Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What did I say when you’d chosen it?”

Puss in Boots turned his face away and pursed his lips sourly. He knew the answer to the question, but so did El Guante Blanco, and if the maestro asked it anyway, Puss would not dignify it with an answer. Guante had always hated idle chatter.

Puss had no regrets about choosing the white horse as his prospective steed and partner. This, he could swear by.

The animal was sympathetic to him, not to mention his strong stature, which would give their horse-and-horseman pair a distinct advantage over any opponent. The late afternoon sun highlighted his powerful muscles hidden under his sleek coat. Although, his stature was still obviously that of a yearling with too-long legs and a head seeming disproportionately small.

Despite having had to face death several times in his short life, he was still just an untrained, stubborn colt.

He shamelessly pulled his gray nose away from any paw extended towards him, and riding him was downright impossible – even the maestro had to run, fearing for his tail, when he first tried to jump on his back. The only sign of domestication he showed was the dull green halter on his head, made out of thin rope. It had been put there by the men working under El Guante Blanco’s old friend, Syril, back when there was still some hope of taming the young stallion.

Unlike Puss, Guante had plenty of experience in both training and riding horses. A living example of his knowledge was Goliath, a blood bay stallion, who was now grazing peacefully outside the paddock and lazily batting away flies with his black tail. Sometimes he looked up, still chewing on a large clump of grass, and followed the colt with an almost fatherly look, as he trotted round and round. Beside Goliath, perched on the top fence rail, sat El Guante, watching Puss in a similar manner.

The maestro’s student was standing in the middle of the paddock and pivoting in one spot, trying to keep his ever-moving steed in sight. His boots were covered in a thick layer of white sand and his tail hovered only an inch above the ground.

It was true that Puss had occasionally ventured near the stables of San Ricardo – understandably, for what little boy could resist the hoofbeats of the lean war horses or the whinnying of the sturdy, soft-maned workstock? – but other than brushing, feeding stolen sugar cubes or occasionally carrying the saddles for guards, he had no experience with horses.

All that is why Puss found the colt’s behavior so strange. In his presence, the animal showed exceptional peacefulness. He was almost cheeky, playful – even though Puss had no idea how to approach him, how to hold himself, how to appear safe but deserving of obedience. On the other paw, even though El Guante was armed with all his skill and a couple of juicy apples, the colt remained jumpy and the maestro could never get close to him without a bite aimed at his hat.

Thus, El Guante Blanco kept his distance (only staying true to the promise he’d made at Siryl’s stables, really), and Puss, master trainer in the making, was left to his own devices. Of which, there were very few.

Rope loosely hanging from his left paw, Puss in Boots let out two quick, high-pitched whistles from the side of his mouth. For the umpteenth time that evening.

“To me!”

The horse kicked the air with his hind legs, shook his mane, whinnied a few times, and then ran on as if nothing had happened. After all, his calmness did not equal obedience.

"You! You are laughing at me!" Puss called out, though his lips curled into a reluctant smile.

The colt’s playful whinnies made the heat and grime on his fur seem insignificant, even dulling the sting of Guante’s watchful gaze. There was something contagious about the sound, and he felt that bright spark of connection once again. He knew, without a doubt, that this horse was meant for him, and he for it.

“Ginger,” his mentor’s rough voice snapped Puss out of his thoughts, “that is enough for today. I’m getting dizzy from you two’s circling.” He stood straight, balancing on the fence. “Maybe if it had a name, it would listen to that, if nothing else.”

“I am working on it…” On the training and the name. With one last look at the white horse, Puss began to walk towards his mentor. Small clouds of dust rose into the air with each step as he neared the paddock fence. Lifting his hat, he wiped his brow with the back of his paw, smearing a streak of dirt across his forehead by accident.

Once he reached the edge, he hesitated for a moment, toying with his silver belt buckle. Instead of jumping up next to El Guante, he stepped to Goliath’s side, who raised his head in silent greeting. Puss muttered a quiet ‘hello’, and petted the stallion’s long, dark mane. It wasn’t shaggy, but it was still not as well kept as that of the San Ricardan guards’ steeds. He used to love watching them – grey, black, sorrel and palomino horses – during the annual summer fair, with their manes and tails sparkling from tiny pearls, beads or rings. He wondered how his white stallion would take to such poshness. 

“A name should not be rushed,” Puss said decidedly, then turned to Guante with a shy smile, a paw resting on the bay horse’s nose. “And I am sure Goliath would agree.”

Meanwhile, on the far side of the paddock, the white colt slowed to a walk, but he didn’t dare, or want to come any nearer. He turned his head towards the two cats and angled his ears forward, as if he understood that this was indeed about him.

“Those born from the dead should not be touched,” retorted Guante with a slight hiss to his voice. Puss believed that, in truth, his mentor’s dislike of the horse stemmed from its behavior and not its origin, but he squinted his eyes at the older cat nonetheless.

Then, El Guante put on a dry smile and added, “and yet, here we are?” He finished with an upwards inflection, which was a characteristic of his that Puss knew well and recognized immediately. It meant he was waiting for his student to bite back with a witty remark of his own.

You see, as Puss’s skill grew in fighting, his mentor began to challenge him to battles of wits more and more. Admittedly, these conversations could feel like pointless arguing to Puss, but he usually had something to parry the maestro’s words with. (He rarely dared make a lunge.)

But now, when it came to this… Puss simply couldn’t manage. The maestro may complain and insult him and his steed, but no amount of cold remarks could change one simple fact. That he had allowed Puss to take the animal home, and by doing so, he saved him from certain death. Had it not been for El Guante, a life would have been distinguished, a string of fate cut, a destiny not fulfilled. 

How lucky we are, are we not? Thought Puss jokingly, as his gaze locked with the colt’s big black eyes.

Chapter Text

The early morning rays, like sharp arrows, pierced through the canopy of the pine forest. The place – with its towering trees, the pineneedle covered earth, the quietly bubbling brook – was perfect for hiding a runaway thief.

And this certain thief’s marvelous steed.

The paddock was located a few hundred meters from the maestro’s cave. Our cave, Puss had begun calling it, unintentionally at first, but now he couldn’t deny that the place had grown on him and begun to feel like home. Much different from his small place in the orphanage, but a home nonetheless.

The paddock couldn’t be compared to the one in San Ricardo either. It wasn’t small, especially not for the single animal it held, but the mossy wooden fencing and the creaky gate were a far cry from the well-kept stone stockade in Puss’s hometown.

El Guante Blanco saw great importance in ensuring the cleanliness of everything he called his own, but the paddock had been out of use for years, and it seemed senseless to waste time and coin to repair it. And now that it homed Puss’s horse, it seemed the maestro had given over the responsibility to his student entirely.

Puss took the task upon himself, if not gladly, at least without complaint. He secretly hoped that by gifting the colt with a home unlike any he had seen, he’d finally win the acceptance of the animal. Puss had been coming to “train” him almost every single day, but two weeks had gone by without much progress. The horse seemed less nervous by his surroundings (perhaps he too was beginning to feel at home in the pine forest), but that was it.

With a sigh, Puss stopped scrubbing the green lichen from the fence and threw the small, round brush back into the bucket of water. He straightened up, perched one foot on the bottom rail, and folded his arms atop the wooden beam as he turned his head to watch the white colt.

In the morning mist, he reminded Puss of some abandoned spirit, a ghost wandering the forest, looking for a rider or a way out. Maybe I should call him Phantom, Puss mused. He still hadn’t decided on a name.

Footsteps approached from behind, slow and deliberate. Puss didn't turn; he didn’t need to. 

“Maestro,” he greeted, slightly turning his head back, but keeping his green eyes locked on the horse. “Sleep well?”

Guante answered with a noncommittal grunt and stopped by his protege’s side.

“You are persistent, Ginger. I’ll give you that.” El Guante Blanco’s voice was flat, almost disinterested, though Puss knew better. The older cat leaned against the fence beside him and opened his mouth to continue, but as if suddenly noticing something on the wooden post, he took his arms off. Turning his head to the right and then to the left, he studied the railing – half of the planks were still covered in moss, lichen and climbing ivy, but the other half, part of which he leaned on, was clean, revealing old birch wood.

Puss didn’t turn his head, but looked at his mentor closely. His tail flicked behind him in anticipation.

Of course he was doing all this work to please the white colt, to prove that he is a worthy man to ride him, but... There was also this tiny, stubborn, annoying sparkle of need to prove himself to the maestro. To be taken seriously by him, to hear Guante admit that Puss had done a great job, to see his mentor’s face when he finally rides his white steed like a true hero --

“I have a larger brush at the cave.”

“Eh... What?”

“Why do all this work,” Guante gestured with his white paw to the cleaned fence, then pointed to the brush floating in the bucket, “with that measly thing?”

Puss didn’t know what to say. He studied Guante’s face closely, his raised eyebrow, the straight line of his mouth, but he detected no sign of mockery. His mentor sounded strikingly genuine.

“Use that mouth of yours for something sensible once in a while and just,” El Guante turned and, leaning forward with arms straight, rested his paws on the wooden beam. He was once again looking down at the fence, and to Puss, silly as it may sound, it seemed as if he was admiring his student’s work. “Ask me next time.”

It wasn’t the acknowledgement Puss had hoped for, and yet, it quenched his thirst for praise. By offering help, Guante had wordlessly admitted that he saw the potential in both the colt and Puss himself – in their horse-and-rider pair. Puss couldn’t help, but smile, although he hoped his hat hid his face from his teacher.

“Yes, maestro.”

He turned to watch the white horse, who was peacefully grazing at the far corner. Puss knew the animal hadn’t taken his eyes off his mentor and him, but he seemed to be content with the company, as long as the cats kept to themselves.

Guante surveyed the young stallion as well, then his gaze swept over Puss, and finally, he cocked his head. “You haven’t tried to ride him again.” Really, it would have been needless to pose it as a question. If Puss had tried, the maestro would have found him on the ground just like last time.

Puss’s ears twitched uncomfortably at the memory. His first – and only – attempt at mounting the horse had ended with him flat on his back in the dirt, the colt snorting triumphantly as he trotted away.  After making sure his student was okay, El Guante had found it all terribly amusing, of course. Puss, not so much. His head spun for the rest of the day, and his back was sore for another five. The following night, he came to check on his colt, who showed no sign of regret, albeit he ventured closer than usual to tentatively sniff at a still slightly dazed Puss.

“I have learnt from my mistakes,” Puss replied with an embarrassed huff and a smirk. “I will not make the same error again.”

Guante turned his head slightly, whiskers twitching. “And what error would that be? Thinking you could tame a beast like that with charm and theatrics?”

“The error was thinking I could force him to trust me,” Puss’s green eyes flashed as he finally met his mentor’s gaze. “I was being impatient.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft sounds of the colt’s hooves shifting in the grass. Guante’s gaze softened, but his voice remained cool. “And you think you can earn his trust with a polished fence?”

“It is not that…!” Puss countered quickly, frustration apparent in his voice, but he realized Guante wasn’t wrong per say. That was what he had been hoping for. Puss looked back at the white horse, watching as he flicked his tail and shook his head, free and untethered. He continued speaking more calmly. “If he needs time, I will give him it. And,  I might as well make use of that time and show him who it is that wishes to ride him.”

“We could spend that time focusing on your training,” Guante mumbled quietly, before heaving a deep sigh. He stepped away from the fence, turning to leave. Puss wondered where he was heading, but he knew it’d be useless to ask. Then, the maestro stalled and spoke again. “As long as it’s not detrimental to your own progress and you keep up with your duties as agreed, you can train him however you wish. ¿Entiendes?”

Ever since they brought the colt home, Puss had been careful never to be late to training, to always be there to prepare dinner or to bring water from the nearby stream, so he just silently nodded, hoping that his behavior was proof enough for his mentor. In all honesty, it was strange to hear the maestro speak of this, when the arrangement had been made between them in the very evening the horse had been chosen.

“Ginger.”

Questioning, Puss turned and raised his head to look at his mentor. Guante’s face was serious, and he furrowed his eyebrows as he went on. “Not all horses are meant to be ridden, no matter what one does. He may never let you lead him.”

Puss nearly smiled, but kept his expression neutral. Was the maestro really trying to… console him?

“Perhaps he does not need to be led. Perhaps he is looking for a partner.”

Guante narrowed his eyes. “So, you think you can make him your equal?”

Puss turned to face his mentor fully, straightening his back and hardening his voice as much as he could.“Si,” his voice cracked at once, but he quickly cleared his throat and carried on undeterred, although a little red-faced. “I think that is what he needs. Someone who does not see him as just a tool to be used, but as a companion.”

Guante was silent for a long moment, his eyes drifting back to the colt. There was a flicker of something in his expression, something almost wistful.

Puss saw how El Guante Blanco treated his own horse, Goliath, and he saw how Goliath acted in return. Puss didn’t know how or when the bay horse came into his mentor’s life, but the maestro certainly viewed his steed as more than a simple tool. Puss noticed that his mentor never came back from his outings without a couple of juicy apples for Goliath. Moreover, Guante regularly brushed the horse, ensured the health of his hooves and made sure he got enough exercise. Similarly, on the rare occasion that Puss had witnessed Guante riding the dark stallion, Goliath showed remarkable speed and intelligence. The dark horse seemed to trust the commands of El Guante as much as his own self.

With a defeated face, the older cat rubbed the back of his neck. “You always did have too much heart for your own good.”

Puss’s smirk returned and he loosened his posture. Whichever side of the bed the maestro had woken up on, he ought to do it more often…

“Speaking of hearts, it was you that let me keep him.”

El Guante Blanco stiffened slightly, then let out a long, tired sigh. “And I am starting to regret it.”

Puss’s smile softened. He didn’t dare say it out loud, but he thought, ‘No, you are not.’

“You’re stubborn, just like that horse,” Guante added jokingly. “Maybe that’s why you think you understand him.”

“Maybe,” Puss answered with a short laugh, turning to glance at the animal. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly drew him to the colt; possibly, there were just too many similarities between the horse and him to find the first one. “I am not sure I understand him. But I sympathize. I know what it is like to be seen as something less than what you truly are.”

Guante’s ears flicked at that and the twirling tail behind his back betrayed his curiosity.

“Less?”

“You know what I mean, maestro,” Puss said, his tone still light but more pointed, before fully turning to face his white colt once again. He wasn’t sure he could keep speaking with El Guante’s piercing gaze locked on his face. “It is as you had told me. We are ordinary cats, you and me. But you are also a hero. People do not see that when they look at me. They might see a criminal, but what is even worse, they might just see a cat in boots. One thing is always certain: they do not see me.”

Guante didn’t respond. The silence stretched so long that, for a moment, Puss thought his mentor had left. Yet, he couldn’t turn to check.

“And,” El Guante finally spoke, and Puss let out a sigh of relief. The maestro sounded more far away than the few meters of distance would dictate. “You wish to prove…” he hesitated, only for a second, “these people – what?”

Puss shrugged, his eyes fixed on the colt once more. “I will prove them wrong. With him,” and here, Puss felt his heart and his voice lighten. The colt suddenly raised his head and looked at Puss straight on. When Puss spoke again, he meant it as a promise. “He may be wild now, but he will be great. We will be great.”

The maestro huffed, then Puss heard him beginning to walk away. Puss quickly turned, opening his mouth to say something, but his mentor had already had his back turned towards him, and the words died in Puss’s throat. Guante’s white paw was raised in a gesture of goodbye.

“Just don’t get yourself killed trying to prove a point.”