Archive of Our Own

No, that’s not her call, is it?

Mum can’t make calls like that, all high and soft and kind.

So who…?

The woman’s image fades into the brightening, bleached-white light.

It blinks its eyes open, squinting in the bright light.

It is…pressed against something hard. Or its face is, while the rest of its body is sitting. There’s something across its chest, holding it down.

It still feels warm, and safe, but it can feel the drag and itch of the mask on its face, the clothes on its body.

It lifts its head away from the hard thing and blinks again. There’s a old stone wall and lots of grass through it. This is not what is usually seen when it wakes up.

The air smells different too. Colder somehow. Less full? Like the way a posh bottle of water tastes.

Wh-what? Where…?

A smiling man is twisted around to look at it.

He has a very nice smile. All eye crinkly and gentle.

His scent is very nice too. It’s also gentle but not as crinkly, something that makes it think of walking past houses near parks in the evening after it’s just woken up, seeing the golden windows with their flitting shadows and laughter and chattering inside, the air full of bushes and trees and food over the normal city smells.

“Hello!” He says, as his subvocals go hello, hello, good morning little one, good morning. “Um. Sorry to wake you up, but we’re, uh. We’re here!”

Here?

But where—

Ah.

Everything’s coming back to it now.

It is itself.

It does not have a name. It does not know what It is.

It does know it is twelve years old. It knows it used to be afraid of snakes, but not the Dark. Now it is afraid of both, and many other things too.

It knows it loves its brother very very much. It knows its brother is afraid of the Dark, allergic to cats, likes mint chocolate chip ice cream, and is very brave. A lot like the man smiling at it now.

The smiling man is Martin. Martin K. Blackwood.

Martin the Brave. Martin the Very Kind.

Martin who gave it a Cough Drop to stop the pain in its chest, and who saw its face but still asked if it was okay, who has warm hands that he lets it hold and didn’t let the other, stronger avatar eat it even when it broke Martin’s Jon’s food, and who invited it back into his home. Martin and Martin’s Jon’s Home. Maybe just for a cup of tea, but maybe for even longer, if it’s very, very good.

That Martin.

It’s in Martin and Martin’s Jon’s car, with something that Martin’s Jon called a “seatbelt” across its chest for “safety”. It doesn’t quite get how a little strap of woven plastic fiber will in any way keep it safe from getting eaten, or stabbed, or burned, or punched.

But it made Martin smile when it put it on, so it wore it.

It thinks it likes making Martin smile.

It tries to chirp back a sleepy good morning.

It can’t help the flinch when its subvoice cracks painfully again. Ouch. Guess the Cough Drop wore off. It was nice while it lasted.

Martin’s nice smile drops off his face, a worried look coming over it instead. Oh no, poor baby, does it hurt? Does it hurt?

It startles when a deep voice speaks up. “There’s more cough drops in the bag, if you need one.”

Martin’s Jon, the much stronger, scarier avatar, has twisted around to look at it too.

His scent reminds it of books, old and worn and crinkling, furtively stuffed into its backpack in between shelves, trying to walk out of the towering walls of ink and paper while going unnoticed, sure it will be seen, it will be stopped, its new treasures will be taken from it unless it can find the exit, but where is the exit, where is it?

It can feel its mouth curving wide under the mask in the “I’m-not-terrified-I’m-excited-to-perform” Smile carved into it in Training despite itself.

Martin’s Jon frowns at it.

It sits up straighter, tries to remember the right hand shapes without pulling out the book to say what it wants. It doesn’t want to make him unhappy again.

“Thank you for bringing me here. I am very grateful for your kindness. I swear I will not hurt you or your husband.” It signs carefully, to the tune of a crackly hello, hello, I’m here, here I am, I am not a threat, please don’t hurt me.

It must fumble the sign for “husband” badly, because Martin’s Jon’s eyes widen and he begins coughing, suddenly.

”Jon?” Martin says, eyebrows drawing together. Are you alright? Love? I love you?

It sinks down in its seat guiltily and hopes desperately it didn’t accidentally sign a rude word instead.

“It’s-hrm- it’s nothing, really. Just, ah. No need to thank us. You’re very welcome here for as long as you’d like.” Martin’s Jon says, shooting it a smile, one hand pressed to his chest.

It doesn’t look like he’s had much practice with them. Camellia/Carmilla would have had its hide if it or any of the other Performers in Training had ever tried to go into the Ring wearing one like that.

It doesn’t like to think about what Nikola would have done.

Martin’s Jon rumbles, not unkindly, go on, go on, eat up little one, it’s good for you, go on.

It hesitantly reaches into the pink bag in the white bag in its lap, ears pricked in case the rumbles descend into growls.

Nothing happens even as it pulls out the Cough Drop, tucking it into its fist.

It can feel Eyes on it.

It freezes in indecision. Does Martin’s Jon want it to eat it now? If it tries to hide the Cough Drop for later, Martin’s Jon might get angry with it, and decide it’s not good enough to be here. That it’s not good enough for him to not eat.

But to eat the Cough Drop, it has to pull the mask down, and while Martin wasn’t scared when he saw its face, there’s no guarantee that Martin’s Jon will be anywhere near as brave or kind. It might scare him. It might scare him so badly he decides it’s not safe to let it anywhere near Martin. It might scare him so badly he decides the only good thing to do with it is to eat it.

It doesn’t want to be eaten. It doesn’t want to be eaten.

A soft two-tone crooning gradually breaks through its thoughts, a soothing litany of it’s alright, it’s okay baby, you’re alright, you’re safe, nothing will hurt you, nothing will harm you, you’re safe, we love you, you’re okay, we’re here, no enemies, no danger here, it’s alright, it’s okay.

It warbles back I’m scared, it’s scary, I don’t wanna get hurt before it can stop itself.

It presses down hard on where it’s vocal cords are trying to vibrate more dangerous noises before it can make anything worse than it already has.

There’s a loud clicking noise that startles it into looking up.

Martin twists around to look at it again, a smile still on his face though there’s a crease between his eyebrows. “I was just thinking, we should probably unlock the front door and get all those out and tidied away. Right, Jon?”

“Hm? Oh, ah, yes. Quite right.” Martin’s Jon clicks something and the seatbelt comes off. He shoots it another weak smile too. “Whenever you feel ready, you can come in, alright?”

It’s a little odd, to hear the harmony they make, subvocals singing you’re safe, everything’s safe, we’re here, everything’s okay without even the slight discordance that’s always there between the heroes in movies.

It wonders if that’s the difference between the fake and the Real that people keep telling it about.

It doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, especially when Martin opens the door opposite it and pulls out the box of his Jon’s food.

But then the doors shut again and it’s alone in the car.
The Eyes are gone.
It’s not being watched.

Just to make doubly doubly sure though, it ducks down below the windows to pull its mask down and pop the cough drop inside.

It lets out a small happy trill as the tasteless thing begins making its insides feel nice and cool again.

Then it has to grapple with escaping the seatbelt.

It takes it a while, but eventually it secures its own release.

It emerges triumphant from the car and cautiously walks up to the building.

It’s the only one all around, with no friends like other buildings have. Just lots and lots of green, as far as the eye can see.

It hopes this building isn’t lonely. That wouldn’t be good for the building or for Martin. 
It remembers Frey telling it that friends and loved ones are important so the Fog and its loneliness will go away. That even it and it’s mewling can be somewhat good for this, though it’s not quite as effective as a Real Person Being There.

Speaking of Martin, he’s standing just outside an open door without the box of his Jon’s food, smiling at it.

Hello, hello, you’re here, there you are, you’re here, hello little one, welcome, hello, his subvocals sing.

Martin coughs. “Sorry about that— did you, uh. Did you find getting out of the car alright?”

It’s preparing to respond, to try and regale him with the tale of how it figured out how to pull on the seatbelt juuust enough that it could wriggle out from under the slack as best as it is able with only its subvocals, because he gets the same lost look that Des and Petra have whenever it tries to sign.

Then it gets close to the door.

It feels like the crinkly books scent just punched it in the face.

It stumbles backwards from the blow, sneezing explosively.
It only narrowly manages to avoid spitting out its Cough Drop.

“Oh, careful! What’s…ah.”

It lets out a plaintive little whine, looking up at Martin, whose lips are pressed together in an odd smile, eyes even more crinkly.

Its nose smarts.
It wants to go in, but it doesn’t want to start sneezing like that again.

Truly, a diabolical barrier defending the building.

“Try holding your breath and pinching your nose.” Martin advises. “Like this.”

It copies him, puffing out its cheeks and pinching its nose shut, shutting its eyes for good measure.

With a large, warm hand on its back to guide it and the coo of good little one, silly little one, so brave vibrating in its ears, it steps through.

“What’s goi…ah.” It hears Martin’s Jon say.

“Forgot about that, did you?” It hears Martin snicker. Silly, silly billy, love you, love you, love you.

“I didn’t forget!” Martin’s Jon protests as it opens its eyes again. “It’s just—it’s not like you can undo it!”

“Ah yes. Because warding off the postman is a very important job.” Martin says, smiling at his Jon. So big, so brave, such a good protector, such a strong provider.

Martin’s Jon stiffens, letting out a grumbly stop that, you. I’m big, I’m scary. “At least it was just the door. And it works! Bought a few extra seconds, didn’t it?”

It considers this information carefully. It hasn’t heard of a “postman” before. Is it maybe another avatar in close range? Can Martin’s Jon not eat it on his own? Is that why it’s here? To help kill this “postman”?

Enemy? Danger? Defend??

For some reason that curious chirrup gets it a pair of wide-eyed looks.

”No.” Martin’s Jon says immediately and sternly, at the same time as Martin lets out a string of “Oh, no, no, no, no, definitely not, let’s—let’s not do that.”

It glances between them, brow furrowing in confusion.

It is very good at helping to kill things. It wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t. It’s helped kill a Yeerk before, and some of the melty wax people, and that foggy lady, and even if it didn’t kill the Spider, it could’ve, but getting out of there was more important.

But if Martin’s Jon thinks he can take this “postman” on his own, it won’t interfere. He’s already put formidable barriers up.
It’ll just have to trust that he’ll be fine.

Besides, there are far more things to capture its attention right now.

It looks around, curious and interested.

This is a house. It’s seen these in movies, read about them in books and online. It even saw the outside of the house where Des and his Mama and his family live, once.

But it’s never been inside one before.

It looks both similar and different to the things it’s read and seen. It’s not as neat as the houses in movies, where everything is either postioned to be perfect for a dance number or a murder, floors and key load-bearing surfaces clear.

There’s lots of books all over the place. On the short table, on the tall table, on the not-quite-tables surrounding a large metal thing, even on the large squishy looking armchair and couch. The squishy looking couch also has lots of pillows and a blanket on it.

More importantly there are lots of lamps everywhere, all different shapes and sizes, on the tables, on the floor, even dangling from the ceiling, giving off a warm, yellow light. There’s also a candle burning in the center of the tall table, with a picture of an apple and two brown sticks on its front. It gives off a much gentler smell than the book scent at the door.

It heartily approves of all of these light sources. Even if they aren’t as reliable as its glow bracelets, it’s nice to see that a lot of thought has gone into protecting this house. It’s happy to know Martin and his Jon are safe here, even if the house has no building friends.

It goes to give one of them a friendly pat, to convey its regard.

Oh. There’s now five dark ovals on the nice lamp’s head. 
It discreetly tries to brush the marks off.

Now there are five, much bigger, more jagged dark oval marks. 
Oops.

“Yeah.” Martin says behind it. “You could probably use a wash, i-if you’re amenable to it, that is! Don’t know if you, if you rust, or anything like that—”

It tilts its head.
It. It doesn’t think, it does that? 
What is rust, anyway? And why would a wash make it do that?

“I don’t think so.” Martin’s Jon says. “These things don’t tend to work on a, on a logical basis, like that. And Daisy kept an oil can out in the shed, if worse comes to worst.”

Martin lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “Jon. That’s not nice!”

”W-well, it’s very far-fetched, in any case!” Martin’s Jon says, “After all, if they’ve been out in the—in the elements for a while, it stands to reason a shower wouldn’t do any more harm!”

“Maybe so, but what about when they come out, hm? They won’t want to, to just put what they’re already wearing back on, that’s always unpleasant.”

It watches this back and forth between Martin and his Jon, its head still tilted. It feels like it’s rewatching Don and Kathy argue in the earlier scenes of Singin’ In the Rain back in the large, nearly deserted cinema, but not in the scenes where they don’t actually like each other yet. The ones where they do like each other, but they’re still playing pretend like they don’t, because that’s what they were doing earlier and they haven’t worked their way up to dancing together or kissing yet.

They remind it of a bit from one of Cosmo’s songs. Its favorite one, actually:

“Long people have short faces, and short people have long faces. Big people have little humor, and little people have no humor at all.”

They don’t quite fit that, it thinks, watching them move around each other in this small house that smells like waxy cinnamon and apples, bickering about whether Martin’s Jon has any smaller shirts or trousers he’s outgrown, or if there’s shops in the village will sell children’s clothes.

But it likes the rhyme.

And it likes them, it’s pretty sure.

So this can be their rhyme, to remind it of them. It’s sure Cosmo wouldn’t mind.

Eventually Martin’s Jon beckons to it, and leads it down a hallway to a brown wooden door.

He opens the door to a small room. Inside there is a toilet, a mirror, and a sink, like you’d find in a library or a tube station.

The white curved container with a metal contraption extending up from it and brightly colored cloth with an incomprehensible pattern hanging from one corner is new though.

It approaches cautiously, in case an enemy is hiding in it, or it’s less harmless than it appears.

”I suppose that answers the question of whether you know what this is.” Martin’s Jon says behind it, making it jump.

It lets out a small discontented grumble of don’t do that, don’t be mean to me, I’m small, I’m fierce, as it tries to remember the signs for “What is this thing? What do I do to it?”

Martin’s Jon holds up his hands, going sorry, sorry, I’ll be nice, I’ll be kind, it’s safe. “Right, well. This is known as a shower. Well, technically, it’s a bath with a shower-head attachment, and lord knows that Daisy didn’t often use it for its intended purposes…”

He looks back at it and claps his hands together. “But that doesn’t help you now, does it? Right, what you need to know is that when I turn these taps here,”
He reaches out and twiddles a bit of the metals with a grunt.

Something comes out of a higher bit of metal on the contraption.

It steps back in mild alarm.
When nothing more happens, it applauds, because that’s what you do when someone makes something new appear from a place where it wasn’t before.

”Yes, yes, yes.” Martin’s Jon flaps one hand in its direction, lips pressed together into a stronger smile, and places the other into the stream of something that’s coming out. “This is water. Like, like rain, yes? It’s warm, and clean, so you can wash in it and not catch a cold. You’ll need to take off what you’re wearing to do so, but wait until I’m out of the room and the door is closed to do that, okay?”

It nods, signing, “I think I understand.”

He nods in satisfaction, beckoning it over as he draws the patterned cloth along a rail around the top of the white container, so the inside is mostly hidden from view. It can see the water patter against it.

“Best to keep it simple. So this bottle here” He lifts one, flips open the cap, and makes a small puddle of pale gloop come out of it into the palm of his shiny hand. “Is shampoo. You put it on your head, and rub it in in circles like this to clean your hair. Then you rinse it out under the water when you’re done”
He makes a small demonstrative circle with the fingers of his other hand. The pale gloop moves, then bubbles begin to come out of it, all rainbow-like and sparkly.

It reaches out to stroke one, but the bubble bursts.

It pouts. Where? Where? Come back. 

Martin’s Jon chuckles at it.

“Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from. This bottle over here is body wash, same principle as shampoo but you put it on your body, as the name suggests. Once it’s all washed off and you’re finished with your shower, step out onto this mat here, and wrap this,” A gesture to a folded bit of green fabric over a railing. “Around you, to dry off. There’ll be a set of fresh clothes waiting for you outside the door, so you don’t have to put your old ones on. Is all that alright?”

”I think so. Thank you for everything.” It signs back with a grateful chirp.

Martin’s Jon nods and begins to leave. He pops his head through the door before he closes it. “If you have any questions, or get stuck with something, just knock on the door. The house is fairly small, so we’ll hear and come to help, okay?”

It nods, lifting a hand to its chin again. “Thank you.”

He smiles at it, rumbling a soft, you’re welcome, you’re safe, good little one, and shuts the door behind him.

It waits until it hears him walking away from the door until it begins to strip.

It’s not entirely sure what to do with its mask, or the glow bracelets around its wrists, or the almost but not quite completely dissolved Cough Drop in its mouth, drumming its fingers against its neck in indecision.

In the end, it decides to leave the mask and glow bracelets next to the sink, in case the water in the shower would hurt them, but keep the Cough Drop in its mouth. Keeping its mouth shut should provide sufficient protection.

It carefully steps past the cloth, and hesitantly ventures under the stream of water.

Ooh.
That is nothing like rain at all. It’s so warm, and it feels nice.

It loses a few seconds luxuriating in the sensation, before it remembers the importance of the bottles and moves to get the “shampoo” one for its hair.

It begins rubbing in small circular motions, like Martin’s Jon did, wincing slightly when its hair gets caught on its fingers, big stuck-together clumps of it twisting together before shearing apart.

Huh. That’s weird.

The water comes clear out of the shower, but goes down the drain blackish and murky.

Even the pale shampoo and bright yellow soap take on a greyish-brown tinge as they turn into bubbles and swirl around the opening at the bottom, rather than the sparkly rainbows they were earlier.

It feels vaguely embarrassed by this fact, but can’t quite remember why it does.

It does not look down any more than it has to.

There are some things it can’t help but— feel. But closing its eyes and pretending helps some.

Pretending that it’s not it’s body on the bits that it hates, focusing instead on tracing the waxy patch on its tummy, the thin raised lines around its wrists and ankles, the ridged mark over where its fingers meet its right hand, the cracking scab to the right and up a bit from the waxy patch, the punctures on its lower back, the pressed-in spots up its sides.

Some of them hurt to touch too much, or when the soap goes over them, but it’s a good hurt, a Real hurt. A hurt from something it did, and not something that was done to it.

(Not true, but these didn’t come from Training or The Circus, and that’s what Counts.)

Eventually, it peeks and finds the water is as clear when it goes down into the plug as when it comes out of the tap.

Maybe that’s a sign it’s done everything properly?

So it now knows how to have showers.
Well, that wasn’t very hard.

Satisfied with completing this mission, it reaches out to twiddle off the taps like it saw Martin’s Jon doing earlier.

Only to shriek when it is viciously attacked by an onslaught of cold.

It rears back, to try and get away from the enemy, but something hits its shins, and it tumbles—!

Crack!

Pain pain pain, ow, ow, ow, OW I’m hurt, this hurts, it hurts so MUCH, I’m wet and I’m cold and I’m HURT, ow.

There’s a loud thumping sound past the ache in the back of its head.

When it opens its eyes, everything is fuzzy and Dark.

No no no nO NO

It flails wildly, scooting backwards across the cold tile until it hits something else and light bursts behind its eyes again, trying to make the Dark go away, claw its way back to the light again.

The fuzzy Dark slides off its head and onto its shoulders.

Ow, ow, ow, bright, it hurts, I hurt, OW.

The Dark seems to have gone though, and all that’s left is a fuzzy thing on its shoulders and a pounding in its head that hurts worse than the time it tried to discover what all the fuss adults made over alcohol was about.

It pulls the fuzzy thing around itself to inspect it properly, drawing its knees up to its chest.

It’s a cloth, cotton of some kind, big and dark green with little raised curls that go up and down, up and down, all over its surface. It looks vaguely familiar, somehow.

Nothing happens when it pokes the fuzzy thing, no Dark surging out to eat it, nothing. Maybe it’s safe?

The door bangs open.

It jolts at the sound.
Martin appears from behind it, looking around with a worried hum. There’s a pile of cloth in his arms. “Hello? Are you okay? We heard screaming, and—”

All the noise makes the pounding in its head ache a little more just as it was beginning to get better, and it can’t help the pitiful little whine of hurts, hurting, ow that comes from its chest.

Martin lets out a distressed warble of oh no, poor little one, poor baby, is it hurting, does it hurt? 
He drops down to the floor beside it, carefully reaching out to cradle its head. His hands are large and warm, as he turns its head this way and that, tilting it forward to run careful fingers over the back, tilting it back so he can look into its eyes with an intensity that makes it want to blink.

It notices his nostrils flare, for some reason, there and gone so quick it’s like it imagined it.
His frown gets even larger.

“What is it, what happened?” It hears Martin’s Jon say, before his head appears in its periphery too.

“I-I don’t know, I think they must’ve taken a bad fall when they tried to get out.” Martin says, almost distracted as his fingers gently prod at its cheeks, at its neck, carefully avoiding the seams after it whines in discomfort when they get too close. Poor baby, poor little one, are you hurt, does it hurt, how can I fix it?
“Can, can you see if they have a concussion, or anything?”

”No.” Martin’s Jon sounds upset, a grumpy thrum under his words as he gets closer. “I’ve no idea. Do they have any bumps or swelling?”

”No.” Martin turns to his Jon, a hand dropping down to one of its wrists absent-mindedly, rubbing the ridged skin there. “And their pupils are dilating normally, but, but is that normal, for a…?”

”I don’t. Know.” Martin’s Jon sighs. It thinks it notices his nostrils flaring too, resignation passing over his face. “That’s the problem with I-Do-Not-Know-You. It’s the Stranger’s whole thing.”

It remembers too late that its mask is next to the sink rather than covering up its face.
It claps both hands over its jaw, hoping against hope that Martin’s Jon somehow hasn’t noticed yet and gotten frightened by it.

For some reason, Martin yelps and grabs at the fuzzy thing around its shoulders, drawing it shut tight around its arms and neck. 
His Jon promptly turns around with a small splutter and retreats out of the room.

It has no idea whether that means it scared him or not. I’m sorry?

Martin gives it a weak smile, a worried chirr still emanating from him. It’s never heard someone vocalize like it does as much as Martin. His subvocalizations make it feel a little better about its own, though. “Right. Well. How’s your head feeling? Does it still hurt? Any dizziness?”

It considers, tilting its head from side to side. The pounding’s mostly gone, and it doesn’t hurt as much to hear sounds anymore. It’s had worse hurts anyway than this.
It can handle it.

I’m okay, I’m brave, I’m scary, I’m fierce, it chirrups.

Martin sighs a little. Brave baby, small baby, needs to be protected.
“I-if you’re sure. But I want you to tell us immediately if it starts hurting again, okay? Or-or if you have trouble keeping your balance, or start feeling nauseous.”

He gently pulls one of his hands away from its jaw and guides it to close around the corners of the fuzzy thing at its neck, holding it in place. “There we go.”
His freed hand smooths some of the hair off its forehead gently. 
It feels just as nice as the shower had, warm and heavy and soothing.

It leans into the touch, wiggling happily and chirring. Warm, so warm, I’m happy, that’s nice, yes, more of this please.

That at least gets Martin to laugh, especially when he takes his hand away and it gives a pitiful little whimper at the loss of contact.

”Here.” He pats around him until he finds a bundle of cloth by the door. He reaches out and deposits it in front of it. “Once you’re dry, you can put these on. We’ll run your old stuff through the wash, so if everything’s too big, you’ll be able to change into something a bit more fitting and clean until we can buy you some stuff that’s actually your size. Okay?”

He smiles again when it nods.
Martin brushes his hand over its head carefully as he leaves, with a worried good little one, brave baby, be safe, be good, be careful.

It chirps back a conciliatory I will, I will, I will after him, delighting in how that makes his smile widen as the door closes behind him.
It really does like making Martin smile. 

It lets go of the fuzzy thing that may or may not summon the Dark and investigates the bundle he’s left it with.

There’s a pair of strange fabric trousers with very short legs and no pockets. They’re dark blue with a scrunchy top, that stretches as it pulls it over its legs and scrunches again to its original size once on.
It’s still a little big on it, but the scrunchy bit stops it from falling down when it moves, so it nods in satisfaction.

The next thing in the pile is a black top. It’s got wide boxy sleeves, like the short trousers, and bright green writing that says “What the GHOST!”
The exclamation point is a curved shape it thinks is meant to be a ghost with its tongue sticking out.

It shrugs the top on. The neckhole is very wide, and it feels like it’s in danger of almost falling off. 

It frowns, and glances around. There’s a thin length of pale grey cloth left on the floor. It’s like a scarf, but much, much thinner. 
It tries wrapping it around its waist, tying a bow in back so a line of grey cuts through the middle of the ‘GHOST!’.

The shirt stops feeling like it’s about to fall off, the excess fabric bunched in around the thin length of cloth around its middle. The short trousers feel more secure too.

It spins a little. The shirt flares out around its legs, brushing its knees.

It’s like the pretty dresses from the movies, it thinks, gleefully. Maybe not as colorful or shiny, but it goes swoosh, swoosh, swoosh when it moves and twirls.

It wonders if Martin and Jon know about the swooshiness.

It should show them, just to make sure they do.

It slides its bracelets back on and pulls the straps of the mask back over its ears. It looks at itself in the mirror.
It looks funny, its hair all sticking flat to its head and neck and seams in weird wavy patterns, some small curls beginning to stick up again at the very top of its head and by its ears.

It pivots on its heel into another twirl, away and rockstep back around, arms up in a little flourish as the shirt goes swoosh.

Just like the pretty dresses in the movies.

Its feet make a funny sticking sound on the cold floor when it pads out the door and into the corridor.

It can faintly hear Jon talking, low and quiet, like he doesn’t want to be heard.

Curious, it pads closer, pressing one arm to its chest.

”—only natural that they’d…remove them.” He’s saying. “If it’s something that the police and families could use to track down and rescue their victims, it’d make less sense if the Circus allowed them to keep them, given their predilection for modification.”

Martin lets out a snarl that makes it freeze in place, hunker down so it won’t be found, won’t be hurt. What’s wrong, what’s happening, is there an enemy, danger, is it the postman?

“It’s—it’s mutilation, is what it is.” He says. “And, and they just did that. To a child? What will happen when they grow up, Jon? If, if they can’t—”

Oh.
They’re talking about it.
It’s done something wrong again.

”I imagine the point was that they wouldn’t get to.” Jon says, softly, the quiet burr of a growl humming under his words. “Not with…”

There’s a moment of silence.

It wonders if it should just go back to the shower room and hide so they don’t have to see it. 
It doesn’t want to make them any unhappier than it already has.

“I’m glad.” Martin bursts out suddenly. “I-I mean, I hate that you and Tim had to go and blow it up, god do I wish it were, were anyone else who had to do that. Who had to…I hate that. More than anything, but. But I can’t stop being glad. That it’s gone. That they can’t hurt anyone else.”

There’s the faint sound of fabric rustling, and the high-low purred harmony of I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I know.” Jon sounds very soft. “It’s okay Martin, I-I know.”

“Well, so long as you do.” Martin sounds soft too, fond, teasing.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

It’s torn between the urge to stay there and keep listening to the nice, soothing calls, so much more potent and reassuring and warm than anything it’s ever heard in a video or film, or running back to the shower room and crawling out the window to get away, a burning surety in its chest that it’s listening to something that doesn’t belong to it, that it doesn’t deserve to hear.

Drumming its fingers against the sides of its neck helps, some.
The grounding tap-tap-tap against the give of wet skin, reminding it that it wasn’t always an It.
That it may have had the right to want to hear sounds like this, once.

It’s so caught up in this action, focusing on the sensation to try and block out all the nasty things in its head, it doesn’t notice it’s been unconciously leaning towards the calls.

It doesn’t fall, barely. 

But the loud, squeaking scuffle its feet make, as one of them swings out to catch its rapidly tilting balance, spinning on the ball until its partner can bring its top-like trajectory to a slightly unstable halt, the shirt swooshing around it, means that the lovely, heartwrenching sounds cut off pretty quickly.

It smells the gentle, evening-homes-warmth of Martin and hears his footsteps come to a stop in front of it.

But maybe if it doesn’t look up just yet, it can pretend he’s not there, that it didn’t have the mishap it just did.

Hello, hello, little one, hello, what have we here? What’s going on? His subvoice sings, as his normal one says, “Everything fit all right, then? I’m about to pop the kettle on for tea, if you want some.”

The mention of its new clothes brings back its former excitement, lets it ignore what was just troubling it. 
As it should be. Overthinking and overtalking always got it into more trouble than it was worth. 
(Chatterboxes don’t deserve voiceboxes, after all.)
No. Nope. Best not to think about that.
Focus on here, on now. On safety, on Martin.

It chitters, look at me, look at me, look what I found out, look what I can do, look at me!

It glances up to make sure he’s looking, shuffling away from the wall it caught itself on, until it has the room to draw its arms in for a pirouette as the shirt swooshes out.

It hears Martin let out a sputter behind it.

It skids to a stop, craning its head around to see him. What happened? Is something wrong? Did you see?

“I-I saw, yes, very-very cool, but.” Martin wipes a hand over his chin with a laugh and a small snort of bleh. Wet. “Did, did you think to dry your hair at all? Just, just you’ve got some impressive range with it.”

Huh?

Martin comes forward and, after waiting for a nod of assent from it, carefully lifts a curl away from its neck. As it watches, a droplet forms at the end and drips off, landing on its shirt.

Now that it looks, it can see lots of small, wet marks on the walls around it, excepting the area where Martin was standing.
Oh.
Whoops?

He smooths its hair out of its face again, chuckling at the return of its pleased chirring. “Yeah, water, water tends to stick around in hair a lot longer than it does on skin, so it needs a bit more help to dry off. It’s, it’s not a bad thing, but we don’t want it staying wet and getting cold, and then you catching a cold, or any, um, any accidental projectiles like now.”

Martin sends it into to the room with the squishy couch with a gentle, ”Why don‘t you go on through and have a seat, and I’ll, I’ll pop the kettle on and grab you a towel?”

Jon is sitting at one end of the couch, with a book on his lap. He looks up at it as it comes in, giving a weaker-smile-than-the-strong-smile-from-the-shower-room but stronger-than-the-weak-smile-from-the-car smile. 

His welcoming thrum of hello, hello, there you are, hello, you’re here reassures it a bit. 
So it didn’t scare him with it’s face, even without the mask. Good. That’s good.
It’s amazing how many brave people it’s met today.

It tentatively responds with its own hum of here I am, hello, here I am, look I found something, look at what I can do, look at me, look at me.

It backs up to the door again, trying not to get stage fright under the feeling of curious Eyes watching it.
Once its sure it won’t accidentally catch him in it’s “impressive range” like it did Martin, it pushes off into another pirouette, this time managing two full turns on the ball of its foot before landing with a little flourish.

Jon makes an interested sound and claps. “Yes, ah. Very impressive. Good improvisation with everything there.”

It wiggles as it ducks into a bow, feeling a genuinely pleased smile curve across its face.

It’s not entirely sure what to do with itself after that, so it sort of shuffles in place a bit.

“Oh, erm, do you want to—“ Jon says, pulling the book closer to him and swinging his legs down off the settee. “Feel free to sit, um. Sit wherever.”

It nods, lifting a hand to its chin and dropping it in a quick “thank you”, before deciding to perch on the opposite end of the couch to the one where Jon’s sitting.

There’s a long few minutes of silence. 
It tries to peek at the cover of his book.

“So Martin’s gone to put the kettle on?” Jon says suddenly, startling it.

It nods.

“Ah, you’re very lucky then.” Jon says sagely, placing his book to the side. It’s got a large “A” and “Z” over a laughing baby on it. “Because this isn’t just any tea.”

It blinks as it signs, “It’s not?”

“No. It’s Martin’s tea.” He tells it very seriously. “That means it’s the best tea in the world .”

It takes a moment for it to process this.

“In the whole  world ?” It signs to Jon, tentatively chirping  really? Truly? Not lying?  

Jon nods solemnly.  Really. Not lying. Honest.

It slumps down next to the arm of the couch, mind reeling. 
Martin makes the best tea in the whole wide world. And he’s decided to let it have some! 
It feels more overwhelmed by the minute.

“Got it!” Martin crows as he re-enters, holding up the dark green fuzzy thing.

He stops before the settee, glancing between it and Jon. “…What are you smiling about?”

Jon smiles at him with an undercurrent of  hello, nothing to see here, I love you . “You came back.” 

“Riiight.” Martin says slowly with a disbelieving chirp of  I love you,  but  pull the other one, it’s got bells on . 

He laughs as Jon pouts, and taps its shoulder with a gentle “Here, budge up, and I’ll take care of your hair.”
It obligingly budges until it’s in the middle of the couch and Martin can sink down behind it. 

It purrs in contentment as he places the fuzzy thing on its head and begins rubbing soft, soothing circles into it, occasionally stopping to squeeze out the ends carefully.

Martin laughs, a bright burst of sound.

It tilts its head up to look at him, quizzical. What is it?

“It’s nothing, just—“ He gently pinches a lock of its still damp hair between the fingers of one hand, pulls it straight. It glints oddly in the light, most of it pale and colorless, only a few colored strands in there to stop it from being invisible.

“Look, Jon.” He says, grinning. “It’s a match.”

It doesn’t quite understand, until Jon laughs and lifts one section of his hair, one of the grey ones in between all the black. It’s similarly colorless when he holds it up to the light like that.

When it cranes its gaze up, it can see Martin’s doing the same with some of the pale hair near the top of his head.

Huh. They all have it.

Martin’s chest hums behind it, a comforting sing-song of matching, matching, baby looks like their daddy, yes you do, yes you do.

Something swells in its chest in response to this.

It’s so fast, so strong, so big, it feels like hurts. But a good hurt, even better than watching Don and Kathy kiss at the end of Singin’ in the Rain, an ache that it wants to touch over and over to know it’s still there, it’s Real.

It can faintly hear Jon sputter-laughing, a happy thrum under his words, while his Martin just splutters, asking it something, saying something—

But the only thing it can let out is a pathetic little croak.

Really? Matching? Really? Promise?

Family?

There’s an awful, awful moment of silence. 
One where it’s convinced it’s just mucked this all up, it’s ruined it like it always does, it’s going to have to go back to the city, to one of the furthest ones it can find from here and hope it can forget the warmth of this house with no building friends as easily as it forgot everything else.

Then it’s enfolded in a tight, warm grip, two arms pulling it back into a broad chest and something squishy pressed to the top of its head, the fuzzy green thing sandwiched between them barely muffling the vibrations of yes, yes, baby, my baby, our baby, our little one, here, here, family, no, no taking our baby away encircling it and feeling like they’re sinking into the very fibers of its being.

It’s like when Petra pulled it into the Choke, but, good?
Less Choke-y, if that makes any sense. Tight and warm without crushing.

”—O-of course, that’s only if you want to stay here,” Martin’s babbling, in counterpoint to his subvoice. “So, no, no pressure at all or anything, you can change your mind at any time you like, of course you can, but if you, if you really, really do want to stay with us—“

Then there’s even more warmth, as its vision goes dark and terry-cloth patterned as it’s squished even further against Martin. This is a little gentler, a bit looser than Martin’s hug, more tentative, as if almost unsure. But the resonant croon of good little one, here, we’re here, we’re all here, we’re here more than makes up for it.

”Well,” Jon’s voice rumbles from in front of it. “If you’re going to be part of the family, we need something to call you, don’t we?”

It can’t help but add it’s rusty squeaks of family, my family? Stay, I wanna stay, this, I like this, I love this, I love you, love you, love you, home, family, I’m home, home! to the amazing symphony surrounding it.

Eventually an odd, whistling sound breaks through all the nice ones, and Martin lets them go to make his special best-in-the-world Martin tea.

It stays sitting close to Jon, not quite wrapped up in the hug from before, but. Close. Comfortable. Content.
He shows it the book he had earlier, the one with the laughing baby and letters on it. “I believe Martin told you about this? Daisy got it with the furniture when she first purchased this house, and while it doesn’t have…not every name in the world, it’s fairly extensive, for what it is.”

He fixes it with a curious look. The feeling of Eyes barely even make it shiver, it’s still so happy. “Before we begin, do you have any other names you felt comfortable going by, or that any acquaintances you made outside the Circus called you? They could be a good starting point, if you like.”

It thinks hard, trying to remember the right signs for the letters it wants to spell.
It’s not entirely sure it gets all of them correct.

It knows Des called it Benjamin, Sandy, Arthur, Paddington, Diego, Boots, Rupert, among many, many others. It’s hard to remember them all. He seemed to give it a new one every time he saw it.

It remembers Frey always had fewer names for it than that and stuck to them for longer. Things like Outis, Nemo, Chucky, or Coppelia.

Petra just alternated between calling it Nanashi, Pinocchio, and Hey You.

By the time Martin comes in with three gently steaming mugs of Martin tea, Jon is frowning severely.

“And did any of…those stick with you?” He asks.

It pauses in the act of reaching for a mug, considering this carefully.
One of them really should, considering that its friends gave them to it. That’s what you do with things from your friends, right? You accept them gratefully and keep them forever and ever.

But it can’t stop thinking about how quickly and easily it always went with the change every time they discarded an old one and gave it another…

There’s a nudge to its side, and Martin smiles down at it. “It’s okay if they didn’t. This is going to be your name, after all. Not anyone else’s.”

His smile is so warm. The tea is warm too, a solid flush of heat filling its mouth with what it’s sure would be the tastes of home and family and belonging. It certainly smells like all of those things.
It can easily see how this is the best tea in the whole wide world.

”Oh, careful!” Martin cautions, the worried chirr starting up again. “That’s really hot, you’ll burn yourself!”

Oh. Whoops.
It glances between Martin and the still steaming mug.
It pulls its mask back up, purses its lips and blows on the liquid for a minute or two, then yanks it down again to take another gulp.

”Hey!”

The sound of snickering has them both turning to look at Jon, who’s holding the the laughing letter baby book out to it. “Why don’t we make a start on this while we wait for it to cool down, instead?”

It opens up to the start of the book, flipping through the pages.

There’s lots of different ones in here, like Aamal, Abigail, Akihiko, Alan…

Hm. “Alice”. The description says to see the entry for “Adelaide”, but that this name is mainly known for being the main character of Lewis Carrol’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

It’s not bad. Not quite what it feels like it wants, but, maybe…?

Jon stiffens out of the corner of its eye, looking away.

Hm. Maybe not then.

It goes forward a few pages, to where “Alix” says see “Alex” which says see “Alexander”, which has a whole bunch of nicknames and derivatives under it that makes something inside it hum greedily. Alexa, Alec, Lex, Xander, Sanders, Sasha—

Martin makes a small, hurt sound. He stifles it when it looks up at him, humming, what’s happened, what’s wrong?

He just gives it a small smile and shakes his head. Hm.

Clearly “A” names are sad names, that will only make Jon and Martin sad. It does not want Martin and Jon to be sad.

It skips ahead.

The “Z”s don’t have many names in them when compared to other letters. 

It foolishly thinks that this will make it easy to choose something from here.

“Zdena” comes from “Zdenko” which means “to build or create”, which it isn’t sure it can claim it has done or would do, even if it likes the sentiment.

”Zack”, “Zachariah”, and “Zacharie” all come from “Zechariah” which apparently means “Yahweh remembers”. It has no idea who Yahweh is, but its own spotty memory makes this feel like a particularly mean joke.

”Zeus” just feels a little bit… skeevy. It glances at Jon, and he shakes his head discreetly at it. It decides to trust his advice.

”Zowie”, “Zoja”, and “Zoya” come from “Zoe”, which is a translation of “Eve”. Both of those names are nice, but it’s not entirely  sure that’s right for it.

“Zhen” is a lovely name, one that it wants desperately to be worthy of. But it can’t make any claim to a name that means “Real”.

It decides to turn back to some of the earlier letters.

It skips over the “C” and “N” sections entirely.

There are probably lots of very nice names which normal, human people have which start with those letters.
Cosmo is one of those people, and it likes him very much in Singin’ In the Rain.

It understands that. It can respect that.

But that does not mean it wants to even see anything even vaguely related to the name of the woman-creator-controller who reached in and ripped out everything that made it a person and made it an it, or the ringmaster-dancer-skinner that still has it looking over its shoulders even if Martin says the Circus is Gone and she is Dead.

It settles for a while in the “E”s.

“Ellen” sounds nice. Solid. Reassuring. Maybe a little stiff, but it can learn to live with that, can’t it?

There’s no description for that name, but there’s a note under it that says to see the entry for “Elena”, which also sounds promising.

Oh.

Oh both of those originate from “Helen”.

As in “Helen of the Yellow Doors who was very stabby the first time it met Her”.

It’s pretty sure if it took the name “Helen”, or “Ellen”, or “Elena”, Helen of the Yellow Doors might decide it’s trying to step on Her metaphorical toes again. And She might not stop at being stabby with Her knife-fingers this time.

Maybe best to avoid those ones.

It flips to another page later in the book.

The problem is. The problem is.

The problem is that it doesn’t know what exactly the problem is. It seemed like this should be easy. Just pick one and go. Maybe add another to switch between if it doesn’t like the first after awhile, or to add on to the end, to change the sound of it.

Pick something that symbolizes the kind of person it wants to be, if it can’t be appeased by sounds and syllables. Honor. Erol. Lufti. Martin. Aiko. Buster.

But so many of them make it feel like it’s trying to make itself fit into something that’s not for it, no matter how it contorts and tries to make it work. Too stiff, too restrictive, too rigid.

Like the names are ill-fitting masks, some too big and hanging off of it or too small and barely covering what it needs it to. Something of someone else’s that it’s trying to play make-believe is its own.
Sooner or later they’ll fall off, like all the others it’s tried to pretend with, and it’ll just be back at the beginning again. 

A nameless thing, hiding in an alley and trying to ignore how inhuman it is.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Martin asks. “C’mon, hey, it’s alright.”

It can’t quite contain its frustrated whine, because no, it’s not. What if it can’t ever choose a name? What if it’s here with this book, forever, staring longingly at the words on its pages that it won’t ever deserve because it was foolish to even try, to think that a fake like it can’t ever be more than the Contortionist? 

Scary, it’s scary, I’m scared.

It’s okay,  nothing to be scared of,  all is well , calm down.

The book is tugged gently out of its hands, and the still warm mug pushed into them. 

“Take a drink of that and a few deep breaths.” Martin says. “Not at the same time, though.”

It does as he tells it, trying to focus on the sensation of warm tea and the warm hand squeezing its shoulder to the tune of  that’s it, good little one, calm down, all is well.

“It’s perfectly fine if you can’t decide on one right away.” Martin says gently. “These things can take time. If you really want, we could pick this up tomorrow? Look at it with fresh eyes.”

“Maybe it’d help to have some guidelines, though.” His Jon suggests. “If you’re just going through them all one by one, that takes much more time and energy than a more nuanced search.”

“Trust me.” He finishes, looking oddly grim. “ I Know .”

It swallows another mouthful of tea with a questioning gulp at Martin’s matching grimace and considers this advice. 
Thinks about what made it like the maybe-not-quites versus the no-not-reallys.

It puts the mug down and pulls its mask up to sign, “I like the shorter ones better than the full ones.”
Jon repeats this back to himself, with a quizzical expression.

Martin leans over. “By shorter, do you mean length-wise, or like, nicknames?”

It holds up two fingers to indicate the second one with a shrug.
It doesn’t fully understand the impulse itself. Those just don’t feel as…cramped as other names do? More wiggle room.

”Right, well. Why not start there?” Jon says, handing it the book back.

It nods determinedly, cracking it back open. 

It’s right in the middle of the “S”s. 
It quickly turns back a few letters.

It skips around with newfound purpose and eventually ends up in the “R”s.

“Ray” and “Rae” are okay. Nice, snappy, full of light and energy, but a little… short.
Not quite it yet. It’ll keep them in mind though.

“Reva” is also nice, but. A bit heavy? Stately. Yes, that’s it. It’s not sure how well it could carry a name like this.
Probably be less embarrassing for everyone if it doesn’t try.

“Rhys” is interesting, but that might be part of the problem. “Interesting” tends to mean you attract attention. Sometimes it can be good attention! In its personal case though, the attention usually isn’t.
Better to not go asking for trouble.

“Rino” sounds fun, light-hearted, free, but at the same time, maybe a bit too freeing.
Too much wiggle room here, rather than not enough.

It knows full well that it’s being contradictory, but this will be it’s name, like Martin said. It’s allowed to want what it wants. It thinks.

It turns the pages to keep looking.

Robbie.

It mouths the name to itself a few times. Robbie. Robbie. Robbie. Could stand for Robin, or Robert, or Roberta, or all three, or none of them.

It’s friendly-sounding, playful. “Robbie” can’t be a scary monster, can’t be one of the Performers of the Circus. Not like “Nikola” or “Camellia slash Carmilla slash Camellia”.

No, “Robbie” is just “Robbie”. A little odd, a little clumsy, but not dangerous or scary. The kind of person who could make other people laugh. Maybe not as well as a “Buster” or a “Donald” or a “Cosmo” could, but well enough. Enough to be liked. Enough to be loved.

It thinks it likes the idea of being Robbie.

It nods to itself, certain, a pleased little hum coming from its chest. This one, this one, I like this.

“Oh? You found one?” Martin asks.

It nods rapidly, tapping where the name is written in the book.

Robbie. Robbie taps where its own name is written in the book.

Robbie thrills a little at the thought, unable to keep itself from wiggling in place, fingers flying up to drum against its neck. 
I am Robbie. That’s who I am. Robbie… just Robbie for the moment. Just Robbie.

But isn’t that amazing all by itself?

“Robbie, huh?” Martin smiles at it, smoothing a hand over its hair. “I like it! It’s a very nice name.”

Robbie’s so busy preening and chirring happily under the attention, it almost misses Jon saying, “It suits you.” 

Robbie stops.

Then it lunges for Jon as he yelps and wraps its arms around his middle, squeezing as tightly as it dares and nuzzling into his side. 
It feels…odd. Somehow less than when it’s hugged Frey or Petra. It gentles its grip carefully.

“Robbie!” It hears Martin say behind it. “You can’t jump on people like that without asking first! Let go of him now, come on, Jon are you okay?”

Robbie obligingly goes as Martin gently pulls it off by the back of its collar, replying to his grumbly chastement of no, no, we don’t do that, no with a guiltily squeaked sorry, I’m sorry, won’t do it again, sorry.

“Y-yes, fine, Martin, I’m fine.” Jon says. His smile’s gotten a little weaker and it feels some of its elation slip away. “Just. Just surprised me, is all.”

But then he looks back at it, and the smile grows stronger again. He carefully reaches out with his non-shiny hand and ruffles its hair with a good little one, clever little one, proud of you. 

Robbie very carefully keeps itself from pushing into the gesture too hard, but it can’t keep it’s happy chirring from growing louder.

“Have you decided what pronouns you’d like to go by?” Jon asks. “You know, boy, girl, both, neither?”

Robbie freezes.

It hadn’t known there was another part to this.

It feels a little cheated, like it had just completed a worksheet only to be told there were more problems on the back.

Robbie slumps down and makes this complaint known to everyone. Ugh. Too much work. No more. Ugh.

Jon looks at it askance, “What do you mean, too much work?”

It slumps more, until it has practically slithered onto the floor, Robbie’s upper body only hanging onto the sofa by its arms. Noooo. No more woooork. Bleh.

Martin laughs. He has a very nice laugh, Robbie thinks.

It adds an extra pitiful whine for good measure and the laughter gets louder.

“Don’t encourage them, Martin.” Jon says, but his mouth is twitching too. Ridiculous, you are both ridiculous.

Robbie preens, wiggling. If ridiculous is what makes them happy, it’ll be the most ridiculous one of them all. None shall be more ridiculous than Robbie!

”Well,” Martin says, once he’s got his giggles under control. “Jon and I’ve been referring to you using they/them, so if it’s okay with you, we could just…keep doing that? Unless that feels bad, or, or uncomfortable, then we can figure out something else. What do you think?”

Robbie considers this, fingers reaching up absently to tap against its neck.

It’s…not entirely sure how it feels about this. It knows it’s not a Real person, not anymore, so technically it can’t be a boy, or a girl, or both, or neither.
Only Real people can be those. Like Des, Frey, Petra, Jon, Martin.

It is a thing. A Performer at most, and it hadn’t wanted to be that, so it ran away and was barely anything at all. 
Something inside it knows this is true, even if it doesn’t know how it knows. The same way it knows how to get between cities or how to move to scare people so it can eat; something it just does, without any conscious thought or understanding.

But a thing wouldn’t have a Name either, would it? 

And it has one of those now. It is Robbie. It has a name, it has friends, it thinks. It even, wonder of wonders, has a Jon and a Martin who are far too kind to it, and have offered it a place here. They did that for it before it even had a name.

Like even before then, it was somehow Real to them.

Maybe. Maybe it could have something like this. Just, just to see. What it’s like. If it could have something like this.
If they could have something like this.

”I’d like to try it.” It—they sign.

It’s hard to keep their hands from shaking. Like they’re getting away with something they shouldn’t be.

I want this, Robbie’s subvoice chants, it’s scary, I’m scared, I’m nervous, but I want this, want to be this. Can I? Can I be this?

“Oh-of course!” Martin says, a happy chirp under his words. “So, so they/them is good, yeah?”

Robbie nods, trying to resist the urge to tap at their neck.
It almost feels like they now know how Des feels all the time, with his family crawling and fluttering around inside him excitedly.

“And this isn’t the be-all, end-all, or anything.” Jon adds. “These things can be—and in many cases are—flexible. Any time you feel like you might want to be addressed differently, or feel uncomfortable at all, just let us know, alright?”

Robbie nods again, feeling oddly light even under the weight of the Eyes watching them.

They lift their hands again—

There’s a loud gurgle that, for once, doesn’t come from Robbie’s subvoice.

They blink down at themself, mildly stupefied.

Martin descends into giggles again, his subvoice crooning, hungry baby, loud baby, are you hungry? Do you want some food? “I-I’m sorry, but, your, your face—!”

They pout, exaggerating the expression when they see how it makes Martin crack up even harder. Betrayal! Oh I am betrayed! How dare. How dare. Don’t be mean to me. I’m small, I’m fierce, I’m hungry, give me food.

“I suppose this has been a lot to cover before lunchtime. Probably best to get some real food in you.” Jon says, barely covering his snickering with a rumble of noisy baby, ridiculous baby. 

Yes! Yes I am. Robbie preens. I am the BEST at that, so give me food.
They doesn’t quite understand why this makes Martin and Jon laugh even harder, but they’re proud to do so.

Robbie likes making Martin and Jon laugh.
They like making them laugh, a lot.

Robbie thinks they could happily spend the rest of their life doing so, if they’re allowed to stick around for that long.