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“Ugh, watch it! You sew like a 90 year old woman with Parkinson's-”
“Hold still!”
“Why? So you can stab me, ya old git?”
“Stop whining, you- you bratty potterhead!”
“Potterhead?” Velvette's eyebrows shot up in confusion. “That's not even an ins- do you know what that means??”
“It means shut up,” Vox grit his teeth as he pulled a needle with thread through her arm.
“Ow!” She yelped before slapping him across the face. Her hand dangled limply afterward like a beaten up ragdoll. Vox sighed and laid it atop his palm to inspect carefully. Puffy white balls of stuffing were gushing out from her wrist, where her skin… or fabric, more accurately? had a ravine-like split. His brows furrowed as he moved his fingertips to pinch the two sides together, then he raised his needle again.
“No!” Velvette jumped. Not a second later, her voice returned, somewhat strained. “That's the last rip- I can fix it myself.”
“Oh really?” He intoned, eyeing her other arm. It, too, was covered in a jumble of stitchmarks and patches, which meant she couldn't move it. Let alone use it to sew!
“Yes, really! Hand me that needle, and don't make me ask twice.” Her voice pierced through the cold, empty halls of V tower. Vox rolled his eyes.
With a stern look, he tightened his grip and started weaving the needle between the torn fabric - over, under, over, under, just like he'd practiced. Ever since the girl's strings had snagged on a doorknob when she was 5, he had been learning to take care of her. He wasn't good at it, but if he concentrated, he knew he could-
Crashing his train of thought, Velvette screamed. “STOP! Ow! Why are you doing THIIIIIIISSSSSSS-”
“Because I know you can't,” he retorted.
“Bitch please,” She tried to slap him again, but instead flopped like a wonky car dealership balloon. “I can fix myself! I've done it before! Hell, how do you think I survived every extermination before you met me?”
“No clue,” he muttered.
“I did it by stitching my own wounds!" She squawked.
The old man shook his head, barring a sullen huff behind his teeth. He tried to not think about what she had just said- he hated remembering she was once a little girl, living on the streets all by herself. It was worse than remembering his divorce, or his death, or the day he met the goddamned radio demon. He tried to think about something else, but all his mind could go to was the meeting that Velvette had just returned from. The "meeting" that had left her mysteriously bleeding out stuffing. The "meeting" that she wouldn't tell him about. No matter how many times he asked "What did those overlords do to you?!"
It was at this moment his thoughts were interrupted again.
“You stopped moving,” Velvette said observantly.
"I... did?" He looked down at himself in surprise.
“For a second, I thought you actually knew what was good for ya.“
“Well, I don't,” he informed her, filling in more stitches.
“Of course not. I bet ya wouldn't even stop if I put a gun to your head because you're a brainless, twatty, ol' geezer who can't-”
“Zip it, I'm almost done,” He thrusted the needle up from under her skin one more time and pulled until the two pieces of fabric merged together. A loud, raspy howl ensued. When he finished, he gave the teen a long-overdue scolding.
“There, was that so hard?”
“Yes!” She scowled before spitting on the marble floor. While the fresh puddle of saliva spread out, he reeled back in disgust.
“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed, you whovian.”
Her head cocked to one side. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me!” He climbed to his feet, then offered her a hand to stand up, but she turned away.
“I can get up on my own,” she said. Bearing her weight against a wall, she managed to crawl up slowly. It looked painful though- every part of her body trembled as she rose. Vox only watched to make sure she didn't fall. Speaking of falling, he was going to murder the overlords who had hurt her... he just needed to find out which of them did this. Was it Camila? Zestial? That brony Alastor?
“Wow…” Velvette said out of nowhere. “These stitches are terrible. Now if ya don't mind, I'm gonna go back to my room and redo them all.”
“Wait,” he called before she could leave. “What exactly happened at the meeting? You haven't told me yet. And no, ‘it went poorly’ isn't a good enough answer.”
“K. It went shittily.” She flicked her hair in his face as if that was final, but he turned red.
“Tell me what happened! Who- who attacked you? Why? Did someone have a problem with you? With the Vee's? I'll beat their asses until they're more tender than a fuckin pot roast-”
“God, shut UUUUPPPPPPPPP!” She tugged on her frayed pigtails. “It doesn't matter who did what. What matters is: I'm home, I'm fine, and I don't wanna talk about it! Just leave me alone so I can binge Schitt's Creek or something!”
“What is Schitt's-”
She glared at him, exasperated, and he changed his tune.
“Nevermind, not important,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe she just needed to cry in her room or whatever young girls did, then surely she would tell him everything. Just like she did when she was a kid. That was how teens worked too, right? Let them cry, then they come running to you, wanting to talk. That was just nature. Or science. Or gender studies. Or something.
…So, why did he feel like he'd never hear the full story when she started to walk away?
“Velvette!” He reached as far as he could, brushing her shoulder.
“I said I don't wanna talk about it!”
“But if I knew what happened, I could help-”
“UGH, you don't need to know jack SHIT!”
As she screamed at him, a thousand needles shot through his chest. He took a deep breath, feigning composure, and stayed quiet despite the prickling pain in his throat, begging to be let out. Not helping, his thoughts were rampant with theories about what might've happened. Sick... sick theories...
“Did they blackmail you?” he asked panickedly. “I'll kill them. I'll kill them all,"
“No! They didn't black mail me!”
“Then why won't you tell me what they did?”
“Because it's none of your bloody business-”
“Why not?”
“BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT MY DAD!” She roared. After that, she threw up two middle fingers and stormed off.
“Oh,” he said. “I wasn't- I don't think- I mean- I know- I-”
“Are you mal-fuckin-functioning right now?” She scoffed and mocked him, “You're g- guh - getting on my nerves!”
“Sorry,” he slapped his face monitor which was beginning to burn. “I was trying to say 'I know I'm not your dad.' Of course I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I'm not some braindead Homestuck,” he snapped.
The muscles of her jaw tightened. It seemed like she was about to say something, but for whatever reason, she stopped herself. Sighing, she changed the subject. “Whatever. I'm going to my room.”
“Wait!”
“Now what?” a sharp hiss came from her mouth.
As she glared at him angrily, everything started to swirl- the room, his feet, his chest- 'make it stop!' he thought. After an agonizingly eternal moment, the world finally settled down. What the hell just happened?
He tried to straighten up but still wobbled. Even his voice wobbled, which he didn't know was possible.
“...DoOo you want a drink?" He asked in an effort to make things better. "I could offer you a beer… Y'know, since I'm not your daAad, right?” he added.
“Beer? What am I, 5?”
“Whiskey,” he gulped.
She squinted like a teacher accessing a student who'd just given the wrong answer in class. Her expression morphed until it was flat and unreadable.
Feeling her cold gaze, the old man swayed from one foot to another, trying to stay calm.
At last, she replied, “You know what? Yeah, I'll have some.”
“Really?” He jumped.
"Sure," she shrugged. “But if you think I'll get drunk enough to spill the tea, you're wrong.”
He nodded (Tea metaphorically meant drama, right? He'd have to ask h- nevermind she was already making her way toward the kitchen. Shit. Shit. He'd just check with Val later.)
Velvette stretched as she walked through the arched doors to their dark kitchen. Without even bothering to turn on a light, she went to the nearest bar stool and plopped down tiredly. Seconds later, her head dropped to the counter faster than a bag of sand.
"Vel- Are you okay?!" He threw his hands out as if he could still catch her.
She moaned before sitting up and let out an annoyed "yes."
With a sigh of relief, he flicked a couple lights on, but not all of them to keep it dim. After all, she seemed like she needed to rest and heal... That got him thinking 'Perhaps whiskey isn't the best idea at the moment...'
He glanced at the amber bottles stacked behind the bar and turned his head, moving toward a medicine cabinet in the corner.
Velvette started mumbling as if she hadn't noticed though. “Sorry for yelling at you earlier,“ she said quietly.
He paused, and thought long and hard about what he wanted to say. “Sorry for calling you a potterhead.”
“Ha,” she chuckled while playing with thread that had fallen off her wrist. “Do you actually know what that word means?”
"Yes. It's an insult like idiot, only stronger. Val taught me it."
"I- That's not- Actually? You're exactly right," she laughed. "You're getting pretty good at modern slang, ya old git. I'm impressed."
"Thank you!” Vox bowed, hoping she meant that. He quickly grabbed some ibuprofen and placed 2 pills right in front of her.
"What's this?" She looked puzzled.
"It's what you're taking tonight," he said matter-of-factly. "We'll have whiskey some other night, but right now, I think you should take these and go to bed."
"Aw man, that's fuckin lame," she groaned.
"I'm sorry but-"
“Why would we only do whiskey? If we're having drinks on a night where my head doesn't feel like shite, I could spring for a vodka sprite cocktail!" She licked her lips, picturing the sweet, burning aftertaste that that would have.
Vox's monitor twinkled. Did his moody, teenage daughter really just sound excited about hanging out with him later? Oh god, yes!!
"You can have whatever you want in a couple days," he said delightedly. "But hurry and take your pills, then go to bed."
"Aight," she said before swallowing them in one go- not even needing water to wash them down. As she casually headed to her room, the old man felt something warm and fuzzy inside his chest. He felt like a dad- No. Stop! He didn't feel like a dad! That'd be impossible!
But he felt pretty damn close to one.