For the ghastly remnants of a street rat, it was weird to be cared for. Nobody had ever thought to tend his wounds or offered him water or build him a blanket nest before -- what was different about this girl? She certainly strained herself for the good of others, unlike him. She was always out working to stretch out a hand, she laughed at jokes even when their speakers' didn't have an ounce of humor in their veins, she cried over tragedies that broke others' hearts. She was the daughter of a forgotten rival and the daughter of the absent murderer who captured an old follower. And she could be a friend to a worthless thief trapped in limbo, right?

    Goldenluxury Roux was selfless. She was perfect. Or at least to him. Just like an old friend. She didn't like us, she never did; she left us for the first breathin' boy she met. And he treated her better than ya ever could, Becky. The faint rasping from the burrow of chilled blankets hitched at the poisonous voice injected into his brain. The boy's head poked out from his wooly fortress, tilting his nose in the air to pinpoint Goldie's location. Her comforting scent was fluttering about the kitchen, preparing a meal based on the blur he could discern. Ducking his head back beneath the covers, the coast was clear for him to hiss back in a broken whisper, "She's dif-ferent. She's takin' care of me -- of me." Oh, yeah? She's just makin' herself look better to everyone else. A 'good Samaritan.' "Shut up. You're wrong -- wrong, wrong, wrong." He croaked with a voice soaked in bitterness, cradling his head with tightly-bandaged paws as he failed to notice his repetitious words. The clink of a ceramic bowl set onto a surface interrupted his conversation, his notched ear flicking up in surprise. How much had she heard?

    Worry tugging downwards at his intact lips into a sheepish pout, Beck waited in silence before he convinced himself to slink out of his blankets. A numb paw misstepped in the water dish laid out for him in vain, and while he didn't register it until a ripple of static shot up his mangled arm, the shadow of a smile could be seen on his mutilated snout as his undead heart swelled. It was a weird feeling, fuzzy and mocking, but he was beginning to like the weirdness of it all. Blinking a set of glassy eyes up at Goldie, he could only stare like a moonstruck deer in the headlights as he struggled through a flustered panic in an attempt to start small talk. Oh God, oh God -- "Ya look like you're -- like you're too weak to-o whip a gnat." The poltergeist blurted as he fiddled with the fraying edge of a blanket, a cold flush rising to his freckles before he abruptly shrugged and giggled. Sometimes he regretted never paying attention to how normal creatures acted.