Chapter Text
Intense compression was his first sensation this time around. It wasn’t unusual for him to awaken in these situations, of course. Desperation was a powerful motivator for the magics that activated his awareness, and there was something particularly desperate about a grown man hugging tight to him like their life depended on it. The tears dampening his soft plush body didn’t hurt either. There was one last intense squeeze and then he faded out once more.
Consciousness came in fleeting moments. It always took time for him to gain full awareness, which meant for now he’d have to stay sitting, half slumped next to the sofa. At least until someone took pity on him, maybe propped him up a bit so he could have a view out the window or even into the dark, empty flat. During the next waking, he attempted to bend his limbs, to move his eyes, to wriggle his snout. Nothing budged. His shiny brown-black eyes remained static, fixed to the wall in front of him.
The magic that brought him consciousness felt particularly strong this time, but he’d have to wait and see how it’d been spent. More powerful aura projection might be nice, that way he could convince someone to carry him if he couldn’t move on his own. There were never any guarantees on physical movement, but he’d hold out hope for now.
He remained awake for longer and longer stretches of time as the morning turned to afternoon, watching as the shadow of a lone plant pot moved across the wall, following the trajectory of the light streaming through the window behind him. He sat, and he stared and did nothing except replay his first sensations, trying to get a handle on why he was called this time, only to be left alone. The light faded and finally, he sat alone in darkness. Tim might return soon, unless he had a gig, then maybe he wouldn’t until later. He might not return at all. That thought fired repeatedly across Fatberg’s magical synapses, centred itself in his well-stuffed teddy bear head. Tim might not return at all. An unacceptable turn of events.
The next time the bear woke, it was to a sudden flood of light and the sound of footsteps. The hesistant, shuffling steps near the entryway didn’t belong to Tim, in either sober or lashed state. A visitor then. One whose energies felt familiar enough that Fatberg didn’t mind reaching out, touching and caressing the aura with his own to try and determine the best way to potentially open lines of communication. Ah yes. Horne. Not his creator by any means, but certainly how he came to share a space with his assigned person, and for that Fatberg was grateful on some days, and rather miffed on others. But Horne was a good sort, and should be susceptible enough to aura-based projections and suggestions, Fatberg figured. He sent out just a very small wave. A suggestion that Alex should come closer to the couch, investigate the scene instead of leaving immediately.
“Okay, okay…where did he put you?” There was the sound of a phone being unlocked, and the rapid tapping away at a screen. “Oh, for god’s–Tim!” The man sounded particularly put out. With his eyes not yet able to shift on their own, Fatberg could only peripherally make out the familiar figure of Alex Horne, scanning the lounge room in between staring at his phone, waiting for a response. “…‘where he always is?’” Alex read incredulously. “Because of course I keep track of your stuffed bear, idiot.”
Well. I’m hardly small, idiot, Fatberg couldn’t help but project. It seemed to do the trick, as Horne spun on his heel and walked directly towards the side of the couch where he’d fallen as if tugged along by a lead.
“There you are!”
With that, Fatberg found himself unceremoniously gathered up and carried out of the flat. “God, I have to start doing more exercise,” Alex grumbled as he hefted the oversized bear downstairs and towards his car. Fatberg was propped up in the passenger seat, and even clipped in to shut up the seat belt warning alarm once Alex started the vehicle.
No doubt they made for an amusing and unlikely image in the car, but Fatberg couldn’t turn to see any public reactions at the many traffic lights they negotiated. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the view. It’d been entirely too long since he’d had a call to consciousness in the world outside of Tim’s flat, and the sounds and scenes crossing central London were a novel experience. He had no idea where they were headed, but multiple attempts to locate Tim via aura sonar pulses were unsuccessful.
“Sorry – I don’t know where he is either,” he heard Alex murmur, tapping the steering wheel anxiously at yet another light. “Er…not sure why I said that…out loud.”
So he was more sensitive than Fatberg first expected. Alex Horne might be the reasonably well-attuned lackey he needed after all.
After traversing London traffic for an age, Alex finally pulled into some kerbside parking near a green leafy park and some nice looking flats. Fatberg was again hoisted into the air, this time in a parody of a fireman’s carry, and taken towards the flats.
He couldn’t see the man that answered the door, given his floppy head was hanging somewhere around Horne’s hips, but he already knew they weren’t likely to be much help, just from the palpable annoyance radiating off of their aura in waves. Why Horne had brought them here was a mystery.
“What the fuck is that?” a new voice demanded.
“Fatberg.”
“The fuck is a Fatberg?”
Alex sighed, and shifted from foot to foot anxiously. “He’s Tim’s. Uh. I needed to ask a favour, but it’s not looking good from here I have to say…”
“Oh shut up and get inside, you don’t know what I’m going to say.”
The room turned upside down and then right side up as Fatberg was swung from Horne’s shoulder into a dining chair, which was then pressed into the table to keep him upright. He sent out a few strands of his aura to get a read on the place but it was…absolutely lousy with negative energy, dripping like some kind of ectoplasmic slime from the walls, the ceiling and every flat surface. In the visible sense the flat also looked an entire mess. Half drunk cups of coffee littered surfaces. Plates of half-eaten toast were strewn haphazardly, in what might generously be described as a Hansel and Gretel-style trail, leading vaguely towards the sink. The man who lived here obviously could use some magical level of intervention as well, but Fatberg didn’t have the time or resources to deal with it, given his top priority was to locate and ameliorate whatever Tim’s suffering might be. Greg would just have to conjure up a magical bear of his own.
Alex automatically began picking bits and pieces up, sorting the dishes and collating stray papers into a pile on the dining table near enough that Fatberg could catch a glimpse. It looked to be a jumble of hand-written notes and printed sheets, the kind he’d seen before at Tim’s. Notes on screenplays. Script excerpts. “Writing not going great, Greg?”
“Please don’t even speak its name.” Greg intoned in a low moan from his position, slumped on the couch. “Put that shit down and just ask me what you wanted to ask. I won’t even mention the bear.”
Alex ignored Greg, continuing to sort the dishes at the dining table before stacking them neatly by the sink. “It does concern the bear, is the thing,” he began. Greg sat up straight and turned to face the dining table, now regarding Fatberg with an ominous focus. “Tim texted me really late last night…” Alex faltered slightly, as though trying to decide what to share with the other man. “Well, he basically asked me to go and collect Fatberg and look after him for a bit.”
“Huh. Is that normal or is Key…er, having a–?”
“He’s fine! Well, I’m sure he’s alright…” Alex dithered. “It’s not the first time he’s had to head off for a bit and we’ve got a running bit I guess? About Fatberg probably needing company when he’s away…I just didn’t expect him to call in the favour for real. Again.”
“So you know where he is?” Greg asked forcefully. Clearly this man was taking Tim’s disappearance more seriously than Alex. Fatberg didn’t know how well he’d be able to pierce the miasma of despair that surrounded Greg’s aura, but he sent out a few encouraging waves anyway. Keep pressing. Get more information.
“Well. No.”
“Alex, that sounds ominous.”
“He texted me back this morning! So he’s alive and well – I’m sure he’s just got really drunk, holed up somewhere, with someone even. Like a – a Lake District getaway or, or something. He does that sometimes, just heads off with friends, or solo even.”
“But he doesn’t usually ask you to look after his five-foot tall teddy, does he?” Greg asked slowly, as though he were speaking to a toddler. “…And you don’t usually feel the need to hop to and actually go and get the damn bear?
“N–no. Not since last time–”
Beside him at the table, Fatberg watched as Alex’s face crumpled slightly.
Greg groaned, exasperated from the couch. “Honestly Alex, I know you're burdened with a limited emotional palette but surely even you can tell–”
JUST FIND HIM. Fatberg projected as strongly as possible at both men. Something in the miasma of the flat was blunting his energy but Greg at last seemed to finally twig to Alex’s expression and stood, making his way over to immediately wrap him in a strong hug.
“You are worried.” he stated. Alex nodded shakily into Greg’s shoulder.
“Can I leave him here with you while I see if I can find Tim?” Alex asked softly, pulling back to meet Greg’s eyes.
“You don’t want me to come help you? Alex, I’ll drop all this shit in a heartbeat, you know–”
“I know, and yes I do want your help. But I’m going to do a bit of information gathering first. His parents, they’re nearby…maybe Kearns. Basden…I suppose. Don't want to worry anyone unnecessarily...” Alex rambled on to himself, scratching the side of his face nervously. “I’ll see what I can find out, but in the meantime…I cannot bring Fatberg back to my place.”
“It’s a teddy bear, what do you mean?”
“Loky. She can’t be trusted. She’s obsessed.”
If Fatberg could shudder, he’d have fallen from the chair with it. He had a flash, just a snapshot in his mind of a very determined little brown dog pulling him off of a couch and straddling his side…Horne’s decision to bring him here instead suddenly made sense. For all that it probably wouldn’t get through, he sent a tendril of gratitude out to the man.
Greg sputtered out a laugh. “Oh good god. Alright. Leave the bear with me.”
“I won’t be long, then I’ll be back, I promise.” Alex shot Greg a grateful smile as he grabbed his wallet and keys, before heading out of eye-line towards the door. “And…Greg?” Fatberg heard him call back from the doorway, his voice filled with mischief. “I can trust you with Fatberg, can’t I?”
What?
Greg let out a world weary sigh, raising his right hand mockingly. “I hereby swear that the bear’s honour shall go unsullied.”
Well. Thank the gods. Whatever the hell that means.
“Guess that’ll have to do!” Alex replied with a laugh. There was a pause in Alex’s movement at the doorway before he left, which Fatberg could only attribute to the frankly goofy little grin he could see on Greg’s face. As he examined the man that bit closer, he could see the beginnings of the ectoplasmic tendrils starting to drip off his broad shoulders and dissipate into the air. Ah, now. It seemed perhaps this Greg had found some of the magic he needed in his life after all.
But then, all too soon after Alex’s departure, Greg laid back on his couch and groaned into a cushion morosely. Fatberg was stuck. He still had no physical movement, and with Alex gone and the sickly miasma covering the flat, dampening his influence, there was little for the bear to do. He observed his assigned companion warily.
It took about ten minutes of Greg making an assortment of long sighs, whines and soft curses before he finally rose from his position and approached Fatberg directly.
“Right. You’ve been hanging out with our so-called poet. You any good with writing, bear?” Greg asked seriously.
Tim would probably tell you no, but he’s never once really listened to my ideas, Fatberg answered, his shiny brown glass eyes boring into Greg’s face. Greg, of course, couldn’t hear him. But soon enough he was swept from the dining table toward the lounge, where Greg managed to prop him up in a corner of the long couch.
Greg grabbed his laptop and slid in close to the bear. “So I’ve got this particular scene. It’s driving me barmy…”
Gods help me, Fatberg thought, face frozen in a bland teddy bear smile as Greg began to ramble.