the first time this has happened. Likely won't be the last either
>A cacophony of angry voices erupts from the crowd as they converge on him
>"I have night shift!" "You woke up my baby!" "Get your shit together!" "If I have to come up here one more time-!"
>Anon doesn't have time for this crap
"Sorry" "Sorry" "You first" "Send your complaints to the landlord" "Call the cops, I dare you"
>Cowards, the lot of them. He's seen them cower during Fang's dramatic exits before, when they've had more time to gather
>As soon as she's gone, their balls miraculously return and their ire unleashes itself on him
>And just like those times before, his words alone aren't enough to placate them. Too bad for them he's not here to negotiate
>Anon pushes through the mass of them. As expected, they give way easily. None of them have the courage to actually deal with an angry skinny armed with umbrellas
>By the time he reaches the stairs, most of them have dispersed. Probably back to their units to write angry letters to his landlord
>He'll deal with that later. His garbage bin eagerly accepts envelope wrapped complaints
​
>The frigid wetness of evening air pierces into Anon as he exits the building, the warmth of his jaunt down the stairs being siphoned away by the heavy downpour and swirling wind
>The slight hope in his heart of seeing Fang loitering outside the building is crushed as he scans the area. She's nowhere to be seen
>There's only the bustling of multi-chromatic dinosaurs and the occasional human as they run for shelter, their evening plans ruined
>He props an umbrella open, testing its strength against the wind and rain before setting off into a jog. Leg day starts early this week
>His feet already know the way. He needs all the brain power he can muster to actually form a compelling argument before he reaches Fang
>What can he say this time? Everything he thinks of is effortlessly rebutted by a phantom pterosaur loitering in his mind
>"No" "Fuck off" "Go away" "Kill yourself"
>All his online wordsmithing avails him not. The online facade he hides behind has no experience in these matters
>If he had any skill in oration at all, he would have gotten himself out of so much shit on that boat
>Maybe even received a promotion or two with some brown-nosing
>Anon rounds a familiar corner, onto the main roadway, the boundary of skin row
>It's always a surprise to see vehicles actually behaving themselves: stopping at signs, at lights, even yielding properly
>Even the street lights are properly maintained, casting their amber hues downwards, highlighting the abandoned sidewalk
>Almost all the vagrants that would normally be camped here have taken shelter elsewhere
>Only a few stragglers remain, reserving their spot with tarps anchored over shopping carts
>Fortunately, the communal barrel fire has withered and died under the downpour, the ashen contents inside oozing out from rusted out holes in the bottom
>The acrid smoke permeating the moist air dives into Anon's lungs as he passes, drawing out a gnawing desire
>He really needs a smoke
>He can't act on it: not in this weather, not in this situation. It would take ages to coax a spark from the flint
​
>Anon swings into the next street, the turn taking him away from civilization and back into skin row
>The potholes adorning the road and sidewalk mark the boundary, the storm overhead filling the cavities with murky water
>Autopilot won't work here. A single error will leave the unwary knee deep in filth, especially with half the streetlights being broken
>His gait slows, the hammering heart and burning lungs in his chest praising his mercy as greedily inhales the damp air
>The break in his concentration offers him respite from the failing scenarios floating in his brain
>He needs to compose himself before he sees her. Put on some modicum of confidence in his voice, like a shot of liquid coura-
>A burst of wind from behind staggers Anon, his drenched sneakers slipping as he struggles to find purchase on the wet concrete
>His legs strain against the gale as his spine lurches back and forth, fighting to keep him upright as the wind yanks on his umbrella
>He almost topples over again as the gust leaves as abruptly as it arrived
>He's going to feel that one in the morning
>He flips his umbrella back over his head, shielding him from... absolutely nothing
>Ice-cold rain continues to spatter onto his exposed body, depositing droplets his head, streaming down his coat, soaking into his jeans
>He points the umbrella at the nearby streetlight, surveying the outlined shape of its shadow
>It's ruined. Completely and utterly destroyed. The metal ribs that normally support the canopy have been warped out of shape by the wind
>This day should have ended before it began
>He holds out a small hope that maybe he can fix it later. His wallet can't handle all these sudden expenditures
>...Stuffing it into that drywall hole and splaying out the ribs might fool the landlord for a visit or two, giving him time to get the wall fixed
>He can call it a modern art project. Maybe take a picture or two and put it on the internet to see if he can fool some trust-fund baby
>Anon releases an exasperated exhale as he swings the ruined umbrella under his arm beside Fang's coat, pulling out the spare he brought for her
>It pops open above him, finally returning his rain shield
>At any rate, he's almost there. A space between two buildings is illuminated by a dying light, flickering as if warning him about what lies within
​
>Anon leans against the crumbling brick facade outlining the threshold to the alleyway, steeling himself as he pulls out his flashlight
>The pale beam shoots down the passage, illuminating a narrow rift beset by alcoves, garbage containers, and grey specks
>A speck comes down to greet him, a trickling stream of water carrying it down, bumping into his shoe
>A pale feather, flecked with crimson
>Fang is here
>The sinking feeling returns. All that effort, up in smoke
>He can't even say he was drunk this time
>The alley seems to close in as he passes the threshold, as if hungering for the new arrival
>Anon's hand tenses over the knife in his pocket. With the rain, there's no telling what sort of drug addled crack-heads might be taking shelter within
>The stream of water below licks at his shoes as he presses onwards, his flashlight's beam casting into every crevice as he threads wide arcs around dangerously dark corners
>Crevices whose number dwindles as he approaches his dimly light destination, the rumbling of pulsing bass becoming clearer over the rain's din
>Guess they got some live entertainment in there today
>He's still banned from entering that bar
>He just wanted something to drown his sorrows with that day. He hadn't even sat down before being accosted by some drunk triceratops
>One thing lead to another, and before he knew it, he was getting thrown out the rear exit by a bouncer nearly twice his size
>Still scraped a small victory from that encounter
>The look of unrestrained rage on that trike's face as Anon was assaulting him with every slur imaginable, and even some unimaginable, is something he'll treasure forever
>Too bad the bouncer didn't care about anyone else who was hanging around outside the exit. A monochromatic weirdo happened to be there, taking a smoke break in between sets
>The bouncer's hefty throw sent Anon crashing straight through the door, ramming and toppling the pterosaur loitering outside
>By the time Anon came to, the cacophony of an enraged dinosaur was echoing around, screeching and pummeling at the door while she demanded re-entry
>There was no response. Maybe those inside thought the noise came from the skinny they had just ousted
>Either way, all he knew is his legs weren't cooperating, and that the screaming sounded distressingly familiar
>The cacophony faded after a minute, the futility of the effort striking her. Her claws sliced thin strips of paint off the door as her hands slid away
>No. There was a better target. The asshole that had crashed into her and upended her day. The final straw in a long line of bullshit
>She whirled around to her assailant, ready and eager to exact revenge
>The sight she was greeted with halted her advance, her confused thoughts painting themselves onto her face
>A cowering human with a strange look in his eyes, like her display against the door wasn't the sole reason he was afraid of her
>But why would some unknown skinny look at her like that? Like he recognized her, like he knew her?
>The amount of skinnies that fit into both categories is limited to... to-
>She finally recognized him that time. The moment it happened, her faded iris's flickered, springing back to a familiar vibrant shade
>A shade signaling the grim reaper to stick around. Fang's knuckles popped under the strain as a look of unequivocal hate overtook her visage
>There were no words exchanged. No excuses or apologies could have placated her. She went straight to physical therapy
>She lunged at him, pinning his body down as she pummeled her sorrow and rage into his chest, his face, and the arms he raised to protect himself
>A bruising on a scale experienced only once before
>He hopes it never comes to that again. Another fiasco like that would mark the end of everything they have worked towards
>He still doesn't understand why she stuck around after the assault
>Maybe the bouncer finally responded to the commotion outside and demanded she make certain that the police wouldn't investigate
>Hell, he doesn't understand why he stuck around either. Maybe a small part of him desired to be doused in fiery retribution, to receive the penance it so desperately longed for
>Maybe he was just so tired of being alone. A solitary man desperate for someone who might, in the slimmest of chances, understand him
>Anon stows his flashlight and umbrella as he advances to the mouth of that same fateful alcove, an anti-homeless boulder coated in feathers angling into view first
​
>There, under the pale glow of an exit sign, surrounded by blood tinged feathers, sits Fang
>The storm had cloaked the sounds of his approach, the thundering din of the rain drumming its tune on the building roofs and garbage containers
>The back door supports her slumped form, her blood speckled wings wrapping around herself as she focuses on the cold glow of a phone in her hand, unaware of the intrusion
>She's shaking. Whether by the damp wetness, residual adrenaline, or something else, Anon cannot tell. Trembling breaths are drawn in and exhausted out as she pokes away at her phone
>He issues a small prayer to whatever deity is listening, as his sight finds no sign of a needle. She must not have had time to get one in this downpour
>Instead, a whirlwind of feathers and blood surrounds her, smeared against the walls, the door, the boulder, tinting the water red as the rain drains what it can reach away
>Anxiety's claws dig into him as the sickly scent of iron leadens his lungs. He needs to get her out of here before anything worse happens
>He steps into the alcove, on the other side of the boulder, pushing his weakness out as he prepares for what might be the start of another round of screaming
>Or boxing practice, with him as the punching bag
>"Hey."
>Fang snaps to attention, her head pivoting to the source of the sound, the intruder in her domain
>Her amber eyes almost seemed luminescent in the dim light as they locked onto Anon, recognition sparking within the orbs
>Her trembling chest drew in the surrounding air before exhausting a reply
>"Fuck off."
>Still lucid, still talking, both good signs. More than he could have asked for
>"Brought your coat."
>Anon grabs the apparel from under his arm, depositing it on the boulder separating them
>She regards the offering, but makes no move to accept it. Rather, she remains in place, eyes fastened onto Anon, a grimace spread across her face
>"Come on. Aren't you cold? It's freezing out."
>"Great. You can go fuck off to someplace warm. Go. Away."
>Anon's hands travel to his face, massaging his temples, trying to spark a persuasive argument
>"Fang please. I'm sorry, alright? I can't just leave you here."
>Derisive laughter resounds around the enclosure, bouncing around before shooting out into the rain
>"What? Now you care? YOU of all people?!"
>Breathe in, breathe out. The continued racking of his brain leaves it worn, weary; the thoughts becoming muddy as they churn with fragments of apprehension
>He reaches deep inside for a new approach, grabbing its fragility
>"Would I be here if I didn't?"
>Her laughter halts, the echoing chorus of pteros fizzling out as she hears him. An impassive mask spreads across her face as she looks over Anon
>A hopeful spark ignites in Anon's heart, begging for her understanding. It tugs at the edges of his mouth
>Wrong move. The thin veneer of stoicism shatters away from Fang's face, the replacement bearing a frightening resemblance to what Anon saw earlier in the apartment
>"You're here because you'RE A BROKE LOSER WHO CAN'T AFFORD SHIT!"
>Fang snatches up her apparel from the boulder, twisting it tightly together before whipping it at Anon. It tears a streak through the air, directly scoring on Anon's face
>The soft impact he expected when she cocked her arm back for the throw doesn't arrive
>In its place, an explosion of pain dazzles him as a heavy ring of keys inside smashes into his forehead, sending him tumbling down, cold air rushing into him as he hits the ground
​
>GOD DAMN IT
>Why!? Why is it so hard!? Just. Take. The. Fucking. Coat!
>Anon blindly grasps at the ground, near where Fang's coat should have fallen, his eyes screwed shut in pain
>A softness reaches his fingertips, his goal. He rips it from the ground as he swings it into a throw
>The shrill cry of a surprised dinosaur rings around the alcove, informing Anon that his toss is on the mark
>"Put the GOD DAMNED coat on!"
>Raptor Jesus Christ. He's going to feel this one in the morning
>He probes his tender forehead with a hand, inspecting the impact zone. To his relief, the telltale liquid he expects isn't there to tinge the tips of his fingers
>The clothing had blessed him by dulling the sharpness of the impact. Only a welt forming into a bruise adorns his brow
>Biting through residual pain, Anon opens his eyes, taking in the scene again
>Fang is finally wearing something over her shoulders. It engulfs her form, her wings completely hidden from... view...?
>Wait, that's not her coat. It's the wrong colour and is clearly too large for her
>That's his
>No wonder it's so fucking cold. What the hell even happened? How is his coat over there?
>He casts his gaze to the side. Further away, just slightly out of arm's reach, is Fang's coat. The rain makes quick work of the new arrival, turning it into a sodden mess
>His hand reaches out and grabs it, tossing it back to its place on top the boulder. There's absolutely no chance that it dries out now
>And Fang? Fang is staring daggers at him, reminding Anon of the situation
>Jesus fuck she better not find the pocket containing his knife. One last chance, what he prepared for
>"Inside right coat pocket."
>Her sharp glare doesn't abate, but the rustling of his coat indicates her rummaging through his belongings
>Her hands emerge, presenting the scavenged items to herself and Anon. A packet of menthols and its paired lighter. Their shared favourite
>Clawed fingers flow through familiar gestures, ending with the spark of the lighter and an ember forming on the cancer stick she's biting down on
>The lonely light of her cigarette does little to ward off the shadows, but it helps illuminate the face she now wears
>A tired face. One that has seen too many days like this
>The ember travels downwards, as Fang takes the first draw before she takes it out of her mouth, offering it to him
>Perhaps as a small apology
>Their hands briefly brush together as Anon accepts the cigarette from her, his first draw taking in the numbing nicotine, the exquisite pain on his forehead dulling
>It does little to warm him up, the biting air needling its way through his sweater
>The small glow of an ember across the boulder tells Anon that she's already inhaling the fumes of a new cigarette
>The two of them exist there, in quiet contemplation, as rain pounds down from a sky of deep black
​
>By Anon's estimate, they're almost halfway through the pack. The faint pain in his forehead makes it hard to stay focused
>Fang's phone has her attention once more, her burning hostility finally extinguishing to a cold ember
>If there's a time to get anything done, it's now
>"Fang?"
>Tired amber eyes flash over to Anon, waiting for him to continue
>"Inside left pocket, and a cylinder in the outside right. I need to look you over, patch you up."
>The apprehension pulsing in heart fades as the rummaging of his coat begins again, giving him her tacit permission
>Her hands pull out a plastic bag filled with medical supplies before moving outside and grabbing the cylinder, his flashlight
>Anon's stiff muscles protest the sudden movement as he shuffles over to the ptero's side, removing the contents from the bag as he lights the flashlight and grips it with his teeth
>They both know the drill. They've done this so many times now, over his own fuckups and events neither of them could control
>Her arm snakes out from the oversized coat, ready for inspection
>Slices, scrapes, and punctures from claws as well as the markings of pulled feathers comes into view. Nothing he hasn't handled before
>He should be able to clean these up, before the marks harden into more scars swirling around her tattoos
>Latex gloves are snapped tight onto Anon's hands. If he's going to disinfect her wounds, whatever dirt his hands picked up won't help
>A square of gauze is cut from its roll and soaked with antiseptic, as he utters out a warning about its immediate use
>He can't gamble with the slim chance that grime from the alleyway didn't get into her injuries, proper medical procedures be damned
>She tries to hide it, but he knows how biting the disinfectant is. Her stoicism is betrayed by the twitching of her arm, the flinching in her eyes, and the grasping of her talons
>Blood soaked gauze gathering on the ground marks the passing time as Anon carefully cleans her wounds and wraps the worst of them
>He'll have to unwrap them in the morning to check her injuries over in a better light, then rewrap them as needed
>Two limbs remain. Her angelic wings, tainted crimson
>With both her arms free once more, she returns to typing on her phone, doing anything and everything she can to distract herself from the stinging pain
>Her wings will be even worse. Between the liquid bandage compound he has to apply pulling at her skin, and the antiseptic, it'll be like those hairshirts repentant people used to wear
>Only the respite of being able to take it off won't exist
​
>Fang already knows what's coming. Anon's hand barely touches her shoulder to grab her attention before she responds to his unsaid question
>"I'll do it later."
>A bold faced lie. He's not going to let her slither away that easily
>Anon takes the flashlight out of his mouth, his teeth protesting the sudden change in pressure
>"When we get home?"
>"'We'?"
>God damn it not again
>Tired eyes drift over to meet Anon's once more
>"What? You think I want to be around you tonight?"
>A tinge of sorrow paints Anon's heart as the obvious answer hits him. No, no of course she doesn't. But, it doesn't mean he can't help her here and now
>"No, that's why I want to check your wings now. You can't patch those by yourself."
>Fang deflates a little on hearing his words
>"Fuck you. What do you think I was doing before you showed up out of the blue?"
>The last time she tried this, she didn't bother at all. The result was a visit to the emergency ward and weeks of him tending to her
>"Getting infections and popping antibiotics. Look, you can take the rest of the pack if you let me do this. Just let me see them."
>The look of surprise plastering itself across Fang's face is all Anon needs to see to know he is right on the money
>Fang finally complies, pulling the coat off a shoulder to expose one of her wings to him
>He gently grasps it and splays it out, viewing both sides
>It's just as bad as he expected. The only relief he can possibly feel is that it isn't worse; the bleeding has stopped
>Blood, bald patches, and bent and misaligned feathers mar her wings. Months worth of progress completely annihilated by one argument
>Better get to work. The flashlight finds its home back in Anon's mouth, highlighting his view of her wings
>A tone of relief exhales from Anon as his inspection finishes. The feathers yanked off were removed cleanly, with no cracked stub remaining to draw blood from her body
>He needs her to eat something when she gets back home, to replace all that lost blood with the nutrition and energy needed to recover
>More gauze, more iodine antiseptic
>To Fang's credit, not even a whisper of agitation leaves her mouth as the first drops of iodine hits her tender wing. Rather, she returns to distracting herself with her phone
>A phone with a screen that is tantalizing him, completely in view. It would be rude to intrude on her privacy like this, but...
>Fuck, if she's sending what happened to Trish, he's not going to survive the next encounter. A quick glance can't hurt, not when it can warn him of impending doom
>He moves back to a section he already worked on, making mock motions across her wing as he angles his head for a better view
>Job listings? Is she looking for something new? He thought she was doing fairly well with her band as of late
​
>"Jobs for you."
>Fang's head turns towards him, a single amber eye regarding him, exposing his deception
>Shit
>The flashlight is removed from his mouth once more. There's no way this is sanitary
>"You know I can't do that."
>A puff of smoke releases itself from the ptero's lungs
>"How could I know? I've never seen you try. Not once."
>How can he get her to understand? Everything he has ever done has turned to shit
>It's better off to not try anything at all. Save himself the effort and the inevitable disappointment when it results in nothing
>She should understand this from her own personal history with him
>"Why even bother? We both know how it'll go."
>Fang sighs out a note of exasperation
>"So that's it? You won't even try? Every day after work, I have to see your pathetic ass moping around like the world's about to be struck by a meteor."
>The hot ember slides further down her menthol
>"It's infuriating."
>Anon's thoughts come to the forefront. He's tried his best to stay out of her way in that tiny apartment, but there's only so much he can do
>He simply wanted to coast through this. He never wanted to hurt her
>He just can't seem to stop it. Confronting things or avoiding them, they both make things worse
>What's even left after that?
>The luminescent glow of a phone brightens the ptero's face once more, clawed fingers tapping away
>Guess she's given up. Can't fault her on that, with how much of a lost cause he is
>A volatile concoction of emotions boils up within Anon. Soothing relief mixed with crushing disappointment
>The flashlight returns to its familiar place as he distracts himself from turbulent feelings by mending Fang's wing
>Antiseptic here, gauze there, with some of the liquid bandage everywhere else, sealing the last of her wing's wounds shut against the elements
>One wing remains
​
>Anon gently folds the bandaged wing against Fang's back, pulling his coat back over her shoulder
>Message received, Fang twists around, coat and all, giving access to her other wing
>A wave of relief passes through him. She must be unwilling to fight him further on this
>The coat peels away from the ptero's other shoulder, exposing another wing with a harrowing tale to recite
>Just as before, Anon tenderly grabs the appendage, splaying it out for inspection
>The wing he just finished patching must have been where most of her rage was focused. This one, while bearing the evidence of her hate, weathered her storm better
>It draws out a memory from him of another ptero, one with mismatched wings. Never did pay him back for that sandwich
>Anon sets off working again: righting misaligned feathers, applying disinfectant, and wrapping or applying the clear medical adhesive to the worst of her wounds
>Gloved hands work to tie the stray ends of her wing's final bandage when a bright rectangle flashes in his face
>It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the burning light before the screen becomes legible
>Thank god. It's not Trish
>The picture of the person she's messaging looks familiar. One of her band-mates? One of her friends' relatives? These dinosaurs all look the same
>It starts off innocently enough. Introductions, some small talk, something about the weather, and...
>Wait what? Is this some kind of joke? Is he getting drafted or something?
>The conversation swings into work related topics as he scrolls down, culminating in some kind of part-time job offer. Nepotism at its finest
>Didn't he just go through this with her? What was the definition of insanity again?
>Exhaustion creeps into Anon's voice as he readies himself for yet another debate, his flashlight taking one final trip from his mouth into his pocket
>"Fang, I can't-"
>A strong metallic taste halts him before he can continue, his mouth suddenly preoccupied with blood tinged feathers as he is shushed by a wing
>"Did you even read it? You'd be a natural."
>A natural? Him?
>His eyes return to the conversation, gleaning its contents once more
​
>...A first-aid responder? That can't be right, and yet-
>He glances over to the bandaged ptero beside him. The grimace Anon has grown accustomed to seeing these past few hours has replaced itself with something softer
>Something that reminds him that he has her support, that she has yet to give up on him despite all the pain and fury
>He's had a lot of practice now: everything between dealing with her preening, days where she's been too ill to move, and even drug overdoses and withdrawals in the early months
>There was a considerable amount to learn in order to keep the two of them safe in skin row. Emergency services are late to arrive on scene at the best of times, if they arrive at all
>The sheer terror that struck into his very soul when he held Fang's limp body as he waited for help was something he could never allow himself to experience again
>The naxalone in his medical bag can attest to that, as well as all the pirated medical textbooks on his phone and computer
>Work would give him some time away from the shithole of his apartment and give Fang some breathing room. It might even reduce how often he needs to apply his medical knowledge on her
>And... if he accepts, then-
>Anon exhales into the frigid air before gently folding the wing covering his face behind Fang's back, placing his coat back on her shoulder
>"If I agree to this, if I say yes, will you promise me one thing?"
>Fang eyes him as she pulls the coat closed, insulating herself from the cold dampness
>"What?"
>"Go home and get something to eat."
>It takes a moment for Fang to process Anon's request, as if she was preparing for something else entirely
>Her lips tremble, the corners taking unfamiliar routes as they slowly meet her eyes. A fragile smile formed from a fragile heart
>"Deal."
​
>The remaining medical supplies slip into the bag they came from, the bloodied gauze that was strewn around balled together for the next garbage can
>The smoldering cigarette filters, feathers, and blood will remain where they are. No-one here is calling the police for anything less than a dead body anyway
>The weariness in Anon's legs threatens to send him careening into the boulder as he rises, his hands grasping at the nearby wall to stabilize himself
>He offers his hand to Fang, understanding how exhausted she must be. Getting her something to eat before she collapses asleep on her bed is going to be a trial
>Thank you Raptor Jesus for microwaveable dinosaur nuggets
>The hand is freely accepted by her, but she makes no motion to get up
>Rather, the smile adorning her face becomes coy as she pumps his arm with hers, cementing their newly made deal with a handshake
>Anon can't help the goofy smile that spreads across his face in response to her ploy, nor can he help the laugh that comes with it
>No backing out now
>As expected, Fang has trouble standing, her legs struggling to overcome the exhaustion of both the blood loss and her turbulent day
>He is her anchor in this moment, pulling her up and away from the crimson liquid that surrounds her
>She latches onto him as she waits for some semblance of strength to return
>Anon knows that won't happen tonight, not until they get back to the apartment they both call home. For now, his arm hooking around her shoulders will have to suffice
>Slow steps are made around the enclosure as the two circle around, grabbing the rest of their belongings
>Fang's coat, still utterly soaked, and the mismatched pair of umbrellas
>Anon takes a quick look down the alleyway. The pounding rain has weakened during their time in the alcove, no longer threatening to wash pedestrians into the nearest storm drain
>An umbrella pops open, swinging up to protect the lethargic pair from what remains of the rain shower
>One umbrella will be enough for the two of them