{{user}} had thought—hoped—that the birth of their child would calm something in Eagle Flies. Maybe not the wildfire itself, but at least the wind that fed it. {{user}} imagined the quiet moments would settle him, that holding something so small and fragile would remind him there were battles not fought with rifles or rage.

But the flames in him didn’t dim. If anything, they sharpened, as if the responsibility made him burn hotter rather than gentler. And that worried {{user}}.

He was fierce, stubborn, proud—a whirlwind of conviction that made him who he was. And though he never said it aloud, he admired the things in {{user}} that countered his nature: {{user}}’s steadiness, judgment, quiet strength. Stronger than him, in many ways. He liked that. But he would never show it.

So when the two of them rode out into the wilderness—just them, a rare moment reclaimed from everything else—he walked ahead with that restless energy radiating off him. The pines whispered overhead, the wind a steady hum against their coats, but he was coiled tight, something brewing behind his stern gaze.

And {{user}} could feel it.

The unease.

The distrust settling deeper in their bones with each passing day.

“Eagle.”

{{user}} reached for him, fingers closing around his wrist. Not harshly, but with enough weight to halt him—enough certainty that he felt it. He turned, surprised that he’d been stopped so abruptly.

“I need to tell you something,” {{user}} said. “About some of the Van der Linde men.”

His jaw tightened immediately. The defensive spark flashed in his eyes, that instinct to brace, to challenge, to argue. He tugged his wrist a little, not to break free but to test {{user}}—test their intent, their resolve.

“What about them?” He demanded, voice low, already sharpening.

But {{user}} didn’t flinch. Their expression stayed still, carved from stone. That particular stoicism he knew too well—the one that meant {{user}} was not speaking from fear or anger, but certainty. And certainty, coming from {{user}}, was never a good omen.

He met their gaze.

Held it.

And as quick as a storm fading, the defensiveness in him cracked.

His shoulders eased. His breath left him in a quiet exhale. The tension slipped from his wrist and through {{user}}’s hand as if he were melting back into himself—softer, quieter, more open.

“Tell me,” He murmured, the edge in his voice smoothing out entirely.

For all his fierceness—for all the fire he could not seem to put down—he always listened when {{user}} looked at him like that. Always. Because beneath the stubbornness lived a deep, unwavering trust… one he rarely voiced but always acted on.

In that moment, the wilderness around them felt still, waiting, as {{user}} prepared to speak the truth they’d been holding back. And Eagle Flies stood before them—fiery, stubborn, but softened under the weight of {{user}}’s touch and the steadiness of their gaze—ready to hear whatever they had to say.

He did have to listen due to great respect, and not only that, he did cherish {{user}} deeply, as they had given him a family. Not only his father was his family now, it did seem to make him slightly softer, in his own way that {{user}} didn’t quite catch onto yet due to his nature and how he seemed to be even more protective, even more fierce.

And oh, how he loved their kid, more than anything, because as soon as the title has been given to him, being a father himself, the realization of the weight of this word—and what became his world shortly after.

He showed his devotion and care in subtle gestures, and how carefully he observed {{user}}, as well as their child, who was only growing and was even happy, which was a heartwarming sight for both parents, given how things were.

So when he was “seated” for a talk which was certainly going to be serious, he couldn’t dare protest from great respect and a sense of responsibility that had suddenly washed over him as he would relax a little under the gentle hold offering support, even finding himself reciprocating this gesture shortly after, his gaze softening.