::two-parter::

gajeel&levy's disastrous first encounter.

i've wanted to write/read this fic for freaking ever. because as much as i obsessively love this pairing, it's hard to forget that, once upon a time, he put her in the blosh-fribbling hospital. essentially without compunction. but this all happened off-screen/off-page, which, in my humble opining onion, is entirelytoomuch missed story potential.

hence!

[DISCLAIMER-NO-JUTSU!]

warning: gajeel gets his metaphors confused. and by 'gajeel,' i of course mean moi. and by 'confused,' i mean WHERE THE BRICKT*TS IS MY TOASTER, STAN! (also, warnings for language and eventual violence.)

Tiny scrap of a thing, blue hair flared out around her face like she's in the habit of stickin' her fingers in light sockets, eyes big and brown and disarmingly bright; there's a still shrewdness to her gaze he almost completely overlooks.

He might yet've just let her slip past, but those eyes of hers flicker over his person, linger for a heartbeat longer'n they ought'a on the black brand magically stamped onto his arm, and he knows -before he ever lays eyes on the Fairy mark set against the skin of her bare shoulder- this undersized sprite is just the spark he's lookin' for.

Trashin' their guild hall turns out not to've been nearly enough to incite Makarov's cream puffs to retaliatory action. The fairy punks may not've appreciated the unsolicited home make-over, but he should'a known it'd take more than his unique aesthetic sensibilities to pull the pansies into an all-out war.

Now he's thinkin' maybe the 'more' this situation calls for is a little good, ol'-fashioned dragon-on-shrimp brutality. Every mage in the damn country's heard the (undoubtedly exaggerated) rumors: that the fairies are an unstoppable, astonishingly destructive force of nature when their nakama are threatened. He finds himself suddenly keen to put these rumors to the test. And here's just the pretty tinder he needs, all but served up on a silver platter, ripe for the threatening.

Sadistic excitement splits his face with glee; per orders, one singularly spectacular fuckin' fire, comin' riiiight up.

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Half a heartbeat before he means to grab her, tug her into an alley, and make with the beatin' her black to match the blue, she checks her stride, gingerly cocks her head to one side, and then has the unimaginable gall to smile up at him and ask him if he's lost.

She pinches a lock of hair curlin' outta the flower-studded band stretched across her forehead, and her expression's open, but not vacant, and definitely not unguarded. The smell of magic permeates the air, filling his nostrils. There's a spell at the ready, on the tip of her tongue, in the steady tension of her fingers.

Her sunny candor is pretense, subterfuge. Shorty's takin' his measure.

Shrimp's no ditz, then, he idly notes. 'Lost' is how she's marked him, yet the subtext clearly reads 'suspicious.' Perhaps this means the fairy trashes aren't so naively trusting as the stories make 'em about to be; maybe his pro bono remodeling job's had its intended effect after all, and the lot of 'em are hot n' rarin' for payback, just waiting for a culprit and an opportunity.

Gajeel's only too happy to provide both.

"A'int lost." He replies, slickin' a shit-eating grin across his mouth. Then, as his eyes rake the length of a copper drainpipe just beyond the ridge of her shoulder, gaze briefly, unavoidably drawn to the shapely curve of her hip- "Think I'm right where I ought'a be." Frowning both at how uncomfortably like a shitty pick-up line that must've sounded, and at the unaccountable flush of the Midget's cheeks, "Shit day ta' be a fairy, Shrimp." She bites her lip, swallows hard, and her fear hangs thick n' heavy between them. She trembles, steels herself.

"Better a fairy than a phantom -any day." She's more direct than her delicate features suggest. Sharp and fiesty, this one. An exciting combination, and one that warns him not to take this particular female lightly; reminds 'im a bit of a certain always-gloomy rain mage back at Phantom HQ, whose slight build and general air of tragic dejection expertly conceal the biggest, fattest ball of bugfuck crazy he's prob'ly ever seen. No tellin' what manner o' insanity the Midget's hidin' under that fork-in-the-toaster updo. Growing bolder still, "And while we're on the subject -unless you're here to offer terms of reconciliation on behalf of your guild, I think it's best you leave. Immediately."

Curiosity pricked, "Or else...?"

"Or else I'll have to escort you out myself. And I can't promise I'll be gentle." His laughter's ugly with derision, intentionally abrasive. Bristling, she squares her shoulders, rises to her full, unimpressive height, and he grins to see her expression, fierce, resolve struck from iron. "Try me, you phantom bastard."

Shrimp's got a spine!

Empty bluster or not, it's one helluva delightful surprise.

"Gihik -the phantom bastard." He corrects. Shorty's shorter-lived bravery expires when he reaches toward her, and she visibly cowers, which does nothing but increase her already dramatic height disadvantage. She's mistakin' his intent here, but terrorizin' the pipsqueak's kinda the whole point of this exercise, so he doesn't bother to reassure her he's only here for violence of the brawling combat variety. Instead, he takes another, deliberately encroaching step toward her, only to wrap his fingers around the drain pipe immediately behind her, crushin' it in his hand easy as he might snap a twig. With a single, sharp twist, he cleanly sunders a full section of the tubing, and proceeds without ceremony to fit the fractured sheeting into his mouth.

"Gajeel." She breathes, his name a whispered curse. The revelation of his identity 'pparently isn't a happy one. "The Iron Dragon Slayer." It's a quick deduction -an obvious deduction, maybe, since he ain't exactly bein' subtle, but still quick. 'Course, maybe he shouldn't be so surprised she'd caught on straight away; what, with a dragon slayer of their very own, he s'pposes she's probably more accustomed than most to havin' friends with...unconventional appetites. (Even sideways thought of the Salamander bastard sets his blood boilin' with anticipation.)

He doesn't respond for a long moment, wherein the only sound is the eerie-sweet screech of his teeth shearing through copper. It's partially for effect, and also partly 'cause Metalicana'd been pretty fuckin' strict about not talkin' with his mouth full. When the silence stretches on for longer'n he actually means to let it, "What do you want?" Shrimp's voice is high n' clear n' hard as fuckin' steel, which might'a been imposin' if she weren't, well, a shrimp. Or if she weren't so obviously terrified, now that she knows who she's really up against. Now that she knows she can't win.

At length, lazily, "'Says I want 'nything?" Her brow tics in irritation. He leers.

"What do you want, Gajeel?" She says his name like she's been sayin' it forever, with the forbearing exasperation of long acquaintance. The unexpected familiarity throws him off-kilter, though only briefly.

"I'm here ta' deliver a message, is all. From my guild, to yours."

Takin' his meaning straight away, "Destroying our home wasn't enough?" Her 'home.' Not her 'guild hall,' her 'home.' Sentimental fuckin' fairies...

Chewin' thoughtfully, "'pparently not." He swallows the last of the drainpipe, then starts limberin' up for the job, crackin' his neck and his knuckles, rollin' his shoulders back, all the while sizin' her up with a critical eye. He can't tell by lookin' at her what manner o' magic she uses, so it's important he pays attention to everything. The way she moves, the way she breathes -anything might be a tip-off. But honestly speakin', all he's seein' is a girl who maybe ain't so smart after all, bein' so tiny n' vulnerable and wanderin' around at night with no escort less than two days after he'd laid waste to her guild.

For the full breadth of a moment, he considers walkin' away, finding some other fairy shit to pulverize. Surely there'll be no sport in this, no joy. But the insanity passes quickly, and the measured step he takes toward her this time's meant to warn he's ready to get to business.

"You don't have to do this." She says suddenly, frantically. Gajeel briefly halts his advance and frowns, a touch disappointed in her 'til he realizes she's not about to start begging -Shorty's just buyin' herself time, readying herself for an attack. "You'll regret it if you do. Maybe not here, maybe not today, but I swear to you, you will be sorry." Determined intent creases her brow as she locks her arms out in front of her, magic cracklin' at her fingertips, and he abruptly remembers his earlier decision not to underestimate her. Sordid anticipation lights through him; perhaps he'll get a decent fight outta this one, yet.

"Gihik...we'll see, Shrimp."

It's the last thing either of them says before the street explodes.

pre-panther lily gajeel makes me SO SAD. HE JUST NEEDS A FLUFFLY KITTY FOR TO LOVING, GAIS.

('fluffly...?' i LOVE IT.)

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[next chapter: dramatic misgivings! justice speeches! high-octane action! unconscionable violence! accidental groping!]

also, in case some of ye' be worried i've forgotten about jet&droy, NEVERFEAR. they're on their way.

...probably.