100 OneShot Book/Cozy/Article

**AN: Originally this was a Smoke/Minnow piece for Shadesaurus, but then TC had a "Big 3" character swap thing and I got Mackerel and this felt like way more fun.**

**This one-shot won't make any sense to you guys, especially since you already know Shackle kind of and everything here is so different from the other stuff you've read/will read about him but**

**Basically it's a hypothetical scenario set moons into the future, based on some events in rp**

**Shimmertail also wrote a super fantastic one in "We Are Glass" which you should all read because she is amazing.**

**Mack belongs to Shadesaurus, and I can't remember the kits. Con is hers, I think, Seisal is Shims', Ellie is Stormyleaf's, and Audrey is Brazenser's, maybe? Go check them all out, they are great.**

**39. Cozy**

"Oddball says—"

"Now, Conall, I've told you not to call her that. It's rude to call other kits names." Mackerel frowned down at the young tom; her thoughts had been elsewhere, but she knew he had a habit of teasing the older barn kits, despite the admiration he held towards Bennett – not to mention the older litter was twice his size.

The little tabby hardly missed a beat, only rolling his eyes before plunging on. "*Oddette* says he fought a badger."

"I thought it was a fox," the other tom-kit mewed, brow furrowed as he tried to remember. Conall silenced him with a glance.

"It was a *badger,*" the story-teller insisted. "Anyway, Odette says he fought it right over the next hill. Says there was blood and guts everywhere, and none of it was his."

"Eww," squealed one of the ginger-and-white she-kits listening in, but the other only looked sad, as if mourning the anonymous badger.

"Who are you talking about?" Mackerel had a feeling she already knew the answer, but she asked anyway, hoping she was wrong, hoping Rose's litter wasn't making up more frightening stories. That was the last thing *he* deserved, as much as he had given up for them.

Conall didn't answer, but his amber eyes slid away from her, towards the corner of the barn. There Shackle sat, brushing his tongue over his thick fur in his daily pattern of grooming – less out of vanity and more out of searching for something to do, she thought. Life in the barn was peaceful, for the most part, and while she doubted he missed any of the violence that had accompanied his life before, she wasn't sure he knew how to cope without it.

The smallest prickle of irritation ran through her fur as the other kits turned to gawk at the massive gray tom as well; his eyes flicked over to them for only an instant before he looked away again, but she knew he sensed their attention, ever-present, hovering over his fur.

She couldn't exactly blame them; Shackle was an enigma to the kits. She wasn't sure he had ever spoken two words to any of them; the most he ever did was give them a look now and then, when they went to talk to their 'Uncle Maelstrom.' Mostly he only hung back, watching with the expression of a cat who isn't quite sure he can trust himself. Shackle had more self-control than any cat Mackerel had ever seen, but she wasn't sure he knew it.

Still, it was wrong for them to gossip about him, to treat him as some legendary killing machine that looked only for battles to fight. And so she promptly told them so, scolded them and told them to stop staring at him, even though she knew the moment her attention wavered, they would begin anew, as they always did.

*If I could just get him to talk to them, that would be something,* she mused, biting her lower lip as she thought. *He* looks *terrifying, but all it really takes is one talk to understand that he's not like that at all…he's just a little lost, like everyone else.*

Shackle glanced towards them again, and in that moment she beckoned him with her tail, a silence invitation to join them. Hope fluttered within her for the briefest moment as he considered it, and she thought she saw the tiniest hint of wavering in his eyes. Then, he gave the smallest shake of his head, then looked away, returning to his grooming, yellow eyes dark and contemplative.

The kits didn't notice any of it, of course; they were caught up in a stirring debate on whether or not Shackle could take on a monster. Mackerel shushed them again, more sternly this time, and forced herself to look away from the hulking gray form.

Instead, she moved, coming between the kits and Shackle so that they could no longer prick him with their gaze.

"Do you want to hear a story?" she asked – the best way to distract them – and in their chorus of yes's, silently hoped Shackle did not think her actions were meant the other way around.

. . .

The kits were young enough that they fell asleep early, although she knew it would not always be so. Eventually they would be like Rose's litters, fighting the inky seduction of sleep with indignant calls and wrestling. But, for now, by the time the sun dipped down towards the horizon, they were little angels, flopped over one another. Most nights she curled around them as tightly as she could, but she could never quite fit all four kits into her embrace. Seisal's tail would poke out, or Ellie's head would shiver in the chill of the night, or Audrey's tiny paws would be splayed just outside her foster-mother's grasp.

This night, however, she did not attempt it; rather, she moved smoothly to her paws, gently scooping the hay around the little kits to keep them warm for a few moments without her. She looked over the barn, searching for his familiar shape, and found it where it always was now that Maelstrom was no longer teetering on the edge of death; near the entrance of the barn, just as he had been when they had all shared a tiny den together, acting as a silent sentinel. He did not stay up all night now, as he had then, just until the moon was at its peak. Then he would turn away, move so that his back was to the door, and let himself sleep. It was an improvement to how things had once been, but the habit was too ingrained for him to break it entirely.

She picked her way over the hay carefully, moving like a ghost over the dry straw. This was her forte, her highest skill; no one could be as silent as she, as stealthy when there was need. It had been a necessity back then, in the other barn, the one that she could still smell burning sometimes. Here it only came in handy now and then, when she was slipping away from the kits, or hunting for the little family they had crafted here, so far removed from the terror and pain of the past.

These nights were the only moments where things were quiet, now that the kits were old enough to speak. She supposed that some cats, like Shackle, enjoyed the moments of silence, the time for contemplation and introspection. She herself didn't mind them, but much preferred the daylight, not only to feel the warmth of the sun caressing her pelt, but also to listen to the hustle and bustle within the barn. There were no real pressing threats, no danger, but there was still enough action for her. She could never tire of listening to the kits play with one another, hearing the ways they called out to their siblings, seeing them develop over the moons. They had changed so much, all of them, and their lives were only just beginning. They would be protected and treasured and cared for, the way every kit should be, and she wanted to experience every moment of that.

"Shackle?" she said softly as she drew nearer, and he turned towards her, yellow eyes glinting like dull lanterns in the darkness.

"You should rest," he rumbled, voice deep and quiet and slow, an intrinsically comforting sound. He was their rock, their pillar, although he had no idea of it and probably would never fully understand. He couldn't see himself as they did; he could barely see himself as anything more than a cat, and even that was progress. "You have the kits to watch after all day."

"I don't mind them, you know that," she mewed, as she moved to sit down next to him. "Even if I hadn't promised Jaci to look after them, I would. They have so much *potential,* Shackle, I wish you could see it…." She trailed off then, not wanting to offend him, though he claimed to be incapable of it.

"What do you need?"

That was always how he said it now, because he knew her well enough to know that she never asked for petty wants, insignificant things. She almost never asked for anything at all, because it was her job to *provide,* to give the kits and their barn-family everything they could ever need without taking anything in return beyond that glow – almost like sunlight in itself – she felt when the little ones smiled up at her with that earnest, innocent love.

"It's about the kits, actually," she said, glancing up at him – he made her feel so tiny, like a kit herself – again. "They're very curious about you. They want to *know* you, but all they have are the stories I can tell, and the ones Rose's litter makes up…and that's not really enough. You're a part of our family too. You deserve that much."

He looked down for a moment, towards his paws. "They don't need to know me. There is not anything about me that is worth anything to them."

She felt that prickle of irritation – usually reserved for the kits when they were being stubborn – again, mixed with a touch of exasperation, because that was always how Shackle reacted to these sorts of things, always with that self-deprecation.

"You're wrong," she said, then blinked when the response came out more sharply than she'd intended, not like her usual tone at all.

"You're wrong," she meowed again, more gently this time. "Everything about you is worth knowing. Your past doesn't matter, not to them; it's who you are *now* that they should learn about. You're selfless, you're brave, you'd give up your life for any of us without a moment's hesitation. Don't you think that's stuff they should learn? Don't you think they deserve to know a cat like that?"

He blew out a low *huff* through his nose, and to her surprise, his eyes gleamed with frustration.

"They already *do,*" he growled. "They have *you,* the most selfless cat I could ever think of, the bravest, the most giving. You spend every waking moment looking after them, when they're not yours. You sold your soul for Maelstrom and myself without knowing what would happen, without ever expecting to come back. You stood by us despite the danger, you dove in to help us during the battle despite your hatred of it, you worked yourself to the bone to ensure that we all recovered afterwards. You brought me back from the brink of *nothingness,* bared your soul to help me see. I know you don't think I can see myself, but I do. I see my mistakes and my flaws and my faults every day, but never yours, because they don't *exist. You* are the best role model they could help to have. *You* are their provider, the one who loves them more than anything. And *you* should know better than anyone that it isn't safe for me to get close to them, because if I ever hurt them, even accidentally, I could never look at you again without that shame…and I cannot bear the thought of that."

She could only blink up at him, stare up at what she thought was the pillar of the barn gazing down at her with such intensity in his usually calm gaze. Her face heated as she remembered that night when she had brought him back from the brink, remembered how his tongue had brushed over her head. She felt it again, just as she had that night, the flickering warmth spreading throughout her like a tiny, cozy flame, as though the sun was somehow reaching her through his lantern eyes.

"I know why you're afraid. I know why you think you'll hurt them, even if you don't mean to. You've told me about them, those other kits, but it's exactly as I said; it's in the *past.* You are different now than you were then. You are not a servant. No one can order you to hurt them, and I know that you never would have hurt those others if you weren't forced into it." She stared up at him, trying to project that same warmth through her own eyes, pushing everything she had received back out into a new gift, as she always did. "Just give them the opportunity to get to know you. Please."

She turned away then, for she had left the kits alone longer than she'd intended, and could already imagine them shivering with cold, despite leaf-bare having been over for moons now. She half-hoped to hear the sound of him turning with her, the rustle of his mammoth paws over the straw, but all she received was a quiet, "Good night, Mackerel."

. . .

The next morning, she was slow to rise; her dreams had been strange, full of smoke and snow, badgers and bloodshed, and when she finally awoke, she felt just as tired as she had the night before.

The kits were not lying against her, but they usually got up before she did anyway, racing off to play one game or another, and so she allowed herself to relax, if only for a moment, taking a few breaths with her eyes still closed.

They were giggling nearby, and her ear swiveled to pick up their conversation.

"Oddball says you fought a badger," she heard Conall meow, and felt a small twinge of annoyance. She had hoped he wouldn't still be interested in the story, that she had been able to lay it to rest, but apparently—

Then, it struck her. *You,* not *he.*

Her eyes snapped open and she saw up, twisting around to stare at the kits, and felt a spark of disbelief. They were all sitting together, in a little semicircle – the most organized they had ever been. They were all staring upwards, so high that it looked as though little Audrey was about to tumble right over. And they were all completely rapt, eyes glowing with excitement as they waited for the focus of their attention to answer.

Shackle's eyes flicked over the little ones' heads for a minute, landing on her face instead. He gave her a little nod, a tiny gesture that sent that warmth running through her again, before rumbling,

"I am sorry to disappoint, but I have never fought a badger. They are more comfortable in the forest than they are here, and if you were to see one, it would be wiser to get out of its way. Badgers look big and scary, but if you leave them alone, they usually will not hurt you."

None of the kits looked disappointed in the least; they all seemed to be bubbling with questions, and he answered them as patiently as he could, until Ellie tossed him one that threw him off.

She didn't speak, only raised one paw, pointing towards his back, where his fur was the thickest. He seemed confused for a moment, before comprehension dawned on him.

Indecision fluttered over his face, and as he looked to Mackerel again, this time she was the one who nodded. Carefully – *extremely* carefully, so sluggishly that she almost could not believe it was the same tom who had torn over TacoClan's battlefield moons ago – he lowered himself so that he was lying on his stomach. Immediately the kits began scrambling over him, racing one another to get to the top of the gray mountain. He withstood it with only a few winches as they jarred his sore shoulders, not complaining even when Conall planted his paws firmly atop Shackle's head to crow, although he quickly removed them when Mackerel gave him a look.

Ellie remained at the bottom, her few feeble attempts at climbing his thick, shaggy fur unsuccessful. She gave him a pitiful look, batting her bright green eyes at him, and for a moment Mackerel stiffened, for she knew Shackle's history with them.

Carefully – impossibly carefully – he twisted around to grasp the little kit in his jaws. She looked as though she could have been swallowed by him without effort, in one bite, but seemed unafraid as he lifted her up so that she could grasp his back with her little paws. He released her, and Mackerel saw the relief glinting in his eyes as Ellie managed to climb up the rest of the way, unharmed and triumphant, even giving the back of one of his gray ears a thankful lick.

Shackle looked back at Mackerel, expression still tight with worry, but it eased as he saw the smile that seemed to have bubbled up from inside of her, seemed to have burst out along with the warmth running under her pelt. Shackle smiled back, although not as widely, even as Conall again tried to stake his claim on the tom's broad head.

That night, when Mackerel tried her best to surround all the kits, as she always did, she did not notice that Shackle was not in his usual spot at the entrance. She was concentrating so fiercely on trying to find a way to keep Conall's back from the chill that she did not hear him approach, until he was almost upon her, and even then it was only a second before he settled down around her, encompassing all of them with his own warmth.

Surprise flickered through her, but the kits barely stirred, only snuggled in more tightly against her belly and letting out contented sighs. So she did the same, leaning into him and resting her head against his chest, feeling his tongue come down between her ears just as it had before, just as gently as he had held little Ellie.

"Good night, Shackle," she murmured to him, and in reply received something she'd never heard from him before: the smallest, softest rumbling purr.

**AN: don't hate me pls shady ;-;**