Work Text:
When Happy was six, in a new foster home, a new school, she had a raggedy doll that she clung to everywhere she went, even when she was in school. This, being a new kid, being Asian, soon made her the target of a group of bullies. The ringleader, a particularly mean, much taller boy, made a game out of snatching the doll from her a few times a week, and holding the doll way above her head so she couldn’t reach it. She would jump and flail for it, arms straining, but could never reach it no matter how hard she tried. She soon discovered he would give up when she started crying, and his friends would all laugh at her, and he would finally grow bored of the game and throw the doll back at her, but not before stomping on it a few times, sneering at her. She noticed there would always be other kids hanging around, watching dispassionately, entertained, and nobody would do anything. Once the whole scene was over, everyone would dispense, and go back to their playing. She also noticed sometimes the teachers didn’t notice, and sometimes they did, and pretended they didn’t.
She started to think there had to be a more efficient and faster way to get her doll back, one which her doll wouldn’t suffer as much abuse in the process. One day she saw the same bullies throwing rocks at birds that landed in their schoolyard, and something struck her, illuminating her mind in a way previously undiscovered.
The next time the bully tried the same shit, instead of wailing and working herself up to tears, she stood up, and stared at him stonily. Then she grabbed a rock from the handful she had earlier scoped off the ground and stuffed into the pocket of her shorts, took out the makeshift slingshot she’d fashioned out of various parts lying around the classroom, and while he was still too surprised to react, she shot the first rock at his face. Then another. And another, each one finding its mark perfectly.
He dropped her doll to cover his face, and ran off wailing, crying about her. His followers looked at each other anxiously, hesitating between advancing on her and chasing after their leader. She starting prioritising quantity over accuracy in shooting the reminding rocks at them. If they got close enough and all ganged up on her at once she knew she would be in trouble. It worked, and the mass of flying rocks sent the rest of them running after their leader.
She took a few steps forward, and picked up her doll, casting her gaze around the stunned and silent onlookers. Nobody stopped her. Nobody said anything. A few of them had fear in their eyes, and it filled her with a touch of vindictive satisfaction. She stared at them, her doll crushed in the crook of one arm and the other hand squeezing her slingshot, until they turned away uneasily and went back to whatever they were doing.
She got into trouble, of course, with the teachers and the foster parents and the boy’s parents, and was taken out of school for a week. When she was allowed back, however, none of the bullies dared to approach her or try to grab anything of hers again. They kept a wide berth from her, as did some of the other children who’d watched every time without lifting a finger, sniping about her behind her back, from a safe distance, Freak. Monster. Crazy. Weirdo but loud enough to ensure she could hear.
Success, she thinks, if the only thing they can do is throw random words at her. Words she can learn to ignore.
They’re only words, she tries to tell herself firmly.
As part of the punishment the foster parents took her doll away from her, and when they finally gave it back to her she never brought it back to school.
She packed it away at the bottom of one of her boxes, and never played with it ever again. Over the years it travelled with her from foster home to institutional care, to foster home again, always safely in the bottom of her box, never to be actively played with, but she couldn’t let go of it either.
***
Until she was fourteen, and had gone on two or three sort-of dates with an older guy she had thought was okay, until he tried to force himself on her in his car in a dark, deserted make-out spot.
She punched him so hard it knocked him out, pushed the door open and shoved him out of the backseat, and drove herself home in his car, license be damned. It wasn't as if she didn't know the mechanics and technicalities of it backwards and forth.
That night she unearthed the doll, ran out of that particular foster home and stuffed it into the trash waiting on the curb.
She didn’t look back.
***
Walter had taken on a private, easy job in another city for the cash, no near-death experiences or fleeing for their lives, just a bit tedious and boring. When they finished up they had half a day to will away before their flight back, so she and Toby had ended up at the mall looking for something more decent than the cold half-sandwiches they gobbled down during the job.
Walking around and arguing over food choices, they passed by a second-hand store when it caught her eye. She jerked to a stop, outside of her own will. It was not her doll, not her particular doll; that one she had memorised every stitch and stain, but one of startlingly similar make born from the same hands. It was five seconds before she shook herself out of it, twisting her eyes away almost with difficulty. To Toby’s question she’d merely snapped nothing before briskly walking on and leaving him to catch up with her.
Drop it, Toby, she mentally willed and for once, he actually compiled.
***
It’s three days back in LA when she’s spending the night at his apartment. She takes three steps in past the door and freezes, pushing his face out of the way when he leans in to kiss-greet her.
There, amidst his collection of random knick-knackery, is the doll, sitting propped up on the shelves.
She stares at it for much longer than she had meant to, and when she whirls around Toby is carefully studying her. She braces herself mentally for his spiel and thinks about how many ways there are to say no.
He says, eyes twinkling, “I think it makes a nice addition to my collection, don’t you think?”
At her raised eyebrows he raises his to match hers, mock surprise etched over his features. “What? Oh, I’m not giving it to you. It’s mine. It’s a lovely doll, you know. Unique. One of a kind. Not your run of the mill, mass-produced generic types. I’m not giving it up so easily now I’ve had my hands on it. But,” and here he pretends to consider it seriously, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind too much if you wanted to appreciate it from afar. Or even touch it, if you promise to handle it carefully. Can’t have anyone breaking my doll, even you.”
She stares at him helplessly. The urges to punch him and to kiss him senseless are battling in equally strong measures. Words well up in her throat, a thick pile, get stuck precisely there and even as they stack themselves over each other they keep toppling over, never quite reaching the top of her throat, never slipping themselves into her tongue, the way she imagines Toby’s words do, so effortlessly, so eloquently.
Toby seems to know exactly what she’s not saying and in reply merely slips an arm firmly around the back of her waist, half-smile tugging at his lips, something sincere, not a smirk for once.
She thinks, turning back to look at the doll, the warmth and solidness from Toby's arm bracing her, that’s good, it’s better the doll is kept here, it’s safer.