Kitty's Keeper/No Clean Blades

No Clean Blades

Fun fact about this title: it's borrowed from a beautiful turn of phrase I read in another fanfiction that I felt embodied Siren!Paul's warrior instinct. I wish I could remember its name, because it was a quality story all around.

"Are you sure you won't join us, Paul?"

Paul nodded, smiling placidly. "I'm sure. Everyone's spent a day alone with Carum aside from me. It's my turn."

"It's nothing special, you know," Ringo maintained, pulling the bag over his shoulder. "We eat, sleep, talk, and then everyone returns."

"Sounds special enough to me."

Ringo and John were satisfied by his answer, but George was unimpressed. "What are ye plotting, McCartney?"

Paul faced George with a mind clear of agendas. "Nothing at all."

George didn't believe it, but couldn't dispute it either. He tried to let it go as he followed the others out of the cave. After all, if Carum survived a day alone with John, a day alone with Paul would be easier than summoning an imp.

Paul maintained his unassuming demeanor until his bandmates vanished into the trees, upon which he broke into a wide grin. "Yes! Yes!"

He turned on his heel and ran back into the empty cavern, setting up a warding spell to guard against intruders in his absence. Then he sped out of the marine chamber and into his own.

>  *  <

Paul was not afraid of the pitch that consumed George's chamber, but he did hate it. Unlike the Sanguine Siren and John, he could not see in the dark. He even struggled in dimness, unlike Ringo. He belonged in the light, in illuminated places. He loved to see it shine in previously darkened spaces, revealing new ideas whilst banishing idleness and stagnation. He might have been an honorary night-child, but even nights had moonlight!

He clapped twice, and the candles flared to life. It was still a bit too dim for his liking, but extreme brightness would disturb his quarry, something he wished to avoid at all costs.

His quarry. Paul banished the word as soon as it appeared in his head. He was not on the hunt, not like that. He wanted answers, not flesh, so this was his...study.

Yes. His study.

Paul liked Carum. One could even say he loved them. Yes, he loved them, regardless of their fate, regardless of their state. He loved everyone that fell under his spell. He loved them so much that he took special care to relieve them of pain, a gift that not even the usual siren meal rituals considered.

"You pretty little morsel, you..." he sang as he approached the bed. "I'm so happy I'm here to care for you... You pretty little morsel, you."

There it was, the supine body, bed linens cast aside in a sleeping fit. Paul held a hand over their mouth. To his relief, warmth and a consistent puff of air tickled his palm. He savored the heat a moment longer, then pulled the limb away. A small yawn escaped the human as he did, conjuring a quiet chuckle.

"Kind of cute, aren't they?"

"Are they?"

"Kind of like a pet. The energy, the bright eyes, eager to please...kind of like a dog."

"We probably shouldn't think like that."

Like a pet, Ritchie. Like a pet. Paul knew very well that humans were more advanced than that. However, he also knew their human was rather tame. Before they sniffed around the band's cave, George's dear acolyte lived quietly on the fringes of life within the confines of a fishing houseboat. They were raised to be an asset to a business and an assistant to an elder. Sure, they had interests of their own, but they always came second to the task at hand, so they learned to find more joy in labor than leisure to compensate. If George said "Jump," Carum jumped, because that dynamic fit them the way it fits a well-trained dog. In other words, it was all they knew. Paul would have pitied them, but in truth, Fortune dealt them a hand that was better than most. From dress and decorum alone one could tell the old man had the means to create a well-bred fishing companion and furnished them wisely. If anything, joining the sirens was a step backward!