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You don’t know exactly what you’re expecting when you agree on a day trip to see an aunt that you haven’t spoken to in well over a year. She’s the kind of person that your parents gave up on getting along with well back in your childhood, and these days, you only answer her calls to be polite.
But this time, she begged you to come over and ‘say hello’ for once. It’s one of those situations where it’ll be more trouble if you refuse, so even though you know you’ll regret it, you reluctantly take a Saturday to drop by.
Your aunt’s house is... something. The small house is all peeling paint and regrettable choices in yard decor. You can see the edges of a ramshackle shed in the backyard that wasn’t there before, and the dandelions appear to have taken over even more than you remember. She comes out the front door to hug you, smelling like cigarettes and too-strong perfume, then hustles you inside to have lunch while you fight back a rising headache.
Inside, your aunt’s boyfriend, never your uncle properly, is lounged on a threadbare couch watching an action movie that sounds more like an endless cacophony of noise than a proper film. Beside him, his son sips on a can of beer and points out how unrealistic the blood in the movie looks.
“Stay for a while,” your aunt says, offering you a lunch-meat sandwich and a tall glass of grape soda. “We missed you, you know. It’s been so long.”
So you settle in at a creaking chair, drag its legs across the cracked tile floor to sit properly, and try to hold some semblance of a pleasant conversation. It doesn’t go well. As usual, all she’ll talk about is how bitchy her coworkers are and spit-up gossip regarding people you don’t know. You sit there and nod politely at everything, sipping on the syrupy-sweet soda so you don’t have to talk. And that’s about the extent of it, until—
A loud crash sounds from the backyard, followed by what sounds like the jangle and tug of a thick chain. You flinch. Your aunt’s boyfriend swears and yells at his son to go ‘shut the damn thing up already’, which ends in rolled eyes, a sigh from your aunt, and your ‘cousin’ storming out back.
“...what was that?” you dare to ask. You probably don’t want to know.
“Oh, just that thing your uncle brought home a few months ago.” She takes a gulp of her own drink, looking annoyed. “It’s a demon, one of those fancy pets, you know? He thought it’d be a good guard dog, but it won’t listen to anyone. Thank god he didn’t spend much on it.”
A demon. Even knowing that those creatures rarely get treated too well, you can’t quite make yourself move on and ignore it. Especially when it sinks in that it’s the middle of the day, and the poor thing is outside.
“Can I see it? It’s on a chain, right?” You feel kind of gross talking about a living thing that way, but your aunt shoos you outside to have a look with only a half-hearted, shouted warning not to get too close.
Outside, in a yard of half-dead buffalo grass surrounded by a poorly stained wooden fence, you see the thing that leaves you froze with shock.
It’s a demon alright— as in, you don’t think a human could possibly look like that. He’s small, almost petite, and while you can tell that his build should have been stocky and strong from the wide set of his shoulders, the poor thing is so scrawny you can see his ribs. There’s about half of a large dog house parked in the middle of the yard, barely proving shelter, a chain drilled into the ground, and said chain hooked onto the demon’s collar. He’s squatted on the dirt in nothing but ratty old shorts, and the strangest thing of all is the filthy cloth sack over his head, covering his whole face.
The sight is bizarre, and it only gets more concerning when your ‘cousin’ approaches the demon with a large stick grabbed off the ground and whacks him right over the shoulders. The demon yelps, snarls, and tries to scrabble away, but the chain only stretches so far, and the dog house doesn’t provide much shelter. When you look closer, his skin is red and blistered in places, probably from too much direct exposure to painful sunlight.
“What at you doing!?” You run over to your cousin’s side. The demon growls when you get that close, and your cousin takes a big step back.
“Don’t get so damn close!” he shouts. “This thing ain’t friendly. He bites, you know? Bites hard! I’m trying to shut him up, so quit doin’ shit that’s gonna get him riled up again!” Again, he takes a swipe at the demon with the stick, and yep, that’s all of this awful scene you can watch.
“Is my aunt real attached to him?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.
“I dunno. Dad got him to be a guard dog, but he’s, like, you can’t talk to him at all. He’s like a wild animal,” he explains, eying the demon like he really wishes it would just go away. “Keeps us all up at night, y’know.”
“Cool.” And with that, you stalk back inside for a little chat.
. . .
One not-really-an-argument later, you’re now the demon’s unofficial owner. Your aunt was confused about why you wanted the thing, but a quick excuse about a friend looking into rescues seals the deal. Especially when her boyfriend shouts from the living room that he wants ‘that damn thing’ gone. He’s sick of taking care of it. And with that, your aunt agrees.
Then comes the challenge of getting him home. Or more accurately, getting him into your car. With your family inside, you head back out to the yard to weigh your options. The demon is huddled in what little shade it can get now, and its head is still covered by that weird-looking bag.
“Hi there,” you try when you get sort of close. “Do you want to get out of the sun? Go somewhere more comfortable?” You assume he’s facing you based on the tilt of his head, but with the bag, it’s hard to really tell.
The demon is silent. He just growls a little, under his breath.
“Umm... come here,” is your next attempt, trying to sound more authoritative. And that works. With a flinch, the demon gets up.
He crawls toward you on his hands and knees until the chain won’t let him get any closer, wincing when the open sunlight hits his back again. When you reach for him, he growls even louder and looks like he’s going to try to pull away. You don’t pay it any mind. Instead, you get the chain off his collar and clip on the thick, rough leash your aunt gave you back inside.
“Alright, come on. You’re going with me, okay?” You don’t know why you’re still talking. He doesn’t seem to understand you... but it still feels wrong to just yank him around. This is a living thing, after all.
From there, the demon is a lot more cooperative than you’re expecting. You get the feeling that he’s just dazed and in pain from starvation and too much sunlight, but you’re still grateful that this is easy. You get him into your car without too much trouble, even though it’s obvious that he’s about as tense as it gets. Probably expecting more pain, somehow.
The drive home isn’t bad. The demon presses himself against one window and is apparently much too occupied by that to misbehave. When you get home, though, it’s getting him into the house that’s difficult. As in, he starts shaking bad when you get even slightly close to your front door.
As you’re practically dragging him up the steps, it occurs to you that there’s a good chance he’s never been inside for a moment in his life.
And then, he finally says something.
“S-Sorry—!” His voice is rougher than you expect, muffled by the bag still over his head. And once he starts, he doesn’t stop. “Sorry, sorry, s-sorry—” he chokes, over and over with hardly a pause in between.
It occurs to you, disturbingly enough, that he probably doesn’t know what he’s saying. The repetition feels artificial, pacifying, like it’s something he’s had to say before to get out of trouble. Even though you feel like a horrible person for doing it, you pull him the rest of the way inside with as little struggle as you can manage. He tries not to move with you, very much determined not to go inside, but somehow, you drag him through the door.
Once the door’s shut and you’re both inside, the demon drops. He keeps pulling at the leash around his neck, the rough, too-tight collar, and growling scared, frustrated little noises as he fidgets on the ground. It’s sinking in more and more than the thing you’ve taken in is utterly feral.
And now... the question of what to do with him. This is your responsibility now, impulsive as it was, and you’re going to have to figure out how to handle it. You might be in a little over your head. Or a lot.
The first thing, you decide, is to get the bag off his head.
When you unclip the demon’s leash, he tries to scrabble away from you. You let him move, not wanting him to feel cornered, and he promptly scurries behind your couch and hunches there, growling faintly. You follow him, crawling slowly, but even that careful, he flinches away from you.
“Hello again,” you attempt. “You’re home now. This is where you’re going to be staying. With me, okay? I want to get that bag off of you so I can see you. I’m going to reach for it now. Don’t be scared.” Talking like you’re facing a scared kitten, you try your best to make your point clear before attempting anything. At this point, you have no idea if he understands a word you’re saying. He might be completely wild.
As you reach for the bag, just like you expect, the demon tries to pull away. He doesn’t snap his hands up to stop you, but he does duck and try to dodge your attempts to bare his face. A clipped, mumbled chorus of no, no, no starts up a second later, which really doesn’t make you feel better about what you’re trying to do. He’s scared, and you hate that you’re the cause.
It takes some quick movements and sheer luck, but eventually, you manage to snatch the bag off his head. And underneath it—
He’s young. Feminine-featured, baby-cheeked, and young. For how the rest of him looks, his face hardly seems to fit. You’re left staring for a moment, confused, and even more horrified that your relatives could have been treating something that’s barely more than a child like they were.
And honestly, it just makes you all the more determined. If this is what you’ve signed yourself up for, you’re going to find a way to deal with it. Now... you’re really starting to want to see the poor kid be okay.
So, “That’s better,” you say softly. “I’m happy I can see you now. We’re going to leave this thing off, but I promise, you’re being good.”
Despite your attempts to be soothing, the demon just shakes. His eyes keep darting around like he’s looking for some kind of escape, and every time he meets your gaze, his terror seems to double. When you reach for him again, he instantly flinches away, another sorry tearing out of him, but all you do is lightly pat his head, then ruffle his filthy-yet-fluffy hair as gently as you can. And that gesture is what makes his eyes go even wider.
“We’re going to figure this out,” you tell him.
. . .
Over the next few days, a lot happens at the same time that nothing does at all. Through a lot of struggle, you manage to get it out of the demon that his name is Inosuke. You think. The poor thing can barely communicate. Half the time, you’re certain he doesn't understand a word you’re saying.
But you persevere. It’s like herding cats for a while, but little by little, Inosuke starts to get the message that you don’t intend to hurt him.
And... it’s awkward. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and more often than not, you feel like you’re doing more harm than good. Getting Inosuke to behave like a person— or even a pet — instead of a feral animal is difficult. He resists it at every turn and usually just seems terrified of what you’re trying to do. The first time you fed him, he snarled at you when you got within five feet of the empty bowl. Every time you try to pet him, he flinches away like he expects to be hit. He tries to hide his face from you.
It’s on the third day that you dare to address the big issue. That being the absolutely filthy state of him. Inosuke needs a bath. You already know that attempting it won’t go well, but you can’t ignore the dirt forever.
“Alright, um... come here, please,” you try. Inosuke seems to know what ‘come’ means, thankfully. That and a few other simple things.
Getting him to the bathroom isn’t that hard. He’ll obey simple commands most of the time, even though you think it’s more out of fear than genuine compliance. Even so, you manage to have him outside the bathroom with no troubles... right up until he sees inside the room.
“No!” You have to grab his collar before he scrambles away. It feels like you’re being too rough, but there are only so many ways to control him. “Come on, please. I know you’re not used to this, but it’ll feel good, I promise. Nothing will hurt. Just... come on. Inside.” Slowly, you start to pet him, running your fingers through the disgusting mess of his hair, then scritching lightly under his chin. Inosuke leans into the affection, and—
He moves with you. Even eying the white, cold room like something is going to jump out and bite him, he carefully eases his way inside.
First, you get him out of the ratty shorts that were the only things your aunt’s family had him wearing. Inosuke seems to have no sense of modesty, but at least he’s not upset. You’d prefer ‘mildly disturbing’ to ‘genuine problem’, really. You’re glad he’s still somewhat comfortable.
You get the water running before you try to coax him into the tub. Inosuke flinches at the sudden rush of noise, but soon enough, he comes to poke at the faucet’s stream. When it’s warm enough, you start to talk again— simple words about how the water will feel good— as you gently ease the feral boy toward climbing into the quickly filling bathtub.
As soon as he’s settled, Inosuke looks downright shocked. His eyes are so wide it’s almost comical, and as he swishes one hand through the steaming water, he’s practically gaping at the way it moves.
But at the same time, he definitely doesn’t hate it. Soon enough, Inosuke leans back against one wall of the tub. He’s still fidgeting and playing with the water, but that’s more relaxation than you were expecting. It’s a relief, really. You didn’t know how badly this was going to go.
You get the showerhead down and turn it on. Inosuke flinches away from the noise and squeaks out a quick ‘sorry’— which seems to be one of the very few words he knows how to say. Before he can panic, you quickly bring the spray to his hair. And yep, the warmth and recognition that it’s just water do a lot. He doesn’t try to bolt or struggle, so you take that as a good sign. You soak his hair little by little, smiling a bit at how Inosuke tries to lean into the stream. He likes it. For once, it’s something he’s okay with.
Washing Inosuke’s hair is surprisingly easy. Even though he won’t stop squirming around and trying to touch everything in sight, he doesn’t fight you. In fact, he’s all but purring under the touch of your fingers scrubbing the dirt and grime out of his hair, eyes fluttering slightly closed.
The rinsing part goes about as well. Inosuke manages to get some water in his eyes with all of his refusing to stay still, but he also clearly enjoys the warmth still. You let him sit and splash around for a few minutes before taking a washcloth to the rest of the filth on him, quickly and professionally scrubbing as much off as possible without freaking him out.
By the time you’re done, Inosuke looks somewhere between confused and oddly content. The water is going slightly cool now, so as much as you want to let him keep having fun, you decide to end it before he gets cold.
Since he’s relatively small, an oversized t-shirt of yours turns out to fit Inosuke well enough. A quick fix, yes, but better than what he had before.
And then, it’s done. After a whole lot of worrying if this was going to work out, you made actual progress. Even back in the living room, with Inosuke tucked up on the couch beside you, he looks better. He’s nowhere near as unkept and feral-looking when he’s clean, and for whatever miraculous reason, he doesn’t seem to be quite as scared of you. That’s the part you’re grateful for. You were getting legitimately worried that he wasn’t going to be able to adjust, so even this bit of improvement is a relief.
“Well, you’re stuck with me,” you mumble, almost to yourself. Rationally, you know that this is a better environment for him no matter how clueless and clumsy you are with taking care of him. It’s better than there.
With a snuffling, oddly content noise, Inosuke leans his head against your shoulder and stays there. This is going to turn out alright.