Chapter Text
It’s already a terrible day, and it’s only 8:30 AM.
It’s storming again. He’s getting better about it, less anxious and remembering not to think of buckets or floorboards and just enjoy it. Storms are natural white noise. He doesn’t need to spend an embarrassingly long amount of time scrolling through his playlists if mother nature gets to decide the soundtrack.
He’d gotten up early, ready to spend his day working from home on inking. It’d started out fine, quick breakfast and a run down to the mailboxes across the street to grab the letters he’d forgotten to collect the prior day. He’d gotten his favorite mug, his tea, and had settled into everything by 9. Everything was lined up perfectly.
And then the Girl had decided to make her presence known. Of course, it’s much more complicated than just that.
He’d sound crazy enough as-is trying to explain the presence of her or WV or Antlers, but if he added in the fact that she doesn’t seem to obey the laws of the space-time continuum, he’s sure he’d lose anyone attempting to listen. All of that to say, she doesn’t always show up as the usual 13-year-old version of her he’s used to seeing. Sometimes she’s a reflection of what he might’ve looked like at 17 if he’d kept the long hair, and sometimes she’s smaller.
Today, she’s smaller. It’s always an ordeal when she is.
He knows that to a certain degree, it’s intentional. She’s done it before to get under his skin or startle him, and she has a tendency to weaponize her appearance to make a point. He’s seen it before, when she’d make herself big in an attempt to make him cower, or as big as she could considering they’re both marginally shorter than the average person. She’s done the opposite to manipulate him, make him question if he’s right to blame her for her actions. She seems to be able to control it when she’s being spiteful or trying to be a nuisance. He thinks there must be some sort of emotional factor to it all, something that lets her tap into whatever part of her goes against literally every law the universe has put in place surrounding time.
He also thinks it’s creepy, generally speaking. The uniform makes him think of those little girls from The Shining every single time, even if it doesn’t look remotely like them. God, that’s a terrifying thought. If there were two of her, he thinks he’d probably be long dead by now.
What worries him more is days like today, where it doesn’t seem intentional in the slightest. She’s not one to willingly ask for any form of comfort, but he knows that to some extent she needs it. She still does all of the nervous tics he’s tried to convince himself he’s grown out of, and there are times when she looks pale and anxious in a way that makes him almost want to drop the vitriol between the two of them. He knows it’s stupid, but when she gets worked up like that, he wants to reach out and try to soothe it. She’d probably bite his hand off if he literally reached out. It’s enough to dissuade the desire to help.
She’s curled up on the couch, leaning into one of the pillows and covering her ears every time there’s a thunderclap. He’s almost fooled by it. Her fear is almost genuine enough to fall for. Or at least, that’s what he says in his head. He doesn’t miss the way she shivers or peers out when it’s been a moment since the last strike, only to duck back into the obviously uncomfortable curl when the next one comes. It always takes him a moment to remember that loud noises do scare her. He’s used to her being loud with him, though, does it really count as loud when practically nobody can hear you shouting?
He doesn’t want to get philosophical with it. He doesn’t want to dwell on how pathetic she looks—and he doesn’t say that to be degrading, there’s just no other way to describe this—with her big, sad eyes and her death grip on the throw pillow.
He almost wants to say something to her, be it hollow words of reassurance she’s sure to sneer at or encouragement to seek out WV that’ll likely go ignored. They’re decent with kids. At least, he thinks they are. They were decent with him, and he’s mostly functional. They did well enough with balancing all of the anxieties he had, there’s surely something that they could offer her.
He shakes his head and focuses again, turning back to his desk. Nope, no, not worrying. He needs to finish the task at hand, not involve himself in whatever game she’s trying to set up. More than likely, this is just a game. She’s preying on his sense of sympathy. That is exactly what this is.
He makes it halfway through a page before he glances up again. Her eyes are shiny.
Shit.
He tries to ignore it and keep working. It doesn’t work. He hates everything about this. He hates that she looks so close to what he did, hates that she’s so good at acting. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now, and it doesn’t seem like WV or Antlers are around to handle her, right now.
He gets up with his mug and wanders into the kitchen. She follows his movement, but she doesn’t move from her spot. Unknown to him, she hugs the throw pillow tighter to her.
He starts the kettle. He opens the cupboard and grabs a second mug.
The rest is unconscious motion. He gets the box of teabags from the cabinet, sets two out. He takes the kettle off the stove before it can whistle. He pours the hot water in, wraps the strings around the handles, waits. He discards the teabags when they’re done.
He doesn’t say a word when he sets the second mug in front of her, doesn’t even look at her before he goes back to his desk. He knows that she can eat, but doesn’t need to the same way he does. He’s seen her eat things that you’re absolutely not supposed to, before. It’s rare she’ll indulge in something regular people might like. He doesn’t wait for a reaction.
She looks up and watches him go. Shaky hands take the mug and she stays quiet about it all. She’d never let any kind of appreciation toward him or his actions show, much less say thank you.
…it does help, though. She knows that he noticed her. That’s enough, at least for today.
It’s 8:57. It’s a terrible day.
It’s quiet, for once, in the apartment.