MORE THAN A CATBIRD HATES A CAT / whiplash

[+ JAMIE]

MATURE: Profanity.

"Oh FU-!"

Whiplash hit him like a train.

All forward momentum and no brakes.

World spinning. Head over tail. Tail tangling in paws. Mud in mouth. Ears. Eyes. Fur. Fuck, it would take forever to wash out.

World righting. Mind reeling. Legs scrambling. Ribs aching. Recovery seconds faster than Whiplash. Seconds just enough to brace: no hope to avoid. Cider stayed on his paws this time. Barely. Blocked the blows but earned the bruises. Fuck, didn't they have a similar diet? Training schedule? Calisthenics routine? Knew Whiplash was strong but this?! Fucking sledgehammer of a cat!

Had been an idle wondering. In a fight... etcetera. Confident daydreams: a) oh yeah. I could take him. Realistic grounding: b) if I got lucky. Practical resolution: c) doesn't matter, it would never happen.

Cider: not pleased to discover he was wrong about all three.

The first saving grace? The terrain. Made them unsteady. Softened the punches. The second? Whiplash had clearly lost his mind. Cindersmoke had not. (Also: not to brag, but he was naturally smarter.) Thanked his lucky gods for that: if Whiplash was fighting to kill he'd be dead already. Outclassed, outmatched. Dead as a doornail. Dead in a ditch. No time for a brain when brawn bull-rushed the gate.

But if that brawn left time...

Whiplash: backed off. Escape route: tracked. Cider: twisting. Bolting. Springing across the spongy moss. Felt the swamp water spray as Whiplash crashed down. Wonder what move he'd tried. Knowing Whiplash? Something battle-ending. Cindersmoke-injuring. Cool! Cool cool cool! Shitty stubborn rock-headed muscle-brained idiot! Fuck this! They were at work! Even if he was being paid it wouldn't be enough!

Flew back the way they came. Across the clearing. And there: the tree he'd barely noticed. Out in the swamp. Several feet. Stagnant water. Not on the path. Didn't matter: adrenaline carried him. Let him walk on water. Seconds later: hauling himself up. Tree dead, old, slippery. Covered in moss. Bent under his weight. Held.

Most importantly: Whiplash couldn't get him.

With safety came anger. And pain. A lot of it. Fuck, was that a cracked rib? Cindersmoke growled. Bellowed: "ASSHOLE!" Scooped up a pawful of moss and sludge. Maybe dead bark too. An insect or three. Threw it at Whiplash's face. "GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!"


DELAWARE

[DELAWARE]

Whiplash snarled as Cindersmoke twisted out and away from him, successfully dodging the attack that slammed down only a second later. The kickback rattled through Whiplash's body with enough force that he was momentarily frozen, paws sunk up to their wrists in the soft ground, and then he was wrenching himself free and wheeling, furious, to go after Cindersmoke. He launched himself out of the clearing, head swiveling as he sought out his opponent, the air around him igniting with rage, following Cindersmoke's voice to find the other warrior in a tree - a tree, of all the ridiculous-! But it wasn't far away, not with the adrenaline coursing through Whiplash, and he crouched - sprang - was in mid-air, paws out, ready to grip and land and clamber and continue beating the ever loving crap out of -

The mud missile hit him precisely in the face. Whiplash crashed down to the ground like a boulder. Spluttering, blinded, he thrashed frantically in the bog, feeling the weight of the muck dragging him down before his paws connected with firm land. In one great heave he hauled himself out, collapsing back onto the edge of the path - half in the swamp, half out. The mud was stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth, and he pawed at his face, spitting out globs of moss and who knows what else. It took a moment for his airways to clear again, and several other long, painful moments for him to get out most of the mud in his eyes, but finally Whiplash could breathe and see and hear again. Well, kind of - one ear was still clogged, and there was swamp detritus caked all over his face, but... it could have been worse. And with that thought, or perhaps due to the prolonged struggle with mother nature, Whiplash's anger began to fade - not quickly, but persistently, inevitably, the blaze dimming down to a mere smolder. Cindersmoke's attack, though lacking grace and sportsmanship, had not necessarily knocked sense back into Whiplash, but it was at least close enough to reason that, when Whiplash dragged the rest of his body out of the swamp and turned cautiously around, his rage-filled intent had vanished.

He regarded Cindersmoke warily, blinking hard against the mud that persisted on dripping down his forehead and back into his eyes. Carefully scrutinizing his fellow warrior for any signs of future swamp bombs, body tensed to leap out of the way, he said, with a certain amount of mellowness but absolutely no apology in his voice whatsoever, "Don't threaten me."


[ ooc looooooool + JAMIE ]

[+ JAMIE]

MATURE: Profanity.

So this was how it was going to go?

"Threaten! My ass." Angry. Scoffing. Another round of mud in the air before Cider remembered:

He had threatened Whiplash. Technically. Barely. Blackmail, fun-sized. Not serious. (Mostly.) Not meant to be taken the wrong way. (Completely.) A passing thought. An intrusive impulse. A big fat mouth without a brain. Aesop's Fable of his life. Moral? Apparently still unlearned.

"That's not how I meant it." Mud down. Paws slippery on bark. Probably going to fall out any moment. God. Trees suck. Much like his survival instinct. "It was a joke." Beat Whiplash to the punch: "A bad one." Dig a grave. Lie in it. Cindersmoke, commited to the bit. "Cut me slack. I got overexcited knowing you aren't perfect." Blunt. Rude. Honest. "I won't snitch. Love is serious business." The importance of being earnest. And the sheer fucking effort: Cider oozing with it. Would have tattooed 'BELIEVE ME' across his forehead if he thought it would help. A sign for extra measure.

But he couldn't read. Or write. Or tattoo. So: reiteration. "I meant it. Your secret is safe with me." There. Surely the message had penetrated Whiplash's thick skull. But just in case, Cider went one step further. Whiplash's skull thicker then most: proof in Cinder's bruised ribs. "I'll swear it on Lightsky. Swanheart." Quiet. Dead serious. No joking. No anger.

Chokepoint at the names, but that always happened.

"On my life. Which you saved." First admission. Only admission. Cinder stopped there. Already too much: lungs heavy. Pressure like swallowing water. Man overboard:

but man not drowning.


DELAWARE

[DELAWARE]

Whiplash stilled at Cindersmoke's final words, his eyes fixed on the other warrior's own. The bright apple green was vivid, sharp, piercing through the dull brown-grays of the swamp around them, and they carried history and emotions far too complex for Whiplash to ever understand. But he could feel them nonetheless, even if he could not identify them, the intensity of Cindersmoke's sincerity bearing down upon the narrow path and quiet clearing where they stood. He would never understand exactly what it meant for Cindersmoke to offer this, but he understood the enormity of it. Whiplash had never been close to Lightsky or to Swanheart - had only been sober, not grieving, at their passing - but he had seen what their losses had done to Cindersmoke. The way it had whittled him down, closed him off, injured him in a way that a medicine cat couldn't heal. Wasn't his chief complaint with Cindersmoke the other warrior's outright refusal to use his ingenuity to improve the Clan? And yet now here Cindersmoke was, offering the source of that pain, and his own life to boot, to prove his trustworthiness.

Truthfully, Whiplash had not been expecting a gesture like this. It left him speechless. And (when he was thinking a little more clearly) not without a certain smug pride at Cindersmoke's inference that he'd thought him perfect. What little remaining anger died, and with it, the worst of Whiplash's tension. He relaxed, shifting slightly, feeling the cool mud between his paws. There was still mud on his face - he could feel it drying and crusting in a very unpleasant way around his forehead and whiskers - but he didn't bother to wipe it off. Suddenly, all he wanted was to go to the river, to swim, to let the cool water wash him clean. "There's no need to go to such lengths," he said, matching Cindersmoke's quiet seriousness. Unlike the other tom, he made no great effort to try and sound as honest as possible; Whiplash's reputation would do that for him. "I'll choose to believe you." All things aside, there wasn't really any other choice, unless Whiplash wanted to turn this territory patrol into a body-burying one.

As if on cue, his shoulder twinged. Not from any blow that Cindersmoke had landed - the warrior, ah, hadn't really done much in that regard - but from the crash of his failed pounce attack earlier. A very unfamiliar feeling of mild guilt rose up in Whiplash; though Cindersmoke had deserved some of what he'd been given, he had, perhaps, not deserved it at quite that level. Eyes leaving Cindersmoke's face, Whiplash's gaze roved over the warrior's body, checking for any telltale signs of injury. The tree and the mud made it tricky, but Whiplash was certain he could see a slight gingerness in Cindersmoke, a certain tenderness in the way the other warrior was holding himself. And had that been a wince? "We can end the patrol here. We'll get nothing else done, not in this state." A blue moon rarity of an occurrence, Whiplash acknowledging how ineffective it would be to continue on. How distracted he'd gotten, how out of sorts - even if he was hiding it well - he still was. "You'll want to see Cosmos-streak. I'm going to head to the river, unless you need my help getting back to camp."


[ ooc + JAMIE think we're close! i really only need one more post with whiplash, sort of to 'wrap up' his thoughts and how he'll move forward from this point c: ]

[+ JAMIE]

MATURE: Profanity.

Heart on a platter. Excruiating. Embarrassing. But effective. Change in atmosphere immediate. Heavy cloud lifting. Change in Whiplash's body language: pressure released.

Cindersmoke remained on guard. Just in case.

"There's no need to go to such lengths. I'll choose to believe you."

The audacity! Oh man. Cindersmoke bit his tongue. Resisted a sarcastic reply. Physically hurt, but he couldn't risk the peace. He'd choose to believe him? Cindersmoke, heart on a platter. Served up for dinner. Whiplash: didn't even bother to taste. Just a single look to decide he liked the flavor. Worst cooking show ever.

At least: agreement about one thing. This patrol was over. O-V-E-R over. A total disaster. A total success: Cider not dead. Everything else? To be dealt with later. In private. After a poppy seed. Or four.

"Thanks. I'll be fine. Go ahead. Honestly? I don't want to see your face for a week. Offense intended." Fervent. Heart talking from the serving dish. Insulting? Maybe. But true. And Cider had Whiplash's number now. Jokes? Sarcasm? Poorly received. But truth?

Whiplash honored truth.

Even if it hurt him.

Fucking weirdo.

"Go on. Get out of here." Shooing him off. Almost slipping out of the tree. "I'll trust you to give the report while I convalesce. Bye." Petty? Sure. Earned it. Though he would have liked to see Whiplash's explanation. Well, Sootstar. Cider is in the medicine cat's den because I beat him up. No can't tell you why. But he deserved it.

Yeah. Probably exactly how it would go.

And finally. Whiplash leaving. Cindersmoke exhaled: let the stress bleed out. Turned his attention to the tree. Final hurdle. How to get out?

Climb down? Fall out?

Occam's razor. Simplest solution. Tip forward: gravity did the rest. Out of the damn tree at last. Cindersmoke began the trek back to camp. Slow. Aching. Bruised. Covered in mud. Carrying secrets. For once? Not his own.

Damn conservative argumentative turtle-headed pot-stirrer.

Cindersmoke was never going on patrol with him again.


DELAWARE Cinder out.

[DELAWARE]

Whiplash merely nodded at Cindersmoke's honesty, no offense taken. In fact, he felt a begrudging respect for the other warrior; it wasn't every cat that could dish out insults even after they'd gotten on the wrong side of Whiplash. In its own way, it was refreshing. Whiplash did not change his mind about an individual often, and when he did, the shift tended to proceed at the agonizingly slow creep not out of place for a modern glacier (that is: nearly nonexistent and prone to regression), but when he looked at Cindersmoke now, there was a certain consideration that hadn't been there before. Or at the very least, had not been there for a very, very long time.

He bowed his head in silent agreement to doing the report, his faintly guilty conscience acquiescing without a fight. "I wish you a speedy recovery," he said, dropping back into a stiff formality before turning around and walking off without looking back. Awkward, maybe, but Whiplash had no interest in lingering, and Cindersmoke expressly did not want him to stay. Drawing out the interaction any longer would be painful for both of them - and truth be told, Whiplash wanted to be alone, needed to be alone, had too many thoughts to process and not enough brain to know where to start. Any introspection right now would be too emotional, and he'd had enough of that already; from this point on he had to be logical, had to be careful, had to plan his every step and control his every move. Even if Cindersmoke kept his secret - and Whiplash, though of course he would have to anticipate the opposite, felt strongly that he would - it didn't mean other cats in the Clan wouldn't notice, or indeed hadn't noticed already. He would have to pause his visits to Arizona for a while, reaffirm a presence without question in the Clan, sniff out any suspicions. Several weeks at least, maybe even months...

His heart ached suddenly, painfully. The burst of longing was so unexpected, so out of character, that Whiplash actually stumbled over a stick, nearly face-planting into the edge of the marsh before he caught himself. For a second he froze, shocked - this never happened, not ever - and then he redoubled his pace, not even looking left or right as he arrowed towards the river. As he went he banished any kinds of thoughts, emotional or logical or otherwise, with the same kind of ferocity. A warrior was trained to know when he was compromised, when thinking would get him nowhere, and Whiplash was one of the best. What he needed now was to return to his body, to ground himself in physicality, to reset and refresh. What he needed now was cold water, strong currents, burning lungs; pressure and release, aching muscles and river against skin, the muffled silence of drowning and the steadiness of heartbeats. Only then would he be clear-headed enough to tackle whatever was to come. Only then would he be able to find the line between duty and love, and with the patient, relentless intensity he was famous for, learn how to walk it.

The river was before him. "Arizona," he said softly to himself, "Wait for me -" and he plunged in.


[ ooc he's such a dramatic romantic at heart. [:ripples:] for az mentions; + JAMIE <3333 can't wait for their next interactions! love this weird friendship they've established ]

COMPLETED.