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He feels the presence behind him before he ever lays eyes on it, trained soldier senses bristling at the invasion of his personal space.
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Fox freezes, mind whipping through all the possible exit strategies, from a jerked-back elbow to the throat to a spinning leg-sweep to a crouch-and-turn suplex to--
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--the voice is a familiar one.
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“Captain.”
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He doesn’t relax, really, but he makes a show of it by letting his arms fall, fingertips pressed to his side in a forced show of leisure.
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“Lucky for you, I’m just full of surprises.”
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He turns, then, mindful of the inches the antlers on his mask give him. He’s almost Lars’ height. Almost.
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“You’re arriving a little late, aren’t you? For one of the region’s top 10 public figures. And bachelors, if the gossip magazines are to be believed.”
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Lars’ tie is slightly crooked. Fox reaches out to straighten it before he can stop himself.

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“Oh?” he asks, syllable woven with curiosity, though his face remains artfully blank. His knuckles graze ever so slightly against the silk of Lars’ lapels as he drops his hands to a more appropriate stillness. “Why ever not?”
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The crassness of the Head Ranger’s speech makes his mouth turn up, despite himself.
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“I suppose, after a certain level, public figures shouldn’t be quite so public.” Though it was still surprising that Lars seemed so down to earth.
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Fox had a hunch it was all an act, however.
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He realizes he’s closed the distance between them unintentionally, so he steps back and turns away.
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“Ever the approachable policeman,” he said, and his words contained the tiniest bit of a sneer.

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“Of course you do,” Fox says, and this time he doesn’t bother hiding the derision in his tone. He begins to walk towards the party. “All the lower citizens enjoying themselves. How dare they.”
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Still, Lars has a point, though Fox would rather choke to death on a razorblade than admit it. Don’t be fooled, he warns himself, it’s all an act.
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Obviously, this mistrust of authority is going to be something that takes a while to break down.
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“Policeman, security guard, officer of the peace. It’s all the same, just a different color. You can put makeup on a Ducklett and it’s still just a Ducklett.” He begins to walk towards the party.
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Lars can follow or he can not, it’s up to him.

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They draw closer to the noise of the revelry. Lars falls in step beside him, much to Fox’s chagrin.
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“It’s an evolved Ducklett,” Fox says, impetuous, “and ever an apt metaphor. A Ranger is just an evolved policeman.” And he smiles at Lars, genuinely, for the first time, because the Head Ranger has just proven his own point.
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Fox ticks it down in the win column for himself.
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“On the contrary, I see everything in shades of gray. But authority lies where authority lies. Black, white, red, chartreuse… it is not dependant on color.”
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Though Lars’ tone does tint a bit blue with his last sentence. Fox regards him with a tip of his golden antlers.
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“Are you? Used to it?” he asks, gesturing at the crowd they’re coming ever closer to. “The ostracism? The pedestals? The responsibility?”
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His voice goes cold once more. “It’s an awful big noose to fit through.”

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Fox paused, a minute halting of his motion, chin tilted out. The idea of carrying a whole family on your shoulders… the span of his own ached at the thought.
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But that would be playing too many cards, too soon.
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“I’m certain,” he said, voice hollowed out, “you’re the only person who has felt that way, ever, at all, in the history of all the worlds.”
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And he tosses his hair as though he’d never paused in the first place.
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“What would you call it, then? Perhaps a crown?”

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“I rather think it everything around that shouldn’t dismiss me,” Fox said with a small shrug, pushing silky black hair off his shoulder.
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Lars’ response had his mouth quirking up, ever so slightly. Under the mask, his eyes shifted to look at the Head Ranger.
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“How articulate of you. You should quit policing and become a poet.”