Chapter Text
A shy knock echoed through the quiet home. Herriman, patrolling the halls for some inexplicable reason, paused and hopped his way to the door.
He opened it… and froze. A tall, thin silhouette filled the doorway, looking down at him, imposing—almost threatening, a large half of the figure cloaked in shadow.
Herriman gasped, pupils shrinking, brow rising slowly as his gaze traced the figure upward. The shadow seemed to loom even taller. As his gaze reached the shadow’s head he shrieked, the sound cutting through the night, before promptly fainting backward onto the cold floor with a dramatic thud.
Wilt bent slightly—the shadow sliding off of him, trying not to loom too much. His voice was quiet with concern, trying to be polite. “Uh… sorry… is this… Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends? Can I stay here… if that’s okay?”
The scream had awakened Madam Foster, who hurried down the hall, taken aback at the sight before her. Terrified at the sudden scream, her gaze landed on the lost imaginary friend before her, an expression of fascination and pity for the tall fellow washing over her, disregarding Mr. Herriman.
She walked over rather quickly with a lamp in hand, illuminating each other—her eyes immediately fixed on his wonky eye as she got closer, and then his broken arm.
“Oh, my! You poor thing,” she said. “Come along, dearie, we can’t have you standing there all night. You’re in need of some fixing up!”
Wilt shuffled after her, clutching his limp arm, still hesitant, looking uncomfortable.
“Fixing??! No no! Really, you don’t have to… I can manage-”
Madam Foster gently took his good hand in hers, guiding him through a hallway. “Nonsense! That won’t do at all. You look like a ragamuffin. We’ll tidy everything up.”
Hurriedly bringing the new friend to the clinic, she sat him down on a bed, then continued over to a box, rustling as if she was looking for something. “What’s your name, dear?” Foster said, refusing there to be any awkward silences.
“Huh? OH—Wilt, sorry.” She raised an eyebrow at the useless apology tacked onto the end of his reply.
“Well, you can call me Madam Foster. I own this home, y'know! You’re the 5th friend ever to show up here…” she continued casually informing him.
“Hi Madam Foster! Sorry to barge in here n’ all..”
“Oh, no worries at all, sonny, we’re all excited for new friends.” Said in a calmer tone as she turned back around, continuing to search for something…
Wilt’s eye lingered on her for a second before observing the room, then the hospitality he’d been shown… It made him feel just a slight bit better.
Before that comfort was immediately shattered with shock as his head turned back to Madam Foster, now up close… now holding scissors.
Wilt’s eyestalks shrank nervously as she put down her sewing kit next to him. “Uh—sorry… I just… I’m fine, no no actually sorry!?!!” He looked queasy as Madam Foster positioned one blade of the scissors under Wilt’s broken, deformed arm.
She smiled warmly. “Ohh please, we can’t have you walking around like this! Must be painful?”
He braced himself, looking away with his teeth clenched…
Snip!
With a quick cut, the upper joint of his arm was separated from the rest. Wilt blinked, surprised and relieved, slowly lifting the stub and peeking inside as a few tufts of stuffing tumbled out. He stuck out his tongue in disgust; the sound of fabric being cut twirled his stomach.
“…That… was it?” he murmured.
Madam Foster took the stub carefully, pulling it close to prep for stitching. “Just a little stitch up, and while we’re at it, we’ll fix these rips on your cheeks—can’t have you looking all crooked! …Now where’s that extra red fabric?..”
Wilt let out a small, nervous breath, trusting her as she worked, his shy, apologetic demeanor softening under her careful hands.