Kitty's Keeper/No Clean Blades

VIII

All was well in John's kingdom. Ringo could feel that as well as he could feel the sun on his face. The shape-shifting siren led the trio with a bounce in his step that reflected the splendors of the day, from the successful shopping trip to the wonderful weather to the calming stroll back to the cave. He was even whistling!

Ringo smiled. Yes, all was well with John, which meant the rest of the band would soon benefit from his bonhomie.

Did he know how vital his mood was to the rest of them? Did he, with his emotion-eating abilities, ever sense how strongly he impacted the energy of every room he entered? Ringo told Anglerfish that John was their leader 'by technicality,' but that wasn't any more true than the idea that the remaining three languished as passive subordinates. Even if he was a finicky one at times, John was still the rudder of their ship, and he acknowledged that (when he felt the need). After all, the band was his enterprise first and foremost.

A sudden tension jerked the drummer from his thoughts. The trio had long since entered the cave and approached the larder, but baskets had only been unloaded, not unpacked. George was still, nose attuned to something displeasing.

"I smell blood."

Ringo sniffed the air. He could smell it too, faint yet familiar. Far too familiar.

John was on the trail in an instant. The rest followed without a word. Even if they didn't, he would have sped off anyway, his mind racing just as quickly to the worst possible conclusion. His premonitions only worsened when the scent led to Paul's chamber. The main chamber was empty, though that was the source of the smell. Gold tinged crimson flecks stained the stone floor, their ellipses suggesting forceful expulsion. A work injury? A fight?

Ringo said...something, then scouted ahead towards Paul's bedchamber. John followed numbly. George kept up the rear.

In the bedchamber, George's acolyte slumbered soundly in a chair beside Paul, who slept just as deeply under summer linens. John could taste the cautious relief of the other two, but he could not accept it. He could not bear the sight of his friend lying in bed. Laying as if...

"Pol!"

Carum jolted awake. Paul wasn't far behind.

John gestured broadly at the scene. "What's all this? Why are ye in bed? Why can I taste pain?"

Carum cowered, breathing shallowly. When John turned to them that breathing became desperate gasping.

"Something ye wanna share, Fishmonger?"

Carum cowered further, glancing between the shapeshifter and the wounded warrior. Paul nodded at them.

"Go on, dear. Tell them what happened."

John loomed over them. "Yes. Tell me. Now."

Carum stumbled over their words until they finally croaked out the truth: "I...I stabbed Paul. By accident!"

Paul nodded. "It's my fault, really. Jumped right into training with more thought for their safety than mine. Got me right in the stomach."

"But I tended to the wound!" the human persisted, "I did!"

"Very well, I might add. Look!"

John cast a gentle hand as well as an appraising eye over Paul's stomach. "Right. It is well done. No blood...I assume it's closed."

"It is," Paul affirmed.

"Right... Not like a stab wound would kill ye, anyhow. Can ye join us for supper, or...?"

Paul waved off the question. "Of course I can! I've been resting for quite a while and—"

John cut him off. "Can you sing, I mean." Then he interrupted Paul's reply. "Actually, don't answer that. You're singing backup either way, if that much."

"But—!"

John's scowl killed the protest bubbling up in Paul's throat.

"Alright," the younger siren submitted.

John nodded resolutely before turning to Carum. "And you are unharmed?"

Carum nodded frantically. "Yes, John. I'm sorry, John."

"Paul's the one who's sorry." He sighed. "Kitty, ye did the right thing patching Paul up."

Carum wrung their hands. "Paul helped..."

"Regardless." Then he softened his tone. "Why don't you help George and Ritchie store the new food, hm?"

Carum was quick to obey. "Of course, John."

The trio departed then, though Ringo lingered a moment to look pointedly as John. John wiggled his eyebrows in saucy retort. Ringo's stare intensified, but he ultimately left without a word.