Royal Rainbow
Feb. 21st, 2013 04:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonshadows((AKA Reaper is a dumb shit with a self-destructive streak who lets Jesse dare him to eat things he ought not eat, and then doesn't expect the inevitable unhappy consequences of his actions. Vomit, some gore, brief vore, possible body horror.))
As Jack and I leave after breakfast to do a check of the HQ site, we pass Solen accepting a package.
/Your friend with the hat ordered it,/ they say when I inquire about the hefty-looking box. /The manifest lists ten pounds of Skittles./
"Jesse ordered ten pounds of Skittles," I tell Uncle Jack, and he nods.
=
It's three hours later when I finally get back to the safehouse. Jack's grabbing a bite to eat and probably a bribe. Normally I would have kept him company, but I've got actual work to do, and a lot of it. Enough that it barely registers when I sit in my usual chair and don't see either Reaper or McCree in the living room. That is, it doesn't register until I hear an uncomfortable wet splattering noise coming from the kitchen.
Screens open but forgotten, I peer cautiously around the corner and see Reaper lying on his side, stomach alarmingly distended, in front of a pool of chunky...rainbow...goop. As I'm trying to process that, his stomach ripples and he vomits more of...oh my god, did he eat McCree's skittles? All of them?
He pants, looks up, and sees me. "Royal Rainbow," he announces heavily, tail wagging once or twice, before ejecting more half-digested candy.
"Papi, what did you eat?" I ask, mostly out of the desire to be wrong.
"Skittles," he answers smugly.
"All of them?"
"Yup."
I wait while he adds to the rainbow puddle. "Why??"
"Because he dared me to."
Nope. I'm done here. I leave Papi to decorate the floor and go bang on the cowboy's door.
"Jesse Evan McCree! Get out here this instant!"
The door opens a second later, McCree visibly alarmed by being on the receiving end of an angry Latina using his full name.
"Did you dare Reaper to eat ten pounds of Skittles?"
"Uh...yes'm," he confesses meekly.
My voice is hard and sharp. "Then I'm holding you responsible for making sure it gets cleaned up."
"Cleaned-" In the beat of shocked silence, he can hear Reaper vomit. His face loses color and he swallows heavily. "Uh...understood."
Under my watchful eye, he marches into the kitchen like he's going to his death.
I go back to my screens and forcibly tune out the rest of the world. Some twenty minutes later, Jesse dashes by and I realize Jack's sitting on a couch working on his pad. Now there's retching coming from Jesse's bathroom and a wet smacking sound coming from the kitchen. I tune them both out until a doggy head nudges my shin.
"No, Papi," I tell him without looking up. I can see him wagging out of the corner of my eye, and a glance shows Jack's gone to his office. "I'm not petting you. Go tell Uncle Jack what you did, make him pet you. And be grateful I'm not telling Tia Ana."
"Fine," he says smugly, wagging as he trots off, belly still horribly distended.
=
I'm feeling more charitable towards him when bedtime rolls around. Partially because I've gotten a lot of work done, partially because despite his smugness he's clearly been in physical discomfort all day and his swarm has digested the bulk of the candy. I close my screens, stand, and stretch.
"Bedtime, Papi," I announce, the first words I've said to him in over six hours.
He looks up from his doggy bed eagerly, tail wagging as he follows me into my room.
"You clean your mess up?" I ask as I change into my pajamas.
"Yup." The smugness in his tone...
I sigh, eyes closed. "You licked it up until Jesse got sick watching you."
"Yup."
"This is why you need an adult," I chide him.
"I am an adult, Sombra."
He gets a glare for that. "No. You a dog."
Reaper lowers his head to his paws and looks contritely up at me. "Woof."
I don't believe for an instant that he regrets anything about today except that I was angry. "You a mess, Papi," I sigh.
He wags hopefully a little at that. "But you love me anyway?"
I lay down and hug him. "Yeah."
===
A week and a half later, the rebuild effort means I need to take a day trip and both Reaper and Jesse have been well-behaved, so I invite them to come with me. As we leave the ship, I hand Jesse the end of Reaper's leash.
"Four," I remind them. "Four-thirty at the latest, you need to be back here and ready to go. Got it?"
They chorus their agreement, and I go off to do what I need to do and trust they won't kill or maim anyone.
=
Three-fifty-five I'm approaching the ship and frowning because Jesse's sprawled casually on one bench, but Reaper is...crouched by a bush?
"Papi, you ready to go?"
He looks at me, tail between his legs, and...oh my god, his stomach's distended again. Not as badly, either that or the grass is hiding it, but enough that it's not a surprise when he says, "Not yet," and turns back to the bush.
Resolutely, I stride up the ramp and take my usual seat. McCree is smart enough to hide behind the brim of his hat as sounds of vomiting come from outside. A minute or so after they stop, Reaper trots up the ramp, sees the look on my face, and joins McCree on the other bench.
It's a cold and silent ride back.
"No," I say sharply as Reaper heads for his doggy bed. "Follow me."
Tail between his legs, he follows me into my bedroom and flinches when I close the door.
"Into the can," I order. He whines; he hardly ever leaves the doberman shape anymore. "Now, Papi!"
Reluctantly, he dissolves and flows into the can. I close and seal the lid. It only takes a few seconds before the can confirms my suspicions, and I fill the LRF reservoir.
"What was it this time?" I demand, sitting by the can.
"Chocolate cake," he replies smugly. "A whole one. It was good."
"And you didn't think that maybe that was a bad idea? Eat a whole cake and then puke it god knows where?"
"I kept it down!"
"But for how long?"
"Long enough!"
"Long enough to puke all over the inside of Jerome's ship?"
"Nah, Alé, I'm more responsible than that," he says casually.
Nope. I'm pissed. "Don't you even tell me you're more responsible than that, you barfed ten pounds of Skittles on the kitchen floor! What was your plan, politely go sit in a bathroom until you hurled? Haul your cake-filled belly to a public trash can and wait? Ask the waiter to bring you a giant bowl and a to-go bucket?"
"Find a bush somewhere before getting on Jerome's ship. I learned from the Skittles," he protests.
"If you really learned," I tell him darkly, "you wouldn't waste perfectly good cake like that."
"I didn't puke on Jerome's ship, though."
"No. You didn't. You just puked thirty-five percent of your swarm under a bush and left it there for something to eat. Your swarm activates in bioelectric fields, remember? Something small like a bird eats some, it might just digest them from the inside out. Something bigger gets enough into their body...I don't know what will happen to them. But you, Papi, are staying in the can until your swarm rebuilds itself!"
"But..."
"No. Right now, you can't digest anything. You staying put. And if you lose that much of your swarm again, you are not gonna like what happens."
He doesn't say anything to that. I leave the room; he can stew until bedtime.
Jesse, wisely, is nowhere in the safehouse and not answering his phone. I remote-override. It's in his pocket, but he'll hear me anyway.
"Nice job, McCree," I spit at him. "You got Reaper grounded."
That startles him enough to pull the phone out and face my wrath. "What?"
"He left more than a third of his swarm under that bush along with the cake you dared - or let - him eat. I don't care which one it was," I add as he looks like he's going to protest. "He's not indestructible. There is a critical ratio of nanites to organic mass, and if he loses too much of his swarm, he will fall apart and not be able to put himself back together. You hear me?"
"Loud 'n clear," he replies in a stunned, horrified tone.
"Good. Because if you're out with him, I am trusting you with his life. So if he happens to eat too much and vomit, it's on you to make sure it all gets back into his body. Understand?"
He straightens to attention. "Yes ma'am."
"Good." I hang up.
=
Reaper's swarm has rebuilt itself by the time I'm ready for bed. I thumb the release on the can's lid and he boils hesitantly out before solidifying into a very contrite doberman.
"You need to be more careful," I tell him in the sort of tone that makes it a blatant threat. "You lose too much of your swarm, you gonna be a puddle and not even the shut-down command will keep you together."
Not only does he whine, but he ducks his head and licks fearfully at my fingers in a show of submission. Or apology. It's hard to tell. Probably both.
"You gonna be able to sleep?" I ask sternly. "Or you need to stay up chewing something for a bit?"
"I can chew while you're asleep," he says quietly.
"Okay. Into bed, then." I point to make sure he knows I do mean my bed.
When I'm done changing into pajamas, he's a log of remorseful canine, head on his paws and tail still between his legs. I lay down and pull the blanket over us. Slowly, he creeps up the bed until he can bury his nose in the hollow between my head and my shoulder, and I hug him.
"I'll be more careful, Alé," he whispers. "I promise."
"You better," I whisper back, and hug him tighter.
===
Two weeks later, I'm buried in screens eight deep when a ninth one opens up and shows McCree's frantic face.
"Sombra, help, I don't know what to do!"
I move the other screens out of the way. "What's going on?"
"It's Reaper! He...uh...got an upset stomach and we're by the pond and this duck came by and started eating it and...uh..." He tilts the phone so that I can see.
Reaper's lying on his side, stomach partially distended (which tells me he's probably already vomited), with a live, struggling duck halfway down his throat, webbed feet kicking frantically. I resist the urge to hit my head on something, and activate the tracker on the phone instead.
"I'll be there in a few minutes," I tell McCree.
By the time I get there, all that can be seen of the duck is a cloud of feathers scattered on the grass, along with a few splatters of what looks like half-digested bread or plain pasta, and splashes of blood. There's a big, stainless steel bowl off to the side and a very full doberman wagging smugly at me.
"Where's the duck?" I sigh, already dreading the answer.
"Right here," Reaper says. "Wanna feel?"
I drag my hands down my face. "Don't tell me you swallowed it alive."
"Nah. It dead and bloody."
"Then where...PAPI! YOU DON'T SWALLOW THE BONES!"
His tail stops moving. "But I'll digest them," he protests.
"But what if you puke before that?" I demand.
The bowl's empty, which probably means he not only choked back down whatever was too much for him in the first place, but an entire duck on top of that. I try not to stare at his bulging stomach or wonder if I'd be able to make out any distinctive shapes. This is the fullest I've seen it yet, and it's pretty alarming to look at. I half expect to see it start to ripple at any moment, and then have to watch as Reaper chokes on duck ribs that don't want to come back out or something.
"You know what? No. Don't answer that. I'm going back to the safehouse."
McCree averts his eyes as I stalk past.
=
They slink into the living room a few hours later. I ignore them, focusing on my screens. Widow quietly suggests D3, and they play with her for a while, all cuddled together on the couch. When they're done, Reaper goes back to the doberman shape and curls up in front of my chair while Jesse helps Widow make dinner.
"You're still mad," he says quietly, not bothering to make it a question.
"Si."
He initially tries to pass on dinner, explaining that he had a big lunch, but Widow says she wants him to try the dish she made, and he relents. I keep working, and when they're done, he comes back and curls up in front of my chair again. Neither of us says a word until about an hour past the time I normally go to bed.
"It's past your bedtime," he says, looking up at me with pleading eyes.
I don't close my screens. "You don't tell me when to go to bed, Papi." It's cold and a bit sulky.
"I'm not. I'm just pointing out that you're falling asleep, and being mad at me isn't worth potentially making mistakes with the rebuild."
...well, he's not wrong. I close my screens and sigh. "Fine. Come on."
Wagging hopefully, he follows me to my room and hesitates by the bed, but climbs into it when I close the door without shooing him out of the room first. I change and lie down with my back to him. He pulls the blanket over us and cuddles silently up. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I'm so tired that I drop right off.
When I wake up, I'm hugging him and he's wagging slightly. That stops when he realizes that I'm awake.
"You a mess, Papi," I sigh.
The wagging starts again. "But you love me?"
"I love you, even though you do dumb shit like try to eat a duck whole."
"I won't do that again," he says apologetically. "Anything that's too big to swallow in one bite, I'll rip apart or break down first."
"You better," I tell him fiercely, hugging him tight.
Wagging, he licks my face.
===
It's nearly two weeks later the next time Jesse calls me frantically. He looks absolutely terrified, and all he says before he turns the phone to show me what's going on is, "Sombra, help!"
Reaper's on the bank of the pond again, writhing in obvious pain and pawing at his throat while uttering desperate, choked cries. Whatever he ate this time, he's in trouble.
"Hang on," I tell McCree, and then I'm out of the living room and sprinting for the garage where Fran's already bringing out my hoverbike.
It takes two minutes and fifty-seven seconds to scream through the park.
Reaper's still pawing at his throat and crying in agony when I get there. I pull his paws away before he hurts himself worse.
"Papi, what's wrong?"
"They're scratching me," he whines.
They...
There's an empty cage behind him, next to the bowl. Jesse's holding a 6-pack of bottled beer and drinking one, looking like he's not sober enough for what's going on. Reaper lies still for the moment, panting, and his stomach is not only distended but moving.
I pry Reaper's mouth open and move his head around until I can see down his throat. The ass end of a frantic rat is what greets me.
"Live rats?" I snap, fury drowning out my concern. "Really, Papi?"
"That was part of the dare," he whimpers. "Sombra..."
I drop his head and stalk over to McCree, who wisely does not resist when I grab both the 6-pack but the bottle in his hand. With the cardboard carrier beside me I wrestle Papi's head up again and shove the bottle mouth-first down his throat, both pushing the rat deeper and lubricating the way. Several frantic swallows later, the tip of the rat's tail vanishes, but I don't pull the bottle out until it's empty.
Papi belches, looking marginally less distressed.
Then I grab the next bottle and flick the cap off with my thumb. McCree makes a choked sound, but does not protest further as I shove the second bottle far enough down Papi's throat that he has no choice but to swallow it. Again, when I pull the empty bottle out, he belches and looks slightly less pained, but his stomach is writhing more vigorously with the motions of live rats who are now trying desperately to not drown in Jesse's imported beer. Neither of them protest when I pour three more beers into Reaper, letting him expel the displaced air after each one, watching the motions smooth out as liquid inflates his stomach. As I'm pouring the last beer in, he makes a small coughing sound and air bubbles up past the beer. I pull the bottle away and he swallows, belches, and swallows again before laying his head down with a groan.
I hand the half-empty bottle to McCree, who looks like he'd rather not take it, and put my hands gently on Reaper's taut belly. There's a small amount of motion, but it fades.
"There," I tell him sharply. "Now they've drowned." I stand up and glare at McCree. "Remember, it's on you to make sure he doesn't lose too much of his swarm."
He nods, face pale, and I stalk over to my hoverbike and ride away.
=
Reaper's definitely subdued when Jesse brings him back. He doesn't even look at me, just walks slowly over to his doggy bed with his tail between his legs and lays awkwardly down on his side, panting and whining a little. The liquid of course has been processed already, leaving his belly full of dead rats and visibly lumpy. He doesn't say anything, I don't say anything. Hours pass.
When bedtime rolls around, he still looks miserable and he hasn't moved from the doggy bed. I close my screens and stand up. "Bedtime, Papi," I tell him as I walk past.
He doesn't move. I stop and turn around. He cringes slightly, like he can feel the weight of my gaze.
"Papi?" I say more gently. "I said bedtime."
Slowly, he gets to his feet and walks, tail still between his legs and head down, to my bedroom.
"Get comfortable while I change," I tell him.
When I turn to the bed, he's laying facing the wall with his back to the room, and he still looks miserable. I lay down and hug him from behind, my face in the fur of his neck. One hand drifts down to feel the hard lumps still filling his belly, and he stiffens. I freeze.
"Does that hurt?" I ask quietly.
Some of the tension leaves him and he whines. "No." Reluctantly, he adds, "It feels kind of good."
Slowly, I run my hand over his too-full stomach.
"I didn't lose any of my swarm," he says quietly after a minute or two. "McCree's liquor sucks, though. Especially the third time."
I hug him tighter. I can't cry, but my breathing gets a little shaky and he whines. "I'm still angry at you," I say, aiming for cold. It comes out sulky. "But I'm worried about you, too."
"I'm okay, hija," he says in a small voice, trying to lick the hand not gently massaging his belly. "I'm just...really full."
"I worry about you when you do dumb shit, Papi. I know you can go to smoke if you really in trouble, but that doesn't help when I see you in pain."
That makes him whine.
"Your throat still hurt?"
"No." He whines again. "I don't deserve you."
"You just think about that the next time you get dared to eat something alive," I tell him, and I don't bother trying to shoot for anything but sulky. "You think about teeth and claws and how worried you gonna make me. Also dangerous chemicals. I don't want to find out if you can survive getting bit by something venomous, or biting something toxic. Got it?"
Reaper cranes his head around until he can lick at my face. "I promise. I'm sorry I upset you."
"You better be," I mutter, hugging him closer.
Slowly, his tail wags.
===
It was too good to last. That's my first thought when, about three and a half weeks after the rat incident, McCree calls me up absolutely beside himself freaking out.
"I'm sorry," he babbles, "I'm sorry Sombra, I know yer gonna be mad, but I don't know what to do, I'm sorry!"
"Show me," I snap.
He turns the phone. Reaper's trying to vomit into the stainless steel bowl, but he's howling in pain and I can see something poking the side of his too-full stomach from the inside, like he swallowed something long and stiff and now it's gotten flipped around. Every contraction of his stomach is just pushing it deeper into the stomach wall. I keep expecting him to go to smoke, but he doesn't, he just howls in mindless pain.
I'm there in a minute fifty.
Jesse's got his hands on either side of Reaper's stomach, trying to turn whatever-it-is. Apparently he gets it dislodged as I stalk up because Reaper whines in relief and flops over onto his side to retch tiredly and swallow whatever it is that's failing to be ejected after each convulsion. There's six empty glass bottles in a cardboard carrier.
"What was it this time, Papi?" I snap.
Reaper's stomach is just as distended as with the rats, but bumpier. "Baby goat," he chokes out.
There's a cage. There's surprisingly little blood, except in the bowl. There's no sign of the goat, not even the skull. "Why the fuck would you eat an entire goat, bones and hooves and all?"
"Because a dare?" he shoots back irritably.
"And you didn't stop to think that maybe it wouldn't be so easy to puke up goat bones?"
"Hey, calcium?"
I make a sharp gesture of negation. "No. That's digesting goat bones. Not trying to get them back out the little tunnel they came down and then crying when they go sideways instead of lining up! You want calcium, drink a gallon of goat milk. That at least will come back out and you can lick it up easy assuming you remembered to puke in a bowl. You want to taste raw goat a second and third time, get an adult and gorge yourself on the flesh. You fill your stomach with baby goat bones and then it hurts when you try to puke them back up, that's you being stupid, Papi."
"You live, you learn," he growls, still retching.
"EXCEPT YOU STILL WORKING ON THAT SECOND PART!" I yell.
Reaper spits out a mouthful of blood I hope belonged to the goat. "STILL MANAGING THE FIRST PART BETTER THAN I HAVE IN YEARS!" he yells back.
"HOW DID YOU NOT DIE BEFORE THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU?"
"MAGIC!" he shouts sarcastically.
"You pull this sort of dumb shit before the explosion?" I demand. "Ten pounds of skittles? An entire cake? FUCKING A GOOSE?"
McCree looks like he wishes he weren't hearing this, and that he had a bottle of whiskey while he was at it.
"ASK MORRISON," Papi yells. "SERIOUSLY, ASK MORRISON ABOUT THE CAKE. AND THE TWO CASES OF BEER. ASK HIM!"
"Was Ana out of town that week?" I ask scathingly, because apparently Gabriel fucking Reyes has always needed an adult, and Uncle Jack doesn't count.
"Probably!"
I cover my eyes briefly and let my hands slide down my face. I love him, really I do, but right now I'm trying so hard to not kick his ass. "Look, just think about the return trip the next time you wanna play 'how much can I eat before I puke', okay?"
Papi would probably be contrite if he weren't stabbing himself trying to vomit up goat ribs. "Deal."
McCree looks like he wants to protest as I start walking away, muttering under my breath in Spanish. Once I'm sure I'm out of splash range, I send the shut-down signal to the swarm. It's not that Reaper gets turned inside-out, exactly, but his mass shifts and condenses into the cube swiftly enough that a butchered and half-digested baby goat is suddenly flung away from where it had been. Unfortunately for my trash cowboy brother, that means he's wiping entrails off his clothes and looking like he wants to be the one vomiting into the stainless steel bowl. Send the release signal, and Reaper re-forms into the doberman. It takes him a second to realize he's not in pain or filled with goat, and then he glances at me and his tail goes between his legs.
"Problem solved," I snap at both of them. "Going home now."
McCree twitches. Hopefully being splattered with goat will convince him to stop daring Reaper to do shit like this without planning for the eventual vomiting.
=
It's really not a surprise when Jesse and Reaper come back late in the evening, or that the cowboy's stumbling drunk. Papi catches me watching him and tucks his tail between his legs as he slinks over to his doggy bed, but when he lays down, it's not on his stomach. Despite the smooth bulge of his stomach, I am suddenly convinced he ate all the goat bones again after I left. Watching him wince as he shifts position, I'm doubly certain that he did. Oh my god. I can't even. I want to scream at him, I want to cry, I want to beat him, I want to hug him. I open more screens and pretend he's not even there.
An internal alarm goes off at bedtime. Reaper's pretending to be asleep, but he's curled up with his back to me. Probably so I don't see his belly full of bones. Before he can pretend to wake up, I close everything and stalk into my room. I change into pajamas and grab my blanket, and then I'm stalking back through the living room while he watches in confusion.
"Good night, Papi," I say without slowing down. I don't bother to close the door behind me.
It's tempting to find another bedroom to hole up in, but instead I go down to the little parlor where Papi and Uncle Jack had their talk and I curl up on that same decorative couch I sat on with Papi.
Close to twenty minutes later, cautious clicking of doggy toenails on tile tells me I have a visitor, and I crack one eye open. Reaper creeps into the parlor and comes straight over to the couch. Slowly, he puts his paws on the seat and then jumps up. I don't react until he goes to lay down on his stomach and flinches.
"Don't," I say quietly. He freezes. "Sit up."
He sits up, and I stretch one hand out to run my fingers lightly down his chest. Once past the ribcage, I can feel hard protrusions, and he flinches. I want to ask if it hurts, or why he did it, or why he hasn't just gone to smoke, but instead I lean forward and hug him, my face against his shoulder, and I'm crying.
"I'm sorry, Alé," he says quietly, and he actually sounds sorry. "I keep upsetting you."
"Because you're not thinking ahead!" I spit, frustrated. "You're doing dumb shit and hurting yourself! You need to think before you stuff things down your throat, think about how easily it's going to come out if you throw up! You think I like watching you be in pain? You think I like worrying about you? You think I like being angry because you did a dumb thing without thinking it through?"
He whines. "I'm a mess. I don't know why you put up with me."
"It's because I love you, Papi, but you not making it easy on me!" I sit up and glare at him. It's not the same without a tear-streaked face, but he wilts anyway. He goes to crouch down in a display of how sorry he is, but flinches when his belly touches the seat. "Don't, Papi," I sigh. "I don't want you hurting yourself like that. Come on, let's go find you something to stuff yourself with."
"But..."
"You got a belly full of bones," I point out. "They poking you. We fill your belly with something else, cushion those pokey bits, you might feel like crap but that's better than being in actual pain, right?"
Reaper looks like he doesn't want to agree, but he agrees. His tail wags slightly. "You're encouraging my bullshit?"
"I'm fixing your mess. I don't know why you don't just go to smoke, but apparently you'd rather be in pain, so I'm working with your stupid self-inflicted rules."
He whines and noses at my hand. I pet him gently, watching as he relaxes and leans against the couch, his eyes sliding closed.
"You want me to not be upset," I say quietly, "you listen to my rules. First, you make sure that anything you put in your stomach will come out just as easy."
"Deal," he sighs.
"Second, you make sure it's not going to hurt going in. Third, you make sure it's not going to hurt once it is in. And last, you make sure that if it comes out, it goes back in. You follow those, I may be frustrated because I don't know why you do this to yourself, but I won't be upset."
"I really don't deserve you." Reluctantly, he sits up. "Can I get a pizza? I want to eat a pizza."
"Can you eat a whole pizza without throwing up?" I ask sternly. "I don't want you to even risk throwing up until those bones have been digested."
"Easily." Then, slightly abashed, "It's two pizzas that get tricky."
I hug him. "Okay. Let me put real clothes back on, and we'll go get you a pizza."
"Thank you," he says quietly, licking my cheek.
"You drive me crazy when you do dumb shit, but you my Papi and I love you."
He trembles slightly "I love you too, hija."
As Jack and I leave after breakfast to do a check of the HQ site, we pass Solen accepting a package.
/Your friend with the hat ordered it,/ they say when I inquire about the hefty-looking box. /The manifest lists ten pounds of Skittles./
"Jesse ordered ten pounds of Skittles," I tell Uncle Jack, and he nods.
=
It's three hours later when I finally get back to the safehouse. Jack's grabbing a bite to eat and probably a bribe. Normally I would have kept him company, but I've got actual work to do, and a lot of it. Enough that it barely registers when I sit in my usual chair and don't see either Reaper or McCree in the living room. That is, it doesn't register until I hear an uncomfortable wet splattering noise coming from the kitchen.
Screens open but forgotten, I peer cautiously around the corner and see Reaper lying on his side, stomach alarmingly distended, in front of a pool of chunky...rainbow...goop. As I'm trying to process that, his stomach ripples and he vomits more of...oh my god, did he eat McCree's skittles? All of them?
He pants, looks up, and sees me. "Royal Rainbow," he announces heavily, tail wagging once or twice, before ejecting more half-digested candy.
"Papi, what did you eat?" I ask, mostly out of the desire to be wrong.
"Skittles," he answers smugly.
"All of them?"
"Yup."
I wait while he adds to the rainbow puddle. "Why??"
"Because he dared me to."
Nope. I'm done here. I leave Papi to decorate the floor and go bang on the cowboy's door.
"Jesse Evan McCree! Get out here this instant!"
The door opens a second later, McCree visibly alarmed by being on the receiving end of an angry Latina using his full name.
"Did you dare Reaper to eat ten pounds of Skittles?"
"Uh...yes'm," he confesses meekly.
My voice is hard and sharp. "Then I'm holding you responsible for making sure it gets cleaned up."
"Cleaned-" In the beat of shocked silence, he can hear Reaper vomit. His face loses color and he swallows heavily. "Uh...understood."
Under my watchful eye, he marches into the kitchen like he's going to his death.
I go back to my screens and forcibly tune out the rest of the world. Some twenty minutes later, Jesse dashes by and I realize Jack's sitting on a couch working on his pad. Now there's retching coming from Jesse's bathroom and a wet smacking sound coming from the kitchen. I tune them both out until a doggy head nudges my shin.
"No, Papi," I tell him without looking up. I can see him wagging out of the corner of my eye, and a glance shows Jack's gone to his office. "I'm not petting you. Go tell Uncle Jack what you did, make him pet you. And be grateful I'm not telling Tia Ana."
"Fine," he says smugly, wagging as he trots off, belly still horribly distended.
=
I'm feeling more charitable towards him when bedtime rolls around. Partially because I've gotten a lot of work done, partially because despite his smugness he's clearly been in physical discomfort all day and his swarm has digested the bulk of the candy. I close my screens, stand, and stretch.
"Bedtime, Papi," I announce, the first words I've said to him in over six hours.
He looks up from his doggy bed eagerly, tail wagging as he follows me into my room.
"You clean your mess up?" I ask as I change into my pajamas.
"Yup." The smugness in his tone...
I sigh, eyes closed. "You licked it up until Jesse got sick watching you."
"Yup."
"This is why you need an adult," I chide him.
"I am an adult, Sombra."
He gets a glare for that. "No. You a dog."
Reaper lowers his head to his paws and looks contritely up at me. "Woof."
I don't believe for an instant that he regrets anything about today except that I was angry. "You a mess, Papi," I sigh.
He wags hopefully a little at that. "But you love me anyway?"
I lay down and hug him. "Yeah."
===
A week and a half later, the rebuild effort means I need to take a day trip and both Reaper and Jesse have been well-behaved, so I invite them to come with me. As we leave the ship, I hand Jesse the end of Reaper's leash.
"Four," I remind them. "Four-thirty at the latest, you need to be back here and ready to go. Got it?"
They chorus their agreement, and I go off to do what I need to do and trust they won't kill or maim anyone.
=
Three-fifty-five I'm approaching the ship and frowning because Jesse's sprawled casually on one bench, but Reaper is...crouched by a bush?
"Papi, you ready to go?"
He looks at me, tail between his legs, and...oh my god, his stomach's distended again. Not as badly, either that or the grass is hiding it, but enough that it's not a surprise when he says, "Not yet," and turns back to the bush.
Resolutely, I stride up the ramp and take my usual seat. McCree is smart enough to hide behind the brim of his hat as sounds of vomiting come from outside. A minute or so after they stop, Reaper trots up the ramp, sees the look on my face, and joins McCree on the other bench.
It's a cold and silent ride back.
"No," I say sharply as Reaper heads for his doggy bed. "Follow me."
Tail between his legs, he follows me into my bedroom and flinches when I close the door.
"Into the can," I order. He whines; he hardly ever leaves the doberman shape anymore. "Now, Papi!"
Reluctantly, he dissolves and flows into the can. I close and seal the lid. It only takes a few seconds before the can confirms my suspicions, and I fill the LRF reservoir.
"What was it this time?" I demand, sitting by the can.
"Chocolate cake," he replies smugly. "A whole one. It was good."
"And you didn't think that maybe that was a bad idea? Eat a whole cake and then puke it god knows where?"
"I kept it down!"
"But for how long?"
"Long enough!"
"Long enough to puke all over the inside of Jerome's ship?"
"Nah, Alé, I'm more responsible than that," he says casually.
Nope. I'm pissed. "Don't you even tell me you're more responsible than that, you barfed ten pounds of Skittles on the kitchen floor! What was your plan, politely go sit in a bathroom until you hurled? Haul your cake-filled belly to a public trash can and wait? Ask the waiter to bring you a giant bowl and a to-go bucket?"
"Find a bush somewhere before getting on Jerome's ship. I learned from the Skittles," he protests.
"If you really learned," I tell him darkly, "you wouldn't waste perfectly good cake like that."
"I didn't puke on Jerome's ship, though."
"No. You didn't. You just puked thirty-five percent of your swarm under a bush and left it there for something to eat. Your swarm activates in bioelectric fields, remember? Something small like a bird eats some, it might just digest them from the inside out. Something bigger gets enough into their body...I don't know what will happen to them. But you, Papi, are staying in the can until your swarm rebuilds itself!"
"But..."
"No. Right now, you can't digest anything. You staying put. And if you lose that much of your swarm again, you are not gonna like what happens."
He doesn't say anything to that. I leave the room; he can stew until bedtime.
Jesse, wisely, is nowhere in the safehouse and not answering his phone. I remote-override. It's in his pocket, but he'll hear me anyway.
"Nice job, McCree," I spit at him. "You got Reaper grounded."
That startles him enough to pull the phone out and face my wrath. "What?"
"He left more than a third of his swarm under that bush along with the cake you dared - or let - him eat. I don't care which one it was," I add as he looks like he's going to protest. "He's not indestructible. There is a critical ratio of nanites to organic mass, and if he loses too much of his swarm, he will fall apart and not be able to put himself back together. You hear me?"
"Loud 'n clear," he replies in a stunned, horrified tone.
"Good. Because if you're out with him, I am trusting you with his life. So if he happens to eat too much and vomit, it's on you to make sure it all gets back into his body. Understand?"
He straightens to attention. "Yes ma'am."
"Good." I hang up.
=
Reaper's swarm has rebuilt itself by the time I'm ready for bed. I thumb the release on the can's lid and he boils hesitantly out before solidifying into a very contrite doberman.
"You need to be more careful," I tell him in the sort of tone that makes it a blatant threat. "You lose too much of your swarm, you gonna be a puddle and not even the shut-down command will keep you together."
Not only does he whine, but he ducks his head and licks fearfully at my fingers in a show of submission. Or apology. It's hard to tell. Probably both.
"You gonna be able to sleep?" I ask sternly. "Or you need to stay up chewing something for a bit?"
"I can chew while you're asleep," he says quietly.
"Okay. Into bed, then." I point to make sure he knows I do mean my bed.
When I'm done changing into pajamas, he's a log of remorseful canine, head on his paws and tail still between his legs. I lay down and pull the blanket over us. Slowly, he creeps up the bed until he can bury his nose in the hollow between my head and my shoulder, and I hug him.
"I'll be more careful, Alé," he whispers. "I promise."
"You better," I whisper back, and hug him tighter.
===
Two weeks later, I'm buried in screens eight deep when a ninth one opens up and shows McCree's frantic face.
"Sombra, help, I don't know what to do!"
I move the other screens out of the way. "What's going on?"
"It's Reaper! He...uh...got an upset stomach and we're by the pond and this duck came by and started eating it and...uh..." He tilts the phone so that I can see.
Reaper's lying on his side, stomach partially distended (which tells me he's probably already vomited), with a live, struggling duck halfway down his throat, webbed feet kicking frantically. I resist the urge to hit my head on something, and activate the tracker on the phone instead.
"I'll be there in a few minutes," I tell McCree.
By the time I get there, all that can be seen of the duck is a cloud of feathers scattered on the grass, along with a few splatters of what looks like half-digested bread or plain pasta, and splashes of blood. There's a big, stainless steel bowl off to the side and a very full doberman wagging smugly at me.
"Where's the duck?" I sigh, already dreading the answer.
"Right here," Reaper says. "Wanna feel?"
I drag my hands down my face. "Don't tell me you swallowed it alive."
"Nah. It dead and bloody."
"Then where...PAPI! YOU DON'T SWALLOW THE BONES!"
His tail stops moving. "But I'll digest them," he protests.
"But what if you puke before that?" I demand.
The bowl's empty, which probably means he not only choked back down whatever was too much for him in the first place, but an entire duck on top of that. I try not to stare at his bulging stomach or wonder if I'd be able to make out any distinctive shapes. This is the fullest I've seen it yet, and it's pretty alarming to look at. I half expect to see it start to ripple at any moment, and then have to watch as Reaper chokes on duck ribs that don't want to come back out or something.
"You know what? No. Don't answer that. I'm going back to the safehouse."
McCree averts his eyes as I stalk past.
=
They slink into the living room a few hours later. I ignore them, focusing on my screens. Widow quietly suggests D3, and they play with her for a while, all cuddled together on the couch. When they're done, Reaper goes back to the doberman shape and curls up in front of my chair while Jesse helps Widow make dinner.
"You're still mad," he says quietly, not bothering to make it a question.
"Si."
He initially tries to pass on dinner, explaining that he had a big lunch, but Widow says she wants him to try the dish she made, and he relents. I keep working, and when they're done, he comes back and curls up in front of my chair again. Neither of us says a word until about an hour past the time I normally go to bed.
"It's past your bedtime," he says, looking up at me with pleading eyes.
I don't close my screens. "You don't tell me when to go to bed, Papi." It's cold and a bit sulky.
"I'm not. I'm just pointing out that you're falling asleep, and being mad at me isn't worth potentially making mistakes with the rebuild."
...well, he's not wrong. I close my screens and sigh. "Fine. Come on."
Wagging hopefully, he follows me to my room and hesitates by the bed, but climbs into it when I close the door without shooing him out of the room first. I change and lie down with my back to him. He pulls the blanket over us and cuddles silently up. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I'm so tired that I drop right off.
When I wake up, I'm hugging him and he's wagging slightly. That stops when he realizes that I'm awake.
"You a mess, Papi," I sigh.
The wagging starts again. "But you love me?"
"I love you, even though you do dumb shit like try to eat a duck whole."
"I won't do that again," he says apologetically. "Anything that's too big to swallow in one bite, I'll rip apart or break down first."
"You better," I tell him fiercely, hugging him tight.
Wagging, he licks my face.
===
It's nearly two weeks later the next time Jesse calls me frantically. He looks absolutely terrified, and all he says before he turns the phone to show me what's going on is, "Sombra, help!"
Reaper's on the bank of the pond again, writhing in obvious pain and pawing at his throat while uttering desperate, choked cries. Whatever he ate this time, he's in trouble.
"Hang on," I tell McCree, and then I'm out of the living room and sprinting for the garage where Fran's already bringing out my hoverbike.
It takes two minutes and fifty-seven seconds to scream through the park.
Reaper's still pawing at his throat and crying in agony when I get there. I pull his paws away before he hurts himself worse.
"Papi, what's wrong?"
"They're scratching me," he whines.
They...
There's an empty cage behind him, next to the bowl. Jesse's holding a 6-pack of bottled beer and drinking one, looking like he's not sober enough for what's going on. Reaper lies still for the moment, panting, and his stomach is not only distended but moving.
I pry Reaper's mouth open and move his head around until I can see down his throat. The ass end of a frantic rat is what greets me.
"Live rats?" I snap, fury drowning out my concern. "Really, Papi?"
"That was part of the dare," he whimpers. "Sombra..."
I drop his head and stalk over to McCree, who wisely does not resist when I grab both the 6-pack but the bottle in his hand. With the cardboard carrier beside me I wrestle Papi's head up again and shove the bottle mouth-first down his throat, both pushing the rat deeper and lubricating the way. Several frantic swallows later, the tip of the rat's tail vanishes, but I don't pull the bottle out until it's empty.
Papi belches, looking marginally less distressed.
Then I grab the next bottle and flick the cap off with my thumb. McCree makes a choked sound, but does not protest further as I shove the second bottle far enough down Papi's throat that he has no choice but to swallow it. Again, when I pull the empty bottle out, he belches and looks slightly less pained, but his stomach is writhing more vigorously with the motions of live rats who are now trying desperately to not drown in Jesse's imported beer. Neither of them protest when I pour three more beers into Reaper, letting him expel the displaced air after each one, watching the motions smooth out as liquid inflates his stomach. As I'm pouring the last beer in, he makes a small coughing sound and air bubbles up past the beer. I pull the bottle away and he swallows, belches, and swallows again before laying his head down with a groan.
I hand the half-empty bottle to McCree, who looks like he'd rather not take it, and put my hands gently on Reaper's taut belly. There's a small amount of motion, but it fades.
"There," I tell him sharply. "Now they've drowned." I stand up and glare at McCree. "Remember, it's on you to make sure he doesn't lose too much of his swarm."
He nods, face pale, and I stalk over to my hoverbike and ride away.
=
Reaper's definitely subdued when Jesse brings him back. He doesn't even look at me, just walks slowly over to his doggy bed with his tail between his legs and lays awkwardly down on his side, panting and whining a little. The liquid of course has been processed already, leaving his belly full of dead rats and visibly lumpy. He doesn't say anything, I don't say anything. Hours pass.
When bedtime rolls around, he still looks miserable and he hasn't moved from the doggy bed. I close my screens and stand up. "Bedtime, Papi," I tell him as I walk past.
He doesn't move. I stop and turn around. He cringes slightly, like he can feel the weight of my gaze.
"Papi?" I say more gently. "I said bedtime."
Slowly, he gets to his feet and walks, tail still between his legs and head down, to my bedroom.
"Get comfortable while I change," I tell him.
When I turn to the bed, he's laying facing the wall with his back to the room, and he still looks miserable. I lay down and hug him from behind, my face in the fur of his neck. One hand drifts down to feel the hard lumps still filling his belly, and he stiffens. I freeze.
"Does that hurt?" I ask quietly.
Some of the tension leaves him and he whines. "No." Reluctantly, he adds, "It feels kind of good."
Slowly, I run my hand over his too-full stomach.
"I didn't lose any of my swarm," he says quietly after a minute or two. "McCree's liquor sucks, though. Especially the third time."
I hug him tighter. I can't cry, but my breathing gets a little shaky and he whines. "I'm still angry at you," I say, aiming for cold. It comes out sulky. "But I'm worried about you, too."
"I'm okay, hija," he says in a small voice, trying to lick the hand not gently massaging his belly. "I'm just...really full."
"I worry about you when you do dumb shit, Papi. I know you can go to smoke if you really in trouble, but that doesn't help when I see you in pain."
That makes him whine.
"Your throat still hurt?"
"No." He whines again. "I don't deserve you."
"You just think about that the next time you get dared to eat something alive," I tell him, and I don't bother trying to shoot for anything but sulky. "You think about teeth and claws and how worried you gonna make me. Also dangerous chemicals. I don't want to find out if you can survive getting bit by something venomous, or biting something toxic. Got it?"
Reaper cranes his head around until he can lick at my face. "I promise. I'm sorry I upset you."
"You better be," I mutter, hugging him closer.
Slowly, his tail wags.
===
It was too good to last. That's my first thought when, about three and a half weeks after the rat incident, McCree calls me up absolutely beside himself freaking out.
"I'm sorry," he babbles, "I'm sorry Sombra, I know yer gonna be mad, but I don't know what to do, I'm sorry!"
"Show me," I snap.
He turns the phone. Reaper's trying to vomit into the stainless steel bowl, but he's howling in pain and I can see something poking the side of his too-full stomach from the inside, like he swallowed something long and stiff and now it's gotten flipped around. Every contraction of his stomach is just pushing it deeper into the stomach wall. I keep expecting him to go to smoke, but he doesn't, he just howls in mindless pain.
I'm there in a minute fifty.
Jesse's got his hands on either side of Reaper's stomach, trying to turn whatever-it-is. Apparently he gets it dislodged as I stalk up because Reaper whines in relief and flops over onto his side to retch tiredly and swallow whatever it is that's failing to be ejected after each convulsion. There's six empty glass bottles in a cardboard carrier.
"What was it this time, Papi?" I snap.
Reaper's stomach is just as distended as with the rats, but bumpier. "Baby goat," he chokes out.
There's a cage. There's surprisingly little blood, except in the bowl. There's no sign of the goat, not even the skull. "Why the fuck would you eat an entire goat, bones and hooves and all?"
"Because a dare?" he shoots back irritably.
"And you didn't stop to think that maybe it wouldn't be so easy to puke up goat bones?"
"Hey, calcium?"
I make a sharp gesture of negation. "No. That's digesting goat bones. Not trying to get them back out the little tunnel they came down and then crying when they go sideways instead of lining up! You want calcium, drink a gallon of goat milk. That at least will come back out and you can lick it up easy assuming you remembered to puke in a bowl. You want to taste raw goat a second and third time, get an adult and gorge yourself on the flesh. You fill your stomach with baby goat bones and then it hurts when you try to puke them back up, that's you being stupid, Papi."
"You live, you learn," he growls, still retching.
"EXCEPT YOU STILL WORKING ON THAT SECOND PART!" I yell.
Reaper spits out a mouthful of blood I hope belonged to the goat. "STILL MANAGING THE FIRST PART BETTER THAN I HAVE IN YEARS!" he yells back.
"HOW DID YOU NOT DIE BEFORE THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU?"
"MAGIC!" he shouts sarcastically.
"You pull this sort of dumb shit before the explosion?" I demand. "Ten pounds of skittles? An entire cake? FUCKING A GOOSE?"
McCree looks like he wishes he weren't hearing this, and that he had a bottle of whiskey while he was at it.
"ASK MORRISON," Papi yells. "SERIOUSLY, ASK MORRISON ABOUT THE CAKE. AND THE TWO CASES OF BEER. ASK HIM!"
"Was Ana out of town that week?" I ask scathingly, because apparently Gabriel fucking Reyes has always needed an adult, and Uncle Jack doesn't count.
"Probably!"
I cover my eyes briefly and let my hands slide down my face. I love him, really I do, but right now I'm trying so hard to not kick his ass. "Look, just think about the return trip the next time you wanna play 'how much can I eat before I puke', okay?"
Papi would probably be contrite if he weren't stabbing himself trying to vomit up goat ribs. "Deal."
McCree looks like he wants to protest as I start walking away, muttering under my breath in Spanish. Once I'm sure I'm out of splash range, I send the shut-down signal to the swarm. It's not that Reaper gets turned inside-out, exactly, but his mass shifts and condenses into the cube swiftly enough that a butchered and half-digested baby goat is suddenly flung away from where it had been. Unfortunately for my trash cowboy brother, that means he's wiping entrails off his clothes and looking like he wants to be the one vomiting into the stainless steel bowl. Send the release signal, and Reaper re-forms into the doberman. It takes him a second to realize he's not in pain or filled with goat, and then he glances at me and his tail goes between his legs.
"Problem solved," I snap at both of them. "Going home now."
McCree twitches. Hopefully being splattered with goat will convince him to stop daring Reaper to do shit like this without planning for the eventual vomiting.
=
It's really not a surprise when Jesse and Reaper come back late in the evening, or that the cowboy's stumbling drunk. Papi catches me watching him and tucks his tail between his legs as he slinks over to his doggy bed, but when he lays down, it's not on his stomach. Despite the smooth bulge of his stomach, I am suddenly convinced he ate all the goat bones again after I left. Watching him wince as he shifts position, I'm doubly certain that he did. Oh my god. I can't even. I want to scream at him, I want to cry, I want to beat him, I want to hug him. I open more screens and pretend he's not even there.
An internal alarm goes off at bedtime. Reaper's pretending to be asleep, but he's curled up with his back to me. Probably so I don't see his belly full of bones. Before he can pretend to wake up, I close everything and stalk into my room. I change into pajamas and grab my blanket, and then I'm stalking back through the living room while he watches in confusion.
"Good night, Papi," I say without slowing down. I don't bother to close the door behind me.
It's tempting to find another bedroom to hole up in, but instead I go down to the little parlor where Papi and Uncle Jack had their talk and I curl up on that same decorative couch I sat on with Papi.
Close to twenty minutes later, cautious clicking of doggy toenails on tile tells me I have a visitor, and I crack one eye open. Reaper creeps into the parlor and comes straight over to the couch. Slowly, he puts his paws on the seat and then jumps up. I don't react until he goes to lay down on his stomach and flinches.
"Don't," I say quietly. He freezes. "Sit up."
He sits up, and I stretch one hand out to run my fingers lightly down his chest. Once past the ribcage, I can feel hard protrusions, and he flinches. I want to ask if it hurts, or why he did it, or why he hasn't just gone to smoke, but instead I lean forward and hug him, my face against his shoulder, and I'm crying.
"I'm sorry, Alé," he says quietly, and he actually sounds sorry. "I keep upsetting you."
"Because you're not thinking ahead!" I spit, frustrated. "You're doing dumb shit and hurting yourself! You need to think before you stuff things down your throat, think about how easily it's going to come out if you throw up! You think I like watching you be in pain? You think I like worrying about you? You think I like being angry because you did a dumb thing without thinking it through?"
He whines. "I'm a mess. I don't know why you put up with me."
"It's because I love you, Papi, but you not making it easy on me!" I sit up and glare at him. It's not the same without a tear-streaked face, but he wilts anyway. He goes to crouch down in a display of how sorry he is, but flinches when his belly touches the seat. "Don't, Papi," I sigh. "I don't want you hurting yourself like that. Come on, let's go find you something to stuff yourself with."
"But..."
"You got a belly full of bones," I point out. "They poking you. We fill your belly with something else, cushion those pokey bits, you might feel like crap but that's better than being in actual pain, right?"
Reaper looks like he doesn't want to agree, but he agrees. His tail wags slightly. "You're encouraging my bullshit?"
"I'm fixing your mess. I don't know why you don't just go to smoke, but apparently you'd rather be in pain, so I'm working with your stupid self-inflicted rules."
He whines and noses at my hand. I pet him gently, watching as he relaxes and leans against the couch, his eyes sliding closed.
"You want me to not be upset," I say quietly, "you listen to my rules. First, you make sure that anything you put in your stomach will come out just as easy."
"Deal," he sighs.
"Second, you make sure it's not going to hurt going in. Third, you make sure it's not going to hurt once it is in. And last, you make sure that if it comes out, it goes back in. You follow those, I may be frustrated because I don't know why you do this to yourself, but I won't be upset."
"I really don't deserve you." Reluctantly, he sits up. "Can I get a pizza? I want to eat a pizza."
"Can you eat a whole pizza without throwing up?" I ask sternly. "I don't want you to even risk throwing up until those bones have been digested."
"Easily." Then, slightly abashed, "It's two pizzas that get tricky."
I hug him. "Okay. Let me put real clothes back on, and we'll go get you a pizza."
"Thank you," he says quietly, licking my cheek.
"You drive me crazy when you do dumb shit, but you my Papi and I love you."
He trembles slightly "I love you too, hija."