Work Text:
CRACK!
That was Wally's alarm every morning. The jarring sound of floorboards slamming against one another. Of course; He knew it was Home's way of waking him up. It always had been.
Wally stepped out of his bed, undressing himself from the childishly-styled sleeping gown and cap. He got into his attire, one of the few outfits he owned; And went out into the living room area.
It was dark. Unendingly so. Home always woke him up right before a strip of glorious daylight could make its way unto the valley. Wally adjusted his red neck-tie, and clicked on a light.
The teddy-bear print on the walls became visible, almost sparkling, despite being decades old. It calmed whatever nerves Wally had. He felt the boards move under his feet, ushering him toward a fresh, white canvas.
Of course. Home had wanted him to paint. It always had; every single day somehow making a new canvas upon Wally's easel, with paints colorful beyond words displayed eagerly on a pallete.
Wally stared at it blankly. He stared at everything blankly, really. He didn't mutter a single word as the house creaked and snapped its doors open and shut, trying to complain to him. Trying to show him what it wanted him to do.
So Wally, in favor of wanting peace and quiet, walked over and sat down on the stool, hands folded neatly in his lap.
He couldn't help but notice the oddly fleshy windows of Home convulse a bit; with two, huge pupils rolling back into its 'skull' to observe him.
It opened it's gaping maw; Or as any normal neighbor would call it, door, and slammed it shut, making Wally jump suddenly. The cabinets within the room chattered happily, obviously laughing at the puppet.
He sighed, picking up his brush. "My, how rude of you, Home." Wally tutted, though his face remained bleak.
The house's floorboards creaked indignantly, a testament to how it's argument-prone ways prevailed even with it's beloved Wally.
He stared at the canvas, and the bright colors presented by Home for him to use. He then stared at the walls, covered corner to corner in paintings that Wally had made. To be honest, he never set them up there. Home must've done it itself.
No matter. Wally lifted the pallete into his hands, watching as light reflected off of the pigments, and he almost immediately realized he hadn't anything to paint.
"Home, I don't have anything to paint for you today." He said, voice comepletely lackluster. A particularly squeaky cabinet popped open slowly, as if sighing.
"I know... I think. Couldn't you send someone over, so I could have a muse?" Wally asked, hopeful that the house would accept such an outlandish offer.
A clack of the door, and it's eyes disappeared to look outside.
Wally sighed, staring at the blank canvas. If he had to truly be honest in this very moment, lest he be struck dead, he had many things he could paint. From the endless butterflies Frank had gifted him to go into the garden, to the flowers Julie had gotten him for his birthday.
Wally knew he absolutely could paint.
The reason he refused to unless a demand was met?
He hadn't been outside in months. Home had swiftly locked Wally inside of it, and had no intentions of letting him out, or letting anyone in. Within, Wally had hoped that Home would let someone in, or let him see the neighborhood once more at the price of losing it's precious paintings.
At first, Wally was scared. He tried banging, scratching, clawing at the doors and windows; Yet nothing. It was as if Home had never been alive in the first place.
He would have taken a knife to the door, if his knifes weren't comically plastic and small. Well, what else would a puppet need? An actual, metal knife? Certainly not.
His voice wasn't of use either; During his lifetime, he had always been softspoken. He couldn't even sing a melody correctly if prompted because of his voice being able to only stay at one constant pitch. Never lower, never higher.
Eventually Wally had accepted he would die. Since he was a living being who needed food, water, all of those things, and Home wouldn't let him out, he accepted that he wouldn't be able to visit Howdy's shop to get what he needed.
But sooner than not, he realized that Home was providing for him. Home had somehow set up Wally for a delivery service that he never wanted, but now had to have, to prevent Wally's untimely death.
And he was grateful for it.
Wally was never sad; He was considerably happy, hanging out with Julie and Barnaby and all his other neighbors consistantly. The overflow of joy he got from being with his friends and painting things after had never gotten old.
And now painting had become the bain of Wally's existance.
It hurt him; it did. Loving something so much and now hating it because it was all he was forced to do. To make imagery for Home.
It pained him to admit it; But it was giving him a large bout of depression.
Everyday, within the walls of Home, all Wally did was wake up, paint, eat, and then sleep. He couldn't even look outside, for Home had permenantly closed the blinds to the windows.
The only time he could see outside was when he went into the garden, which was connected to the outside walls. A green house, almost. If a greenhouse consisted of red brick surrounding all sides, with the only way outside being the roof, which was a thick sheet of glass that allowed light in.
It confused his friends, sure. But what could he do? He didn't construct it. Home did.
Ah; his train of thought is broken by a familiar, huge blue dog racing through the door.
"Wally!" He greeted, the beagle scampering over on all fours, promptly messing up the rug laid for people to walk on.
Though Wally didn't care. He promptly shot up, Barnaby almost immediately crashing into the stool as if he was a cartoon, (well, that he was,) and somehow being able to stop himself right before hitting the wall.
The giagantic blue dog turned around, still completely sat, panting loudly. He adjusted his cap before speaking, his silly-yet-booming voice bouncing off of the walls as Wally stared in disbelief.
"Wally! Buddy! Pal!" Barnaby began, his paws up near his chest as if begging. "How have ya been? Me an' Poppy ain't seen ya nowhere!" Spoke he, his tail colliding loudly against the wooden floor.
"Oh! Well, ah." Wally didn't know how to begin, really. He didn't want to say anything, lest Home trap Barnaby within these walls too.
"Haven't been feeling like an outside puppet recently... Yourself?" He continued, walking until he was standing right infront of the beagle.
"Oh, terrible! Just terrible!" He responded, jumping onto Wally and promptly sweeping him up into his burly blue arms. "I've missed ya so much, Walls! It's so lonely without you! I couldn't even fetch a ball!"
Wally chuckled, scratching behind the dog's ear. This of course, caused a loud thumping, caused by Barnaby's hindleg instinctively kicking.
"I'm sorry, Barnaby. You can always come over, you know." The yellow puppet said matter-of-factly, patting the left ear of the beagle and tucking his arm away to rest upon his chest.
"Oh, could I? Could I?" Barnaby asked, though he knew the answer as he happily danced with Wally in his arms. "Thank you, friend! You're a real pal for that! I'll come over everyday, I promise, promise!"
Wally smiled, kissing right between the dog's eyes before returning to a comfy position in his bear-like arms. "I'll be looking forward to it."
Home snapped angerily, though it fell on deaf ears.
Not a second of painting was done that day.