Chapter Text
“Chiffon? Chiffon, here boy!”
Red Velvet’s voice echoes through the endless expanse of trees laid out before him. He trots through the woods, calling out in increasingly troubled tones. Every few paces, he slows to assess his current location. Unfortunately, everything around him looks exactly the same. Every direction is shrouded in the misty veil of gloomy pines, with no pattern to their placement that he can pick up.
Red Velvet stops and places his forefinger and thumb between his lips, letting out a shrill whistle that pierces the forest. He tries to swallow down the worrisome lump in his throat as he waits for a response. He had been taking his beloved pup on a walk, and he decided to take a different path for variety’s sake. Chiffon must have heard something that Red Velvet couldn’t, because one moment the two were leisurely strolling through the woods, and the next, Chiffon bolted off like a bat out of hell.
Wringing his hands, Red Velvet feels the onset of panic in his chest. Which way did Chiffon go? Which way did he come from? Had he been going in circles? The trees are so thick, he can’t find the sun to at least get a sense of the direction he was going in. Red Velvet isn’t a tracker. He’s never needed to be. His hounds do that for him, and now, here he is, stranded and alone and–
There’s a distant bark, and Red Velvet snaps his head in the direction of the noise. There’s another, and this time, he’s pinpointed the approximate direction from which it came. Red Velvet takes off, crashing through the forest and following the voice that he knows to be Chiffon’s.
He dashes and dodges through the trees until he is forced to slow before a towering hedge. It stands taller than him, and it is perfectly trimmed into a smooth wall. There is no clear path through, so he makes one himself.
Red Velvet pushes through the bushes, using his cake hand to shield himself from the thorns that probe at his dough. Just as he’s about to breach through, however, he hears a voice. He sinks back into the bushes and peers through the leaves, and instinctively moves to grasp at a sword that isn’t there. He scolds himself for not bringing it with him, as even this far out from civilization, he knows the chances of meeting an enemy are slim, but the odds are never impossible. No matter, he reminds himself, most run upon getting an eyeful of him, anyway. There’s a reason his sword remains so polished and grime-free.
He is pulled from his thoughts when he sees a shadow drifting over the leaves. Red Velvet is careful to pull some foliage back in order to create a window through the greenery. What he sees very nearly makes him jump out of the hedge.
You giggle as Chiffon runs laps around and through your legs, yipping happily as you attempt to kneel down to tend to a flower. The pup is relentless, even after you drop your trowel and try to pick it up. You’re twirling around in the rosy sunlight, chasing the hound and laughing as you make yourself dizzy and run out of breath. A singsong voice tumbles from your lips between gleeful chortles as you playfully scold the overzealous hound for getting in your way.
Red Velvet leans closer through the bushes as he watches you and Chiffon dance around. He’s suddenly very aware of the way the light hits your hair and makes it glow as you spin round and round in pursuit of his hound. It’s entrancing, watching you pirouette like a seasoned ballet dancer and hearing the melody of your joy like lilting birds in the early spring. You’re so carefree in this moment; like a picturesque scene he’s only ever seen in romanticized paintings of a lost time. There is no war in this garden. There is no strife. There is only you and your carmine roses basking in the honeyed sun.
Red Velvet is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that he's begun to lean a bit too far forward. He is only brought back to the present when he finds himself falling. His limbs flail and he curses as twigs snap around him. He tumbles through the thorny hedge and onto the soft, spongy grass below with a grunt.
He doesn’t even have time to lift his head from the dirt before Chiffon is yapping and scrabbling all over him. Red Velvet pushes himself up with a groan, resigned to sit on the ground while his naughty hound whimpers and licks his face in what he can only assume to be an apology for running off. There’s a sharp sting below his eye where Chiffon licks, and he swipes over it, only to find a smear of jam on his thumb. A thorn must have nicked him during his fall.
“There are easier ways to enter, you know.” You’re suddenly standing over him, holding a hand over your mouth so as to not reveal that you're smiling at Red Velvet’s slip. The crinkles near your eyes give it away, however. Not that he’s intently studying your face as you bend over him, that is.
Red Velvet clears his throat and looks at the ground, patting a contented Chiffon. “Apologies for the intrusion.” He berates himself for how quietly he speaks. The proud Red Velvet, suddenly shy in front of a mere gardener? “And,” he looks behind him, “apologies for the destruction of your wall.”
You snicker. It’s music on a cool summer’s evening, bathed in gold. “Aw, don’t worry about it. I was just thinking about shearing a new entryway.”
“I will take my leave now. My pup–”
“You’re bleeding, by the way.”
Chiffon wriggles in his lap. Red Velvet’s mouth gapes in bemusement. It wasn’t often that someone so boldly interrupted him. “I–” he fumbles over his words, his tongue tying itself in knots. “Yes, I know. I’ve dealt with much worse. Now, I really must be–”
“Even the smallest scratch can succumb to infection,” you chide, interrupting him once again. He should be furious. He should be sizing you up with a scowl. He should be asking you who it is you think you are to be talking down to him. But instead, he remains on the ground, dumbly looking up at you like you’ve sprouted wings and have begun to float. “Please, come in and let me help clean you up.”
You offer a hand to him. He can lift himself up just fine, but he finds himself grasping your palm as you help him to his feet. His legs move to follow you, but his brain is left behind in those bushes. What on Earthbread is he doing? There must be something in the surrounding roses; some sort of hypnotizing spore that’s conjuring these clouds in his head. Surely, if not for the haze of your dastardly aphrodisiac, he’d have been halfway back to the oven by now, right? He’d have already dismissed and forgotten about you, too, right…?
You and Red Velvet come along to a small cottage in the center of the garden. It’s a little cube of white in the valley of red and green, with a shingled roof and a smokestack protruding slightly from one of the walls. Chiffon runs up the brick walkway and barks at the door, demanding to be let into the cozy abode. You laugh that stupidly melodic laugh and let him, as well as yourself and Red Velvet, in.
It looks much bigger on the inside, he notes. On one half is a couch and a few varying chairs huddled around a snuffed stone fireplace and a bundle of chopped logs. Knit blankets are draped over the couch that is covered in smooth, red throw pillows that look like they’ve never been used. Nearest to the fireplace is an ornate looking chair with big, padded arms, and there’s a distinct dent in the cushion. There is a stack of books on the table next to the chair, as well as candles that have been burned down to their hilts.
On the other half of the room is a kitchen with countertops forming a U-shape around the wall. There is a well-used oven, several plants in the windowsill, and a stack of used dishes in the sink. In the middle of the kitchen is an island with a vase of crisp red roses and two bar stools neatly tucked under the island’s overhanging ledge. The bright light of the day beams in from the open window above the sink, looking out onto rows of neatly-planted flowers. Between the two rooms is a staircase, which he can only guess leads to your bedroom.
“Excuse the mess,” you say as you notice him eyeing the room. You pull out the barstools and gesture for Red Velvet to sit. “I don’t normally have visitors, much less unexpected ones.”
You rummage through a cabinet until you find a small bottle of something, then you take the barstool next to Red Velvet and sit next to him. He is uncomfortably aware that your knees are touching his as the two of you face each other. Close contact with his hounds is an expected part of his job, but close contact with another cookie? It makes him feel like he’s back in the oven.
“Here, this might sting a little,” you say, dabbing some liquid from the bottle onto a cloth and then pressing it to Red Velvet’s cheek. It doesn’t sting him. He can hardly even feel it. It’s nothing compared to the searing fire that wracks his chest at your touch. His throat constricts and he can’t breathe; he can only stiffly stare at you with wide eyes as your tongue pokes out of your lips, and you clean off the last of the jam.
“Done!” you exclaim as you crumple up the tissue and toss it into the garbage. “Thanks for stopping by the doctor’s office, Mr…”
You look at him expectedly, still droning on your r’s, and for a moment he forgets how to speak. He lets out the breath he had been holding. “Red Velvet.”
“Mr. Red Velvet! Now, this visit’s free of charge, but the next one might cost you,” you jest with a wink, telling him your name with the Dr. prefix – and then adding on that you aren’t actually a certified doctor.
There’s a horribly loud beat of silence that rings in Red Velvet’s ears. You tilt your head slightly at his silence. He can’t hold it in anymore, and he opens his mouth to speak. He blurts out a question he didn’t even know was waiting idly in his throat. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
The goofy smile drops from your face, and Red Velvet instantly regrets his words leaping out before he could process them. He wishes he could bolt out the door, but he stays stock still, anxiously studying the subtle shifts in your countenance.
You purse your lips and tilt your chin upward. “What is there to be afraid of?”
Red Velvet wishes that you had said anything else. He glances down at his ugly, marred arm and clenches it into a fist. He should be used to it by now. He should be used to the way the other lackeys of Dark Enchantress only stare at his arm when they speak to him. He should be used to how darkness sometimes swims at the edge of the vision of his strange black eye. He’s never had to point these things out to potential threats. It’s usually all they see when they look at him – a walking, talking arm of cake.
He sets his jaw tight. “Look at me.”
You do look at him. You look him up and down and Red Velvet wants to sink into the ground as you do so. You fold your hands together and speak very softly. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to see besides some cookie who loves his cake hound.” You scoff, “If you’re talking about your hand, then so what? I’ve heard talk at the markets of cookies with wings, and of cookies with four legs, and of cookies who transform into other creatures entirely! You think for yourself, don’t you? You have your own sentience. That’s what makes you a cookie, just like me and everyone else. If people only see you for your oddities, then they aren’t worth the fight.”
Red Velvet can’t answer. His entire nervous system just shut down all at once. All that’s left is the burning feeling over his entire body, but it’s not the burn of hatred. It’s not the burn of adrenaline or pain or anything he’s experienced before. It's a warmth that flares throughout his arms and legs and settles deep in his gut.
He doesn’t have to answer, however, because as he opens his mouth to form what would probably be the most muddled and tongue-tied response known to cookiekind, a horde of white frosting gallops down the stairs. The pack of cake hounds investigates Chiffon, and instantly take to the pup as though he’s always been a part of their clan.
“Whoa, hey guys!” you say to the hounds as they scamper around the furniture. You run over to open the door and shoo them all out, including a rather happy Chiffon. “Go spend your energy out there.”
“Ugh, sorry about that. You know how it is with them, huh?” you say, now a bit frazzled at the sudden excitement.
The words come easy this time. “I’ve never met another cake hound owner.”
“Me neither! Everyone always wants those expensive “pure-breads” or whatever. Nobody can handle the mutts, but I just love ‘em!” you say, completely changing the subject from the heavy topic from just moments before. “Well, you said you have to leave, but maybe we can set up a playdate for Chiffon and my hounds? And maybe you can use the entrance next time?” you add with a chuckle.
Red Velvet looks out the window. He can see Chiffon running around with the others. His pup looks delighted to be interacting with other hounds outside of training. “Perhaps I could stay for a little while longer? Chiffon looks happy here.”
Red Velvet wouldn’t admit it to you or himself, but he is happy here, too.