The dangerous glint of metal – a wrench in the grip of a fist.

"Rika."

The cutting wind and roaring engines almost drowned out the screams of friends.

"Rika, you're dreaming."

I want…

"Rika, wake up."

To sing.

Her father was walking away.

She thrusts her body upward with a cry, instinctively throwing her fist at the looming shadow that touches her, knuckles connecting with muscular velvet.

A low grunt. Blue eyes squeeze shut, then ease open.

Rika is horribly fixated upon the shadow that takes familiar form. "R-Renamon…?"

"You are safe," murmurs her Digimon in a calm, reassuring way, despite the fist imbedded shallowly in her cheek, turning the fox-like head very slightly aside. "It's alright."

Her Tamer shudders, then whimpers, quickly drawing the offending limb toward her chest.

Renamon leans in, bowing humbly so as to touch her forehead against Rika's, large paws on a naked ribcage.

"I'm sorry," whispers the Tamer in the dim bedroom, legs shifting beneath the covers.

The Digimon feels the tears soak into her fur.

Rika has always despised crying. "I treat you l-like shit." She angrily sniffs, driving that same fist into her breast.

"That is untrue."

She steadies her voice, gritting her teeth. "I'm a horrible, fucked up–

"Stop that."

"This isn't right!"

Renamon guides her partner into a gentle, careful embrace, tail curling protectively about a slender waist.

"I keep hurting you…"

"And you give me so much happiness."

"Do I really?"

The moment of hesitation could have spanned their remaining lifetimes.

"Renamon?"

"Things are not perfect. But I love you. I don't want to be anywhere else. I don't want to be with anyone else. You do make me happy. You are the greatest happiness I have ever known."

Tamer breathes against her Digimon. "Why do you love me?"

"I have many reasons. You are my partner, my friend, my soulmate."

"I've never believed in soulmates."

"You believe in me."

"Yeah, and I've always treated you like garbage. I'm such a dick. Do you choose to love me, or it something to do with being my partner?"

"I told you to stop."

"Renamon."

"Rika. What about those things you told the children, back there, in the park?"

"I know. But I'm a bad Tamer and you are a good Digimon. Either you're a weapon, or a punching bag. But you love me, anyway." Rika breathes in deeply, shakily, then lets it out in a huff. "Sometimes, you look at me like there's really hope. I wanted to believe in me, too, but I dunno if I can, anymore."

Renamon says nothing, her claws tracing shapes over skin, snowy digits tangling within red strands.

"All those years are gone, now, and we can't get them back. All these years, and I haven't really changed as much as we want to think I have. Kinda like my mom. Oh, hell."

The Digimon allows her Tamer to push back, separating their bodies, letting the cold come in-between.

"But I still love you."

Blue eyes downcast themselves. Burdened by disappointment and hurt and a desire to finally, truly understand. To be entirely accepted. To breach this chasm. To share pleasure, equally, as they are.

"I love you and you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Blue eyes slowly close. An expression eerily akin to defeat.

The rustling of flesh against fabric. A blanket being peeled back, legs emerging from beneath. The creak of the floor as feet firmly plant themselves, burdened by the weight of rising, then standing.

"Where are you going?"

The water cannot fall hard enough, hot enough, to sufficiently punish a guilty conscience.

The urge to cry is still there, aggravated, now, and humiliating.

The curtain is suddenly pulled aside, a paw plunging through steam and the downpour, an extended arm providing a shield as talons seize a faucet, hurriedly turning the temperature down.

Rika's skin is flushed.

Renamon wants to be angry, but she can't.

"Come here."

"This is no way to–"

"I know."

She steps further into the shower, pulling the curtain closed after herself.

The Tamer instinctively collapses backward, falling securely against her partner's firm, fluffy chest, reaching around for leverage, fingernails raking through fur that is getting increasingly wet, causing a rippling cascade of muscles.

The Digimon releases the faucet, gently capturing tattoos and scars.

"I love you so much…"

"Please, forgive yourself."

"Why am I so broken? Why couldn't I have a… a nice childhood? Why did I grow to be so mean?"

Renamon buries her nose in Rika's hair.

"Why can't I be stronger, more like you? Why can't I be deserving?"

The Digimon shakes her head slowly, careful not to injure any further.

Her Tamer thinks about their friends. All the love and it's never enough, like a bottomless pit that cannot be filled. Echoing gestures and words in the darkness.

Renamon understands that this is a request for sex. A distraction. Pleasure instead of pain. "I don't want this," she whispers, the words muffled. "I don't want you to associate this with–"

"Then go." Rika can feel the flinch. "You've done more than enough. I won't try to burn myself, again. It's okay."

"I don't want to leave you."

"Alright."

"Let me stay."

"You're my equal. I keep telling you."

"Then, I choose to stay."

"In that case…" The Tamer reaches for the bottle of shampoo. Judges by the weight of it that the bottle is about half empty. "I guess we'll wash up."

The Digimon allows her partner to stiffen and turn around, muzzle grazing through red until met with a kiss and the aroma of berries.

Having poured a little shampoo into a cupped hand, Rika then places her palm over Renamon's bosom, rubbing slow circles in dripping, frothing white.

The Digimon's blue eyes narrow with appreciation in response to the lathering massage. Her body eases backward, offering more of herself.

Her Tamer's lips quirk subtly upward at their corners before pursuing another mouth, drinking warm water and an essence, distinct and familiar.

"You never change," Renamon had said years ago, following her partner with the intention to intercept a hurtling, maddened train with a foolhardy plan that had barely been conceived. The observation had been meant affectionately, but it was cutting, underpinned by frustration.

Rika ran, never admitting to overhearing those words.