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red in tooth and claw

Summary:

It says something about Jack that his Isolde didn’t settle until he was seventeen years old. It says more that when she finally did settle, she ended up being—well, you know—

—a badger.

--

Or, a Daemon AU.

Notes:

Written for the Check Please! Big Bang 2018. Many thanks to the wonderful shipped-goldstandard for creating not one, not two, but three whole playlists for this fic. <3 (Please listen as you read, if that's a thing for you - Jack's playlist in particular is just perfect for all his parts. <3)

Thanks also to Linnea, Julorean, legojacques, & G for being the best betas anyone could ask for. Thank you to the ParsePosse and the JackParse Discords for the peptalks and the sprints. Thanks also to the mods for running this whole shebang. And, of course, many thanks to you, dear readers!

Title taken from Canto 56 of “In Memoriam A.H.H.”

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; all credit goes to ngoziu.

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: his shadow follows at his heels

Summary:

When he’s twelve, Jack’s Isolde takes to wearing the form of a wolf so often that everybody assumes she’s already settled. She hasn’t, though, slipping into the shape of a sparrow or a mouse—always something small, something good at hiding—and burrowing to rest against the nape of his neck once the lights are out and he’s settling down to sleep.

“Do you think you’re gonna be a wolf?” he asks her once, hopeful.

Notes:

Warnings for this chapter: Mild ableism with regards to mental health issues, canon-typical depictions of anxiety.

If you are unfamiliar with daemon!AUs, please see endnotes for an explanation.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 


 

CH. 1: his shadow at his heels

 


 

When he’s twelve, Jack’s Isolde takes to wearing the form of a wolf so often that everybody assumes she’s already settled. She hasn’t, though, slipping into the shape of a sparrow or a mouse—always something small, something good at hiding—and burrowing to rest against the nape of his neck once the lights are out and he’s settling down to sleep.

“Do you think you’re gonna be a wolf?” he asks her once, hopeful. His dad’s Dianthe is a gray wolf, fierce and dark-furred and beautiful, a warrior of a daemon who showed up on NHL highlight reels as often as her human for the way she’d barrel through the other daemons on the designated sidelines. She’d keep apace with Bad Bob’s movements on the ice, fangs bared, shoulders squared, undaunted in the face of bears or lynxes or coyotes, leaping over them with surety and grace to make sure Bob was never hampered by the tug between human and daemon.

Jack loves Dianthe, used to hide his face in her fur and let her growl away the reporters or fans who got too close, loved how she’d turn her head right after and wink at him, bopping him playfully on the nose—the sweet, goofy Dianthe the cameras never captured.

Isolde loves Dianthe, too, practically worships the ground she walks on. And daemon forms regularly run in families, so it’s not such a far-fetched idea. It’d be a good thing, Isolde being a wolf. She’d be big enough and fast enough for them to make it in the NHL, then.

If she was a wolf.

“Maybe,” Isolde answers, just as hopeful. Her tail wags once, twice, then stills.

 

___

 

Jack turns thirteen, then fourteen, and Isolde still doesn’t settle. His mother tells him not to worry, reminds him that her Ciarán didn’t settle until she was nearly fifteen.

“It’s fine, Jack,” she tells him, smoothing back his hair. “Not everybody settles early.”

“Maman, eleven counts as early, and I’m already way past that point. I’m late now,” he complains, tilting his head away to avoid her hand. It’s easier than it used to be—he has a few inches on her now, and he’s getting taller every day.  

His mother desists, and, beside them, Ciarán likewise stops trying to groom Isolde, though she stays peaceably between his paws, shifting from her habitual wolf form into a small stoat. His mother’s border collie promptly curls his body around her, a pleased growl rumbling in his chest. Alicia grins down at the two of them, nudging Jack with her shoulder.

“Let’s take a picture of them,” she suggests brightly.

“Maman—” Jack tries, but she was already in the next room over, rummaging for her camera.

Jack turns to his daemon instead. “Isolde, don’t encourage them,” he says, exasperated.

“It’s fine,” she tells him, wrinkling her snout playfully.

“It’s not,” Jack shoots back. They were never going to settle if they didn’t act like they were mature adults, and letting your mother’s daemon coddle you was not mature, adult-like behavior.

“Jack,” Isolde says, quieter, “it’s fine.”

Jack just shakes his head. It doesn’t make any sense—he and Isolde know exactly who they are and where they stand, while most people at his high school can’t even decide on what they want to have for lunch, let alone what they want to do with the rest of their lives. Jack’s already got his life plan figured out for the next twenty-five years, and has since he was six. Isolde should have settled ages ago.

“We’ve got to do better than this,” he mutters.

When his mother comes back and takes the picture, he’s still frowning, his brows drawn disapprovingly as he glances at the camera, the daemons at his feet.

Looking back on the moment, it’s not much of a surprise. Most photos of him from that time show him frowning, the expression sitting less awkwardly on his face than his attempts to smile.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s better to stick to what you’re good at, after all.

 

___

 

On his fifteenth birthday, Isolde still hasn’t settled.

On his fifteenth birthday, Isolde stops appearing as anything other than a wolf beyond the doors of his house.

A few weeks later, his parents send him to a shrink for the first time. The shrink eyes him up and down, talks to him in a bland, calming voice, and conspicuously doesn’t write anything down on the notebook he has opened on his desk. Jack wishes he would; the blank pages just make him more nervous.

His psychiatrist’s daemon is a sleek mink, curled up on one of the bookshelves. She doesn’t speak a word to Isolde the whole session, merely nods in greeting when they first enter and then proceeds to ignore them in favor of sleeping. Honestly, Jack wishes he could do the same.

“Well, Jack, it’s been a pleasure,” his psychiatrist says at the end of their first meeting, shaking his hand. “I’m sure we can find something to help you soon.”

Jack makes sure to grip his hand firmly, look him squarely in the eye, and tip his head down in acknowledgement. He doesn’t mention how he doesn’t think that last statement is likely to come true.

 

___

 

The sessions go like this for a month, and at the end of it, Jack is diagnosed with anxiety.

This is a surprise only in that he hadn’t been aware before that it could be an official illness, something scientifically identifiable and treatable.

“I thought it was just another thing wrong with us,” Isolde murmurs to him after, the both of them curled up under his comforter so that none of their limbs stick out. So that no one can see that Isolde’s changing forms every three minutes or so—first a ferret, then a gecko, then a fruit bat, then a variety of different types of house-pets, changing and changing every time she so much as circles in place. “I didn’t think it was—” She stops herself, cutting off abruptly.

“—explainable,” Jack finishes for her. He’d read the brochures, same as her. A chemical imbalance in his brain. Perfectly manageable. Not curable, of course, but perfectly manageable.

With the right type of medication. 

His psychiatrist had written up a prescription for him, and they’d dropped by the pharmacy right afterward to fill it. His parents were told to make sure he took one a day, with stern instructions not to let him skip any doses during this trial run, just to make sure it was taking the proper effect. Just to make sure they could observe if it had any undue side effects on him or Isolde.

Jack doesn’t think that’s going to be a problem. It couldn’t be worse than that time he and Isolde had a panic attack and were convinced they were dying, and his shrink told him that these pills were designed to make sure he didn’t get them.

“It should be okay,” he tells Isolde, putting as much conviction into his voice as he can. He pets her behind the ears reassuringly, and lets her curl up on his chest. She’s a little Pomeranian, black and fluffy and trembling, but no one’s here to judge them, so it’s fine.

He says, “We’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” Isolde says. She wags her tail once, twice, then leaps out of their cocoon of pillows and blankets, landing on the floor with a solid thump.

When Jack pokes his head out, he can see that she’s changed back into a wolf, black-furred and built in lean, dangerous lines.

“Any day now,” she tells him. “It’ll stick any day now. You’ll see.”

“Okay,” Jack answers.

They go to sleep.

 

___

 

The pills work better than expected. Jack is prepared to concede that maybe his psychiatrist had a point, and that his parents were right to send him.

“See?” Ciarán tells Isolde. “The two of you are doing so much better now, sweetheart.” He butts his head against her shoulder, uncaring that she has a good fifty pounds on him and barely moves an inch; Isolde’s almost as big as Dianthe these days, but Ciarán’s never let size stop him from bossing either of them around. They all know who the top dogs in this house are, and that’s Alicia and her daemon.

Isolde lets her tongue loll out in a wolfish grin and doesn’t dispute his words, because, for once, they happen to be true.  

Jack smiles with her, and lets his mother fuss with his hair.

 

___

 

Jack turns sixteen and gets drafted into Rimouski Océanic. He arrives at his billet house with a five-piece set of matching luggage and two duffel bags stuffed full of hockey gear. There’s a very large carrier for Isolde to rest in when they go on roadies, and a bottle of pills tucked into one of his socks, and, between those two things, he thinks he’s pretty much set for the year.

“Let’s do this,” he tells Isolde.

She wags her tail once, twice, and follows him out the door without question.  

 

___

 

“Alright, boys, line it up!” one of the assistant coaches yells, smacking his clipboard against the boards.

All the rookies let their chatter die down, turning to face him and the rest of the staff. Their head coach, Hardison, surveys them all with an impassive glance, arms crossed as he looks over first the humans, then their daemons, who stand obediently on the sidelines, a few of them fidgeting nervously but most still and at attention. Jack is pleased to see that Isolde is sitting up, poised and alert, looking much more put-together than most of the others.

The majority of the daemons are the usual mix of large predators common at this level of hockey: lynxes, wolves, coyotes. There’re a few deer and birds of prey, too, falcons and hawks and—is that a hummingbird?

Jack looks closer. It is a hummingbird. Hm. Unexpected, but as long as she flies fast enough, size shouldn’t be a problem.

Coach Hardison gives a short introductory speech, and then it’s back to running drills and playing a few scrimmages, the rookies all getting a feel for each other.

Jack’s not fazed, even though they’re pretty much put through the wringer. He can handle it—hockey’s comforting. Familiar. He always knows what to do on the ice. Not even his teammates’ stares, their slight hesitation, their distance from him, can affect him overmuch. He’s used to this, too.

They’ll accept him as soon as the season starts and he puts points on the board. They always do. It’s how winning works.

In the meantime, he tears down the ice, Isolde a familiar, comforting blur in the corner of his eye as they demolish the other side in the latest scrimmage.

 

___

 

“Jesus Christ, I do not think I can feel my legs anymore,” one of the left wingers says. “Berger, buddy, help a guy out—can you check to see that my feet are still attached to me? Everything below the knee is kinda fuzzy, and I’m getting worried.” He sticks a foot out, wiggling it slightly, his head tilted back and his face covered with a towel, obscuring his features. Jack can still make out the riot of blond curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, though. He’s one of the Americans, Jack thinks, which is why he doesn’t seem familiar. Unlike most of the others here, Jack hasn’t played on or against one of the teams he’s been on.

Bergeron seems to know him, though, because he just grunts in return and steps on the winger’s foot. “Oh, look. Still there,” he says, deadpan. Next to him, the stocky mastiff who must be his daemon chuckles quietly.

“Ow! Ow! What the hell man, oh, my God, you suck! Get off, you absolute dickhead!” The winger pushes ineffectively at the bulk of the largest of Rimouski’s new defensemen, the towel falling off his face as he groans theatrically. “Zezzie! Zezzie! Come save me!”

Rzeznik, one of their goalies, looks up from where he’s sitting on Bergeron’s other side. “Wait a minute, were you talking to me?” he asks, brows furrowing, sticking his head out to look questioningly at his struggling teammate. The hummingbird daemon Jack noticed earlier is hovering around the three humans, darting quickly back and forth between the blond winger and Rzeznik. She must belong to the loud guy, Jack decides, judging from how anxious she seems at his distress.

The winger looks quizzically at Rzeznik. “Uh, duh? Who else would I be talking to? You are right the fuck there and conveniently close enough to rescue me, so, like, I really appreciate if you would get with the program and commence with the saving before Berger severs my poor, innocent foot with his gigantic—”

“Do you even have an innocent bone left in your body anymore, Parse?” Rzeznik wonders. “Also, I know I told you that my nickname is Nicky.”

“And we agreed that Zezzie is much, much cooler, so the proper response is, ‘Thank you for giving me a new one, Parse,’ to which I reply, ‘No problem,’ and, by the way, of course I have innocent bones left in me! My entire skeleton is immaculate, completely free of blame, utterly and unjustly slandered—”  

At that, Isolde chokes on a small giggle, surprised into laughter, and Parse—is that his name, or his nickname? Jack isn’t entirely sure, though he’s leaning towards the latter—swings his head around to look at her, pleased. “See?” he tells Zezzie. “She agrees with me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

At that, Isolde turns to look up at Jack, who finishes pulling on his sweater. “Don’t bring Isolde into this,” he says, shrugging slightly.

Judging from his teammates’ expressions, he must have sounded too curt, and not joking like he’d been aiming for.

The only one who doesn’t seem fazed is Parse, whose grin widens as he winks audaciously at Jack, then turns back to Isolde. “Isolde, huh? That’s a pretty name. You mind if I call you Izzy? You look like an Izzy. You don’t mind helping me out, do you? You think I’m funny and worth saving, right? C’mon, Izz, tell Berger that he ought to let me go,” Parse coaxes.

Um, Isolde says uncertainly, addressing Jack in the privacy of their shared bond. What should I—?

She doesn’t have a chance to say more than that.

“Knock it off, Kent,” a female voice says authoritatively, and what Jack mistook for a simple pile of towels and equipment is pushed aside as—he kids you not—as a lioness uncurls herself from her makeshift nest.

A lioness.

The entire locker room goes silent as the lioness—no, the daemon stretches leisurely, claws coming out to scratch at the floor as she bends her back into a graceful arch and lets out a loud yawn. Immediately after, she straightens up and shakes her head, then pads across the room to where Parse, Bergeron, and Rzeznik are.

“I know he’s an idiot, Berger, but I’d appreciate it if you let my human go,” the daemon says matter-of-factly, uncaring of the taboo of a daemon addressing an unfamiliar human. “I promise you can demolish him later, but only at video games. We’ll need his feet, unfortunately.”

Bergeron’s mouth is hanging open, his daemon similarly wide-eyed. “Uh. Sure,” he says eventually, taking his foot off Parse.

“Thank you,” the lioness says, sitting back on her haunches, clearly pleased, paws the size of dinner plates resting on the floor in front of her as her tail lashes back and forth.

“Dude, Val, how come you didn’t come save me earlier,” Parse whines, pouting at her.

She gives him a dead-eyed stare, baring her teeth slightly as she talks. “You dumb-ass. Why should I save someone who can’t even call me by the right name?”

“Ugh, fine,” Parse says, rolling his eyes, both he and his daemon oblivious to the glances they’re still getting, though at least the chatter has started up again. “Why didn’t you come save me sooner, Valkyria?

Valkyria stretches her neck in what appears to be the feline version of a shrug. “Again, because you’re a dumb-ass.”

Before Parse can reply, Berger clears his throat, finally voicing the statement on everyone’s minds: “Parse, I didn’t know your daemon was a lion.”

Parse turns to stare at him, incredulous. “The hell? How could you miss her? She’s fucking humongous,” he says, gesturing at Valkyria.

“Hey!” she hisses, tail lashing in affront.

“Babe, you know I love you, but you gotta admit your ass is larger than mine.”

“They’re called haunches, and you don’t have an ass to speak of!”

“But she wasn’t at practice,” Rzeznik interrupts, his voice going up at the end, turning the uncertain statement almost into an outright question.

Parse frowns, leaning forward to finish lacing up his sneakers. “What? No, she was totally there, she was just napping in the bleachers ’cause she’s lazy.”

Valkyria sniffs. “It’s called conserving energy.”

“It’s called being lazy, Val. How’re you ever gonna make it onto the highlights reel if all you ever do is sleep?” Parse complains. “Anyway, you probably didn’t see her earlier during practice, but she was totes there.”

Berger looks back between Parse and Valkyria. “But doesn’t it—don’t you two—?”

“Oh, the distance thing? Yeah, my great-grandma was a witch, so everybody on my mom’s side of the family can separate pretty far? Not as far as actual witches, though, that requires a whole ritual and everything, and it’s fucking brutal, so, like, yeah, count me out, bud.” 

“Gotcha,” Rzeznik says slowly.

Parse nods, standing, and turns back to Berger. “Anyway, Berger, my dude, my main man—if you didn’t know Val was mine, where the hell did you think my daemon was?”

Jack watches as Berger’s eyes land on the hummingbird still buzzing around their heads. Rzeznik catches the glance and frowns. “Hey,” he says, poking Berger in the side repeatedly, “Zyllena’s my daemon.”

“Dude, knock it off, I didn’t mean anything by it—I just thought she was Parse’s ’cause she was so worried,” he says, smacking Rzeznik’s hand away.

Parse snickers. “Yeah, I can see that, man. You’re a sweet one, huh?” he says to Zyllena, who’s hovering sheepishly by Rzeznik’s ear at this point. Then Parse nudges Rzeznik with his toe, distracting him from where he’s trying to give Berger a noogie. “Also, come off it, man, like you didn’t think Berger’s daemon was mine, then.”

Rzeznik guiltily eyes the mastiff at their feet. “Um.”

“She says it’s okay,” Berger says, as his daemon gives a wag of her tail.

Parse just throws his head back and laughs. He turns to face the rest of the locker room and claps his hands together, raising his voice so everyone can hear him: “Okay, people, let’s do some proper introductions, yeah? Here, I’ll start—my name’s Parse, and this lion here is my Valkyria. Val, say hi.”

“Hi,” Valkyria drawls. “Call me Val and I’ll bite your throat out.”

“She doesn’t mean that,” Parse says reassuringly.

At his side, Val grins, teeth sharp and glinting. Attempt at your own risk, her expression clearly says.

“Anyhow,” Parse says, either not noticing or deliberately ignoring her, “moving on—Bergie, let’s hear it.”

“It’s Berger,” he says, flicking Parse’s ear, “and Donatella is mine,” he finishes, patting his mastiff on the head.

The introductions go swiftly after that, everyone calling out their name and the name of their daemon, until finally they get to Jack.

Jack crosses his arms, frowning. Everyone is staring at him expectantly, and he’s not sure why—they all know who he is already. They know who his daemon is. What’s the point of introducing himself, of pretending he’s like the rest of them?

“Zimmermann,” he eventually, just to break the silence. He nods at Isolde, sitting quietly at his feet. “Isolde.” She dips her head slightly in acknowledgement.

The quiet settles back into place. Jack goes for his bag so he can leave, nodding at everyone before he exits the room, Isolde at his heels. Before the door closes behind them, Jack looks back to find Parse and Valkyria watching them go, twin gazes a piercing glass-cut green underneath the light, their matching expressions both enigmatic and unreadable.

As Jack hesitates, feeling suddenly as if he should do something, say something, Parse deliberately meets his eyes, and doesn’t look away until the door closes shut between them.

Jack doesn’t know what that means, if it means anything at all or if he’s just making it up: the weight, the tension he felt as they locked gazes—

So he puts it out of his mind and makes his way toward the parking lot.

“Well,” Isolde says tentatively as they walk down the hallway, “I think that went well.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. They leave it at that.

 

___

 

Over the next few weeks, as the rookies get integrated into the team, Jack tries to fill his usual niches as the explosive powerhouse on the ice, the guy you can rely on to get the puck in the net no matter what, and the taciturn but largely inoffensive teammate off the ice, the guy who never talked to anyone but at least showed up to the parties.

He was succeeding admirably at the first, and failing at the second, mostly due to the unexpected but persistent interference of one Kent Parson.

“Zimmermann,” Parse says, popping up by his elbow without so much as a hello, “you have to get the mint chocolate chip.”

Isolde lets out a small yelp, as surprised as Jack, and steps out further to the side, curling her tail around her body. Jack doesn’t move, but he glares at Parse anyway.

Parse doesn’t notice, though, too busy leaning around him and addressing his daemon. “Oh, shit, Izz, sorry about that—didn’t mean to scare you there,” he says, sincere, then turns back to the Baskin Robbins display case. “Get the mint chocolate chip, dude,” he repeats, elbowing Jack.

Jack stares, perplexed. “Why?”

“Because I want to eat it, but I’m already getting rocky road and caramel, and Val’s gonna call me a pig if I get three scoops, so I need you to get it for me instead,” Parse answers matter-of-factly. He takes a break from perusing the different flavors to slant his gaze up at Jack, gray eyes dark beneath golden lashes. In response, Jack’s stomach gives a funny little flip that he decides not to examine too closely.

“Uh. Okay,” he says instead, just for something to do.

“Awesome, dude, you’re the best,” Parse says, punching his shoulder lightly. He calls out to the server, whose squirrel daemon is perched comfortably on her shoulder, “Hey, miss, can we get two scoops of mint chocolate chip, and one scoop each of caramel and rocky road? And make that two orders, please.”

“Wha—how is anyone supposed to understand that?” Jack says, and turns to the server himself. “I’m sorry, he meant one scoop of mint chocolate chip for me—”

Parse groans. “No, man, make it two!”

“—one scoop,” Jack repeats firmly, “and one scoop of caramel and one scoop of rocky road for him. We’re paying separately.” 

Parse gasps, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Oh, my God, you’re not paying for me? How could you—I thought we were friends!”

Isolde goes stiff, and Jack says, equally discomfited, “We’re not.” They don’t have friends, him and Isolde. They have teammates, classmates, people their age whom they know—they don’t have friends.

But Parse laughs, shoulders loose as he gestures at Jack. “Can you believe this guy?” he says to the girl behind the counter, grinning easily. “Pretending like he doesn’t know me—treating me like some sort of gold-digger! The nerve of him!”

The girl smiles back, charmed, and even her daemon leans forward. “I don’t know,” she says playfully. “After all, you were trying to mooch off of him, and for rocky road, of all things. Can’t blame him for wanting to cut ties after that.” She smiles at Jack, too, who clears his throat and shuffles his feet.

“Yeah,” he tries, “what kind of idiot likes rocky road?” Jack’s dad likes rocky road, too, so it’s not like Jack has anything against it, but it seems like the thing to say, seems like something his mom would joke about to strangers. Jack can just picture her, her hand curled around his dad’s arm as he protests, the affection easy and right between them.

Next to Jack, Parse squawks, indignant, but the girl laughs, and Jack laughs, too, glad he managed to get that right.

“Alright, you two, let me just—” The girl goes still, looking between Jack and Isolde, then looking at Parse, conspicuously alone. Jack suddenly remembers what he looks like to strangers, that jarring sense of something amiss about him without Valkyria by his side. “Um,” the server says, her expression disturbed, “where is—”

“His daemon is outside,” Isolde interrupts, anxious, her eyes darting between Parse and the server. She gestures with her snout to the glass storefront, a quick, sharp movement. “She’s—the tables. She’s saving us a table.”

And sure enough, when Jack and the server turn to look, Valkyria is lounging underneath two tables, her head pillowed on her forelegs, for all intents and purposes fast asleep.

Parse, still smiling, says, “She likes to stay outdoors. More room, you know?”

“Oh! No, yes, of course,” their server says, obviously flustered, then busies herself with the ice cream. “Let me just get your orders for you.”

Thank you, Parse mouths at Isolde, and she wags her tail, pleased.

Jack, on the other hand, is still surprised that she talked to a stranger. He honestly can’t remember the last time she spoke to a human who wasn’t related to them. That she did it to defend Parse is another surprise, and that she knew exactly where Valkyria was the entire time is one, too. Jack didn’t even notice, having gotten used to Parse’s tendency to occasionally appear without his daemon at his heels—Valkyria’s plenty social, but she likes her space, too, and Jack respects that. He understands that.

He doesn’t quite understand what all these observations mean when taken together, but he mulls it over as they go outside with their ice cream. Parse keeps stealing spoonfuls of his mint chocolate while keeping up a one-sided stream of constant chatter, and Valkyria amiably does the same to Isolde, the two daemons stretched comfortably at their feet. Jack, meanwhile, looks at the evidence, considers the possibilities, and eventually comes to the conclusion that it means that Parse is right, and that he and Jack are friends.

Jack stops when the thought comes to him, spoon of ice cream halfway to his mouth.

“Uh, earth to Jack? Hello? Is anybody in there?” Parse says, snapping his fingers loudly.

Jack looks at him, feeling like a deer in the headlights. “Yeah,” he says. Then he blurts out, “Are we friends?”

Parse blinks, and Jack feels a moment of panic, Isolde shifting restlessly by his chair—

But Parse just smiles, his eyes bright. “Yeah, man,” he says, his foot nudging Jack’s underneath the table, out of sight, “we’re friends.”

Isolde relaxes, and, after a second, Valkyria brushes their noses together. Jack feels the touch like a breath against his soul. He swallows hard.

“Okay,” he says. 

And, well—that’s that. Jack’s made his first friend.

 

___ 

Notes:

Ok, so this is late as hell, but at least it's posted. orz

For those unfamiliar with daemon!AUs, daemons are physical manifestations of a person's soul that take the form of an animal. Daemons are usually a gender different from their human; they can take any animal shape they wish until their human hits puberty, upon which they settle into a permanent form that best represents their human's personality.

Daemons cannot travel far from their humans without both of them experiencing severe pain, and seeing a person without a daemon is like seeing a person without a head. Humans can communicate telepathically with their daemon, sense their emotions, and share some physical sensations; daemons may communicate telepathically with other daemons, but typically don't talk to humans they don't know.

Touching another person's daemon without permission is one of the greatest taboos. If someone gives permission to touch their daemon, it's a sign of great intimacy. More here for those curious.

Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^