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Another Rocket100 fic. Buson's backstory in this was created by Ket Makura.
"Pick up your feet," he says, prodding them with the vacuum until I do. He doesn't trust the housekeeping crew, so he does all the cleaning around here himself. I suppose that means he doesn't trust *me*, at least not to get it done myself. But hey, whatever gets the place clean faster.
Sometimes I get the urge to make a comment about him being my little wife or something. Back in the day, I'd probably have said something more insulting.
I probably shouldn't talk about him being "girly" anymore, though. I mean, besides the fact that there's girls here who could break me in half. Anyway, most of the time he brushes it off, but sometimes I can tell it makes him upset, and I think I know why.
He never talks about his past. Yeah, I know, I don't either; no one does around here. But sometimes things slip out, things like that he's the smallest one in his family, or how much he hated his classmates. And it's not so much that he says that last one, but he has a tendancy to rub his arm when he says it. He only does that if he's thinking about a past injury.
I do the same thing. I don't know if I got it from him or he got it from me, or if we did it before we knew each other, but it's one of the long list of things we have in common. Usually when I do it, it's because I'm thinking about why I joined the Rockets in the first place.
Dad was always a hardass. I always had to "be a man". I couldn't show any weakness, and damned if I ever cried. He couldn't stand it when my eyes watered when I got sick, because of how it looked.
But then he caught me with a friend of mine. We were just practicing, ya know, how kids do, and he walked in on us. I never heard him holler so loud, and I'd never seen him so mad. He hauled us out into the street and almost yanked my arm out of the damn socket. Yeah, I'm rubbing my shoulder right now.
My friend took off when all the neighbors came out to see what was going on. I wonder what wound up happening to him.
But dad, he kept screaming at me about how I wasn't a "real man" and all that. He kept it up for a long time until his voice gave out and then he punched me. That's when I left.
Well, not right away. I needed to pack, but I left that night, after avoiding him, and in a small house like that it wasn't easy. But I packed a bag and left without a note. I wasn't thinking straight; by the end I was grabbing anything I could fit in the bag. Later I wondered what I was doing with a corkscrew--I guess I thought I could use it as a weapon or something.
I wasn't sure where I was going. I wandered around for a while, staying at pokémon centers or wherever before I wound up around Viridian. Yeah, things happened, and I hooked up with the Rockets. It's a long story, but that's the short of it.
I had a few different partners, with varying degrees of compatability. But when they gave me Bashou, something in me kinda snapped. Sure he was tough, he was capable, but I just saw his face. It made me sick--he looked like a weakling, and a girl weakling at that. And I was sick for another reason, too.
Yeah, who can't guess? But I had to drown it out, so I made fun of him instead. The way he ran even though he was faster than me, the way he threw a punch even though it was focused and strong...he couldn't be good, not a man like that.
He tolerated it because we were partners by Team order. We had to put up with each other, although I could tell there were times he wanted to break my arms.
But one time I called him something I shouldn't, and he had me to the wall. I thought he was going to kill me. I'd seen him mad before, but this was...he despised me. And for some reason I couldn't move. There was so much crowding my mind but I couldn't get any words out.
He ground his heel into my throat and snarled that if I ever said anything like that again, he'd put me out of comission permanently, and all I could do was stare at him. But I wasn't looking at him. I kept seeing myself, and I was my father.
Something must have changed in my face because he let me go and started walking away. "I'm putting in for a new partner tomorrow," he told me sharply.
I couldn't let him do that. I had my reasons. So I did the only thing I could think of--I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in and kissed him.
He didn't stand for that, and punched me in the stomach, knocking me to the ground. "You're a damned idiot if you think you can keep doing things like that and get away with them."
But he didn't walk away. I was looking up at him through a haze, and I must have shown something besides physical pain because he unclenched his fist and stared at me. He was waiting for something, I could feel it, but damned if I knew what, so all I could do was stare back at him. Finally, keeping steady with his piercing eyes, I pulled myself to my feet. "...get it now?" I managed finally.
He turned around but still didn't move away. "Do you?" he asked, his voice demanding but soft.
And I started to rub my shoulder. I couldn't answer him because I couldn't answer myself, so I stood there like an idiot as he finally walked away.
Things started getting better between us after that. I'm glad he picked up on what was going on, because I sure wouldn't have been able to.
I never was able to say it, but I guess I didn't have to, it was just understood. I waited to try to kiss him again for several months, and then it was slow and he didn't react badly. Of course, him being as icy as he is, he didn't react much at all, but I'd learned to read the little things.
And he relaxed around me, even allowing himself to smile sometimes.
Neither of us could, or can even now, tell how we got here, but it's not really needed.
He's telling me to get out of the damned chair and make dinner, so I get up and toss the book I wasn't reading on the bed, and he promptly snaps it up and sets it on the bedside table.
Before I open the fridge, I have to laugh to myself. Domestic scene aside, who would have thought I'd be most at home as an outlaw?
But yeah, that's what it is, it's home here. And I'm just glad I finally realized that.
"Pick up your feet," he says, prodding them with the vacuum until I do. He doesn't trust the housekeeping crew, so he does all the cleaning around here himself. I suppose that means he doesn't trust *me*, at least not to get it done myself. But hey, whatever gets the place clean faster.
Sometimes I get the urge to make a comment about him being my little wife or something. Back in the day, I'd probably have said something more insulting.
I probably shouldn't talk about him being "girly" anymore, though. I mean, besides the fact that there's girls here who could break me in half. Anyway, most of the time he brushes it off, but sometimes I can tell it makes him upset, and I think I know why.
He never talks about his past. Yeah, I know, I don't either; no one does around here. But sometimes things slip out, things like that he's the smallest one in his family, or how much he hated his classmates. And it's not so much that he says that last one, but he has a tendancy to rub his arm when he says it. He only does that if he's thinking about a past injury.
I do the same thing. I don't know if I got it from him or he got it from me, or if we did it before we knew each other, but it's one of the long list of things we have in common. Usually when I do it, it's because I'm thinking about why I joined the Rockets in the first place.
Dad was always a hardass. I always had to "be a man". I couldn't show any weakness, and damned if I ever cried. He couldn't stand it when my eyes watered when I got sick, because of how it looked.
But then he caught me with a friend of mine. We were just practicing, ya know, how kids do, and he walked in on us. I never heard him holler so loud, and I'd never seen him so mad. He hauled us out into the street and almost yanked my arm out of the damn socket. Yeah, I'm rubbing my shoulder right now.
My friend took off when all the neighbors came out to see what was going on. I wonder what wound up happening to him.
But dad, he kept screaming at me about how I wasn't a "real man" and all that. He kept it up for a long time until his voice gave out and then he punched me. That's when I left.
Well, not right away. I needed to pack, but I left that night, after avoiding him, and in a small house like that it wasn't easy. But I packed a bag and left without a note. I wasn't thinking straight; by the end I was grabbing anything I could fit in the bag. Later I wondered what I was doing with a corkscrew--I guess I thought I could use it as a weapon or something.
I wasn't sure where I was going. I wandered around for a while, staying at pokémon centers or wherever before I wound up around Viridian. Yeah, things happened, and I hooked up with the Rockets. It's a long story, but that's the short of it.
I had a few different partners, with varying degrees of compatability. But when they gave me Bashou, something in me kinda snapped. Sure he was tough, he was capable, but I just saw his face. It made me sick--he looked like a weakling, and a girl weakling at that. And I was sick for another reason, too.
Yeah, who can't guess? But I had to drown it out, so I made fun of him instead. The way he ran even though he was faster than me, the way he threw a punch even though it was focused and strong...he couldn't be good, not a man like that.
He tolerated it because we were partners by Team order. We had to put up with each other, although I could tell there were times he wanted to break my arms.
But one time I called him something I shouldn't, and he had me to the wall. I thought he was going to kill me. I'd seen him mad before, but this was...he despised me. And for some reason I couldn't move. There was so much crowding my mind but I couldn't get any words out.
He ground his heel into my throat and snarled that if I ever said anything like that again, he'd put me out of comission permanently, and all I could do was stare at him. But I wasn't looking at him. I kept seeing myself, and I was my father.
Something must have changed in my face because he let me go and started walking away. "I'm putting in for a new partner tomorrow," he told me sharply.
I couldn't let him do that. I had my reasons. So I did the only thing I could think of--I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in and kissed him.
He didn't stand for that, and punched me in the stomach, knocking me to the ground. "You're a damned idiot if you think you can keep doing things like that and get away with them."
But he didn't walk away. I was looking up at him through a haze, and I must have shown something besides physical pain because he unclenched his fist and stared at me. He was waiting for something, I could feel it, but damned if I knew what, so all I could do was stare back at him. Finally, keeping steady with his piercing eyes, I pulled myself to my feet. "...get it now?" I managed finally.
He turned around but still didn't move away. "Do you?" he asked, his voice demanding but soft.
And I started to rub my shoulder. I couldn't answer him because I couldn't answer myself, so I stood there like an idiot as he finally walked away.
Things started getting better between us after that. I'm glad he picked up on what was going on, because I sure wouldn't have been able to.
I never was able to say it, but I guess I didn't have to, it was just understood. I waited to try to kiss him again for several months, and then it was slow and he didn't react badly. Of course, him being as icy as he is, he didn't react much at all, but I'd learned to read the little things.
And he relaxed around me, even allowing himself to smile sometimes.
Neither of us could, or can even now, tell how we got here, but it's not really needed.
He's telling me to get out of the damned chair and make dinner, so I get up and toss the book I wasn't reading on the bed, and he promptly snaps it up and sets it on the bedside table.
Before I open the fridge, I have to laugh to myself. Domestic scene aside, who would have thought I'd be most at home as an outlaw?
But yeah, that's what it is, it's home here. And I'm just glad I finally realized that.
