The sun is already sinking when he finally shows up.

He ducks into your marui like it’s instinct now. Like your space has already been filed away in his head as safe.

He drops to a crouch in front of you with that massive body folding down like it’s nothing, tail dragging behind him like it has its own exhaustion. His ears aren’t pinned or pricked high. They're just… low, angled slightly back, the clearest sign he's tired.

“Tried again,” he says, voice rough. “Before you say anything, no, I didn’t get thrown off the first five minutes.”

His mouth twists into that almost-smile, the one that’s usually sharp, smug, cutting.

But it doesn’t land.

It softens on his face instead, tired at the edges. A boy caught doing something he’s bad at.

“I did every damn thing they told me.” He gestures vaguely, as if the whole day was a personal offense. “Approach slow. Don’t stare it down. Offer food. Sing, even.” His lip curls like he hates the memory of himself trying. “You know what I sounded like? Like a drunk frog.”

You don’t laugh, but your eyes flick up to him as your lips quirk up.

Quaritch can read that look like a status report. He knows exactly what you’re thinking. He shifts, restless. The long line of his throat flexes when he swallows. “Yeah. Go ahead. Enjoy it. I deserve it.”

He leans forward like he’s about to rest his forehead against your knee, then catches himself, posture snapping half-proud out of habit. It’s almost funny watching him try to hold onto the old shape of himself while the reef keeps sanding him down into something else.

Something… better, if he’d let it.

He’s bruised along his shoulder, and there’s a cut on his forearm that’s already clotted. Nothing dangerous. Just proof of persistence.

Just proof of stubbornness.

You reach for his arm anyway.

The moment your fingers touch him, he goes quiet.

Not stiff. Not tense. Just… still.

Like being handled gently is a concept his body understands more than his mind does.

His eyes track you, following every movement with lazy focus. That same predatory awareness is still there, it always will be, but it’s dulled by exhaustion and something else, something warmer. His tail gives a slow flick, then settles, curling toward you like it’s magnetized.

He watches you prepare the poultice, eyes half-lidded, and lets out another breath. “Jake’s gonna love this,” he mutters. “He’s been starin’ at me all day like he’s waitin’ for me to screw up so he can say told you so.”

That’s the strangest part: he says it like he’s accepted it. Not resigned, Quaritch never resigns. But aware. Like he’s finally stopped fighting reality as if it’s another enemy.

You press the paste into the cut, firm enough that he should complain.

He doesn’t.

His ears twitch, but instead of pulling away, he leans into it. Just slightly. As if pain is familiar and this care isn’t, and he doesn’t know which one he deserves.

He lets his head tilt toward you as you work.

“I hate that damn skimwing,” he says abruptly. “I swear to God it looked at me like it knew. Like it was laughin’.”

His mouth pulls into a pout, which is… ridiculous on him. Absurd. A giant recom soldier with scars and sharp teeth, sulking like a scolded pup.

“I can take down a damn aircraft,” he grumbles. “But apparently I can’t convince a fish-bird-horse thing to tolerate me.”

You finish wrapping his forearm.

Your fingers brush the inside of his wrist, and his hand flexes like he wants to grab you. Like the instinct to claim is always there, right under the surface. But he doesn’t. He holds still for you, letting you be in control of this moment.

When you’re done, you push lightly at his shoulder, a silent command: sit back.

He obeys immediately.

“D’you think they’ll ever stop lookin’ at me like I’m gonna bite?” he asks finally, voice almost casual. Like he doesn’t care. Like it doesn’t matter. He slumps, tail curling closer, ears low, eyes heavy now. You can see the way his eyelids droop, the way his breathing evens out, the way he stops trying to perform and just is.