Chapter Text
"...I need your attention
In this frail dimension of a brain
I just want love (didn't know my study heart can be so brittle)
I'll take anyone (Gimmie all your love and I'll back off a little)"
-- gimmie all ur luv, hemlocke springs
The morning haze sifted lower than usual through the trees and little buildings that decorated the Woodland, as prey and predators alike hummed to life with the beginning of their routines. Beams of sunlight streaked through half-drawn curtains directly into a fox's squinted eyes, and he strenuously turned over to press his muzzle into an abundance of pillows.
His nocturnal instincts had become far more of a hindrance than a benefit as of late.
Fox was barely conscious and only recalled a whim to check the time before drifting back into a dream, when a resounding knock reverberated throughout the house and rattled him awake. He shot upright in a daze, untangling himself from the comfort of his blankets and immediately faceplanting into carpet.
Ouch, he ignored the jolt of pain that traveled from his nose to the bridge between his eyes, and stood. The room spun wildly, forcing him to hold out his arms to navigate through work papers and evil schemes - that at some point had blown off his desk during the night - and towards his wardrobe.
It was an embarrassing display, he'd think he was having a nightmare if not for the throbbing pain. If someone had caught him being so clumsy, even in the comfort of his own home -- it made a sickly feeling build in his stomach, a feeling that turned into a tight wire pulling at his insides. Like his mind was trying to connect dots.
He viciously shook his head and physically removed the thought from his mind.
By the time Fox had replaced silk pajamas with a white shirt and trousers, the knocking at his front door had grown more insistent. This unexpected visitor, whoever it was, had disrupted every crucial step of his morning routine.
"If this is an overdue payment, consider your lease revoked," Fox announced loudly as he traversed down the staircase and dragged open the front door. Instead of a meek little sheep begging for forgiveness on rent, a lynx towered above him, radiating authority that made Fox jump backwards.
He barely composed himself, then set his hands on poised hips, "Can I help you?"
The predator's suit was dark, without a crease, and it contrasted brutally against Fox -- who had somehow forgotten to button the top of his shirt. He didn't have time to be embarrassed or question his sudden lack of dignity when confusion took priority, and peeking around the lynx revealed two more.
"Revenue and Customs, Mr. Fox," The first lynx announced, flashing a badge that Fox had literally no time to register before the predators stepped into his entryway.
That sickly feeling was a premonition. From a rocking chair, he watched as his grand piano was carried away, antiques and trinkets were carefully moved into a truck, and expensive material was clutched by strangers. Fox's mind blurred, the rude awakening didn't help matters. His glare had just fixated on a large, beautiful painting signed by his grandfather being taken away when someone touched his elbow.
"Mr. Fox?"
Fox blinked rapidly, he'd been staring for too long. The ringleader lynx stood above him, the edges of a clipboard gripped in his sharp claws.
"I'm sure you have questions."
Fox let out a genuine laugh, one that raised in pitch, "You're taking everything out of my house, start with an explanation."
He had spent the first ten minutes of the invasion shouting and trying to tear his belongings from the grip of predators far stronger than him. Fox might as well have been throwing a temper tantrum the way no one spared him a glance, or sternly asked him to step out of the way. He was determined, but he was much smaller in comparison.
After completely exhausting himself, he resorted to gathering his personal items and anything left untouched into a bag, before finally dropping down into his chair to dissociate back and forth.
"You never paid taxes, you can find an account in -- well, somewhere in here," the lynx mumbled at the end of his sentence, flipping pages to skim through words. "As of 2005, you have no income, live off inheritance from your mother's will --"
"Okay, no, I'm stopping you there," Fox interrupted, a sharply manicured index finger held out, "I pay my taxes, I file everything personally because I don't trust anyone else to do that."
"Maybe you should've," the lynx straightened his posture. "In any case, you're left with a very small amount of money, some furniture, that bag of yours -- and we're willing to give you a ride."
"A ride. Don't I still have my car?"
There was a beat of silence. Fox immediately leapt upwards and scampered out of the door into his front yard, where he just managed to catch a glimpse of his red 1998 AC Cobra being towed away into the horizon.
Fox dropped to his knees and tore up handfuls of grass. As he watched the remaining team haul the last of his expensive furniture into one of two trucks, footsteps wandered up behind him. His carry-on bag landed next to him with a heavy thump and a palm rested on his shoulder. Fox resisted looking up in favour of his - honestly - justified theatrics.
"Mr. Fox," a voice said -- that lynx, "Where do you need a ride to?"
That morning's mist was another cruel sign of things to come. Dark clouds brewed overhead and the sky rustled with energy. Fox, now with his waistcoat and a red cravat adorned into his collar, situated himself at the entrance of his old country club. He gave the handles of white French doors a gentle tug -- locked.
He glanced over his shoulder and pouted. That lynx had wished him luck before leaving, and his car was nowhere in sight. Desperation was beginning to set in, he really had nowhere else to go unless he wanted to start walking back into town. That was never an option.
His membership had been revoked four years ago, but a small part of him hoped the Canine Club would've forgotten about the details behind it. Or at least remembered the important ones, like his generous contributions towards amenities -- in hindsight, he should've picked more of a fight back then.
Fox raised his fist, tightened its grip, and bashed desperately against the doors.
"Hey! I... got locked out!"
No response. He hissed through his teeth and kicked the tip of his shoe into the wall. Fox's words were coming out with more hesitation attached than he liked, but it'd been a long day -- and it wasn't even midday.
"Fox?"
No.
Every second of today was a humiliation ritual. Fox's ears betrayed him when they flicked towards the voice, a deep and familiar tone he had hoped to avoid. He inhaled sharply -- crisp air hit his lungs, and he turned around with a practiced smile.
"Wolf!"
Wolf stood awkwardly at the end of the steps leading up to Fox. Behind him, a yellow taxi stalled. Evidently, he observed Fox closely, and so Fox tried to follow his trail of vision -- first, on the bag crammed to maximum capacity, then, the lack of fancy car parked in the driveway, and finally, Fox himself earned an extended up-and-down glance.
"What are you doing here?" Fox finally managed to break the silence, as the blood rushed to his head.
"The president called me over, said you were -- um, disturbing the peace."
"That's a lie, don't listen to a word he says. I'm visiting a friend."
It was right then that one of the two trucks from earlier that morning pulled up the curved driveway and screeched to a stop. A sheep with gold rimmed glasses and a notepad hopped out of the driver's seat. She gave a little oof as she landed.
"Baa?" She asked, pointing to the truck. The back, directly pointed towards the two, rolled open and a ramp slid out. Boxes of belongings labeled in fancy cursive had been neatly packed inside -- the sparse remains of what couldn't be repossessed.
Wolf and Fox locked eyes.
"That's not mine."
The distinct silhouette of a candelabra inside the truck peeked out in his peripheral. He ignored it.
"Sorry, can you drive back into the Woodland? Just follow behind us," Wolf spoke to the sheep, who rolled her eyes. Regardless, she pulled the truck's door down and clambered back inside.
Fox crossed his arms over his chest, "I'm not leaving with you."
Wolf ignored him, or maybe just didn't hear him. He offered a lopsided smile and hurried up the steps, slipping a hand under the handle of Fox's luggage. With barely a huff, he heaved it over his shoulder and tipped his head towards the road.
"The president paid for my taxi, isn't that cool?"
Fox wanted to burst into tears or nail himself into the platform, "Why does the president have your number."
It was a demand, not a question. He didn't realise Wolf was actually making connections with other predators outside of him. That familiar twinge from this morning made itself known again as it pierced his stomach, and he quickly shoved that feeling back into a tiny compartment in his mind.
Wolf shrugged as a response -- that frustrated Fox even more. As he considered taking a rock from the fancy garden beds and hauling it against the club windows, or maybe into Wolf's head, a spot of rain hit him. Fox sniffed, straightened his waistcoat, and rushed down the steps towards the taxi.
The clouds grew denser and rain sprinkled gently against the taxi's window, quickly gathering into heavy drops that hammered against the roof.
Trees became more compact and bountiful as they drove back into town -- paved roads were replaced with gravel and dirt, and the taxi drew towards the familiar duplex in a clearing. The taxi's built-in radio crackled with static and occasionally cut to clear audio, Fox could barely process the local news.
In other news, the Woodland's bzzt was apparently bzzt last-minute, thanks to our theatre still being bzzt. We asked the board for more information, and we'll report back when we have more. Bzzt, it's time for a weather report! Rain will continue bzzt –
The taxi suddenly veered to a stop, which made Fox's head sway with motion sickness. Wolf swiftly hopped out and tended to the back with Fox's belongings.
Alright, he wasn't even going to open the door for him.
Fox pushed down on the handle and stepped out with a huff -- rain seeped into his fur and he stiffened. He neglected any notion to assist Wolf and instead rushed towards the front door. The screech of a truck stopped behind the taxi, and to silence the cacophony of noise, he ended up shutting the door completely.
The house was dark and warm. He waved a hand blindly against the wall and flicked on the overhead light. It cast warmth over the living room, shining onto scattered magazines, video game cases and other homely clutter that littered the coffee table and carpet. The smell of burnt toast drifted out from the kitchen, and an ironing table was propped behind the couch.
He sauntered towards the leather couch, settling into it.
He hadn't paid the Wolves a visit in a while.
Fox's own house had always been so prim and proper, with everything in its rightful place and surfaces wiped down. When he missed a speck of dust or if a glass slipped from his grasp, he could still hear the shrill voice of a woman reprimanding him. Despite no one else living with him or paying him a visit, it stuck with him more than he liked in his day-to-day routine.
His gaze wandered across the coffee table, landing on a pamphlet. He flipped it open, tracing over details for the Woodland Night Market. His heart stung, he was meant to be helping with it as its primary benefactor. It was one of the few events he liked working on in previous years, and Fox had dropped the paper off for Wolf a few weeks ago -- with instructions to clear his schedule for it.
With the way his life was going, he expected a notice of removal from the town board all together soon.
Fox's carry-on bag suddenly dropped next to him on the couch -- he didn't notice the sound of rain picking up again with the front door open, or a drift creeping into the room. He coughed to mask his surprise, stuffed the pamphlet into his waistcoat, and glanced up towards Wolf.
"You know," Fox started, "If my friends from the club saw me, they would've welcomed me inside," He shot a glance around his surroundings, "I doubt there's even room for me here."
Wolf waved his hand dismissively, "There's room in the basement."
Fox immediately planted his face into his hands. How had he gone from living in the Woodland's biggest house to being offered a damp, cold basement?
It was like Wolf could read his thoughts, as he suddenly noticed the state of his house. He smiled sheepishly and waved his hands, "The boys woke up late for school, it's not usually this messy!"
Boxes slowly began to accumulate into the living room. Evidently, there was a lot, but he had to assume over half of his belongings were taken away.
Wolf emerged from the depths of boxes, shoving one away with the side of his boot, "Is your bedroom getting redecorated again?"
Fox seized up at the question. Secretly, he wanted to celebrate that what had happened to him this morning clearly hadn't been gossiped about, or at the very least hadn't made it to Wolf.
"Not just my bedroom!" Fox settled on, "My house is being renovated. Extended rooms, new decorations, and --"
He side-eyed the coffee table, and its one broken leg being held steady by a textbook.
"Furniture."
Wolf nodded with a thoughtful hum. Fabricating a story was just too easy when he did it with enough confidence, to the point that he almost believed it himself. Truthfully, a small part of him was still convinced that this was a minor setback -- the lynxes would call him up and say they had the wrong fox, they'd laugh about it, and it'd become a classic anecdote.
Yes, everything was fine.
Even for someone who visited as often Fox did, he had never seen Wolf's basement. He was led by him towards an alcove, and the two of them descended down a set of stairs into the darkness.
His stomach turned. He pictured slapping beetles off of himself during the night, a leaky boiler keeping him awake, or worse -- something flooding and ruining what remained of his belongings.
Wolf suddenly came to a halt on the last step, which broke Fox out of his imagination as he flailed his arms to keep steady. He leaned against the banister and winced, but before he could open his mouth, a light bulb directly above them sparked to life and illuminated the room.
Fox blinked as he processed the room. His expectations were so low that what he saw was far nicer than he expected.
Exposed wooden beams, with fairy lights wrapped loosely around them, hung above the two and stretched across the ceiling. Navy blue curtains split the room, and an older television set accompanied by a run-down couch sat in the corner. Against the wall next to it, a heavy-duty bookcase was lined with trinkets and scrapbooks, and miscellaneous storage had been set down sporadically.
Even if the vibe wasn't his standard, it was far better than nothing. He really didn't want to sleep on the living room couch or in Wolf's bed. The latter idea especially tugged at his insides -- dread he assumed, he didn't want to explore it.
"It's cosy," Fox finally spoke up.
Wolf let out a half-hearted laugh as he stepped down.
"It's a work in progress," he explained, as he shifted the curtains aside. "Simon wants his own bedroom, and he requested the basement -- it'll be, like, a hangout spot for the teenagers, y'know?"
More of the room revealed itself. A bed was positioned in the centre of a paneled, wooden wall -- fit with far too many blankets and a rug atop the flooring. Bedside tables sat on either side, but there was a noticeable lack of lamps or any other decorative items.
Fox prowled across the basement and made a performance of counting his fingers, "Simon is..."
"Turning fifteen, in a few months."
"Best of luck to him," Fox shuddered at the thought of his own teenage years.
"I hear that," Wolf shimmied past Fox as he patted a firm hand over his shoulder. "I'll start bringing your things down, get settled in."
Fox hummed in response, ignoring the sensation left behind on his shoulder. As soon as Wolf went up the stairs, he let himself unmask and flopped stomach first onto the bed. The mattress caved and engulfed him -- it was so surprisingly comfortable, but he disregarded it as exhaustion. Any bed would've been nice.
He rolled over onto his back and stuck a hand into his waistcoat, retrieving the pamphlet he snatched from the living room. He squinted reading the list of activities and shows that had been planned over three nights -- booths, exhibits, workshops and music performances.
The sound of Wolf's boots stomped down the steps, and Fox propped himself up to shove the paper into the bedside table's drawer. He rammed it shut with an unfortunately loud slam.
Wolf raised an eyebrow as he came into frame, a large box in his arms, "Are you breaking stuff in here?"
"I slipped," Fox said as he sat upright on the bed.
Instead of Wolf asking for elaboration, he raised a new topic.
"How's the event planning going?"
Fox scoffed in response.
"Not good?" Wolf suggested. He used a claw to slice through the top of the box, revealing an assortment of skin care products and conditioner bottles.
"Thank god!" Fox exclaimed, falling off the bed to crawl towards the box. He plucked out a moisturiser tub, then a bottle of scented body soap in his other hand, "I don't know what I would've done without you."
He was whispering to the cosmetics, naturally.
"Um, so, the market?" Wolf tried again.
"Oh," Fox said. "Right, sorry. It's been cancelled. Can you check if my cravat collection is safe?"
"What?!" It was Wolf's turn to yelp.
"It's not happening," Fox mumbled as he sorted carefully through containers and tins of products -- he was surprised they weren't taken away, but he supposed it was because they were all used. "Our music acts pulled out, and the theatre's been closed for months -- no other building in town has the capacity for outside crowds."
Wolf's ears drooped. Fox peered up and was immediately hit with the ache of guilt -- he hadn't even done anything to feel bad, at least in regards to the market. It wasn't his decision to cancel it, he was one of the few on the board that wanted to go through with it anyways, but he suddenly felt responsible for the entire thing at the sight of Wolf.
"I was looking forward to it, so were the boys."
"Stop," Fox begged. He averted his gaze from Wolf's deep eyes, "I get it, you're upset. I was too -- we can't even get Death Cub For Cutie here."
They shared a moment of quiet, saved by the clinking of Fox's items gathering on the floor. Wolf got back to work carrying boxes down, lining them up in a row.
Fox, still on the first box, was about to start organising face masks when Wolf spoke up again.
"You really can't do anything?"
"Still on this, are you?" Fox frowned. "I don't know what you can think of that I haven't already tried."
"I mean -- you're rich, aren't you?"
Oh.
"Yes..." Fox answered incredulously, in a dangerous attempt to side-step his current financial situation.
"So," Wolf beamed a smile and knelt down next to Fox, "You're already on the board, say you'll run the thing. You can figure something out -- and you love having control!"
Fox cleared his throat. He made a very good point, the fox loved being in charge of everything.
Truth be told, he wasn't even sure how this would benefit him. The market really wasn't that big of a deal, just a way to liven up the town's late night scene and bring in visitors -- until he considered that being on the town board was the only remaining relevance he had.
Leading the event and making it more of a cultural movement than the previous years could actually be his saving grace. If the board hadn't heard about his new situation, surely he had enough influence to get the resounding okay he always loved hearing.
Heat warmed underneath his fur and up into cheeks, "You're right," Fox said, easing up from the ground.
"I am!" Wolf grinned.
"But," Fox gripped onto the cuffs of Wolf's leather jacket, dragging him upwards. He allowed a sincere smile to creep onto his face, "I'll obviously need your help with it."
"Sir, I can't keep repeating myself," an exhausted doe groaned over a desk. She stole a look at her watch and prayed for the end of her shift, "We can't sell you this car, it literally just got here and we need to figure out what's going on with it first."
"I hear you," a proper voice mused. A fox that had seen better days, with more greys than reds, tightened his coat and pinched his collar. He withdrew a chequebook and pen, scribbled down an amount, and ripped it off cleanly before presenting it, "But I absolutely need it."
The doe stared at the amount on the cheque -- it was more than she had ever seen in her life working as an underqualified cars saleswoman. She glanced side-to-side, and slid it from the counter into her handbag.
"Fine, let's get these papers filled out. Before my boss gets back."
The fox adjusted round spectacles further up his muzzle. He smiled thinly and downed a gentle nod, "Pleasure doing business."
By the time paperwork had been filed and car keys were passed off, the sky had finally parted and the sun glistened against wet concrete. The fox stepped into a 1998 AC Cobra and pulled out of the parking lot, then begun the drive towards the western border of England.