Work Text:
When Ghostblade sees the boy at Rock’s side, the first thing he registers is that he looks to be around Nuonuo’s age. The second thing is that he’s covered in blood.
Maybe that's a limiting descriptor — there isn’t just blood, but a whole host of injuries to catalogue everywhere Ghostblade looks. His knuckles are scabbed, his left eye is swollen half-shut, and his entire body is covered in an ugly, mottled patchwork of bruises, wine-dark against pale skin. Ghostblade takes note of all of this, along with the distinct lack of winter clothing (or even a shirt) on his person and wonders, absently, how the boy is still alive.
It seems everyone else in the lobby is asking the same question, because the volume of the entire place drops as soon as the two walk in. Tasks and conversations peter out as people turn, gawking at the walking corpse that’s just graced Mighty Glory’s building.
Rock simply strides onwards with a smile on his face. The boy’s eyes dart around the room, taking in the hushed whispers, the curious stares, the ceiling that stretches upwards into an endless, yawning height — before he, too, looks straight ahead.
-
Ghostblade starts seeing the boy around Headquarters.
He has, incredibly, managed to make a full recovery. Ghostblade sees him walking down the hall about a week after his first appearance, and there isn’t a single trace of injury to be found on the child. No bandages, no scarring, nothing. It must be some sort of Trust-powered healing factor — there’s no other way bruises that severe could’ve cleared up so quickly, to the point where the tattoos on his skin are actually visible enough now to stand out. It would explain why Rock brought him here in the first place.
It doesn’t quite explain why Rock won’t give the boy shoes, though. Or a shirt. Would proper clothing hinder his abilities? It’s not Ghostblade’s place to care or ask, so he doesn’t.
But there will always be things his eyes refuse to miss. And when he catches sight of faint lines where the boy’s ribs jut out against his skin, Ghostblade thinks of them shaping a different, happier child and feels something indescribable lodge in his chest.
-
Ghostblade tries to eat at home whenever he can. He’s a good cook, after all — his parents had said so, and Zhang Lan had said so. But chasing down a target for eight hours through the night today has left him with little desire to work for something that’s only going to leave him with dishes to wash. Suppressing a sigh, he punches the elevator button for the twentieth floor and steps out into Mighty Glory’s main cafeteria.
If there’s a silver lining to all this, it’s that the place is relatively vacant at four in the morning. The only people poking at their meals are exhausted heroes and night shift employees on break. Ghostblade takes a tray from the serving station, and he’s just begun filling up his plate when his ears catch the tail end of a conversation.
“He attacked him over that?”
“Right? He was just playing, you know, wasn’t even anything serious! But yeah, kid went nuts. Basically caved his skull in. It took four people just to pull him off.”
“God.” A pause. “He’s like, what? Ten?”
“Eleven.” The responding whistle is low and impressed. “Imagine that — eleven years old and already a fucking nutcase.”
“And Rock’s… still keeping him after that.”
“Mm. But to be honest? It’d be crazier if he didn’t, I think. That kind of strength… if you don’t take it, some other agency will. Better to keep — ”
A throat clears behind him. Ghostblade stiffens, and realises he’s been standing in front of the stir-fry for a full minute. He turns around to give the disgruntled worker at his back an apologetic bow before leaving to get some vegetables.
-
Of all the places available at Headquarters, Ghostblade likes the lounge on the third floor best. It’s small in size and even sparser in amenities, so people rarely ever come around. It’s a blissfully empty space to stop and have a drink in after a mission.
Except — this time, when Ghostblade takes one step through the doorway, he spots a shock of purple hair peeking over the edge of a sofa. He pauses mid-stride, taking in how the room is near silent save for the faint piano music playing through the speakers. The little he can see of the boy remains motionless on the seats. Just to make his presence known, Ghostblade taps one knuckle against the door. The boy doesn’t respond. Perhaps he’s asleep.
Ghostblade decides to make his way to the kitchenette and focus on brewing his tea. It’s a routine he’s gone through thousands of times, almost grounding in its monotony. Get a mug, set the water to boil, open the pantry — he always picks the same tin of loose leaf pu’er — pry off the lid, scoop some leaves into the mug’s infuser basket, then wait approximately 207 seconds to turn off the kettle before it starts to beep.
Pouring hot water slowly over the leaves, he watches steam curl up in a plume as the clear water underneath clouds amber, growing darker with each moment it steeps. He fishes out the basket once the colour is exactly what he likes. Ghostblade picks up his cup of tea, turns around, and — ah.
So the boy is awake. He just hasn’t made a sound at all.
He’s slumped against the cushions as he stares off into space. On the coffee table in front of him is an open book, food wrappers, a pencil, and several crumpled-up balls of paper. The only indication that he’s a living, breathing human and not a wax figure on the couch is the way his chest rises and falls every few seconds.
Ghostblade is not, and has never been good with children. Not for lack of familiarity — he’d simply grown up around too many of them, his skin crawling whenever they grabbed onto him, the urge to claw his hair out almost painful at the sound of their ruddy-faced wailing. Then he had Nuonuo, and he witnessed firsthand how it wore on Zhang Lan to see him flinch away from his own daughter’s touch and leave the room whenever she cried too loudly, unable to bear the noise. Ghostblade is not good with children, yes, but he is familiar with them.
So, with that knowledge — surely they weren’t supposed to be this quiet.
“What?”
Ghostblade blinks. The boy’s voice is small and raspy, and a pair of violet eyes turn to narrow in on him. It’s the first time Ghostblade has heard him speak.
“What?” the boy repeats. “You got a problem with me?”
No, Ghostblade shakes his head. But the boy’s lip only curls, and his voice comes out stronger, sharper. “Then fuck off. Quit staring. The old man said I was chosen to be here.” His arms fan across the couch to dig his nails into the leather, taking up as much space as he’s able to reach. “I can be here.”
I never indicated otherwise, Ghostblade thinks with furrowed brows. The boy’s eyes are burning. With what emotion, Ghostblade isn’t sure — but it possesses an intensity that doesn’t look right on a child. His lack of verbal response only seems to agitate the boy further.
“Are you deaf or are you just stupid? You wanna fight, is that it?” He’s leaning over the armrest now, teeth bared and shoulders pulled taut like he’s waiting for something to happen.
And Ghostblade — doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know what he’s waiting for or how to respond to that, but the boy only got angry because he was staring, so. Ghostblade turns back to the counter and starts cleaning up. He puts away the tea tin and throws out the leaves and washes the basket and very pointedly does not look back.
There’s a crack as the sound of splintering wood pierces the air, followed by something hitting the floor. “Trash,” the boy spits behind him. The word is filled with more vitriol than anything he’s said before. Ghostblade hears heavy, stomping footsteps heading through the door — and then there’s silence.
Ghostblade wipes his hands dry and slowly looks back. The front half of the coffee table has nearly been split in half, jagged shards of wood framing where its surface has been caved in. The impact seems to have sent the wrappers, pencil and papers scattering over the floor. Ghostblade walks closer, but stops when he spots the book near his feet. This must’ve been what the boy had thrown.
Picking it up, he examines the cover and realises it’s a book of basic writing exercises, the same kind Nuonuo was doing back in preschool. He flips it open and finds that an ample amount of pages have been filled in by a shaky, untrained hand.
-
The next time Ghostblade arrives at the third floor lounge, he sees the same purple hair by the sofa and knows what he should (or more accurately, shouldn’t) do.
He heads to the kitchenette and prepares his tea. Get a mug, set the water to boil, get the tea leaves, scoop some into the mug’s infuser basket, then wait approximately 207 seconds to turn off the kettle before it starts to beep. He pours hot water onto the leaves and throughout the entire process, he doesn’t turn around once.
The boy doesn’t acknowledge his presence. This, Ghostblade considers a success. He drinks his tea facing the counter and lets out an internal sigh of relief.
-
He’s walking through Headquarters when someone turns the corner and runs straight into him.
Ghostblade is winded, for a second, before he looks down and sees the boy with purple hair sprawled onto the floor. He’s carrying… fruits? A variety of fruits in his arms, and some of them have slipped out and rolled onto the ground after the fall. The boy only looks annoyed as he starts to right himself, but when Ghostblade bends down to help pick up an orange, it’s like a switch is flipped. He lunges, scrambling to snatch the fruit before Ghostblade can touch it, something almost resembling a snarl leaving his lips.
“That’s mine,” he hisses through his teeth, and all Ghostblade can do is blink in response. Not like the boy leaves him time to do much else — in seconds, he’s gathered his spoils and taken off running down the hallway. Ghostblade watches him leave, completely lost, before his eyes follow the path he’d come from.
He walks into Conference Room 14-E and sees Rock standing by its floor-to-ceiling windows. The man offers him a polite tip of the head. “Ghostblade. Finished your work early again, I presume?”
Ghostblade nods before tilting his head in the direction of the exit. It takes Rock a second to understand, but he smiles. “I see you’ve met Dragon Boy.”
That gets Ghostblade to take pause. He thinks, testingly: Dragon Boy. Hm. Not a bad name, though nowhere near as cool as his. He mimes the action of cradling something, a silent question, and Rock’s eyes crinkle with amusement.
“Ah, he got it all here.” The man nudges a basket on the table beside him, emptied save for a single bottle of wine. It must’ve been a luxury hamper gifted by another company. Fruit skins and scraps litter the area around it. “He wouldn’t stop eating the entire time I spoke to him. I didn’t expect to be taken that seriously when I said he could have as much as he wanted, but I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. He’s a growing boy, and growing boys need to eat, don’t they?”
Rock lets out a chuckle. Ghostblade doesn’t quite understand what part of that was funny, but he’s grown used to it. Rock laughs at a lot of things.
“The future of Mighty Glory is looking bright.” Rock turns to look out the window, in noticeably high spirits. Their eyes meet in its reflection, but Ghostblade gets the feeling that he’s seeing right past him. “That child is going to become something special. I’m sure of it.”
-
Ghostblade steps into the third floor lounge, and to his surprise, it’s empty.
The only evidence of Dragon Boy’s presence is the multitude of food wrappers sitting on the (recently replaced) coffee table. It brings to mind a complaint he’d heard from one of the sanitation workers recently, that Dragon Boy never cleans up after himself. He treats the entire building like it’s his home, leaving trash or belongings strewn around public areas with little regard for how people might find them.
“What did his parents even teach him?” the worker had huffed. Ghostblade wasn’t sure if there was an answer to that.
Right now, though, he enjoys the rare treat of having the room to himself. He goes through the motions of preparing his tea, and once that’s done he takes a seat at the kitchen island, facing outwards towards the windows. The weather is nice today. Red bleeds into orange as the sun sets down a cloudless sky, and something thrums warm within Ghostblade’s bones at the feeling of his environment being just right.
Then he hears the sound of footsteps and shifts his gaze right on time to see Dragon Boy walk through the doorway.
The boy freezes, and Ghostblade is fairly sure he does, too. They have something of a staring contest right there in the third floor lounge. Dragon Boy takes a single step back in a way that seems almost instinctual before he scowls, baring his teeth and planting a foot forward very purposefully instead. And then another, and then another. He walks to the couch like he’s… sticking it to Ghostblade, somehow. Ghostblade has no idea what he could've done to warrant it.
Then Dragon Boy sits down, and he looks at Ghostblade like he’s expecting him to do something. Again, Ghostblade cannot emphasise enough how much he doesn’t understand what the boy wants from him. So he does the most inoffensive thing he can think of, which is to give a single, polite nod, before continuing to drink his tea.
And he tries to ignore it, he really does. But he can still feel the boy’s gaze on him, burning with an intensity that makes Ghostblade wonder if he has telepathic powers as well as a healing one. After what feels like an eternity, Dragon Boy finally turns back to the coffee table.
They both tend to their respective tasks in silence.
-
They establish an understanding of some sort.
After that strange encounter, Dragon Boy doesn’t seem to mind Ghostblade’s presence in the lounge anymore. He’ll even turn to look at him when he enters, an acknowledgement that feels as close to a greeting as Ghostblade will get. He sits and nurses his tea as he always does, facing the windows — and it’s not exactly the same with another person there, but it isn’t different in a bad way.
Dragon Boy eats and shoots paper balls into the trash can and works on his writing. He’s, surprisingly, quite diligent. Sometimes his face scrunches up in frustration before he scribbles all over the page and rips it out entirely. Sometimes he lies on the couch, tapping his fingers against the armrest as he tries to follow the music playing softly from the speakers.
Once, Ghostblade arrives at the lounge when he isn’t there. He walks towards the kitchenette but pauses when he sees a few pages scattered on the ground. The wind from the open window must’ve blown them off the table. He picks up the first paper, then stops, because — there are drawings.
It’s a page torn from Dragon Boy’s workbook, but there are drawings, crammed into the margins between each segmented column and penciled in with the roughness of a hand not quite able to control its own strength yet. He picks up the other pages and finds more and more. Beasts frozen mid-battle in a burst of claw and fang, jagged shadows that slope into a face with crossed-out eyes, and explosions that dissolve into smoking, blocky clouds. They’re crude, yes, but given his age and situation, they’re impressive. There’s genuine talent here.
Ghostblade looks at the papers in his hands and can’t help but think that — back at that noisy place, this was something that would’ve been praised to the high heavens. He imagines, if he’d shown drawings like these at eleven years old, it would’ve been passed around the dinner table with all the adults clamoring at his skill, at how he would become a world-famous artist in no time, no doubt about it.
But Dragon Boy isn’t in a noisy place filled with people who would pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair and claim he has only good things ahead of him. Ghostblade has a feeling that this art will stay exactly where it is — crammed into the margins where no one will look, because there simply isn’t a space on this path where it’ll be able to grow.
What a shame, Ghostblade thinks. The ease with which the thought forms surprises even himself.
-
Dragon Boy has spent so much time frowning at one particular worksheet that he seems to have just given up and committed to turning it all into paper airplanes.
The air that day is filled with the sounds of ripping and crinkling paper as he gets to work, pausing every now and then to test the capabilities of his new creations. He flicks his wrist and the first plane barely makes it a second before it goes into a nosedive. The next fares a little better and hits the far wall. One flies out the window. One nails the speaker. An (admittedly impressive) number of them end up stuck on a ceiling ledge.
Eventually, Dragon Boy throws one that takes off and performs a wonky loop, before it crashes right onto the kitchen island where Ghostblade sits.
Ghostblade pauses his mug’s journey to his lips to stare at the wayward plane in front of him. Slowly, he picks it off the counter and sets his tea down. The plane’s wing has been bent from the way it landed, so he reaches to smooth it out — and it’s here that he notices, scrawled onto its inner fold are the words Dragon Boy.
He learned to write his own name. That’s good. The characters for it are fairly complex.
Ghostblade fixes the wing and looks up to meet his gaze. He’d half-expected him to ask for it or simply snatch it back himself, but Dragon Boy remains quiet. He’s just watching Ghostblade with a strange expectation in his eyes. Thankfully, Ghostblade has a better clue of what he wants this time.
Ghostblade flicks his wrist, and the plane soars across the room, sailing in a perfect line until Dragon Boy catches it. The boy fixes him with a grin, sharp-toothed and crooked, and it occurs to Ghostblade that it’s the first time he’s seen him smile.
-
Ghostblade is making tea when the thought suddenly strikes him that the leaves can be re-steeped.
It seems like the most glaringly obvious thing in the world when he stares down at the little mesh basket in his hand, but it had truly never crossed his mind up to this point. He’d never needed to make a cup for anyone other than himself, after all.
Ghostblade turns to look at the boy engrossed in his work at the coffee table. He turns back around to look at the rack of identical mugs before him, then he thinks, well, what’s the harm?
This is how he ends up walking towards the table with two mugs of tea in hand for the very first time. Approaching Dragon Boy, also for the very first time. The boy picks up on his trajectory before he’s even halfway across the room, and his head snaps sideways to watch as Ghostblade comes to a stop right in front of him. His eyes are violet and cautious and very, very confused.
He opens his mouth, but whatever he was about to say dies in his throat when Ghostblade sets a mug down beside his workbook. He immediately leans away from the offending piece of ceramic like it’s a live explosive.
“What?” Dragon Boy says. “What are you doing?”
Ghostblade frowns. He points at the mug, then at Dragon Boy — who then proceeds to point at himself as if to say, me? Ghostblade nods, but the boy still doesn’t move. Maybe he assumed too much? So Ghostblade tilts his head, pulls down his mask, and gives a demonstrative sip of his own tea.
Dragon Boy scowls. “I know how a cup works, dipshit!”
Oh. Well. Ghostblade was only making sure. He points at the mug again with a little less gusto, and this time Dragon Boy takes it. He peers into the amber liquid with quizzical eyes. Then he tries a sip.
Immediately, his nose scrunches up at the taste — perhaps it’s too bitter? Children usually prefer sweet things — but he goes back in for another drink, both hands clasped firmly around the mug. Ghostblade watches as he gulps half the cup down in one go before he finally stops for air.
Dragon Boy looks up and regards him with an unreadable expression. The side of his jaw shifts. He opens his mouth, closes it. Purses his lips for a moment.
Then he says, “Quit staring. It’s creepy.”
Ghostblade blinks. Then he nods, because, yeah, that’s understandable. He turns on his heel and starts walking back to the kitchen island when Dragon Boy speaks again in a mumble so low he nearly misses it. “And the drink’s good… I guess.”
He looks back. Dragon Boy is picking at the hem of his pants with his gaze fixed firmly onto the floor.
Ghostblade makes a mental note to start preparing two cups of tea from then on.