Work Text:
For as long as they could remember, the townsfolk of Gwynfyd had known of the Rule. The Rule presided over everything. It alone was why the village hadn’t shriveled off the map, and it was very simple: anyone who lost a tooth in Gwynfyd would always come back.
So it came as no surprise to the villagers that despite his murderous past, Bjorn ended up staying. Eggs’ whack with the shovel had knocked one of his unnaturally white teeth right out. His company had agreed not to dispatch him so long as, like Milo, he retired from any and all killing-related activities. Only a fool would call that coincidence: Bjorn had become one of them.
He made other ties, of course. His relationship with Bob had arisen quite inexplicably. Even Bjorn himself seemed uncertain of how that happened. Yet as sure as the sun rose, Bob seemed to have tamed the beast’s heart, as Bjorn liked to say. He wasn’t sure why other people gave him weird looks whenever he did.
Nonetheless, Bjorn couldn’t just forget years of his assassin training in a few short months. His reflexes were too sharp, his movements too practiced. He pried weeds out of the garden bed with the precision of a heart surgeon. Perhaps that was what prompted the strange request brought to him by Eggs. He ran up to him with sweat plastered on his brow.
“There’s—there’s a wild animal in the bakery!” Eggs wailed. “You’ve got to help us!”
Bjorn could coax no further details from the boy. His apparent terror was all he had to go on. He meticulously packed all the implements available to him in a small black briefcase: garden shears, a small shovel, pepper spray, a bucket, and a butcher’s knife. Alas, the company had not permitted him to keep his guns. But Bjorn took pride in his resourcefulness.
He was not sure what to expect when he arrived at the bakery. He was met by a slightly frazzled Milo, who was armed with only a towel. Pitiful. Bjorn wondered why he’d ever been attracted to him.
“Oh, thank goodness,” said Milo. “I’ve been trying to shoo it out the window, but it just won’t leave—“
Bjorn stepped past him. On the kitchen counter was perched a bright yellow canary.
He stared.
“Er, here’s the towel,” said Milo.
“For what?”
“To…catch it? And put it outside?”
“Ah,” Bjorn hummed.
Milo always had a soft spot for birds. He’d fawned over that stupid budgie—loved it more than he’d ever love him. Once, he’d resented that fact. Now separated by distance, he felt a twinge of guilt for having killed poor Melville. He set down his briefcase and took the towel from Milo. This little canary was very lucky he had met him now, and not a few months prior.
Bjorn calculated his plan of attack. The window was right behind the bird, which was busy pecking at some crumbs on the countertop. If he could frighten it at the right angle, it would surely fly right out…
He took a few cautious steps towards it. Unfortunately, the canary was far sharper than it looked. The bird perked up at once, staring at him with one beady black eye. It fluttered into the air.
“Shit, it’s headed for the stairs!”
It took them almost an hour to finally corner the bird in Milo and Rhiannon’s bedroom. Bjorn managed to grab it with his bare hands—admittedly more out of luck than skill; the creature was agile, he’d give it that. He felt its tiny heart thrumming beneath his fingertips, tiny wings gently pinched to its sides. It would be so easy to squeeze.
But Bjorn was not that kind of person anymore. He brought it outside and let go.
That evening at home, Bob greeted him with a kiss.
“Now how’s my brave canary catcher?” Bob hummed warmly. “Quick as a cat.”
Bjorn did not tell him about the cruel thoughts that still followed him wherever he went. He didn’t need to. Bob understood him, better than anyone else ever had, and he held him tightly when they went to bed that night.
The next morning, he was greeted by Eggs’ flushed face at the door.
“It’s back,” he said miserably. “And there’s more.”
Bjorn began to wonder if someone had covered Milo’s house in canary-attracting spray. Now not one, but two yellow birds twittered on top of a kitchen shelf, pecking at a day-old burnt loaf. Practice had not done Milo’s baking any good. He had to know he didn’t have to keep using this as an excuse by now. Well, most things Milo did were doomed to fail; this would just be another one. At least the birds appreciated Milo’s…creations.
His approach last time hadn’t worked, so Bjorn tried a different tactic. He set up a little contraption on the other side of the kitchen: an open box, held up with a stick and a string tied to one end. A good old trap. All he had to do was find some bait. This should be fairly easy, considering the birds were already willing to eat something stale and burned.
Yet they showed no interest in the fresh loaf he tucked under the edge of the box. Bjorn frowned. He’d tried it himself—it was the least disgusting thing Milo had made so far. (Maybe he actually did like baking.) Then he tried a chocolate chip cookie with the texture of a brick. No interest.
Frowning, Bjorn scoured the shelves. He grimaced at the odd-smelling cheese breadstick he found tucked away at the back. Milo had poured so much of that fake American cheese that it had to be mostly plastic. Out of desperation, he tore off a chunk and tucked it under the trap. Both canaries immediately flocked to it. Bjorn blinked, and pulled the string.
With both birds finally captured, Bjorn carefully transferred them into a slightly more permanent enclosure. This turned out to be a laundry basket, padded with newspaper at the bottom and the top covered by a piece of mesh.
He and Milo paused to observe the two yellow birds huddled together. Milo crouched down to look at them more closely, and Bjorn had to bite his lip to keep himself from smiling.
“I think you should keep them,” Bjorn said.
Milo looked over his shoulder up at Bjorn, startled. He quickly averted his gaze to his hands.
“I…I dunno.”
“Look, they obviously want to be here. And you like birds. Maybe it’s fate.”
“You don’t believe that,” Milo scoffed. He shook his head, then, and frowned. “I just…I dunno. I dunno if I’ll make a good pet owner, y’know? After…”
Bjorn sighed. “Melville was my fault. Not yours.”
Milo just stared, taken aback. And then he nodded.
“Well,” he said, looking down at the chirping basket. “I guess you’ll be Melville II and III, then.”
Just as Bjorn turned to leave, he heard Milo say: “Thanks, Bjorn.”