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“...Sam?” Sprout says, hesitantly, because he really, really hates to ask. Today was hard. A lot of kids came in. Well– maybe it wasn’t any more than usual, but it felt like a lot, and one of them was upset, and he couldn’t help. And then he’d tried baking with Cosmo, again, and– well, that never goes well, does it? He knows he’s supposed to be good with that stuff. He really doesn’t understand why he isn’t, it doesn’t make any sense–
“Yeah, Sprout? Did something happen in the kitchen again?” Sam says, and… they look tired. Real tired. Sprout guesses they've probably done a lot today. They're always checking on safety stuff, like making sure the other toons stay safe, and the rooms are safe for everyone, and they always somehow come in right away when Sprout does something wrong in the kitchen.
“Just–” Sprout says, or… tries to say. He doesn't even know what he's trying to say.
…That isn't true, and he knows it. He knows exactly what he's trying to say. But actually saying it is a whole different story.
Sam's looking at him, and Sprout looks down at his feet.
“Come here, Sprout.” Sam says, and Sprout does. He always tries to be good for Sam.
Sam's still so much taller than him, even sitting down, but they gently put their hands under Sprout's arms to lift him up. He clings onto him automatically, legs in his lap.
They rub their hand over his back, softly, and Sprout feels tears spring up in his eyes. He doesn’t cry around anyone but Sam.
Today was just so hard.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Sam asks, and Sprout shakes his head into their neck. He really doesn't. It's not that anything happened today that doesn't usually happen everyday. But it gets to be so, so much.
Everyday, it’s so much.
Sometimes, he just wants to curl into a ball, like the kids he sometimes sees. Crying until their parent comes to comfort them. Then they get a stuffed animal, or a treat, or maybe their pacifier if they’re younger.
His face flushes at the thought, and he presses it against Sam’s neck harder. He doesn’t need any of those things.
“...Okay, kiddo. That’s fine.” Sam sits there with him for a few more minutes, rocking him gently, as Sprout takes deep breaths. Sam had taught him that, too. One, two, three, four, five… he breathes in. One, two, three, four, holding it. He breathes out for one, two, three.
“Are you feeling a bit better, now?” Sam asks, and he nods. He hopes Sam isn’t asking him to go. He really doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to go back to the other toons, where he’s supposed to help them, and know things, and be responsible, and–
“...good, why don’t we get you dressed, then.” He hears, and, oh. He doesn’t have to go. He nods, but doesn’t try to move, because he hopes Sam will carry him. Being carried is nice. He doesn’t mind being small, if only for that one reason.
Sam sets him on their hip, as they walk over to the cabinet on the other side of their office. Sprout kicks his feet, not even intentionally, ‘cause he knows what's in there. Sam takes out one of their shirts from the folded stack in there – one of their own shirts from home, not their uniform. Sprout thinks it has a band logo on it, maybe. Sam always keeps a few shirts in there for him, and they’re always worn soft and smell just like them.
…Sprout keeps one in his room, tucked under his mattress. He only takes it out on really hard nights, when the day was long, or Sam left early, or he just… couldn’t make himself go to them. Most of the time he can't.
He's set down, and he stands there, unsure. But Sam helps him. They unwrap his scarf, taking it off for him, and then show him the shirt.
“Can you lift your arms for me?” They ask, and Sprout nods, shyly. He always feels… fuzzy, once he's in one of Sam's shirts. He doesn't really know why.
It feels nice, and he hates that, and he loves that, and he doesn’t understand anything at all.
Sam hands him a pillow, next – one of the Astro star pillows they sell in the gift shop. Sprout likes Astro. He’s a good friend, even when Sprout sometimes isn’t. Sprout thinks Astro might be giving him good dreams, but he isn’t sure. He just knows he dreams of being warm, somewhere safe and small, where he has nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.
He holds the pillow tightly to his chest, eyes widening at the soft, soft fabric. He looks up at Sam, who smiles down at him.
“Hows that?” Sam asks, and Sprout nods. His arms are wrapped closely against the pillow, but his legs feel all wobbly, and his head feels all hazy and– and happy.
“Sam!” He says, wrapping both of his arms around their leg, holding the pillow in his left hand. “Sam, Sam…”
There's a hand on his head, gently stroking through his leaves, and he giggles. Sam’s here, and it’s all okay! He was so, so worried, but… he doesn’t havta be. Sam takes care of him.
“There you are, kiddo. I’m here.”