Kevin SeifertMar 12, 2026, 06:28 PM ET
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Kevin Seifert is a staff writer who covers the Minnesota Vikings and the NFL at ESPN. Kevin has covered the NFL for over 20 years, joining ESPN in 2008. He was previously a beat reporter for the Minneapolis Star Tribune and Washington Times. He is a graduate of the University of Virginia.
Multiple Authors
EAGAN, Minn. — The Minnesota Vikings…
CHICAGO — Troy Murray, a former Chicago Blackhawks player for 12 seasons who later became the squad’s enduring broadcasting commentator, has passed away at the age of 63.
On Saturday, the Blackhawks revealed that Murray had succumbed earlier that day, without disclosing the location.
Known as “Muzz,” Murray disclosed in August 2021 his cancer diagnosis and ongoing chemotherapy regimens. He…
Troy Murray: Blackhawks Star Who Became Its Beloved Voice, Dies at 63
Murray: I’m a little late, but Happy Hippo Day!
Sly: That would explain all the hippo posts.
Chapter 4: Bargaining.
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“Bargaining involves thoughts such as “I will do anything if you take away the pain.”
This stage may come at any point within the grieving process. Guilt frequently accompanies it.”
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A/N: Self-harm warning still applicable in this chapter.
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Things reach an awkward sort of truce at home for a few weeks. Every time Sly and Bentley are around each other, they don’t talk about the fight or what caused the fight. They know it happened, they don’t pretend it didn’t happen, exactly, but they also don’t really bring it up. It’s just a big old un-evolved elephant in the room while they do their best not to avoid each other, because that would just make it even more obvious.
Sly hates it. He hates that they fought and hates what they fought about. But most of all, he hates that the fight won’t stop hanging over them like a black storm cloud, no matter how much they both want it to blow away. It’s like it’s taunting him, personally. Every time he sees his friend, every time their eyes initially meet, something itches up his spine so badly that it makes all his fur want to puff out. It’s like when he accidentally hits the funny bone in his elbow, except the nerves go off across his whole body instead of just one arm.
But he doesn’t know how to fix it. Well, he knows one way to maybe fix it, but that involves admitting to Bentley that he might really have a problem. Which he doesn’t. There’s nothing wrong with him. His life is literally in the best place it’s ever been.
[[MORE]]And, sure, he’s still losing time. He’s still losing sleep. He’s even started falling asleep when he really shouldn’t be – not in public anymore, thank god, but a few recent stakeouts before a heist are becoming problems. It’s weird and not like him; he’ll be the first to admit it. But it can’t be related to grief or trauma or whatever other buzzword Bentley wants to throw at him. Because, if any of that was true, he’d be the kind of mess he was as a kid.
Nothing he’s been doing or feeling these last few months is anything close to the kind of mess he was as a kid. For that, he’s grateful. That entire first year after being dumped at the orphanage is a muddled memory of him barely being able to function, with only Murray and Bentley able to reach him through the haze in his head. He was practically a zombie.
Sly doesn’t feel like a zombie these days. But damn if that damn fight is still hanging over him in a fog of impossible guilt. After almost three weeks, he can’t take it anymore. Twitchy, agitated, and sleep-deprived beyond belief, the raccoon visits the nearest bookstore to start scouring.
He grabs every self-help book with “relaxation” in the title. Several books about communication. Reluctantly, one or two that mention “adverse childhood experiences.” His arms are full by the time he heads to checkout, and as he’s dropping the whole stack on the counter with a thud that’s far too loud for his liking, his eyes catch a little display nearby featuring beginners’ guides to different languages.
One more is added to the stupidly-tall pile. An apology and a peace-offering.
His friends are out when he gets back home. Sly doesn’t know if he’s relieved by that, or bummed out. But he pushes the conflicting emotions firmly out of his head – because all that will do is hinder him when the plan is to get stuff done – and sets his loot on the dining room table. With books stacked up on either side of him, he gives himself a silly moment to adjust nonexistent glasses and pretend he’s Bentley.
Then, refusing to stall any longer, the thief grabs the first one on the pile and begins to read.
Sly’s not a knowledge-fiend like Bentley, or a huge comic fan like Murray, but he does like reading. It’s a quiet pastime; one you can spend a long time doing while staying unobtrusive. And while usually it’s the Thievius Raccoonus that he defaults to, he’s not above bringing other material for long stakeouts.
So, once he’s able to ignore the agitation still simmering at the base of his mind, he finally settles in and starts absorbing the words on the pages. When the front door opens in the other room and Murray calls out that they’re home, jerking Sly back into the real world, it’s the first time in a long time that losing track of time was from an active choice he’s made.
“In here!” He calls out in return, just so they don’t think he’s dipped on them without saying anything, again.
Murray comes into the room first and stops in his tracks at the sight of Sly. He starts snickering.
“You look like Bentley.”
Sly smirks back and repeats the glasses-adjusting motion he did earlier when he was alone, with an exaggerated, self-important expression. The hippo’s quiet giggling becomes a full laugh, loud enough to draw the attention of their third.
“What? What’s going on?” Bentley pushes Murray aside, sees Sly mimicking him at the table while surrounded by books, and heaves a huge sigh. “Very funny. I’m ecstatic to learn how mocking someone’s hobbies and mannerisms are still considered high comedy.”
“Ah, don’t be like that, pal. I didn’t mean any harm,” the raccoon assures him, dropping the act immediately.
“I should hope not.” He looks the book towers up and down with a raised eyebrow. “Dare I ask what this is about?”
In lieu of a verbal response, Sly lifts the book he’s been reading for however long so that his friends can both see the cover. Stress: The Silent Killer is emblazoned across the front in a cheesy, all-caps font.
“A self-help book? You got a–” the turtle cuts himself off as the whole picture in front of him registers. “Are those all self-help books? How many did you buy?”
“As many as I need, and then some. I was thinking a lot about – about, uh, the thing that happened the other week, and I realized that you’re kinda right.”
Bentley doesn’t look impressed, but he also doesn’t look mad. He crosses his arms to watch him carefully. “What would you say I was ‘kinda’ right about?”
Sly’s fingers grip the edges of the book just a little tighter against his will. “Just…you know.”
“Enlighten me.”
Murray looks between them anxiously.
“The thing. The thing you said.” It’s clear that Bentley isn’t buying it yet. The thief grimaces and closes his eyes, knowing it will sell his apparent reluctance to say his next words. “The…grief thing. Maybe just a little.”
Silence. Sly cringes in his seat a bit; opens his eyes to stare at the open book in front of him instead of his friend’s scrutinizing squint. He has to make this believable. He has to make this work.
“And I…I’m still sorry for…”
“Taking it out on me?” The turtle’s tone is unreadable, but his expression seems to have softened a bit when Sly dares steal a glance up at him.
“Yeah,” he answers, completely truthful this time. “I know you were just trying to help. You didn’t deserve all…that.”
“You’re dang right, I didn’t.” Bentley sighs and readjusts his glasses in the exact same way Sly mimicked him earlier. “Alright, Sly, apology accepted. But I wish you wouldn’t push us away when we’re offering support, and I really wish you’d consider therapy instead of these glorified bullet-point lists of basic coping strategies.”
The raccoon can’t help the crooked, almost self-deprecating smile at that. “Are you kidding? Spilling my family secrets to some shrink stranger? Carmelita would be on that paper trail in an instant.”
“Loathe as I am to admit it, you have a point.” His friend approaches the table and its miniature book replicas of the Eiffel Tower. “Is there anything in that haphazard pile that might warrant my interest?”
“Dunno. I haven’t gotten far enough to say. Oh, but I did get this –” Sly pulls out a particular book and slides it over.
He watches him read the title. His tail curls nervously around a chair leg. When the turtle looks back up at him, it’s obvious that Bentley’s eyes are watery behind his glasses.
“That is quite the – nostalgic peace offering,” he sniffles, just once, before seemingly regaining his composure.
“I’d never forget how we met.” The thief gently taps the cover of The Beginner’s Guide To French. “Back when there was something I actually knew more about than you did. I would have savored it more if I knew how short the feeling would last.”
Murray peers over Bentley’s head to look at what they’re talking about. Then he gasps out loud. “Is that the same book they had at the orphanage?!”
“Unfortunately not,” comes the turtle’s reply, even as he takes said book and presses it to his chest. “It’s not even the same author or publishing company. But the sentimentality still holds the same weight.”
Sly gives a soft smile at that. His tail hasn’t uncurled.
“Does this mean you guys aren’t fighting anymore?”
“We weren’t technically fighting this entire time; we were avoiding communication in the aftermath of a single fight.”
“Tomato, tom-ah-to. We were fighting, but now we’re not. Right?”
Bentley’s familiar, exasperated-yet-fond sigh is music to Sly’s ears and a balm to his nerves. “Right. And, I won’t discuss the particular topics we were arguing over unless you initiate first. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Totally.”
“On the caveat that you’ll actually try to apply what you learn from all of those books you bought, and consider more substantial, long-term support for whatever you’ve been dealing with lately.”
“For sure,” he says, lying through his teeth. “Sounds reasonable.”
Later than night before bed, Sly does continue reading the book he cracked open before his friends came home. A small part of it is because there really are some decent meditation tips in there, but the real reason is to be prepared. If Bentley – or even Murray, at this rate – ever thinks to ask about their contents, the raccoon has to have an answer. He refuses to be caught on the backfoot for this kind of situation ever again.
A fist comes barreling straight towards Sly’s temple.
He ducks forward into a roll, right under his opponent’s extended arm, and pops up behind him. The thief swivels in place to launch himself up onto his back. His own hands, unarmed of his cane, snake around his rival’s thick neck in an attempt to put him in a chokehold.
It works for all of two seconds before large pink fingers reach up and over to seize his shirt. Sly tries to brace himself, but he has no chance against the pure strength of his adversary, who flips and throws him down with deceptive speed. His back hits the floor; he gasps as the wind is knocked straight out of him.
The gasp is silent. His opponent is very much not.
“Oh jeez! Sly, are you alright?! I didn’t hurt you bad, did I?”
Sly would laugh if he could breathe. Instead, he manages to lift a shaky hand which is immediately, gently grabbed by Murray to help haul him to his feet. He resists the tempting urge to wrap his arms around his own waist as air finally starts coming back to him.
“I’m – fine, pal,” he reassures through wheezes. “The whole – point of sparring – is to learn how to – hit – and not get hit.”
Murray still looks like he just accidentally kicked a baby. His hand is still carefully clasped in Sly’s, his eyes are big and round and worried, and his lip wobbles at every heaving breath out of his friend’s chest.
“A-Are you sure?”
Frustrated by the coddling, the raccoon pulls his hand away to make a “bring it on” gesture with a giant, smug grin. “Come on, Big Guy. Don’t get – soft or I’ll – kick your ass!”
His lungs burn as he rushes him to make his point. Murray squeaks in surprise, arms flailing, when Sly tackles him in a full-body hug. It’s not very full-body, admittedly – the sheer difference in their sizes really makes it more of a half-body hug – but it’s enough to make the hippo stagger back a few steps from the sheer force of getting smacked into.
“Sly!!”
Hands settle uncertainly against his back without any actual pressure. Sly huffs and wraps his legs around his friend’s torso until he’s clinging to him like a desperate barnacle.
“Slyyyyy…” Murray repeats, high-pitched and complain-y. All the thief does is look up at him with his face partially flattened against his chest.
“What’s the matter? Can’t get me off of ya?”
“I can too get you off of me! But I – I just hurt you! I don’t wanna hurt you again!”
“Huh. It sucks to be you, I guess.”
Sly readjusts his weight so he has a hand free to creep towards a particularly sensitive tickle spot. The hippo jumps and does a full three-sixty spin, to no avail.
“That’s not fair!” He whines. His hands pat at Sly’s shirt, but don’t form the same grip from earlier. “Please get off!”
The only answer he gets is a merciless return to the same tickle spot. This time, Murray shrieks, grabbing his friend around the waist and tugging for (almost) all he’s worth. The raccoon lets himself be torn away from him with a smug laugh. He hangs in Murray’s outstretched arms like a misbehaving kit.
“Stop that!” The hippo chides at him with the sternest frown he can manage.
“Stop what?” Sly asks innocently, casually leaning his elbows on his friend’s wrists. His fingers begin wriggling across bare pink skin like the world’s most dangerous inchworms.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
Murray instinctively tightens his grip. All of a sudden, pain lights up Sly’s torso from both sides and he has to swallow the hiss that jams itself in his throat.
It catches the hippo’s attention anyway. He sets him down very, very carefully as all the fun flees the scene. “Sly? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, pal,” he replies through gritted teeth. It’s hard to keep his knees steady underneath him, for some reason. “Guess that suplex did a bigger number on me than I thought.”
His friend goes quiet for a moment, staring at him in that Murray Way where he’s clearly upset but also not sure what to make of things.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m just – ah, unexpectedly sore.” He sees the hippo’s eyes start to shimmer with the threat of tears, and panics. “Murray, hey, listen! It wasn’t you, alright? It was –”
Sly hesitates. His arms, wrapped around his torso, tense as he fights the sudden urge to run from a sudden perceived danger. But that – doesn’t make sense. Why does the idea of telling the truth make him feel like he’s in danger?
“Sly…?”
Murray’s voice is wobbly and scared. The thief stuffs that weird reaction down to wait for a real emergency, where it’s supposed to be.
“Sorry. It really wasn’t you. I just…hurt myself recently.”
“What? When??”
“Earlier this week. I’ve been, uh…training on my own.” Against his better judgement, he finally peels his arms away from his body and pulls his shirt up a bit. From the way his friend’s eyes get wide, he knows the bruises are visible even under his fur.
“Sly, what…” Murray crouches and carefully touches his waist, carding through gray to reach the blacks and blues and purples underneath. Sly sets his jaw and refuses to react to the biting, flaring pain. “What kind of training did this if you messed up that badly?”
“Well, that’s the thing.” God. He really, really doesn’t want to tell him this. “I didn’t mess up. This was on purpose.”
“On…on purpose…?” The hippo pulls away from examining the bruises to frown up at him. Sly sees the exact moment he makes a terrible connection.
Fuck.
“Not like that!” Spills out of his mouth, desperate to beat Murray to the punch before he can put that out in the open. “Not like that, pal, I swear. If I ever even thought of doing something like that, it wouldn’t – I’d make it more cliche.”
“You don’t like cliches…”
Sly’s tail spasms violently. “Okay, you’re right, I don’t, but that’s not what this is. Look, you remember when we were still moving stuff out of the train cars, and I stubbed my toe cause I didn’t see that box in my way?”
Murray gives an uncertain nod.
“You remember how loud I swore at it?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know you could make French sound so violent.”
“Heh, well, you learned your lesson, and I learned mine. I can’t let myself be loud like that if I get hurt in the field. If I get us caught just because I stubbed my toe, you guys would make fun of me for the rest of our lives.”
Finally, the hippo’s shoulders start to relax. He’s still crouched in front of Sly and looking up at him like he’s afraid that the raccoon will shatter into a million pieces, but it’s a start.
“I wouldn’t make fun of you,” he says, not very convincingly.
“Yeah, you would. Bentley would, too.”
“No. Bentley would lecture you for the rest of our lives.”
“There, see? A fate worse than death or prison. I wasn’t about to risk it.”
Murray lets out a tiny ‘heh’, then looks back down at his bruised torso. Sly waits patiently.
“Have you…finished your training, yet?”
No. “Probably. I didn’t make any noise when you flipped me, so there’s that. But I haven’t had much of a chance to test it for sure. Heists aren’t really the time or place, y’know?”
His friend nods, more understanding this time, and gets to his feet. The raccoon drops the hem of his shirt and pretends it’s not a huge relief to do so.
“Did you, um…tell Bentley about this special training?”
No. “‘Course I did. He gave the a-ok, so you don’t have to worry. Okay?”
“Okay.” It’s quiet for a moment, kind of awkward but not quite. Then the hippo straightens as he seems to get an idea. “Wait! I think I know how you can test whether it worked!”
And just like that, Murray is back to his cheery, peppy self. With a clear new goal in mind, he’s lost both the worry and the guilt. Sly envies his ability to bounce back so easily.
“Whaddya have in mind, Big Guy?”
“First things first.” And now, he’s more spirited than ever before. “I gotta show you where I’ve been working out!”
The gym is bigger than Sly expected. It’s got at least three full, large rooms covered wall to wall with equipment, with an equal number of members buzzing about. A few turn their heads to wave at Murray when they enter, but most give them barely a glance or ignore them entirely, too caught up in their workouts.
Murray waves enthusiastically back at the ones who recognize him, but he’s also too caught up in his own thing – in giving his friend the grand tour.
“Over there is where you do squats and deadlifts!”
He points towards one corner of the giant room.
“Over there is where the pull-up bars are!”
He points towards another corner of the giant room.
“That whole wall is where they keep the dumbbells and resistance bands and stuff!”
He points towards that whole wall.
Sly can’t help the increasingly amused smile that worms its way across his face as they cross from one end of the gym to the other without actually starting a workout or even approaching any equipment. Murray is so excited just to show him this new world he’s joining; and of course, as with anything that the big guy loves, he’s throwing himself into it at a thousand percent.
“This is a pretty great place you’ve found,” he says, speaking for the first time since the personal tour began. “Everything you need or want, and some pretty cool workout buddies, to boot. If I was the jealous type, I’d be green by now.”
Murray beams and flaps his fists. “Isn’t it awesome! There’s so much cool stuff! I’m getting soooo strong and powerful, Sly, you have no idea!”
“I can see your progress pretty much every day, pal.”
The hippo looks on the verge of grabbing the nearest giant weight and lifting it over his head in sheer joy at the praise. Then, surprisingly, he suddenly calms down. Or, well, he calms down as much as Murray is capable of calming down in the midst of something he’s super excited about. He leans in close to the raccoon with stars in his eyes.
“I haven’t even shown you the best part, yet,” he stage-whispers. Sly gently makes a motion with his hands to turn the volume down, and he manages to do as suggested. It doesn’t curb his enthusiasm at all. “You know how I told you a lot of criminals work out here?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, it’s even better than that. Some of them don’t just work out here – some of them do other stuff, too.”
The emphasis on “other stuff” implies something less than legal. Sly’s ears swivel fully forward as his smile turns a little more sharp. “You have my attention.”
Murray’s barely-contained passion also shifts, becoming devious and smug. He beckons his friend to follow him through a set of doors marked “employees only”. No one stops them or even seems to notice that they’re not supposed to be there, as they walk down a short hallway, turn a corner or two, and then go through another, smaller door with a set of downward stairs behind it. Sly is thoroughly intrigued now, and he keeps perfect step with the hippo all the way down into what must be a basement level.
There are a few more doors down here, all closed, and Murray makes a beeline for the nearest one on the left. He knocks twice instead of going for the doorknob; the raccoon watches on curiously as a similar knock answers from the other side. Murray knocks again, a slightly different pattern this time, and the door opens with the loud “chnk” of a deadbolt being unlocked.
They enter together.
It’s a fighting ring inside. Well, maybe not quite a fighting ring, but definitely something much less legal than a traditional sparring space. The whole floor is covered in mats, and training dummies line one wall, but the opposite end is the real reason for all the subterfuge. A small circle of onlookers surround a set of sparring partners, cheering and shouting and cussing. The two in the center are currently beating each other bloody.
Sly sucks in a breath as one of them lands an uppercut on the other with an audible crack to the jaw. The miniature crowd roars its collective approval. It’s not as dangerous as most underground fight clubs probably are – not that he’s personally been to any – but it’s definitely still violent.
“Hey, kid. Good to see ya again.”
A large, bulky brown dog – a mastiff or even a cane corso, if Sly were to guess – comes up to Murray and slaps him heartily on the back. Murray keeps his balance with a wide grin on his face. Then the stranger looks at Sly.
“Who’s this? A friend of yours?”
“Yeah!!” The hippo slings an arm over his shoulder as he introduces him. Sly also manages to keep his balance, by some miracle. “He’s here to learn how to fight, just like me!”
The other guy looks the raccoon up and down, clearly assessing him, and suddenly Sly feels his own smaller-than-average size in a way that he usually doesn’t. It’s hard not to, when everyone here seems to have at least a head or more on Murray.
“Well, anyone’s welcome who ain’t gonna snitch,” he says, offering Sly a hand. When he takes it, it’s not as domineering as expected. Seems the dog is fully aware of his own strength. “You can call me Hound. Did ‘The Murray’ fill you in yet?”
Murray freezes. So does Sly. Slowly, very slowly, the latter swivels his gaze up towards the former, and that gaze is not met. The hippo’s cheeks are red.
“Uh, no,” Sly replies, as casually as possible. “No…‘The Murray’ did not.”
“Too excited to show you the place, huh?” Hound chuckles like he’s not at all surprised. “I get it. We’ve only got a few rules here, so don’t worry. One: don’t start shit outside the ring. If you’ve got beef with someone, you don’t throw the first punch ‘till you’re both ready and willin’. Two: no hits with intent to kill. A secret place like this is all fun and games ‘till someone gets a little too ahead of themselves and suddenly we’ve got a body and no one willin’ to call the cops. Third: if someone says “stop” then you better fuckin’ stop. Doesn’t matter if it’s your opponent, the crowd, or a ref. Break any one of these, and you’re out on your ass.”
“You’ll have no complaints from me,” he says, not-so-casually grabbing Murray by the belt to hold him close when he starts trying to edge away. “Anything else?”
“Don’t narc, obviously, and don’t go askin’ people their histories that don’t wanna share. I made this place so’s people like us can get a break from the rest of the world. It ain’t a therapy circle.”
Sly likes this place already. He nods, and Hound nods back in satisfaction.
“Have fun, kids. And don’t come cryin’ to me if you’re not cut out for it.”
The moment that Hound heads back towards the group, the raccoon can’t contain himself any longer.
“The Murray.”
“Shut up!! Stop laughing!” Murray stomps his feet, but there is a sheepish smile on his beet-red face. “They encourage us to use titles instead of regular names!”
Sly has to bite down on his tongue to slow his giggling. It barely works. “Sure, pal, but ‘The Murray’?”
“What’s wrong with it?!” He demands. “Lots of wrestlers do stuff like that with their names! It’s cool! I think it’s cool!!”
“Okay, okay, I’m done. I swear.” Cutting off laughter feels a lot like stuffing down guilt, turns out. Both can really make you nauseous. “If you like it, then that’s what matters most. Don’t let me or anyone else tell you otherwise, dude.”
“I won’t, cause it’s a cool name and it makes me feel super strong.” Murray fidgets with his hands a moment, watching as the fight at the other end of the room finally reaches its end. “You know what that’s like, right?”
He does. But he also can’t help getting one more dig in while the opportunity is here.
“Well, now that we’ve been properly acquainted –” he snickers as Murray buries his face in his hands with a loud groan, “– and I’ve been officially informed of the rules, what say we do what you brought me here to do?”
His friend’s embarrassment vanishes in an instant, replaced by what can only be described as glee. “Yeah!! Let’s go!!”
They join the miniature crowd just as the two previous combatants stagger off to nurse bruises and stop bleeding. Hound is already mediating a few different people who jockey to go next. After a few minutes of arguing and clamouring, he splits them up so that a few fights can go on at the same time. Sly and Murray dutifully separate into different groups to watch – and avoid being pitted against each other when they each get a chance to jump in themselves. It’s obvious to both of them that as gung-ho as Murray is to crack some skulls, he’s not quite ready to go all out against his pal just yet.
Sly finds the fight mildly interesting to watch. He can hear the hippo whooping and hollering at the other side of the room, so he’s clearly having a great time as a spectator, but the thief himself would rather study the moves than get caught up in the bloodlust of it all. Unfortunately, both combatants have body types vastly different and with far more muscles than him, so there’s not much to learn.
By the time this second round is over, he’s itching to get some action. The instant that they call for new volunteers, he darts between bulky shoulders to practically throw himself into the center before anyone else can. Hound isn’t the one refereeing this side of the room – it’s some ox lady who looks down at him in surprise but then takes it in stride as she calls for a second fighter.
Sly finds himself facing a black bear; one who quirks an amused eyebrow at the sight of him.
“You sure you’re in the right place, kid?”
“Let’s find out,” he shoots back, getting into a low crouch before launching himself at him in the exact same maneuver he used on Murray several hours back.
The bear is much faster than Murray. He sidesteps out of the way and makes his own lunge, which Sly avoids just as easily. They begin to circle each other, gauging their next move as it’s obvious that they’re both more slippery than the other anticipated. Their onlookers yell excitement and suggestions all around them. It’s probably meant to be encouraging, but all it does is lay Sly’s ears flat against his head at the noise and the attention.
He feints left and then shoots right. His opponent falls for it and doesn’t get his footing back in time before the raccoon body-checks him with his shoulder. It’s enough to send the guy sprawling onto his back. The growl that reaches Sly is all the warning he gets that he’s pissed him off before the bear jumps back up for another wild swing.
Claws rip into the front of his civilian clothes, catching on a zipper or something in a way that he can’t put distance from, and suddenly his attacker is right there, too close, and he doesn’t have any way to avoid what comes next.
A fist smashes into Sly’s temple. It’s far, far rougher than anything Murray would ever throw at him. He staggers, seeing stars, and barely manages to stumble out of the way of a second punch aiming for the other side of his head.
The world is spinning. People are screaming. His head is splitting and his heart is pounding and he tastes blood as he struggles to stay out of range of giant, dark-furred paws. There’s no fire singing his clothes, but he can feel it in the air. Can feel the Panda King trying to grab him first, waiting for the perfect moment to pin down his enemy and burn him alive. Sly blinks and shakes his head, and the Panda King becomes a regular black bear again, the random stranger he’s actually fighting.
“Had enough, yet?” His opponent taunts as he pants for breath against a too-tight chest.
“…Dunno.” The thief wipes blood from his busted lip and spits out the rest. “Did I make any noise when you hit me?”
The bear’s expression flickers into confusion. “Uh…no?”
“Good.” With that, he jumps back at him.
Sly loses the fight. It’s not life or death, which is small consolation for the stinging defeat; he’s already kicking himself over his mistakes and lack of focus. Mentally running through the whole thing to figure out where things went wrong, what he could have done differently, how to counter hits so they don’t practically knock his brain loose. That little flashback moment was…well, it was weird. Getting his shit rocked is supposed to mean pain and disorientation and recovery, not hallucinating a past enemy over a current one.
All that aside, though, he can at least be pleased by one thing: he’s finally as silent as a Cooper should be.
He’s pouting in a corner with an icepack over his swollen face, half-proud and half-sullen, when Murray comes up looking like he just won the lottery. His face is also pretty busted, but there’s blood on his knuckles and stars in his eyes. It’s clear what the outcome of his fight was.
The raccoon can’t muster up the energy to be bitter. This is Murray’s world, after all, even if he’s pretty new to it. All the better that he’s finding his talents here as a rookie bruiser, really. If anyone deserves to find something that they’re good at, that they love doing, and that will be a great help in the field, it’s Murray.
“Sly! Sly, I won! That was my third fight here ever, and I finally won!”
“That’s great, pal. I guess ‘The Murray’ is really making a name for himself, huh?”
It’s supposed to be another lighthearted jab at the goofy nickname, but Sly’s so tired that it comes out flat. Robotic, even – and damn if he hates that choice of words, nowadays.
The hippo doesn’t seem to let the passive aggressive praise get to him. In fact, he seems to take it at face value so much that his grin gets a little self-conscious and he taps his fingers together. It’d be adorable if they weren’t still covered in blood.
“You really think so? Cause I’ve been thinking, um, that maybe I could use that name more often. Y’know, like out in the field and stuff.”
Sly blinks a few times and shifts the icepack a bit. “You can do whatever you want, man. It’s your name, not mine.”
Any sourness he’s been feeling disappears instantly under the power of that smile. It’s just enough to make him stop stewing about the weird – thing he experienced in his disastrous spar.
Hound wishes them well on their way out, with a non-casual reminder about not snitching. His eyes seem to linger on Sly when he tells them that they’re always welcome back; Sly tries very, very hard to push back the paranoia that’s been giving him grief for weeks. It’s always without evidence, it’s always for small or stupid stuff, and it keeps getting proved wrong.
Just add it to the pile of things he’ll read another fucking self-help book about.
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A/N: The holidays are always a rough time for my ability to keep track of time, and it was especially egregious this year because I had THREE other projects I was working on in December. Two of them are finished and posted, one is finished but is gonna stay a secret for a while, hehehe. Just know that it’s a Sly thing, I’m very proud of it, and I’m excited for when I’ll actually get to share it publicly.
This chapter had some of the biggest references to my Sly prequel fic, “Silent as the Grave”. If you haven’t read it (or if it’s been a while), basically: Sly and Bentley began bonding at the orphanage because Sly was bilingual and could teach Bentley French in return for companionship. I think it’s a memory they both cherish, because it marked a significant turning point from a terrible time in both of their lives.
Also, official welcome to The Murray. We’ve missed you so much, you beautiful pink force of destruction!
i HATE murray. i wish that he never stayed around in this show. like he’s just awful. and on top he’s such a freak irl.
Everyone upset about the Stranger Things S5 ending and sure, valid takes, but I’m over here most upset about not knowing what happens to Murray or wondering why he wasn’t at the graduation. 🥲
Edit to say he was at the graduation! Was too focused on Mr.Clarke to notice I guess. 😅
I know that things are all Byler right now, but actually, I am just gonna focus on celebrating teacher Scott Clarke joining a crawl and being accepted into the group on the expense that Murray gets to call him Snookums. It brings me greater joy than Byler ever could and I hope that it has/will bring you over to the bright side.
❣️
