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Cillian wanted to kill Isaac Merlo.[break][break]

He wanted to kill Eris Halla.[break][break]

He wanted to paint the Silent Icelands in their blood.[break][break]

But more than that, he'd wanted to keep Rocket safe. Keep Tempest Quinn safe, though he would not admit such weakness as he gave his orders to retreat. He'd cited Palkia's unpredictability over comms, the presence of an anomalous new Avatar too dangerous to risk.[break][break]

In truth, it was the sight of his husband's charred and blistered flesh that had brought Rocket's underboss to heel.[break][break]

As forces of League and Rocket alike begin to pull back and Shadow Lugia's silhouette vanishes into the gathering stormclouds of her THUNDER, Cillian marches across the bloody snow and ice with purpose. He'd have gripped Temp by the arm, the shoulder, if he was not so afraid that his lover's skin would slide off with his hand.[break][break]

"The wounded were told to evacuate first."

[break][break]His voice is firm, that of a leader. His eyes bear the concern of a husband.

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The authority catches Tempest's attention over the din of his own orders.[break][break]

The haze of pain makes his movements sluggish when brown eyes flick to meet gold. It's a look of fangs, defiance, of a caged and wounded animal- but it's quick to melt into something more befitting that of Rank when strained neurons rub together.[break][break]

"I ensured they got out." His voice is rough to his own ears, raw and gruff from screaming. It is with far too gentle movements Tempest turns to face Cillian Quinn. His face betrays him with small winces and twitches of pain with every inch moved.

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The rabid snarl is met with a flash of challenge, the leader of a pack daring their subordinate's defiance. Like Temp's, the reaction is instinctual, and settles back into something less threatening as soon as Temp backs down.[break][break]

Cillian can see his pain.[break][break]

He knows all too well the ginger movements of a man barely clinging to consciousness, whose very breath screams in his lungs. He's been there before. They both have. But Temp's stubborn statement is not met with understanding, this time.[break][break]

"A stiff wind could take you out," he growls. "My orders aren't suggestions, Beast."[break][break]

He pulls rank to let Temp know he's serious, that this isn't the worried nagging of a husband but the ferocity of an underboss behind his intent. Gold eyes gleam dangerously in spite of bags beneath them, warning.

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For a moment, it seems like Tempest might bite back. Argue his place here. Protecting Rocket, even if it means his body is beaten and bruised and ruined for it. Even if it means pain and self inflicted torture. Even if it means drawing his last breath.[break][break]

Instead, his mouth clicks shut to try and bite back a whimper as he jostles his arm. Tempest fails, the pathetic mewling just loud enough for the other to hear before he can swallow it back down.[break][break]

Tempest looks down, as if ashamed. Yet, his body sags down with some relief in spite of himself. He shifts lightly again before nodding.[break][break]

"Yes, Underboss Quinn."[break][break]

It doesn't have the leering edge it usually does when Tempest calls his husband that, only the stark seriousness the situation calls for.

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Satisfied with compliance, Cillian tucks away his spines as soon as Temp backs down. The knife's edge in his gaze dulls to worry once more.
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He calls out Faolan, and the Lucario COPIES the TELEPORT of an ally, whisking them both away from the blood and snow.
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The howling of wind over the icy plain seems to echo in his ears even in the silence of their bedroom, and Cillian's ears ring. His head aches, full of pressure, the lights of the bedroom hurting his eyes. The shift of teleportation is rarely pleasant, but it makes his stomach turn worse than the most violent waves at sea. He swallows the urge to vomit. He has a concussion, he's sure of it, but he'll worry about that after.
[break][break]

Here, where there is no one to witness weakness, Cillian breaks. It's subtle, a tremble of his lip as he looks over at the love of his life, but Temp would see it. Temp would know.
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Faolan, without needing to be told, immediately summons concentrated LIFE DEW to soothe and balm the burns. Zarude is called out for its JUNGLE HEALING; it couldn't treat burns quite so effectively in humans as Pokémon, but it would help. And Cillian's poor Shaymin has only to look at Temp before it understands its purpose, slipping into the void as it casts a HEALING WISH.
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Cillian's marching to the bathroom as his Pokemon work their magic, retrieving the first-aid kit.
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"Can you sit, or does it hurt too much?"
[break][break]

What happened? he wants to know, but now's not the time to ask.

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A flash and the scene shifts.[break][break]

Like snakeskin, they peel off the visage of duty in their own home. Tempest grits his teeth and tries to stay strong for Cillian Quinn. The worry is already there, though. The hurt is already swirling in those lovely golden mirrors. All Tempest can see reflected back is his own self hatred for causing that look in the first place.[break][break]

He wobbles in place as Pokemon crowd around him. Cillian's own, but a few of the dogs comes to sniff at him. They're warded away by a throaty grown of his lioness, Mitten the Luxray sticking close to his side. She casts her own Wish, only allowing the canines who intend to heal come closer.[break][break]

As Cillian asks his question, Tempest let's out another pitched whine as he half sinks, half collapses onto one of the plush chairs. Given his state, they'd probably have to burn it after.[break][break]

"I'll manage."[break][break]

Tempest tries to force a smile but it seems more like a grimace.[break][break]

He licks the blood off his teeth and groans when he reaches for one of his knives, starts to work on cutting un-melted material away from the wound of his arm.

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Though Faolan will not be intimidated by Mitten's ferocity, the Lucario can feel the intensity of her concern behind it. He does not challenge her as he would another, instead focusing his full attention on Temp as he spreads the healing dew.[break][break]

"Put that down." Cillian emerges with first-aid kit in hand, gaze zeroing in on the knife in Temp's hand. "You're hurt, your hands won't be steady. I'll handle it."[break][break]

Though he's not using his rank here in the sanctuary of their home, his tone offers no more argument than that of Underboss Quinn.[break][break]

His own hands are steady in spite of the rising fear in his chest. The wounds are bad. He can smell the burnt flesh, the blood. The wound on Temp's back exposes layers of muscle, a hint of bone. Cillian's grateful, for once, that his experiences in Kanto have inoculated him against reaction to such gruesome sights. They'll visit him later, in dreams, but for now he is calm.[break][break]

"It'll hurt. Bite something if you need to. Not me." He does his best to inject humour into a tense situation, but he doesn't laugh with his own joke. His expression is grave. "We'll get you in the med-bay after the chaos has calmed down, they'll give you another look and probably some antibiotics, but I've got stock stuff for the pain."[break][break]

Cillian hands him water and pills, but doesn't demand his husband take them. Sometimes pain was reassuring, for them.[break][break]

Temp's familiar with this process. It's not the first time they've performed this ritual. It's a habit he'd learned in Kanto. He feels safer caring for what injuries he can himself, worried that Rocket's medics might cave to their fear of Temp's rabid reputation and listen too quickly when he tells them he's clear to discharge. He knows his husband. He'll drag him there like a dog to the vet if he has to, but after he's done what he can himself.[break][break]

He addresses the wound on Temp's back, first. The LIFE DEW has cleansed it, shallowed it some, but Cillian stitches it closed with finality and care. Soap and water clean the burns of blood and grit, soften skin to allow the careful stripping of cloth melted to flesh. Cillian's hands glide gentle over the blisters so as not to pop them. He wraps them with dressings, speaking little as he loses himself to focus.[break][break]

Only when he's sure his husband is mostly-safe does he break that silence.[break][break]

"Was it Livy?"[break][break]

He'd seen PENELOPE LIVY, and that beast beside her.

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There is some muttered grousing of protest, but the knife does stop. Right in time, because much longer and no doubt Tempest would have sliced through his own skin. While he was stronger in his right hand than most, it still wasn't his dominant hand. The shaking going on in his palms doesn't help his case.[break][break]

Still, compliance.[break][break]

The shaking doesn't stop when Tempest takes the pills and water, knocking them back and swallowing them down. He drinks like a man parched, even as he wrinkles his nose at the bitter taste of the meds. His willingness to take them at all, let alone with such fervor, would give Cillian Quinn a glimpse into how much pain the man was in.[break][break]

"Thanks." Is muttered out, then, before Cillian starts his work. It's grateful but tired, a soft sincerity. A 'I know you want to do this for me, but I still appreciate it' in what little sound it was.[break][break]

Then he grabs one of the decorative pillows from the chair and chomps down.[break][break]

Tender work agonizes. While Temp can mostly stay still for the knife wound and his legs, when Cillian tries to soothe the blistered arm he flinches and twitches. Obviously trying to stay still, but tiny pinpricks of pain wet in the corners of his eyes. He's lucky for having so many strong healers. In another world without the magic and wonder of Pokemon, this wound might be something that lasts forever.[break][break]

Here, it will turn into something for him to pick at and draw ire from Cillian until it's fulled healed, only faint scars in memory.[break][break]

When the brunt of it is over, tension leaves Tempest's shoulders again. The pillow falls on the ground, the corner wet with spit.[break][break]

"Yeah. Redheaded cunt grabbed me."

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They're both stubborn, both masochists. It's through this shared lens that Cillian understands the amount of pain his husband must be in to swallow the pills so eagerly. He chugs the water like its his first drink in days.[break][break]

"Get one of the sports drinks from the fridge, Faolan."[break][break]

The glow around the Lucario's paws fade as the LIFE DEW settles. He's done what he can in here. He departs on silent paws as Cillian knits flesh together.[break][break]

Cillian's teeth flash with a silent snarl. He'd suspected Livy was behind his husband's injuries after seeing her emerge from a similar position, but the confirmation makes his blood boil hot as the magma that had seared his lover's flesh.[break][break]

As Faolan reenters the room, he looks at Cillian with concern.[break][break]

"We'll gut the bitch," Cil growls.[break][break]

We, because he knows his husband is not some lost little lamb to be sheltered. Tempest is a storm, a warrior. Cillian regards him with a mixture of concern and admiration. It took a special kind of man to stand toe-to-toe with an Avatar and not flinch. It could've cost him his life, but this was a reality Cillian had accepted when Temp had taken the mantle of Beast. He would be in danger, and often.[break][break]

When Faolan passes Cillian the drink, he twists the cap off before handing it to his husband. It was like trying to fight a forest fire with a bottle of water, but the fluids would help. There is little he can touch without causing Temp pain, so he rests a hand gently against Temp's neck. Feels the pulse beneath it, the steady reassurance that his husband is alive.[break][break]

"You did good."

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"I got a few good licks in on her. If her pet Ranger hadn't been there, I think I would have been fine." ollie morales had taken the brunt of Temp's fury.[break][break]

Dumb bastard. Tempest had warned him to stay out of the way if he didn't want to get hurt. Idiots never listened.[break][break]

Accepting the drink, Temp tilts his back to get a long drink. The flavor, something sharp and fruity, clashes with the metal taste in his mouth unpleasantly. Still, he drinks it down in a few long gulps before sitting the empty container beside him. It'll be a while before he feels normal again, but the liquids and medical care does make him feel more human.[break][break]

Being human makes his body crave a fat fucking nap.[break][break]

"howard slayte and Beast Shred were outnumbered. I had to step in."

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"Morales?"[break][break]

The first few times they'd clashed on the field of battle, Cillian hadn't known ollie morales's name. It was only his elevation to the position of Head Ranger that had slapped an identity on the thorn in Cillian's side.[break][break]

He and PENELOPE LIVY had clashed with Cillian before. Cillian had killed the Ranger's pup; he leaves out that small detail to spare Temp the imagery.[break][break]

Later, when he finds out the details of how the conflict had started, he'll have strong words with howard slayte and Shred both. For now, he has only the context that Rockets had been in danger and he and Temp, as underboss and Beast, had done their duty in coming to their aid.[break][break]

"I know," he says, solemn. "But you need to know when to step out, too." If he was playing the part of underboss, he might've told Temp that he was no use to anyone dead. A cold, pragmatic truth. But in their home, in the sanctuary between them, he says, "For me, love, if not yourself."[break][break]

There had been no orders binding Temp to the battlefield.

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There is an affirming hum. It had been ollie morales.[break][break]

He stays still and relaxed as he can for a few moments under Cillian Quinn's care. Then, the truth of it comes out. The request. It makes a small knot ball up in Tempest's chest, conflicted feelings of not wanting to upset his husband but also to nurse his own pride.[break][break]

"I know, I just- it feels like I should be out there, you know?" Tempest gladly tells Cillian everything. Still, it feels like he's yanking the words out of his own chest. In order to try and explain himself, more tumble out after the confession.[break][break]

"It's like, If I'm not there for Rocket, then who will be? Beasts attack. We keep our own safe."[break][break]

Because even a wolf did not bare it's fangs for fun. It was a bestial ache in his chest that longed to be filled.

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"I will be."[break][break]

Cillian's words are fierce, though not with anger. It's passion that drives him, that same passion for Rocket that has seen him fight their battles again and again. He lives for Rocket.[break][break]

"Me, and all the rest. Do you ever wonder why the rank of Beast is not a solitary one?" He suspects that, in truth, it had been to match the strength of Kanto's Elite Four. They'd been created to burn and pillage, but now? "Because when one of you falls, there are others to keep fighting. You are not alone, and your sacrifice would only benefit the League."[break][break]

It's a cruel truth, but one Cillian delivers as gently as a man of his nature can manage.[break][break]

His hands are gentler still, avoiding the burns as they rest lightly against his husband's arms.[break][break]

"Retreat, recover, and then you can go back out there and destroy them. I'm not asking you to give up. I'm asking you to keep fighting."[break][break]

Not for minutes, but for years. Not on a single battlefield, but in their never ending war.

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