Kier had taken a noticeable interest in Oleanderpaw’s recovery — but that was to be expected. Favourites, nepotism, incitement by exclusion, by jealousy — that was how he ran things. That was how he created obsessive loyalty. Envy was a powerful motivator — and seeing a peer do better than you? Oh, that was unendurable. That was impossible to stomach. Friends turned on friends, and they never seemed to see that the only one truly benefitting was Kier. The one they were so desperate to please, the one who didn’t have to do anything but look down at them as they did precisely what he wanted them to do and thought themselves free. It didn’t matter that Oleanderpaw was only a Reporter, that she was the same Class as the sad little grey thing in the next nest over — she had become a favourite almost overnight, and that changed things. Now it was like being welcomed into some exclusive, old-world club, some Latin society at Yale accessible only by private, anonymous invitation — extra food if she wanted it; upward ascension; and the only price was keeping herself happy. If she was happy, Kier was happy — didn’t matter what that happiness looked like. It was a surprisingly weightless burden to wear; there were very few strings attached. And once you were in favour — truly in favour — it was difficult to fall out of it. That was what made it such a prized feast. The only problem was the steps it took to get there, because they were so utterly invisible — you didn’t know you’d done the right thing until you were in. Until the silence between you and Kier broke and he began to speak to you personally, one-on-one. And whatever Oleanderpaw had done, she had arrived. Kier liked her.

“And how is our brave soldier?” he greeted Oleanderpaw with a beaming, welcoming smile as he padded over from the vague direction of the nursery; even Pantherpaw hadn’t managed to put him in a bad mood. He paused briefly in front of her, sniffing at her neck wrappings like he were a sommelier tasting the notes of a wine, and then padded past, waving her in after him with his tail. “You’re up — good. It doesn’t do to sit around and mope; that’s why you’re the one I like. Back on your paws as soon as you’re able.” He turned back to face her and sat, giving her a smile. “Let’s have a look at that neck, mm?” His eyes had drifted down to the cobwebs across her throat; now they flicked back up to hers, smiling.

He wasn’t creepy with Oleanderpaw, never made a move on her — he liked her, he truly did, respected her even; and as much as he would cuckold the warriors and the Superiors, there was a line in the sand, and that line was his apprentices: if Bumblebeepaw liked Oleanderpaw, he truly didn’t interfere, just bowed and backed away and respected the next generations’ courtships. It was in his best interests, and often Kier seemed like a little matronly grandmother, encouraging dates and flirtations — and, down the line, kits. Relations between loyalists was always a good thing — a wonderful thing. And for that precise reason, Kier was never flirtatious himself; he presided over it, proud and as hands-off as they wanted, as they needed, always smiling like they were doing such good things independent of him. He always took a special interest in them, even if he was still aloof, purposefully untouchable — all things that ought to be revered were a little elusive. That was, until now. Now, as they grew older, he’d start to be a little more involved — and Oleanderpaw’s injuries had to be tended to by him. It was the finest way to begin a relationship, to properly introduce himself beyond the ominous leader. There were never any ‘my dear’s with her. Never any little’s.

Holding out a hesitant, slightly jerky paw, smiling eyes darting between her eyes and her throat, like he was asking for permission, he tenderly pawed away the gauze-like wrappings, peeling them away; they wadded themselves round his paw. As the half-healed wound was revealed, still wet and sticky in the centre, Kier let out a wincing hissing sound, like he was sympathising with how much pain she must be in. He was a wonderful healer, an inventive one with methods that would sent traditional medicine cats into fits of self-righteousness, and Oleanderpaw would heal — but the scar would linger. He was barely managing to stave off death, let alone infection; it must have stung unconscionably. “It’s a miracle you haven’t cried,” Kier joked, looking up at her with a crooked little grin; she was already a little larger than him. “I’d’ve cried. It’s certainly nasty. But you’ll be fine — there’s no doubt about that.” He sat back and smiled, wiping the bloodied cobwebs off his paws. “And what a story you’ll be able to tell your kits — a wound from a Nemesis before you even had your full name. Continue like this, Oleanderpaw, and you’ll have a place in my Royal Guard.” He smiled, gaze twinkling.

And then, standing suddenly, he turned and padded over to Twilightdance’s stores; nothing in NightClan was private property, nothing was off limits, nothing was owned. The medicine cat had no grounds to protest her former mentor helping himself to her herbs. Silence settled as he rooted about in the stores, hopping up on his hindlegs and feeling around with his forepaws when he couldn’t reach something, cheek pressed to the cold stone and eyes unseeing on the ceiling as he felt for what he needed. He never called them by their Clan names; they had Scottish names, or bland, scientific ones, or ones that sounded frightening. After a little while, he began to hum. Then, finally, with a few strong-smelling leaf wads in his jaws, he returned to Oleanderpaw, cheery and relaxed in the genuine way he only was with his favourite apprentices. Even his theatrical way of speaking eased. “You know, this is the first time you’ve been awake enough to actually help me out,” he laughed, soft and friendly as he took a seat in front of her. Every other time, he’d done his caretaking in silence and then left, ignoring the medicine cat beyond the odd barbed comment. Looking up from her throat, he smiled at Oleanderpaw. “Hold this, will you?” He held a wad of cobweb against one side of her throat until he was sure Oleanderpaw had it; then he removed his paw. “That part always has a tendency to bleed,” he told her as he held the end of a leaf under his paw and scraped his teeth up it to strip it; “must’ve been where he ended the bite.” He didn’t look up as he worked, his head turning slightly this way and that as he looked down at the herbs, focused and efficient; but the precise fact of how calmly he said he showed the tension. Those he didn’t like became nameless, and Bermondsey had been utterly stripped.

Letting the quiet settle again, just a leader caring for an apprentice, he worked in silence, the only sounds those of leaves shorn off stems and quiet efficiency. The cave had a way of muffling sound, of bringing you utterly to the present in front of you. Looking up, eyes focused only on her throat, he learned forward and wiped a damp, broad leaf, black with moisture or just from its life in the depths of the undergrowth, through the wound from left to right, cleaning away any lingering infection. Then, scooting closer as he eased the wad of cobweb from under Oleanderpaw’s paw and began to wind it around her neck, he looked up at her for the first time in what might have been fifteen minutes; it was so peaceful that it felt unnatural to break the quiet. Kier smiled up at her secretively, eyes unwavering, dropping his voice like they were just two girls gossiping. “So, forgive me for being curious,” he began, “but what’s this business with Bumblebeepaw?“ He gave her a crooked little grin; it felt truly warm, truly companionable, compared to his usual ones. “Do you like them? They’re a fine cat — you’d be a handsome pair. If you don’t snatch them up quick, someone else will.” There was nothing nasty about it, nothing crude — clearly he was rooting for them to be together, but he’d accept a no. There were other good options. He’d never force a partnership on one of his favourites like he would Duskpaw or another Inferior; they had the privilege to choose, and he was patient and generous. They had more to offer than just kits — they were important for themselves. But if they were to fancy each other, he couldn’t deny how happy that would make him.

Y—you think? “Mhm,” Kier confirmed with a warm, thin smile, eyes flicking up to her from where he was bent down towards her throat. “More than earned it, I would say — most of the sorry excuses for warriors here could only dream of accomplishing in a whole lifetime the things you’ve done before you’ve even reached adulthood.” Praise — he weeded out all his favourite apprentices' needs like a one-sided diagnosis, and she was starving for it. So was he. Really, they were similar in a whirlwind of ways; it was half of why he liked her so fervidly, so determinedly. He didn't like to nurture the ones who needed it, the ones who were like the kit he had been — small, afraid, unloved. He liked to nurture the ones who were already teetering on the brink of being beyond saving. They didn't scare him the way unbroken things did, didn't fill him with that desperate, itching, too-tight grief, like he couldn't get enough air. These ones were safe. It was a mercy to take these ones under his wing. There wasn't that hope that filled him with such fear. 

I want to get him back one day, give him a matching one. His opinion of her only grew. “You’re not afraid?” he asked without looking up from his paws, damp from herb tinctures and slightly bloodied; by the way he said it, there was clearly a right answer — but there wasn’t any of the usual threat of displeasure in his voice; no, he already sounded pleased, because he was certain she’d answer the way he — the way they both — wanted to hear. “Truly, all my incompetent warriors ought to watch out — they have competition.” He looked up at her with a smile, just between them. His eyes drifted back down. “If your actions can match half your words, you have a bright future in NightClan — perhaps the brightest out of anyone. But I’d expect nothing less from one born outside the Clans.” He smiled up at her again, this time more conspiratorial, eyes pushed up slightly like they knew something the others didn’t. “We just do it better.” Still radiating warmth, his attention returned to covering her wound; he could have purposefully kept it a little drier than it ought to have been — without the moisture of a poultice, he could have ensured her wound healed scarred and jagged, could have ensured she had it there, an unflattering part through her fur, to keep her angry, to keep her determined. They could have been matching — two throat scars from two different sets of teeth, both League, both hateful, both haunting. But he didn’t. He knew she valued her looks, valued her fur — and so either out of a kindness he only held for his apprentices, or because he was hoping for her gratefulness, he kept it damp and helped it heal as best he could. “I know how this must have felt," was all he said, not looking up this time, his voice so casually personal despite the trauma of the memory. “Not being able to swallow round all the blood — it’s an awful feeling. The most awful one there is.” It had killed him where it hadn’t her; that was the unspoken ending. He had never told the story to anyone in the Clan but Laertes, and he wouldn’t now — it was a dangerous thing, to admit he was already one life down since the very morning he’d gotten them; even more dangerous to admit he’d never received the full number of lives they all expected he had — but there had been a tremendous amount of blood, and whispers had spread. Whispers that had somehow found their way to the edges of the truth.

As Oleanderpaw caved to speaking about Bumblebeepaw, sounding so bashful, Kier’s smile grew and stayed put, like he was validating the honesty of her confession with safe warmth; his eyes flicked up and down between her and his work every now and then, quiet and encouraging. “Yes, their rosettes are rather nice,” he agreed with a bubbling laugh, just tying the sticky ends of the cobweb into some semblance of a knot. It was almost endearing, if a little childish, the things that drew her to Bumblebeepaw — funny, cool. Kier again felt that glow of condescending affection for the pair. His only experience with genuine lovers’ love, with a deep bond, was Eris — and it was precisely because he couldn’t pinpoint one specific thing he liked about her, couldn’t pick out ’oh, she’s funny’ from the swirling things she made him feel, that he knew it was different. This was an apprentice crush, though they were no older than he had been when he fell for Eris, and the fact of it made even Kier’s heart warm with an almost protective fondness, like the world were so harsh a thing and they needed to be able to live out their shallow courtship, their necessary first experience with imperfect things. He had just gotten lucky with Eris.

It was clear Kier was pleased — his smile only grew as she continued, turning to a little grin at her giggle like he was encouraging it or just swept up in it himself, eyes focusing on hers as he finished his work and sat back; the wrapping sat damp against her fur with a sort of primal, jungle-and-wilderness beauty, so different to the bland efficiency of Clan-trained medicine cats. But either he was putting conscious effort into not being disarming, or this was his more natural way of being, because he blinked regularly instead of staring. “And would you like it to be?” he asked round that warm little grin, so heartening, eyes twinkling; there was no unsupportive nay-saying, not even any clear pressure — it was like he was just invested in young love, like he was grinning along so understandingly, so faintly teasingly, with what was written between the lines, with the things everyone else could see even if they couldn't. Or, that was what he wanted her to feel — that it was inevitable. “Official?”