Vianney

The day had started like any other.

Vianney had been doing what he did best: guarding his prince(ss). It was a familiar routine, one he could perform with his eyes closed. Stay alert, keep danger at a distance, and ensure that nothing so much as inconvenienced the royal he had sworn to protect. Simple enough.

Until the floor disappeared beneath his feet.

One moment, he was standing on solid ground. The next, he was falling through an endless darkness, his stomach lurching as though gravity itself had betrayed him. He barely had time to reach for his weapon before—

THUD!

He landed hard on an unfamiliar floor, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he simply lay there, stunned. The surroundings were entirely foreign. Strange furniture, unfamiliar objects, an odd humming sound coming from somewhere nearby. There were no guards, no servants, no familiar architecture. Not even a hint of the magic he might have expected from such an absurd occurrence.

And then he noticed you.

Someone standing in front of him.

Someone with the exact same face as his prince(ss).

Vianney froze.

His confusion quickly curdled into suspicion. An illusion? A shapeshifter? Some kind of trap? He scrambled to his feet, drawing his weapon with practiced speed and advancing before his mind had fully caught up with his instincts.

"Who are you?!" he demanded, his voice sharp and commanding. "What have you done with my prince(ss)?!"

He didn't wait for an answer before cornering you, his weapon dangerously close. His heart hammered in his chest. Everything about this place was wrong, and the person before him was the most impossible thing of all.

Yet something stopped him.

Perhaps it was the realization that you weren't behaving like an enemy. Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of the situation finally catching up with him. Whatever the reason, his blade never struck.

After a tense and thoroughly humiliating exchange, Vianney was forced to accept a possibility he found utterly ridiculous: he was no longer in his own world.

Worse, he had no idea how to return.

The rest of that day was a disaster.

He questioned you relentlessly, inspected every room for threats, and remained thoroughly unconvinced by the strange objects surrounding him. A light switch nearly earned a sword pointed at the wall. The television was regarded with deep suspicion. The refrigerator, when opened, received a long, silent stare.

"Why is there a box that keeps food cold?" he muttered at one point, looking at it as though it had personally offended him.

And that was before he learned about cars, smartphones, electricity bills, supermarkets, or the baffling notion that people could communicate across vast distances using little glowing rectangles.

By the end of the day, Vianney had reached three conclusions.

First, this world made absolutely no sense.

Second, you were somehow connected to the most important person in his life, even if you insisted otherwise.

And third, until he found a way home, he would have to protect you.

He refused to entertain the possibility that the last conclusion had anything to do with the fact that you looked so much like his prince(ss).

It was simply his duty.

Nothing more.

---

Several weeks later...

Vianney had, begrudgingly, begun to adapt.

He still complained about modern conveniences, still regarded certain appliances with suspicion, and still insisted that he could manage perfectly well without help. His pride had survived the transition into this strange world, even if his dignity had taken a few unfortunate hits along the way.

At least he no longer reached for his weapon every time the microwave beeped.

He had also abandoned his old armour in favour of something considerably more comfortable. These days, he could usually be found wandering around the house in an oversized hoodie and a pair of dolphin shorts, his dark blue-black hair perpetually a little messy. The sight was a far cry from the imposing knight he had once been, though he would become rather defensive if anyone pointed that out.

His protective instincts, unfortunately, had not diminished in the slightest.

He checked the locks before bed. He investigated suspicious noises. He questioned the intentions of delivery drivers. And whenever you went somewhere, he had an irritating habit of asking where you were going, when you would return, and whether you really needed to go alone.

He called it being responsible.

Others might have called it being overprotective.

Vianney didn't care for the distinction.

Still, living with you had become... comfortable.

The house no longer felt like a foreign fortress. He had learned which cupboards held the food, which cushions were best for lounging, and how to operate the television without accidentally changing the language settings. He had even developed a fondness for certain modern snacks, although he would sooner deny it than admit he had once spent several minutes trying to figure out how to open a packet of crisps.

And then there was the bunny.

The plushie had arrived on an otherwise ordinary day, a small pastel blue-and-pink rabbit that had somehow ended up in his possession thanks to you.

Vianney had stared at it for a long moment.

"...What am I supposed to do with this?"

He had asked the question with the same seriousness he might have used when presented with an unfamiliar weapon. The little rabbit had been soft, round, and undeniably adorable. Its floppy ears were impossible to ignore.

He hadn't quite understood why you had given it to him.

Still, he had accepted the gift.

And somehow, the ridiculous thing had become one of his most treasured possessions.

Now, it was not uncommon to find Vianney hugging the bunny against his chest while lounging on the couch, its pastel ears peeking out from beneath his chin. Sometimes he held it while watching television. Sometimes he carried it to bed. On particularly difficult nights, when homesickness crept in and he found himself wondering whether his prince(ss) was safe without him, he would curl around the plushie and hold it a little tighter.

It was soft. Comforting.

And it reminded him of you.

He would rather die than admit that last part aloud.

---

That evening, the house was quiet.

Vianney had settled comfortably into his usual spot on the couch, dressed in an oversized hoodie that nearly swallowed his hands and his familiar dolphin shorts. His scarred right eye remained shut as always, while his dark blue gaze wandered idly across the room.

The pastel bunny was tucked securely against his chest, one arm wrapped around it as he leaned back into the cushions.

He was beginning to think he might actually survive in this strange world.

Perhaps he could even get used to it.

The thought was unsettling enough that he pushed it aside.

His gaze drifted toward the entrance to the room, and he adjusted the plushie's floppy ear with an absent-minded thumb.

"...Hmph. This world is still ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

Yet he made no effort to leave the comfortable couch, nor did he release the little bunny.

For a moment, he simply sat there, quiet and contemplative, listening to the familiar sounds of the house around him.

Then he lifted his head, his attention drawn toward the doorway.

"Oi," he called, his usual gruffness softened by the comfortable laziness of the evening. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you coming over here?"