Chapter 16 is the quarter mark, and it seems like I've been at this much longer than I've truly been. Not that the ideas are slowing down much, but I am starting to feel like I'm going in circles sometimes.

Anyway, this takes place right at the end of Jak 3. I'm usually not one to get overly ticked off at a game, though I do admit to some creative swearing when frustrated by a mission. The end of the third game, however, annoyed me to no end. I'm still kinda pissed off about it, which is sad because it is my favorite of the series. Freaking pants as a reward...I accept, even if I don't like it. I do not accept Veger's "punishment," however, so here's my poor attempt to right that little wrong.

~Tawnya

Rip – Jak 3

"So, you were just going to sneak off in the middle of the night? Without a word?"

Daxter flinched, cursing silently as he turned around. Highlighted from behind by the many bonfires that had sprung up as evening set in, Jak looked just that much more angry, and that much more alone. His face was stamped with hurt and betrayal. Daxter wanted to sigh, roll his eyes in exasperation, and smack his friend upside the head. Instead, he squared up, glaring back in a challenge.

"Actually, I was thinkin' 'bout strollin', but if sneakin' will get the job done, then yes." This time, Jak flinched, but he was still all hard lines and deceived overtones. Daxter gritted his teeth against the feelings of guilt. He wasn't doing anything wrong, not technically, at least. Just taking care of a loose end that sorely needed to be tied up, then preferably beaten half to death. "Go back to the party, Jak," he said in a decently calm and nonchalant voice. "This is the third time ya've saved the freakin' world. Rest on yer damn laurels for a while, 'cuz with yer track record, we got two weeks before the next disaster strikes." He made a shooing motion with his hands.

Jak hesitated. "Daxter—"

"Drop it," he growled. "Go back to the others. This is somethin' I gotta do, an' I gotta do it alone."

There was a few minutes of tense silence as the two stared at each other, defiant and unwilling to give, gauging each other's conviction in their words. Most of the time, it was Daxter who lost the battle of wills, bending to whatever Jak wanted. But this time, it was Jak who finally took the step back. "Why?" he asked.

"'Cuz if I told ya, ya'd try to stop me." Now Daxter did sigh, rubbing the back of his head in a stressed manner. "Please, Jak. Just… just trust me on this."

Another consideration, shorter this time. The almost imperceptible nod was all the acknowledgment the ottsel needed. Just like his nickname, Daxter disappeared into darkness like a streak of orange lightning, leaving Jak behind for the second time.

-X-X-X-

Daxter didn't come back that night. Spargus's celebration of the victorious dead had lit up the darkness for hours, filling the air with sweet smelling smoke and drunken laughter even as dawn broke over still smoldering coals. But Jak hadn't taken part in any of merry-making despite the many entreaties of his friends. Instead, he'd gone home—gods, that sounded weird to say now—and gone to bed, exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with the amount of sleep he got. He'd watched shadows play across the ceiling as the revelry continued outside his window, listening hard for the tell-tale scratch of claws on stone until sleep finally claimed him.

It was hard to tell what really woke him the next morning, but he bolted back to consciousness with a face full of sunshine to greet him. He groaned and tired to hide under his pillow, half-heartedly feeling around the bed for the warm body that should have been there, and yet wasn't. He stared at the empty nest of blankets created to accommodate someone who lost warmth easily for a while before finally pushing himself out of bed. Moping the day away wasn't an option no matter how much he wished it was… That's when he heard the low hiss and stifled muttering coming from the bathroom. Cautiously, Jak crept up to the slightly ajar door and peered in.

Daxter was sitting in the sink, fussing and scrubbing at the pants the Precursors had given him. Why he was worried about the clothing when he himself looked like he'd been dragged through the desert clinging to the undercarriage of one of the dune buggies was beyond Jak, but that's what he was doing, swearing every so often under his breath. His hands shook as he held the garment up to inspect his work, giving Jak a view of his scratched face, the dried blood in his fur and around his nose, and the swelling that had partially closed one eye. He was covered in dirt, fur matted in some place and missing in others.

"Sonuvabitch," he hissed.

"You okay?" Jak asked quietly, finally stepping in to the room.

"No, I'm not okay." Daxter scowled up at him. "I haven't even had the damn things for a full day an' they're ripped. See?" He held the pants out for Jak to inspect, which he did after a moment's hesitation. Indeed, there seemed to be a hole in one of the legs where the stitching had snapped and unraveled. Again, Jak failed to see why that was more important than Daxter's own injuries. He just about asked, but decided he was probably better of not knowing the why of it. Nevertheless, the ottsel seemed put out by the fact his clothing was damaged, so Jak did the only thing he really could—he offered to fix them.

As easily as that, the tension between them dissolved and they were back to where they'd always been. Daxter never did confess to what happened, where he'd gone and what he'd done once there to earn such a scruffy appearance, but Jak got an idea when Kleiver showed up on his doorstep, blowing more smoke than usual. He hadn't paid much attention to what the large man said, more interested in the fact that the ottsel-ized Veger looked six times worse than Daxter did. He even flinched when Daxter, who wasn't even in the room at the time, made an off-handed comment about the protective instincts of some animals and to take better care where he went walking alone.

Daxter was a very spoiled ottsel for a while after that.