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Warm water pelts Shadow Milk’s back from the shower head above, turned to the highest setting to warm his chilled dough, steam lazily rising to the ceiling. The beast hums as he lathers the blueberry-scented shampoo over his arms and legs. The quiet and privacy of the shower is one of the only times he sees his body these days. Long, healed-over scars litter his skin, some puncture wounds from claws and teeth and others thin, precise strokes made with clinical detachment.
His vivisection scars are still something he checks every time he showers. Initially made during his time as the Fount, taken care of enough just to not tear him away from his duties and reopened by Butter Roll, he takes care of the stitches to not irritate the thin dough being held together by them.
As his lower body is cleaned by the soap, his darkened claws rise to his neck, where deep stitches lay, even deeper than his vivisection. Carefully, his calloused fingers rub soap around it, sure not to accidentally get it into the sensitive flesh of his throat. It’s happened more than once, and it’s not all that pleasant!
The foamy soap is slowly washed away from the water before Shadow Milk turns off the tap. He reaches for his light-blue towel outside the door, careful not to let too much of the warmth out. The warm, freshly-dried towel is soft against his skin.
He never told Pure Vanilla why he wanted a blue towel. The king thought it was just because he wanted theirs to be their respective colors, sentimental fool he is. As the beast dabs the cloth gently around the deepest of his scars, he watches beading blood disappear into the towel.
What Pure Vanilla doesn’t know will never hurt him.
Shadow Milk ties the towel around his waist as he exits the bathroom, steam curling around his feet like the shadows he’s grown used to for centuries. The bathroom leads to his and Pure Vanilla’s shared bedroom, where both their wardrobes lie. The king offered to move his robes from the closet to give the jester space, but he reassured the man that a simple dresser drawer would be fine.
So Shadow Milk paces towards the drawer to find some pajamas for himself. Pure Vanilla should be back in an hour, give or take, and he’ll likely keep the poor old jester locked in a hug until morning. Better change now before he sees everything.
The top drawer is no dice. Old shorts, boxers, T-shirts, and half-finished sewing projects. The middle drawer is no better. Shadow Milk grumbles in frustration, back popping as he leans down to the bottom drawer.
Just as his claws wrap around the knob, he heard the creak of their bedroom door open. He freezes with something he refuses to call fear. Pure Vanilla isn’t supposed to be back for another hour and the staff know not to enter their room without knocking. Is it someone come to kill him? Some Vanillian he ticked off? A vengeful spirit? A witch devotee?
“Bluebird?” That familiar voice calls. The one that’s soothed him so many times now only making him bristle further.
The beast hears the king sigh from exhaustion from the long day, hanging up his cloak and hat by the door before the rhythmic tapping of his staff and steps draw nearer.
“The meeting ended earlier than expected today! So I decided to come up here and ask if you wanted a dinner out before the shops closed. Perfect timing you took a shower!” The king exclaims, now a few feet away from Shadow Milk still leaned over and white-knuckling the drawers doorknob.
The jester doesn’t move, and Pure Vanilla grows confused.
“Shadow Milk? Are…you okay?” He asks. The healer walks to his lover’s side, laying his warm, calloused hand on the beast’s right shoulder.
Shadow Milk wants to curl up, to teleport away, to swat that hand of compassion away and curse him for getting close. Instead, he stays quiet, almost shivering from restrained choice. Unfortunately a healer will try to find a problem no matter how unresponsive a patient.
The hand initially on his shoulder leaves for only a brief moment before softly brushing against his neck—his stitches.
That finally snaps him out of it. The hand gripping the drawer goes to slap Pure Vanilla’s hand as he stumbles up, a hiss stuck in his throat.
“Don’t you know to ask before you touch?” He spits. His claws stay at his side, bared no different from a cat puffing up to scare off an attacker. It’s only when he notices Pure Vanilla’s staff pointed at him and the king’s eyes open in worry and horror does he recognize his mistake.
He’s not put on any clothes. The only thing shielding him is the towel wrapped around his waist. His vivisection and decapitation scars are on full display to the healer.
Cruelty immediately jumps to his tongue like it has for centuries since his corruption. A fierce grin plasters itself on his face before he even thinks to move the muscle.
“What, never seen a scar or two before? You must’ve been a pretty bad healer if you couldn’t even handle a few stitches! But we both know that’s a lie. I saw all those nights you’d sneak off in the spire-“
“Shadow Milk. Enough,” He interrupts. Pure Vanilla’s eyes have since closed as he once again walks towards the puffed-up beast of deceit.
“You don’t have to try and scare me off, Shadow Milk. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”
His gentle hand goes to trace the deep scar on his chest, touching the old stitching that Shadow Milk could never stomach replacing.
“You know I won’t leave, either.”
“Liar,” he growls, pupils sharpening to slits as he carefully watches Pure Vanilla survey his wounds.
“You can say no, but ah…may I restitch these? They seem…old. I will numb you properly,” the healer reassures.
“They’re not infected. It’s fine.”
“Shadow Milk, they’re fraying. What if they snap?”
“So what if they do?”
Pure Vanilla lifts the beast’s chin to look at him, empathy making his eyes curve in sorrow.
“Love, I don’t want you hurt. You’re very active and if a stitch were to snap….I don’t want you hurt.”
Shadow Milk sneers, but floats towards their giant bed anyway, laying himself down on his back to stare at the ceiling.
“Get it over with quickly. Can’t promise I’ll sit still and pretty forever.”
From the corner of his vision, he sees Pure Vanilla nod, quickly heading to the bathroom to grab some simple medical supplies. As the healer walks back into the room, sitting next to Shadow Milk on the edge of the bed, he shows his partner every step he takes. He knows Shadow Milk doesn’t trust like most cookies do. Even after months of being together, Pure Vanilla fights every day to get it through to him that he is someone he can trust.
It’s only during moments like these, where Shadow Milk has no escape plan, that he even wrestles an inkling as to ‘why’ out of him.
He brings the needle and thread to Shadow Milk’s vision, but he looks away. A small, almost imperceptible whimper comes from him.
“Don’t show me. Just…get it over with.”
He stays staring at the plain vanilla wafer wall to his side as Pure Vanilla casts a spell to numb his body. Pulling his hand back after the spell, he rubs a pair of scissors with alcohol to disinfect them.
“Would you like earplugs? So you don’t hear the scissors and such,” Pure Vanilla asks.
“I said get it over with, Nills,” the beast growls, fisting the sheets with his claws. “Stop stalling.”
“I will. I just want you comfortable.” The king dips down to press a kiss to Shadow Milk’s cheek. “Don’t worry. It’ll be quick and painless,” he says, bringing the scissors to one of the loosest stitches by the top of the jester’s chest.
“Liar,” Shadow Milk grumbles.
As the blade makes quick work of the old stitches, Shadow Milk periodically shivers and, on rare occasions, his breath hitches. Pure Vanilla makes sure to tell him everything is okay whenever his lover seems too frightened, even if he tries to mask it with anger and indifference.
Soon enough, Shadow Milk is gently brought up into a pile of pillows. He looks around the bed, only to find no medical supplies. Pure Vanilla must’ve cleaned up before lifting the beast, guessing the medical instruments may cause him distress.
His partner sits by him on the bed, mattress dipping to accommodate his weight. Silence hangs in the air like a thick blanket. Comfortable and safe. Pure Vanilla moves his hand on top of Shadow Milk’s. It’s only then he notices it was trembling. The warmth capturing the beast’s hand is grounding for the man who’s always cold, but he’s no fool.
He knows comfort is often the sugar coating the bitter medicine of a question.
“I…don’t mean to pry, but…where’d you get those scars?” He hears from the ancient next to him.
Shadow Milk hums, leaning back further into the pile of pillows below him like he were attempting to be swallowed whole by the fluff.
“The witches didn’t know a lot about cookie anatomy when they first created us. Neither did I, even as the Fount. Both of us were thirsty for knowledge back then. They….offered to let me learn. Painless. Easy. Liars that they are,” he pauses, taking Pure Vanilla’s hand closer, claws digging in to the tan dough, but not piercing.
“Of course, there was no cadaver waiting for me. They wanted to see how alive cookies function, and…being immortal…” the silence, initially comforting and warm turns suffocating.
“The scar on my neck is just when my people tried decapitating me. Didn’t work obviously, but hey! At least I got a cool party trick now!”
That sharp grin makes its home back on Shadow Milk’s face as he looks at Pure Vanilla like he just told a joke. The ancient looks horrified, blind eyes wide open in fear.
“Shadow Milk…that’s horrible.”
The jester rolls his eyes.
“Tell me something I don’t know. Creators didn’t love me. My people revolted. Honestly it’s a miracle I haven’t plunged my staff into my souljam like you did!” He snickers.
Even as his laughter dies down, Pure Vanilla’s expression remains no less empathetic.
Shadow Milk’s face falls. Something ugly coils in his gut. He’s not something to be pitied. Not a pet abandoned and dying in the rain. He lived. Bloody, disoriented, and cruel, he’s lived for thousands of years.
And that’s how he’ll live for thousands more.
“Spit it out,” he growls.
“Wh-“
“Go on. Say your platitudes. It’s no use crying over ‘what if’s’.
…there’s no point in mourning the man you could’ve been if you were loved.”
Warm arms wrap around his waist as the king places his chin on the beast’s shoulder. Shadow Milk’s breathing stutters, a tiny hiccup in his breath before he corrects himself.
Those warm hands engulf his. He stares at the union. It still baffles him how something so holy willingly holds him. All his life holiness eluded him. There was never any chance to be innocent. Not for the Fount of All Knowledge.
He was baked knowing of cruelty; of depravity and sin and greed. He was never taught love, because he was supposed to know how it worked already. What it looks like. How it feels. He learned cruelty quickly from those questioning him. They didn’t believe him. Spat on the ground he walked on and called him a liar.
So why? Why now does this warmth—this holiness—embrace him? Why was the kindness beaten out of him and his cruelty met with love? Is his suffering what makes him worth loving?
The tear that rolls down his cheek burns. His eyes burn. Everything hurts from restraint and choked down words. His love lets him keep his silence. He always trusted it more than whatever came out of his mouth anyway.
Shadow Milk sinks into the arms of Pure Vanilla as he lets his grief overtake him for the first time in centuries.
For the first time in his life, he’s safe.