Archive of Our Own

He's sorry.

That's what he cries as someone from the nursery staff pulls him up from the floor by his arm. The grip burns where it tightens and tightens until he stumbles to his feet. His little toy cars sat on the floor quickly become a second thought as his fearful eyes tear up where they're looking to the floor.

That little corner is always where he settles down, his blanket on the floor by him and his cars in their little basket where they belonged until he took them out. That is his spot. All he wanted to do was play alone, quietly, in his space, where he thought he'd be able to. The option of being alone in his room while regressed was never his first choice, it's dangerous for him to be unsupervised like that; the nursery and playroom were supposed to be good options, ones where he'd be allowed to do his own thing, safely, in case he needs extra support.

There wasn't any extra support when two, obviously bigger, Littles came up to him and kept asking and asking to play with him—meaner and angrier every time he said no. They didn't let up, and they kept stepping closer and reaching for his cars and he yelled. He yelled and he yanked away the toy he repeatedly said they couldn't touch.

It's his. He paid for it, those are his cars! The group toy box isn't even far away! At a certain point, he stopped hearing them getting closer to him and felt a hand over his, grabbing and tugging at the little red car in his hand. The only sounds he heard were his own muffled voice and his heart beat racing in his ears. It's scary.

All he has to reference for that fear is the familiar feeling of being grabbed and pulled away somewhere he didn't recognize, by people he didn't know, while dropping so aggressively he didn't come up for weeks at a time. He just knows people are grabbing him and he can't do anything but shout as he tries to pull away.

Now, he stands there looking at the ground as the hand on his arm puts so much pressure that it forces him to look up to say something, but nothing worthwhile comes out. His voice squeaks, just barely audible over raised voices around him.

It's not fair. He can't even see two feet ahead of him but he can still feel the eyes on him, watching, judging… Those were his toys, he just wanted to be alone. He wanted to do something by himself. It's not fair!

"Wesley," The staff speaks down to him, voice mocking the way he feels smaller and smaller as seconds pass, "You don't get to act like that in here. That- that behavior isn't okay and you know that." It's so mean, sentence punctuated with a squeeze to his arm. Every word a repeat of what he's heard throughout his entire life, just with so much more.. disdain.

'You don't get to do that.' As his arm was twisted behind his back and he was shoved away.

'You know what you did wrong.' As he was taken to his room for speaking out of turn.

'Don't act like you don't understand.' As he asked what he did wrong.

'Your behavior is unacceptable.' As he was smiling and flapping his hands.

He never understood. He doesn't think he ever will understand. There's not a thing he gets about any of it, he just learned what to do and not to do over time as the lessons—punishments—got more severe. Did he forget one of his lessons?

"Th- they-" The Little blubbers, "they tried to take- take my-!" His throat tightens with every word, pleading brown eyes looking up at the staff member he can't place the name of.

"No. You shouted and tried to hit them." They sigh, agitation lacing their words.

"Bu- but- they tried to-!" Wesley's shoulders shake, looking back towards his cars for a brief second to see the other Littles gathering them in their hands and walking away. "Mine-!"

"No." The staff member grabs him by the shoulder with their other hand, forcing him to face them again. "You're not doing this right now, Withers… You're gonna go back to your quarters, and they get to keep those toys because you were mean to them. Do you understand me?"

He doesn't get a say in the matter, clearly, when they start shuffling Wesley back towards the entrance of the playroom and nursery. What did he do that was so wrong? Those are his and they're letting the other Littles take those toys away?? He just wanted to be alone. What was so wrong about that?

"Go, okay?" They tell him as they push the door open and release the grip on his arm, "Don't come back for a while, hm?"

What?

He can't even do anything but nod as he attempts to scramble away from this as fast as possible. What did he do that was so bad? They tried to take his stuff after he said no so many times! He should've just let them take his cars away, maybe he wouldn't be in trouble again- Maybe he would've been allowed to stay.

After so long, he's still always in trouble. In some shape or form, he's in trouble. He should've known this wouldn't have been different, it never goes different. Part of him wants to believe that some of this has to do with the things written in his classification file. All of the little things various commanding officers, doctors, and 'carer's have said about him… Everything from being too needy, to behavioral issues, to the way he got on every single person's nerves while regressed. That's just what he does, needs and wants too much.

He drops too frequently, so his COs got frustrated quickly at his limits in the field.

He regresses for too long, so the doctors want him on medication to lessen the time he's small.

He lashes out, so the carers don't want anything to do with him after so long of that bad behavior.

His bad behavior… He's doing it again, isn't he?

With teary eyes, Wesley barely manages to find his way to his cramped quarters. The longer he walks, the more he stumbles and the more red his face gets as he struggles. There's no one to call, his one friend is on a mission he wasn't allowed to join. A liability, they said. Now there's no one for him to call out to.

It's back to how it was not even a few years ago. Get kicked out of the one space meant for him when he got in trouble for a reaction he couldn't control, then hide for god knows how long. There's no one coming to save him. Not a contact in his phone he can call, the one who would always answer was six feet under anyway.

He's alone.

It's written on so many pieces of paper why that exactly was a bad idea for him while so, so small. Everything from self harm to damaging company property. He can't help the way he reaches for something, anything, to get that fear and frustration out.

Why is this fair? How is it fair?

Those were his. He wanted his toys, and now he probably won't see those little cars ever again just because he lashed out. That's all it was, wasn't it? He didn't have a reason for reacting like that, it must not have been a good enough reason if he got kicked out for it. He just lashed out and acted bad all over again.

He's bad.

Again.

Any comfort items are swiped from his bed. His breath catches in his throat as he watches the soft plushies go tumbling onto the unclean floor, but makes no move to stop them. It doesn't matter when he doesn't deserve to touch those right now. He doesn't deserve comfort.

Self harm, plain and simple, it's merely not important though when he clearly wasn't even well enough behaved to sit and play in the nursery. He acted out, he deserves whatever comes to him for his behavior. Being kicked out, being talked down to, hurt, and then whatever pain he decides to inflict on himself. It's his punishment.

It worked when he was a kid, anyway. It straightened him out as far as his parents were concerned, as long as he stopped bothering them, they got what they wanted and 'fixed' him. If he can just follow their guidelines, he can still fix himself. He can still get better. He can be good, he knows he can be good.

A few days without his comfort items, no safe foods, nothing for the pain, nothing to help him sleep. He'll get his act together this time and he'll be good again. Being small never made a difference in his punishment, not when he was younger, so it won't now. It never mattered unless it could be exploited. Plus, it's not like anyone would call him out for it, there's no one to notice anything is different. It's just him.

'Sit and think about what you did.'

And he does; the bed is cold as he crawls into it. Nothing there to make up for the chills radiating through his body, his warm blanket left on the floor where he pulled everything off. It'll fix him this time, this punishment will fix him. He'll learn his lesson, he has to. What if this is his last strike? One more time he acts out and they cut his contract and send him to a facility where no one will have to deal with his behavior again…

That threat doesn't leave his head, it hasn't since he first heard it. Ten, almost fifteen, years ago now. The carer assigned to him got a little too frustrated and Wesley dropped a little too small. He can still hear it in his head, clear as day as it was muttered under their breath. Something about how it would be better for everyone if he was taken care of. That sharp edge to the statement was enough for him to get the idea that 'taken care of' did not mean cared for.

His shoulders pull in closer as his body shakes with choked sobs. The way he gasps for air hurts, but he can't breathe any other way. As soon as he teared up, his nose clogged and it won't clear up until he passes out. One way or another, he'll go quiet.

Wesley stares out towards the pile of his comfort items. He barely holds back a whimper as he sees his deer plushie—"dee-dee"—squished between his heavy blanket and the cold floor. He can't be any louder than these muffled sobs, but his heart hurts as he looks at the stuffed animal. She's going to get all icky on the ground like that, and he can't even get up to fix it because he's in trouble.

Ow. Every little sob makes his chest squeeze tighter and tighter, like the arm that was previously grabbing and holding onto him with such force. In the same way, it feels like his chest will bruise the more he bites back his wails.

Trembling, his hands reach around his torso in an effort to hug himself. There won't be any warmth, he knows that, that's okay, but he still tries and digs his nails into his already scarred sides. Another wound wouldn't matter if it would be healed within the week and no one would see the way he cried while making the mark.

Just as he's told himself before, maybe he can be done with his punishment faster if he gets over with the hurt now, rather than later. There's bandages somewhere, not that he cares to go look for it.

But then he looks at the little deer, barely peeking her head out of his blankie, and he doesn't want her to see that; the aftermath of him. Scared, sad, small Wesley. Just him.

No one should have to see that. There is a reason he hides behind so many masks of all kinds, no one should have to see him for what he is. Is there even a word for it? Something angry and petrified, tucked behind the soft exterior he parades around as. There's something bad under his skin, clawing at his nerves, trying to be seen through his winces and cries.

Since he was a little kid, he knew there was something wrong with him. Meltdowns, panic attacks and his constant feeling that there were people watching him. Even tucked into the smallest hiding space, that feeling never went away. What if someone saw what was wrong with him? What if they saw all the tar in his veins, making a monster instead of a boy?

The only thing he's ever been completely sure of what the fact that there's some kind of sickness in his bones. One that makes people turn to see what his deal was, something that makes these masks so necessary. If he makes so much as one wrong move, that toxicity will spill from him and he'll hurt people. He did hurt people—the other Littles, he yelled at them. He's not supposed to do that, that's not how he was trained to act. Why can't he just be soft? Without all the extra steps, without hiding something so horrible?

It's drilled deep inside of him. The world could go dark, and he'd still have that anger tucked inside his chest, never fading away. It would still be there at the end, it'll outlast the softness he desperately wishes came to him the same way the rage does.

He sobs into the elbow of his jacket, teeth biting at the fabric to muffle himself. This isn't fair. The room looks like it pulses when he blinks the tears away, not getting enough air to prevent the growing headache. It's not fair that he can try so hard to do the right thing, and it's still never correct.

He was just supposed to let them take his toys without complaint, he was supposed to sit there. Why was he expected to behave when those were his? Toy cars he's had for years. The purple one in the set was a gift, and now he won't get them back all because he couldn't get himself to straighten up. He doesn't think before he reacts, that's the problem. There's no fixing it when he's too small to know where to begin in the first place.

It's always been some moral failure on his part, his meltdowns were never seen as the cry for help that they were, but were seen as a punishable offense, a reason to hide him away like he was something to be ashamed of. Though, he saw embarrassment in his parents' eyes more than he ever saw love.

Caring for him was a job to be brushed off onto the next unlucky person. He happened to be lucky enough that it was his brother who took that role, rather than leaving him to suffer when no one else answered his sobs in the night. At the very least, Lukas was there for as long as he can remember. Tucking him into bed, feeding him, taking him to school, then taking him back home again when they inevitably called him after the day took a turn.

Today mimics those memories, except there was no one to pick him up when he cried and no one to make it all better. All over again, his toys were taken and he was shoved aside because he acted out once, as a reaction to something scary or unfamiliar. It was written in his school reports that he was defiant, troublesome, too much and far too loud, just like it's written somewhere in his classification files. Those words will follow him forever… Add that to his list of punishments for simply existing.

His bed is just as cold as it was back then, merely a set of sheets covering the bed. It's just as uncomfortable as the thin mattress that he had laid on the floor after his parents claimed his bed frame as their own. He has a bed though, that's what mattered, his mother told him in the same breath that she claimed he was lucky for having the bare minimum.

Why did he only ever get the bare necessities? Never the things he simply wanted? The only plush he was allowed to keep from childhood is an aged, tattered up little bear that he tucked onto a self to keep it safe. Every other toy he had as a kid were sold, or given away, because he did something wrong. Always something about needing the money, or it being a punishment for his behavior. That bear was too dirty to be worth anything, so that's all he was allowed to keep. The rest of his stuff came out of his own pocket, or his brother's—though they still sold those toys because it was still in the packaging. Wesley didn't even know something was there for him until his brother asked if he got the toy, and instead got crushing realizations over and over each time it happened.

Small waves of pain rush from his chest, to his fingertips, then back again. A burning cold kind of pain that he's felt far too many times, making him gasp and curl in on himself even further. Any movements have him repeating the same pained sound, fingernails unknowingly digging further and further into this scarred sides through his thin shirt. The ache radiating from his chest hides the bite of his jagged nails.

Why does it have to hurt?

He can't pull his legs up and closer no matter how hard he tries to make himself look so much smaller. Already on the lower side of his regressed age range, he keeps slipping farther without anything to grab and keep himself steady with. He's too goddamn Little and he knows that.

Something akin to guilt and shame seeps into the spreading aches and pains; sending those cold pains back with fire instead of ice. One hurt more than the other but his mind can't separate the difference when it goes back and forth from those sensations too fast to get an idea of the pain.

If he had just been nice, like he wants to be, it would've been okay! It had to have been okay, right? He messed up again and got angry. He wouldn't be sobbing to himself, knowing no one would come, if he had let the other Littles do what they wanted. It would be fine if he was good.

He's not good. Why can't he just be good?

How does it come so easily to the others? What is he missing? What part is he missing that's supposed to make him nicer? He doesn't play well with others, he throws tantrums, he fights for no reason, he's mean. Why is he mean? What is it that makes other Littles so sweet while he's too terrified to do anything but bite and yell?

It makes sense why he gets kicked out or abandoned whenever he thinks he's finally safe. The second he thinks he can ask for help or show that his needs weren't being met properly, he gets tossed to the side. Without fail, he gets left on the cold ground without a single person to call since they all just left him.

In the army, he went through countless mandated Caregivers, carers, and 'babysitters'. Not one looked at him like he was something soft to be cared for, they saw whatever was rotten inside him and they knew. They looked at him and they knew something he couldn't even figure out by himself.

Even going to his brother and letting him legally take over Caregiver duties wasn't a perfect match. It wasn't supposed to be his big brother's job to take care of him again like that. He could see it whenever he looked at his brother, the way his eyes seemed disinterested and tired.

Then Lukas was six feet under, and it didn't matter how much Wesley wanted to be loved and cared for because this was just another sign he didn't deserve that.

Nothing about Wesley deserved to be loved. All he has are jagged edges and thorns. He can try to be soft, but that's not what he is and he knows that. He's whatever sickness flows through his veins, he's what monster tries to crawl out of his skin.

He's small, but that doesn't equate with lovable.

His hands are good at hurting people. From a distance, settled on a cliff's edge with a rifle, or pressed harshly into someone's throat. That's what he's good for; getting the job done and leaving. He's not good at being loved.

The more his head spirals, the more his fingers dig into his sides. Around what has already scarred, he presses fresh little scratches into his skin. He doesn't notice the way his shirt dampens slightly where has it stretched over his fingers and pressed into the damaged flesh.

It feels like he's drowning. One gasp at a time barely pulls in any air whatsoever, a shuddering inhale doesn't do much better than that. The pulsing in his head turns to a throbbing. All he gets is his own heartbeat in his ears when he wishes it could be someone else's, like he wishes the arms around him were someone warm.

The sheet doesn't do anything to keep him from shivering. His head can peek out from the waves but it isn't enough to draw in enough air and kick until he got to shore—He can't even see land from where he is. When's the last time he had anything to keep him afloat anyway?

His chest squeezes tighter and tighter as he inhales lungs full of water, rather than air. The edges of his vision grow darker as the hands around his sides instinctively reach for his chest. Gasping and gasping in an effort to get some semblance of a breath.

It's too hot then it's too cold. The blanket gets kicked off of him rather quickly as he goes back and forth from burning to freezing, pushing and kicking away the blue fabric. It just gets colder without that thin barrier from the rest of the room. He scratches at his chest, feeling the way his heart races underneath his palm. He can't breathe, why can't he breathe?

He's drowning and he can't even wail.

Every strangled breath chokes him more and more. Daring him to attempt to surface, then not letting him take a single full breath. It hurts. The fingernails scratching at his chest try to claw deeper, as if he can cut out the building pressure that makes his heart feel like it's moments away from bursting in his chest.

Red rimmed, puffy eyes search his room for anything he can get to make this stop. Why won't it just go away? Why does it have to hurt?

There's no one to cry for. He can't even see anything to fix himself, all that's there is the little deer plushie peeking her head out from his blanket on the floor. The Little can't stop the silent cry as he looks at her. This is his punishment for misbehaving, he can't go get her off the floor. He can't make himself better, he's not supposed to- but she's looking at him and he wants it to be over.

Can't it just be over? He can't breathe, it needs to stop. Would Dee-Dee be disappointed in him? Is this hurting her too?

He doesn't acknowledge the red staining the tips of his fingers as he shakily pulls himself from the corner of the bed he pressed himself into. What if he's hurting her too? It's just supposed to hurt himself, but she's looking at him from his floor. He's letting her see him like this, she's not supposed to see that. Bits of red wipe against the remaining sheet on the bed as he uses it as leverage to pull himself up.

The movement makes his heart pound faster and his head throb more aggressively. Briefly, the ground sways beneath him as he stumbles. His soft orange and yellow patterned blanket tangles around his ankle when he steps into the mess of his bedding, pulling him down into the soft pile the second he takes the next step.

Hitting the floor, covered in soft materials or not, knocks the wind out of him all over again when he still hasn't caught enough air for a single breath. One pillow protects his head from slamming full force into the hard ground, but the force is enough to force him to make a sound beyond a wheeze or a silent cry; a sharp gasp followed by a broken wail in the silence of his quarters.

His chest heaves with partial breaths, unable to stop the damaged cries again. He can't stop the wails, he can't hold it back anymore. In the pile of bedding, he curls himself back into a ball, as small as he possibly can get, and just sobs.

Did it even hurt when his head slammed into the pillow? What hurts? Is it everything? It's all over and it's so much and it won't stop. Why can't it stop? It's not fair. Fear bites at him, seeping into the burn of shame in his veins, like that monster begging to be released.

Shaking hands go to grab at whatever they can reach; one finds itself tangled in the blanket underneath him, and the other finds the deer stuffed animal right underneath him, squished under the pressure of his weight. Quickly, he brings the plush to his chest, an arm tightly around her and his hand feeling at the fluffy white spots on her back.

A shuddering breath fills his chest the second he feels the familiar texture of the soft stuffed animal against him. It almost hurts more to get that breath than it did to choke without it. His lungs spasm with the sudden influx of air, but let him pull in a second breath.

The little deer fits in his arms perfectly, not too much fluff that she didn't squish, but not too little stuffing that she would fold over if left alone. He slowly brushes his blood stained fingertips over the white spots, feeling the subtle change from brown fur to the white.

Wesley pulls Dee-Dee closer to his face, letting his tear soaked cheeks rub against the delicate fluff. A small, heartbreaking whimper falls from his lips as he nuzzles the fabric. He doesn't deserve to be holding her, she doesn't deserve to feel the way he coats her in his tears, she shouldn't have to hear him sob in that broken, devastating way.

He doesn't get another full breath before he cries out again. No one will hear him but her, it's just the two of them in his room. The Little's body shakes with the force of his sobs, unable to do anything but hold his deer and wait for it to just stop.

That's all he's ever been able to do. Ride out the waves and see if he'll get pulled back to land, or keep having to kick in the water while knowing he'll get exhausted soon enough. Sink or swim, but he can't keep himself up much longer and it will always pull him back under. When was the last time he had someone to pull him out?

His sides burn where his nails dug into them, pressing against an unclean shirt he has no energy to change out of. The little one bites at the fabric of the deer's ear, sucking in desperate breaths between his teeth. His eyebrows furrow as he moves, barely enough to peek at the little red marks on his sides. Another whimper fills the room. He ruined a shirt again, god, that has to add to what he's in trouble for.

It doesn't even cross his mind to be concerned about it being his blood on the shirt. He just sees another ruined shirt he'll have to hide before someone can question what was wrong with him now. That's about the length of what he's worried about… Can he hide it? Yes? Then it's not really a problem, is it?

Being worried about himself never got him anywhere but sent to his room, or scolded for a failure. A long time ago, he learned not to save himself if he could get to someone else first. There's no value in what's clawing at him under his skin, he knows that. It will always be his life for others'. He'll save who he can because he couldn't save what mattered before—the scars on his body don't matter unless they impact his work.

The hand on his blanket pulls away to press against the two bloodied nail marks on his shirt. Is he hiding it from himself, or the stuffed deer pressed against his chest? He doesn't know anymore.

Why can't he just know something for once? Anything but the way he feels so wrong. Is he hiding to protect Dee-Dee's eyes or so he doesn't have to see what he's done again? Is he hiding to protect himself, or to pretend everything is perfectly fine?

Pretend is a game he has far too much of a history with, regardless of if he plays it well or not. Thirty-four years is enough time to learn all of the ins and outs, if not the first thirteen years of his life. Desperately trying to get someone, anyone, to be friends with him taught him enough about playing pretend. They never wanted to play with him, they wanted to play with whatever version he made of his ten year old self to seem like he was likable.

Even now, he'll hide the parts no one wanted to see. The bad things, and some of the good. Anything to make someone look at him like he was finally doing something right. How is that all he's ever wanted and he still hasn't gotten it? After everything he's done to make himself palatable, less of a problem, the issues never could get tucked far enough under the surface to hide them in the raging currents. The skeletons will surface eventually, as much as he pushes them away.

Sometimes it's his own body being pulled down, sinking down, down, down. The water weighs on him from every side, pulling him deeper from the hope of ever breathing again. It makes up most of his nightmares, always just out of reach from someone's hand—someone with a face he can't make out—and a life vest. The scenario is the same over and over, he knows it when it's happening, a lucid kind of dream where he knows there's nothing he can do but let himself be pulled under when his hand will never fully grasp the one reaching for him.

Would they hold onto him if he did manage to grab on? Or would they laugh as they let go, watching him plummet farther than he's dropped before?

His clammy hand barely grasps the plushie in his arms, would he even be strong enough to hold someone's hand? Does anyone want to hold him in the first place? Is he worth being saved like that? He doesn't have to think to know what the answer is; no, he's not worthy.

The Little lets go of where he's biting onto the stuffed animal's ear. Instead, he presses his face back into the soft fabric, wiping his tears on the small plush. He breathes in as much as he can with the pressure growing in his chest. No matter how much air he gasps in, it still feels like he's inhaling water rather than the air surrounding him.

How long is he going to drown before it's over? From the bed to the floor, his heart never let up it's aggressive racing. The blood in his ears pounds to the same fast pace, even building behind his eyes. How long would it take for it to stop?

He squeezes the deer in his hand, unable to hold that grip for long before his hand lays limply against it. All of that strength taken and replaced with broken pieces of what once had been so very fragile; something small and desperate for some gentle hand to fix the shattered pieces. He can't hold on with these shaking, weak hands.

Hours ago, he'd been the one down at the range, keeping his steady hands over his weapon like it needed the careful touch, and now he can't provide himself with that same care, or even the same patience he did as he cleaned, reloaded, and triple checked the gun. He doesn't know how.

With a cry on his lips, he forces his body to curl into itself even more. The hand over his side slips away, his arm instead wrapping around the plushie the way his other arm has. The damage skin burns as it stretches, a second thought behind the need to make himself look just as small as he feels—which isn't an easy task at almost six feet and muscular.

It's an instinct, one he's tried to drop as long as he's been aware of it. If he looks small and harmless, the threat would go away. Even when the threat was himself, he tried to hide away from it. He's never been able to protect himself from his own head, yet he still thinks that if he tries hard enough, the shouting won't hit him and he can wade in the quiet bubble he's put so much effort into forming. It would hold him away from everything else, put distance between every scary thing he can think of, but it never worked.

Small never meant safe, as much as he desperately needed it to be.

It meant scared and angry and too damn soft.

The little one's cries weaken as his head pounds with more force. A haze around the minimal lights in his room, creating a blur over the scattered items. His eyes won't focus beyond Dee-Dee in his arms. The mix of pain, weakness and small leaves him in this floaty area he can't place.

He sniffles, red nose dripping against the plushie—she'll get a good wash later once he can think straight—when he nuzzles his teary eyes against it. On the floor, surrounded by his comfort items and his blankies, it's hard not to let himself sink down into it. Like if he thought really hard about it, the floor would swallow him whole and he could rest.

Weak hiccups burn his chest, but seem to lessen the pressure just enough to gasp after each one. Relief cools the outgoing flames of shame and guilt in his veins, leaving just enough to keep him from freezing. It's warm right here, curled up as tightly as possible with his deer held loosely in his arms.

That pain won't end, he's smart enough to know that, it's just easier to believe it will if that lets him sleep and get away from all of this. He'll make up for this, his failure to stay solid on his punishment. Can't he just sleep first? While he's still somewhere between it all, floating and fading in and out, can't he rest?

The silence around him is filled by his own exhausted, labored breathing and the occasional sound of the air kicking on. A steady hum between the walls, cooling his overheating cheeks and drying his wet eyelashes. That pressure holding him doesn't ease up, but feels more like a weight keeping him from floating away; almost like a reminder this would still be here as long as he was. Though, he already knew that.

Wesley lets out a small, shuddering sigh, akin to the sound a tired pup makes. He tucks his arms close to himself, his eyes shut slowly as the world grows more blurry around him. It'll all be here when he wakes up, the same dread will fill him like usual, he can only hope it won't come with being small.

That's not nearly the fate he meets though, as hours later, the softest knocking wakes him from the black void of his dream. The pattern is familiar, hesitant but loud enough to be heard.

He can't tell if his chest squeezes again because he's scared, or because he's so fucking relieved.

The handle slowly twists as his sleepy eyes look up towards it, acutely aware that the fuzziness in his head hasn't left at all. He blinks, just enough to get any gunk out of his eyes.

"Wes?" She calls for him quietly upon seeing an empty bed, a sharp, worried tone to her voice. A set of keys get tossed onto a shelf right by the door.

There's a split second he thinks he'll get yelled at before the door opens all the way and she sees the pile of bedding and a very Little Wesley tucked into it all. He can't make out her face with his sleepy, hazy eyes, but he doesn't have to.

"Oh, hun…" She sighs softly, taking not even a second to push the door shut then sit in front of the Little on the floor.

He doesn't flinch as a gentle hand goes to brush the hair from his face. Instead, he leans into it.

"I'm here now…"

Maybe someone wants to be there.