Work Text:
Ironically, Scooter doesn’t see it coming because his head is buried in a props box. It, in this instance, is a somewhat on fire Gonzo the Great, hurtling from a canon, through the painted backdrop of the stage, over the craft services table, and square into Scooter. They fall to the floor in a tangle. The scuffling at least has the benefit of extinguishing the numerous small fires on Gonzo’s person.
“Gonzo—are you alright?!”
“Fine! But as for these pants—“
“Hang on, where are my—“
Gonzo rolls off, and Scooter fumbles, looks around, squinting, and—
“Oh, no.”
In a small pile on the floor lie the remnants of Scooter’s glasses, the frames snapped and one of the lenses completely shattered.
“Hey,” Gonzo shouts, in the tone of a child who’s running to get their mom, “Kermiiiiiiiiiit?”
*
“You don’t just want to go home?”
“I can see in front of me fine, it’s just…everything around me is pretty blurry.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s enormously safe.”
Scooter would like to joke that the biggest danger will come from headaches, but Kermit probably has a point, wise as he usually is. This is the Muppet Theatre, after all. It usually benefits to be on maximum alert constantly. This whole incident was the result of one unguarded moment, after all.
“Hm.” Kermit frowns, and because he’s close, he’s still completely legible. “Do you want someone to help you? You know, dictate, and things?”
“Oh! Like—like an assistant?”
Kermit must detect something in Scooter’s tone that he didn’t mean to be there, because his face scrunches in that very slight was that means he’s trying not to laugh.
“Sure.”
They stand there for a moment, Kermit thinking and Scooter blinking, and then the frog snaps his head up. He beckons to a wheat coloured blur some great distance away.
“Walter! Can you come here a second, please?”
Oh, no. Not Walter. Scooter makes a sort of abortive stammering noise, but it’s too late. The wheat coloured blur approaches at rapid speed and clearly becomes Walter, stupid little Electric Mayhem T-shirt and everything, smiling widely.
“Yes, Kermit?
It’s not that Scooter hates Walter or anything. He’s not evil. It’s just—gosh, Walter is weird, and obsessive, and annoying. He’s such a teacher’s pet, always yes Kermit, no Kermit, let me just get you the moon on a stick Kermit. Scooter definitely isn’t jealous of how much Kermit babies him, or how much time they spend together, or how Walter’s the fun new guy and Scooter’s the wimpy little gofer—
Walter is just annoying. That’s all.
“Do you think you could help us out? Scooter’s glasses were—uhm, mishandled. He needs someone to do a little computer work with him today, maybe keep him safe from office mishaps. Think you can help?”
“Oh—of course, I’d love to! I’m so sorry about your glasses, Scooter.”
Scooter gives Kermit a look he hopes Walter will be too excited to read. Kermit smiles back at him, tilting his head in Walter’s direction. Scooter reluctantly approaches.
“So, how do you want to do this?”
“Well, maybe, if your phone doesn’t hurt your eyes too much, you could message me when you need something.”
From the corner of his eye, Scooter can see Miss Piggy approach Kermit. He can also smell her perfume, which is a dead giveaway. Even drowning out Walter’s chatter, though, he can’t hear what she and Kermit are talking about. Wait, are they even talking, or listening?
“Why don’t you hold his hand?”
Miss Piggy says, or, shouts across at them. Scooter turns to see Walter’s face remain uncharacteristically still.
“Oh. Uh, well, I…how do you feel about it, Scooter?”
Reluctantly, Scooter weighs his options. He doesn’t really want to spend all day trailing around after Walter, clasping his hand like they’re kindergarteners on a field trip. His pride, however, is outweighed by a desire to survive the day with a higher chance of not being eaten, trampled on or generally injured. He sighs.
“That’s ok.”
“Really? You’re-you’re sure?”
Well, at least Walter isn’t some crazy stalker type. Scooter nods, stretching his hand out. Walter clasps it in his own, gently, warm and fuzzy. Scooter swallows.
“Let’s, uh—can we go to my desk?”
“What?” Walter asks, after a beat too long. “Oh, yeah, of course! C’mon.”
*
“That wasn’t very nice, Piggy.”
“What?”
“You know how Walter feels about him.” Kermit frowns. “You shouldn’t play with people like that.”
“I don’t even know Walter’s name.”
Miss Piggy sighs, lying.
“It’s serious! That’s their lives.”
“Oh, c’mon, Kermit. Some people need a push. And moi is getting very bored with the absence of drama.”
“We don’t want drama!” Kermit bursts, throwing his hands in the air, apparently not getting the hypocrisy of the impassioned gesture. “This is a place of work!”
“Drama? Kermie, this is a theatre!”
“Good grief!”
Kermit shouts, and then they more or less forget about the conversation, because that’s how this has worked since the seventies.
*
Kermit must brief people on the situation, because nobody reacts to what surely must be the strange sight. Even Sam doesn’t say anything, although he does look askance at their premarital hand holding. Walter leads Scooter to his desk, and flits back and forth to gather himself enough supplies to make his own little workstation at the edge of it.
Well, ok, Scooter reasons, trying to make the best of this. It’s just like having a secretary. Yeah, and he can dictate while Walter takes shorthand or whatever. He’s still important. He’s still worthy of being the focus of a whole darn movie. After all, he was here first. He’ll be here long after.
“Ok! What do you need me to do?”
Walter asks, smiling brightly. Scooter squints down at his clipboard, holding it very close then a little further away. Walter, at least, doesn’t laugh.
“You have thirty-two emails to send.”
Scooter informs him, with a touch of glee in his voice. To his surprise, Walter fails to panic. He nods.
“Alright. So, who first?”
*
They knock the emails out in an embarrassingly short amount of time. Quicker than Scooter ever does on his own. Walter is an enormously efficient typist, and keeps making little suggestions about wording that Scooter would have agonised over for ages.
It is very frustrating, but it does, admittedly, take some time pressure off Scooter. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.
*
Scooter crosses his legs. Sits for a second. Recrosses them on the opposite side. Fidgets.
They’ve been doing this all morning, Walter filling in computer work while Scooter squints at his clipboard, and Scooter would quite like to pee, frankly. He’s not going to ask Walter, though. That would be weird. He’s not asking for someone to hold his hand and take him to the bathroom, like a baby.
He could probably just get up himself. His vision is clear enough to walk steadily around the theatre so long as he goes slowly. But he’s also had two cups of coffee already today. But he doesn’t really want to navigate himself to the bathroom without a full and immediate view of anything hurtling towards him from either side. Bears, pigs, Whatevers. But also—
“Oh!” Walter gasps, closing his laptop and standing. “How silly of me! You probably wanna wash your hands before lunch.”
And darn it, it’s so tactful Scooter almost resents him for it.
Almost.
*
Walter leads him, by the hand, to get something from the convenience store nearby, and sits next to Scooter while he eats his packed lunch. It looks pretty nice, actually. Walter must catch him staring.
“Do you want some?”
“Oh! No, no, I’m not—“
“I don’t mind!” Walter giggles. “That’s why I asked.”
“What is it?”
“It’s dry strawberries. Tastes like candy. Here!”
Scooter gingerly takes the proffered piece of fruit. It really does taste like candy. He must make a little noise of pleasure, because Walter laughs again, although not unkindly.
“See? It’s really good!”
Scooter won’t give him the satisfaction of laying on adoration, which the strawberry was doubtlessly worthy of, but he does give Walter a wonky kind of smile. He can’t really help it.
*
Going without glasses for any length of time has always left Scooter with a headache, and naturally, spending the better part of the day squinting at everything has given him what Yolanda would probably term a pounder. He’s mulling over some props, wincing in something quickly approaching agony, when Walter disappears from his side.
He returns after a few brief moments with a glass of water and a closed hand.
“Here,” he says “They’re painkillers.”
“Hm?”
“Well, you have a headache, don’t you?”
Scooter will concede that he does, probably, look like a man with a bad headache. He frowns. He was always taught never to take pills off strangers, but Walter is hardly a stranger. Strange, maybe, but not the type to slip him scary drugs. Heck, where would Walter even get scary drugs?
Soothed by this reasoning and, frankly, desperate for some relief, Scooter takes the tablets and the water with a mumbled thanks and knocks them back. Walter watches him closely.
“There we go,” Walter coos, rubbing Scooter’s back. “Good job, good boy.”
It comes out, clearly, more doting than Walter meant it to. Scooter can see the blurry roundness of his face colour. He decides, politely, to ignore the strangeness of it all in favour of talking about props.
And if some strange feeling curls up in the pit of Scooter’s stomach as he thinks about Good job good boy, well, that’s only his headache making him feel odd.
*
They’re standing to stage left while Scooter shouts instructions to the performers, wondering why his hand is so warm, when it occurs to him that he’s still holding Walter’s hand, just standing there, not needing to go anywhere. He frowns.
Perhaps Walter senses his confusion, because he unlaces their fingers, pulling away with a small frown Scooter can see out of the corner of his eye. He firmly grabs at his clipboard. The worst thing would be to reach down and grab Walter’s hand again out of habit. He can’t have Walter thinking he’s the creepy one—or anyone else in the theatre, for that matter.
As they move towards stage right, Walter offers his arm, as an alternative. Scooter acquiesces, looping their arms together, shoulder brushing against Walter’s.
Walter’s very warm. Even through his jacket, Scooter can feel it. It’s really very nice.
*
Things progress in this very pleasing manner. The only time Walter leaves Scooter’s side is when he has to go on stage to perform—ok, and when he goes to get changed beforehand. Scooter wouldn’t want to sit in on that, thank you very much.
He does find it a little strange, though, watching Walter whistle away on stage. It’s like there’s a little cold spot at his side. It’s amazing how used you can get to something in so short a space of time.
Of course, Walter rejoins him the second he’s finished, guiding Scooter around backstage. It’s even more useful in the dim lighting, kept safe from the Muppets bustling to and fro. At one point, Walter actually does pull Scooter out of harms way, out from Sweetums’ rampaging but genuinely well-intentioned path.
Scooter clings to Walter a little more closely, after that.
*
“You are not getting an Uber!”
“Well, neither are you! You can’t drive my car—“
“Pshhh.” Walter says, waving his hands in a very dismissive manner. “Enough of this! I’m taking you home. That’s final.”
Scooter had made the mistake of mentioning the spare pair of glasses he keeps at home, so now he’s sitting here, in the passenger seat of his own car, as Walter drives him home. He doesn’t like the guy, but he doesn’t want to have him take an Uber home tonight, and then again to work tomorrow morning with his car left in the parking lot.
“I’m really sorry about this.”
Scooter says, even though it pains him. He doesn’t want to be a downright inconvenience to Walter, or anybody, for that matter. Walter scoffs again.
“I had a really nice time with you today, Scooter. I’m so glad you trusted me enough to help you.”
Oh. Well. Scooter kind of feels like a jerk now.
Stupid Walter. Stupid, earnest Walter.
It doesn’t take too long for them to pull up to Scooter’s house. Walter parks up, then climbs out and over to Scooter’s side to open the door for him, helping him out. He takes Scooter’s hand once more to lead him up to his front door.
“Well…thanks again. For, y’know, today.”
“Happy to help! I’ll see you tomorrow, Scooter.”
Inexplicably, Scooter finds himself lingering for a moment longer than is necessary, looking down at Walter, one porch step lower than him, their fingers still laced. It was an early show, so it’s still sort of light out, and the setting sun is casting interesting, rich colours over the softened outline of Walter’s small, warm felt body.
And then Walter steps away, gone down the block. Scooter shakes his head.
The door is unlocked when he goes to push it open. In the living room, he can just about make out his mom and Ken scuttling back from the living room window to the couch. He goes upstairs, very slowly, to get his glasses.
“Scooter, sweetheart—“
“I’ll be down in a minute! I’m gettin’ my glasses!”
It takes a few minutes of fumbling around for Scooter to find them in the mess of his desk drawer, but—ah! There. They’re not as strong a prescription, but they’ll do until he can get new ones. Scooter goes back downstairs with a lot more confidence.
In the living room, his mom sits, staring at him expectedly, with Ken’s arm slung around her shoulders. Yuck. They’ve even paused their programme, so something must be up. Scooter stops in the doorway.
“What? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Oh! No, nothing.” Joan assures, waving her wing. “Nothing at all. Nothing interesting here.”
The three of them continue to stare at each other, something of the Wild West showdown in the air. Scooter fidgets uncomfortably. Finally, it seems Joan can stand it no longer.
“So…who was that?”
“Huh? Oh, that’s just Walter. We work together.”
“Walter!” Ken nods. “Wow. What a cool cardigan.”
“Is he—“ Joan pauses, seems to think better of her question, pushing her glasses up in that considering manner Scooter recognises. “He seemed very nice.”
Scooter shrugs. What’s up with them? They better not have tried pot again.
“Gonzo broke my glasses this morning, so he was helping me around.”
Joan narrows her eyes, smiling.
“Right.”
Because they’re both being extremely weird, Scooter decides to make tracks.
“Uh, it’s been a really long day. Mind if I just get dinner?”
“Oh, go ahead, baby! There’s leftovers in the fridge.”
Sweet. Scooter leaves them be with higher thoughts of reheated meatloaf in mind. He goes up to his bedroom to eat, away from his mom’s weird love nest with her boyfriend, and because of this, he doesn’t see Joan and Ken wriggle around in silent delight at all they’ve just beheld.