Never thought I would again...

"d'you think I was jus' made wrong?"

For a moment, only the noise of the gliding of a feather on rough paper was heard through the thickening silence, until the source of it realized what was just thrown into the room. The badger blinked a few times and looked over to the window behind them where the marten sat.

This was a little too uncharacteristic for him, sitting on the window sill, having turned its back to them, all solemnly and slouching. Bernie looked for a sign in Martin's body language, it moved, yes, breathing. No unruly flicking of the tail, no clear signs of mischief nor did they know of any tranquilizers that it may have taken.

The click of the feather on the table made its ears twitch towards them, it was best not to aggravate the situation, but Bernie wasn't always the smartest in handling Martin, especially not in rare occasions such as these. They tried to close the gap between them getting off their chair and taking careful steps towards it, “Is there something that makes you feel like you are?”

It didn't answer them, continuing to stare out into the gloom. The evening light was fading fast, the horizon streaked with red clouds turning black. Bernie lingered an arm's length away from Martin without touching him.

“Being made ‘wrong’ suggests that one can be made ‘right’ - and I don't think either is true.”

“Easy for you to say,” Martin snapped, “when you were made ‘right’.” There was venom in its voice but also something else, something mournful and self-pitying. Berie frowned at the jab.

“Right and wrong are subjective, same as good and bad.” They saw him look at them blankly. “You know…” they gestured. “Made up.”

“Made up?”

“Yes. By people, by the societies we're born into. Ultimately, we have to decide what ‘right' means for ourselves and try to embody that.”

They saw Martin working his jaw as he considered. “What do you think ‘right’ is?”

Bernie paused. This was a deeper question than they'd been expecting this evening. “Kindness. Helping others, that sort of thing.”

Martin gave a half-hearted laugh. “Gross. Though I couldn't have expected anything else from you.”

Bernie watched him. They could feel the melancholy rolling off its little body in waves, but they were also wary of touching him. They didn't want to be bitten again.

“And what do you think is ‘right’, Martin?”

The sable snorted, turning away from them. “Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter what I think is right.” His voice wobbled, just slightly. “I wouldn't be able to do it, even if I knew.”

“Martin…” Bernie stepped next to him, their hand hovering just over his dejected shoulders.

“HAH!!" Their whole body flinched at the sudden loudness of his voice, "look at your face!! What? Are you worried or somthin’?” There it was again, that forced cheeky smirk on its face. ”Do you really think I'd say some stupid sappy bullshit like that? Of course not!!" The usual bravado was back in its step, it twirled once before stepping down from the window and dropping straight to the ground.

Of course, in the back of their mind they knew it as well, still wishful thinking hoped that the conversation could actually happen. Disappointed but not exactly surprised you could say.

"I mean seriously Bernie, how awfully cute of you, but let's be serious here, I don't have those groundbreaking 'deep feelings' that you keep looking for."

Again his usual denial, nothing new but deeply frustrating nonetheless.

Bernie scowled at it. It prickled them, somehow, to have their concern for him mocked. “Then why are you here? Why even bother asking in the first place, if you aren't willing to know the answer?”

Martin blinked at them. “I was bored. And you're fun to tease.”

Bernie huffed and went back to their desk, dropping heavily into their chair. “Go away, then.”

Martin skittered over to their desk. “No.”

Watching their dejected shape walk away from him, Martin felt a shiver moving through his chest down his spine. He didn’t get it but he didn’t like it at all and as if done by instinct his paw moved to the hilt of his sword accompanied by a sly grin on his face.

"You're always so miffed and so hurt when I don't give a shit about your concerns", its feet moved closer to their desk silently, rounding to the opposite side of it, “no matter how often I do it…” the sword clicked and within an instant it was thrown in the air. Bernie didn’t give much attention to his talking, trying with heavy shoulders to get their head back into the paperwork instead, even when Martin jumped onto their desk, all they did was to give him a small glance.

That was until the sword struck the desk.

Their eyes shot open, stuck in between them, only centimetres away from his feet and their paws, was one of its katanas, never before had it drawn a sword against them. “...and yet you let me back in every single time…” It stood shoulders wide, fur rattled, reaching out to the sword as if it had planned this perfectly. 

Slight panic had set in, Bernie knew it couldn’t be trusted with its violent urges, but there is no way he would…

Clutching onto their stack of paperwork they tried to reach for something at their side, anything, when Martin dropped to its knees, legs split open as if the sword was a metal pole to dance on and not a tool for murder. 

“Isn’t that a little curious Dr. Blackshaw?”

Bernie watched it, slack-jawed for a heartbeat before they regained their composure. “What in the Gods’ names do you think you’re doing?” they hissed, throwing their papers to one side.

“You don’t need to bring the Gods into this, Bern,” Martin smirked. His billowy shirt slipped off one shoulder as he lifted his haramaki to reveal his sheath, rocking his hips forward so that the fur of its inner thigh almost touched the edge of the blade. Bernie sucked in a breath, suddenly conscious of how close the sharp steel was to the femoral artery that pulsed within.

“Be careful!”

“Oh?’ Martin feigned ignorance. It pressed its hips forward again so that the blade pushed into his skin, the edge so keen that it immediately split, sending a small trickle of blood down its inner thigh.

“Stop!” Bernie wanted to seize it, but they didn't want to risk pulling Martin further onto the blade. It had to know what it was doing, it had never lost a fight with those blades. There was no way it didn't know how deeply that katana could bite into its flesh.

“You're worried about me? That's so sweet,” Martin grinned. He sank down on his knees and thrust up, lengthening the wound on its thigh, thickening the stream of scarlet rolling down to its knee. This time Bernie reacted, vaulting out of their chair to grab Martin round its waist. Martin’s free hand struck out, lightning quick, and the doctor froze as they felt metal at the back of their neck. The little bastard had picked up its other katana while they'd been distracted by the first.

“Maybe you should worry about yourself, though, hmm?”

He pulled against them, so that they had to move closer to avoid the sword cutting into their skin. Bernie swallowed, a nasty twist of panic alighting in their belly. If they pushed him back, off the blade cutting into its thigh, he'd slice their throat open on the way down. If they pulled him forward, he'd be skewered and bleed out in minutes.

“You're getting blood on my desk,” they spat, trying to ignore how close his muzzle had drifted to their own.

“Wouldn't be the first time I got blood all over your office. How are your arms, by the way?” It glanced down at their forearms, covered by the sleeves of their dress shirt. “I made a real mess of them that one time, huh?”

Bernie's mouth twisted. It was mocking them. They had used all their healing magics to save his fucking life, only for it to slice their arms to shreds, leaving them with no option but to leave the wounds to heal on their own. “They've healed,” they snarled, thinking of the ugly scars they took care to hide. “At least I'm capable of healing. Unlike you.”

“Oh?” Martin studied them. “Oh! Oh, I see. You want to ‘heal what can't be healed, fix what can't be fixed’.” Its yellow eyes lit up with delight. “Does that mean you've finally given up on me? Everyone's got a breaking point, after all. I'll admit, you've been tough to crack, but I knew I'd get there in the end.”

Bernie scowled, their blood boiling. How could it put them both at risk, just to prove some nihilistic truth to itself? “I don't see how anyone could save you from the rot you’ve fostered in yourself.”

To their dismay, Martin sighed dreamily. “You can get nasty, too? This just keeps getting better.” The tip of its cock peeked from its sheath, glistening with pre. “Keep talking, this is doing something for me.”

“You know what? Fine. You're beyond saving. It was a waste of my time and energy to even attempt it in the first place.” They could feel its hold on them tighten, see it writhe against the sword, and it was infuriating. “I won't waste my magic on you again.”

Martin let out a charged moan. Its eyes were heavy-lidded, drunk with pain and want. “You're really mean that?” He pulled them even closer, like he was going to kiss them; Bernie strained against him to avoid his mouth, grimacing as the blade sliced into their skin and sent a stream of blood down their neck. “You'd really sacrifice all the principles you hold so dear, just because you hate me that much?”

It lunged forward, pulling itself further onto the katana wedged against its thigh, to lick the blood from the hollow of Bernie's throat. Their brain short circuited at the feeling of its warm tongue against their skin, a gasp escaping their mouth. Martin smiled wolfishly into their grey fur.

“Prove it.”

In one swift motion, Martin wrenched the katana down, pulling through the muscles of Bernie's thick neck. They felt the edge scrape against their vertebrae and trachea before it burst free, tearing out their carotid artery in a jet of crimson.

Bernie fell away from him, falling to their knees, reeling, choking, clamping their palm against the gaping wound as the blood spilled between their fingers to soak their shirt. Their brain spun, unable to speak, to think; instinct took over. A golden glow suffused their neck and jawline as they willed their severed tissues to stretch and knit themselves back together, trying to halt the gushing loss that would kill them in mere moments. As their heart thundered in their ears, and the pain and fury and fear threatened to overwhelm them, they looked up.

Martin watched them, both hands on the handle of his blade. His eyes were wide with a terrible madness, and before they could react it pulled the katana up and over its head, slicing a deep wound into its own thigh with a great jet of blood. It sprayed in an arc, hitting Bernie's already ruined shirt and falling into their horrified mouth.

“Wh… what…” Their thoughts raced. He could have decapitated them in one fell stroke, but that wasn't the point; he wanted them alive to see him do this to himself. Martin sank back on its haunches, howling with maniacal laughter, dropping the dripping katana with a clatter. To Bernie's disgust, it took its cock in hand and jerked it, fully hard and weeping, as he fingered the fatal wound with the other hand.

“You… you wanna know why I asked?” Martin panted lewdly as its blood ran down the desk in a waterfall of gore. “I already knew the answer, already knew what you were gonna say, but I wanted to know what you would do. What does the saint do when things get really messy?”

It threw its head back, touching itself like it was putting on a show for them even as the blood congealed around its knees. Bernie hesitated; a fatal mistake when every second counted. The pulse of blood from Martin's severed artery was already weaking, even as their own lifeforce escaped them. If they could heal themselves enough to limit the loss of blood, maybe they could get to him in time. They forced themself to stand, staggering over to the desk. Martin locked eyes with them, wild and hedonic.

“You gonna save me, doc?” it gasped, digging its claws into its exposed muscles, “gonna prove to me that I’m worth saving?” There was something mocking in its voice, something innately cruel.

They should. They should have proven to it that despite its bile, its vitriol, that no-one was beyond repair, that everyone was worth saving. But the wound in their neck screamed, and Bernie was scared, and exhausted, and angry. They put their second hand over the first, willing the wound to close.

“You aren't worth saving,” they said softly.

Martin came, painting its chest with streaks of white, eyes rolling back into its head even as they went glassy. The force of it sent him limp, sagging onto their desk as the gash in its thigh continued to ooze, ever weakening. Bernie watched, regret and revulsion rising in them at what they had just been forced to witness, at the choice they had just made.

For a moment, they saw him. The white wolf stood on the other side of the desk, tutting at the mess. He made no further attempt to speak to them, but the look that he gave them made them shiver. It was an affirmation, like what they had done here was a good thing. Then he was gone.

They watched as Martin’s body gradually knitted itself back together. They hadn't seen the regenerative abilities of those with cat blood before; to do so would have been interesting, under other circumstances. As it was, they healed themselves in tandem, so that when Martin’s yellow eyes fluttered open, their flesh had closed completely, as if there had never been a wound there in the first place.

“You… you…” Martin mumbled. It touched its chest and its thigh, skin perfect once, realising what had happened. “You let me die.”

A sudden, terrible thought occurred to Bernie, a thought that made them want to wrap their hands around their own throat. What if, when Martin asked them if they were going to prove that it was worth saving, he had actually meant it?

“Get out.”

“What?” Martin's voice was small, too small.

“Get out!” they screamed, lunging for him to seize him by the scruff. Martin dodged easily, ducking under their arms and scrambling off the desk. In a clatter of claws and steel it had darted to the window and was gone. Bernie pulled the window shut so hard the glass rattled before sinking to their knees and pressing their head into their hands.

The room stank of blood. Their shirt was ruined. Why had they let it come to this? Why wouldn't Martin just let them talk to him, why did it always have to end in such violence? They wept. They wept until Mitzi found them and made them stand to leave the room. They let her strip them of their bloody clothes and wash the blood from their fur, and they lay next to her on the bed though they knew they would not sleep.

Martin was out there, down one life because they hadn't acted. They did not want to think about him. All the same, they did.