The scent of miso and scallion filled the air, simmering gently on the stove as Satoshi hummed softly to himself. A low radio played something jazzy in the background. He moved with casual grace, reaching for the cutting board to slice daikon—
—and stopped.
There was a shadow where there shouldn't be. A new presence—there, just inches from him, stood a towering figure clad in jagged, black-red armor. The flame blooming from his forehead licked the ceiling like it wanted to burn through the roof. His eyes glowed under the helm, not blank, not curious—furious. But it was the tightness in his posture, the way his fingers flexed like they were barely holding back—that was what made Satoshi's breath catch.
Ashwatthama.
His presence filled the kitchen like a furnace. Not just power—rage. And something underneath it, so low Satoshi almost didn't catch it: resignation. Not surprise. Just a simmering confirmation of everything he'd expected. Like he'd been summoned here for a new kind of prison.
Satoshi dropped the knife with a clatter, and reflexively slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the startled noise escaping him, but the towering armored man just stared down at Satoshi as if waiting for him to say something.
And so, naturally, Satoshi panicked. "U-uh—sorry! Sorry—I didn't mean to—look, there's a child outside—small, traumatized, probably still in earshot—and you're, uh, on fire, and kind of terrifying right now so maybe we can start with just—I don't know, tone down the intimidation and—could you take the armor off?"
That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. The air snapped, heat pulsing off the warrior like the moment before a forge explodes. His nostrils flared, and the fire on his head flared brighter, angry, as his voice thundered through the small kitchen.
"So that's what this is," he growled. "Summon the monster. Strip him down. Parade him in softer clothes so he's easier to tame. To fuck."
"What—?! No, no no no no! That's not what I meant!" Satoshi scrambled, voice rising slightly in panic. "Not—like—that, I mean—just because there's a kid and she's outside playing and she might freak out if she sees a walking nuclear reactor—!"
"You summoned me without chain or collar, but do not pretend I don't know what this is," Ashwatthama spat. "I know the kind that the Catalog attracts. I know what most of you want."
Satoshi's stomach dropped. "I'm not—I didn't choose you for that."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps raced down the hall and into the room as Emiya burst in, shirt still half-buttoned, hair damp and disheveled from changing. He froze mid-step as his eyes locked on the towering figure beside Satoshi. For a moment, no one moved. The pot on the stove burbled softly, the only sound in the room.
Satoshi slowly lowered his hand. "So… the queue's over."
Ashwatthama tilted his head slightly, as if gauging him. His eyes, burning like coals under the shadow of his helm, scanned the kitchen, then the two men. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble—measured, and slightly hostile. "You are my summoner."
Emiya's hands twitched toward his sides—subtle, but Satoshi knew he was an inch from tracing weapons.
Satoshi, meanwhile, straightened. "Yeah. I'm Satoshi. This is Emiya—Shirou." He offered a slightly shaky smile. "Welcome to our home."
Ashwatthama nodded once, slowly. His posture was tense, as if he was a breath away from violence. The flame above his head flickered, though he made no sign of aggression.
"You smell like broth," he said simply, terserly, voice more curious than critical.
Satoshi blinked. "I was… cooking lunch."
There was a pause. Ashwatthama looked down again, taking in the apron, the soft domesticity of the kitchen, and the man who summoned him in socks and slightly flour-dusted jeans.
"…Unexpected," he murmured, almost to himself, still tense but not so hostile anymore.
Emiya cleared his throat. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," the demigod said. "The transition was seamless."
"You stood behind me silently for several seconds," Satoshi muttered.
A faint huff left Ashwatthama. It might have been a laugh.
Satoshi wiped his hands on the apron. "Okay. So… this is Ashwatthama, then. Great. And Riley's outside, thank god."
"She can't see him like this," Emiya said quietly, voice still tight. "We don't know how she'll react."
"Who is Riley?"
"Our charge. She's only a child, so, please wait for her to be asleep before you do anything... aggressive."
"I can remove the armor," Ashwatthama offered, as if reading them. "I wear it because it is what is expected of me. Not because I need it."
"…That'd help," Satoshi said. "Also, maybe tone down the divine fire crown until we explain things to the kid?"
Another beat. Then, slowly, the flames dulled, receding to a faint glow like the last embers of a dying forge.
Ashwatthama rolled his shoulders once. "Better?"
Satoshi exhaled. "Much. Thanks."
Emiya didn't lower his guard entirely, but the tension in his stance eased. "We'll talk. Set ground rules. Introduce you properly."
"I'm no slave," Ashwatthama said simply. "You summoned me not with chains, but invitation. So I will listen for now. Speak."
Satoshi blinked at the phrasing. The sheer weight of presence. This wasn't someone who could blend in. But there was no malice, either—just intense, quiet power. And maybe something else. Something like… loneliness, buried under rage.
Satoshi glanced at Emiya, who was already watching him.
"I guess we'll need another plate," Satoshi said at last.
Ashwatthama tilted his head again. "You will feed me?"
"…Yes? That's what lunch is for. You came in time for it."
The demigod stared at him, then nodded once, slow and solemn, like he was accepting a sacred rite. "I would like that."
He then turned to Shirou, who was still tense and prepared to fight. "Stop with that. If I was going to kill your summoner," he said coldly, "I'd have done it the moment I arrived. But I couldn't find a single binding on me."
Shirou's eyes narrowed.
Satoshi's voice cracked slightly. "Because I didn't want to force anyone."
Both men turned to look at him. Ashwatthama's flame dimmed even more, more in confusion than anything else. He looked back at Shirou, then at Satoshi again. "…Why summon me, then?"
Satoshi swallowed. "Because I thought you deserved a second chance and to let go of your anger. And because you've always been a soldier for someone else's war. It should be gone, shouln't it? Your curse?"
That made Ashwatthama go still.
"I don't want to control you," Satoshi added, softer now. "I just want you to have a place. If you want it."
A long silence passed. The pot on the stove began to bubble again. Eventually, Ashwatthama exhaled. The flame above his head receded to a dull ember. Slowly, Ashwatthama's armor vanished with a shimmer of searing air, dissipating into embers that fell to the tiled floor and blinked out, until only the lower par remained.
Satoshi blinked.
Then blinked again.
Because now, standing where the firestorm of intimidation had been, was—
"Oh no," Shirou muttered beside him, voice flat and unamused. "Of course he's handsome."
Satoshi tore his eyes away, face pinkening. "He's not—he's not that handsome—"
"He's built like a god and glowing," Shirou said. "And he's shirtless."
Ashwatthama's broad chest gleamed under the kitchen lights, sculpted and scarred, with the red-orange glow of his internal fire catching along the lines of his ribs and collar. His long orange hair now flowed more freely, brushing against his shoulders as he raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
The only thing he wore now was a shimmering wrap that hung dangerously low around his hips, held in place by sheer divine spite.
"I hate the Catalog," Shirou sighed. "At least, he's not pretty."
Satoshi squeaked. "Garden—Riley—!"
He bolted forward and shoved Ashwatthama with both hands. The man didn't budge.
"Please—room—upstairs! There are children outside!" Satoshi gestured frantically, eyes wide. "I'll get you clothes, just don't go flashing celestial abs in front of Riley!"
Ashwatthama tilted his head, still radiating heat and faintly amused menace. "So quick to fluster. If I knew nudity would unnerve you more than a blade to the throat, I'd have led with that."
"It's not that I'm flustered!" Satoshi lied.
Shirou raised an eyebrow.
"It's just—we have neighbors! Well—okay not really, but children! It's a matter of public decency!"
Ashwatthama looked like he was debating whether to be offended or smug.
That's when Shirou stepped forward.
"I'll take him," he said, already walking over and grabbing a clean towel from the kitchen counter like a professional handler. "You focus on the food."
Satoshi opened his mouth to protest—then paused.
"Oh. Right. Food. Kitchen. Not flaming men."
"Yes," Shirou said dryly, already guiding Ashwatthama toward the stairs. "Go be useful somewhere else."
Satoshi threw up his hands, muttered something about magical drama queens, and turned back toward the stove. The pot hissed in approval. At least something was still under control.
Ashwatthama huffed. "…You said you had other clothes?"
"Yeah," Satoshi said, breath catching in relief. "Y-yeah, Shirou has some sweats and there's—uh, probably a shirt that fits?"
"I'm not wearing your husband's clothes."
Satoshi went bright red. "He's not—!" Then he stopped. "Okay, technically yes but it's not—uh. That's not important."
Ashwatthama's lip twitched. Barely.
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