Work Text:
she wants to write a poem about it.
this overwhelming feeling of everything all at once. the colors, soft and pastel, so unlike the reds, greens, and blues that constantly washed over her digital world. the distant sound of traffic outside, or the pitter patter of rain, a melody to her ears. the soft smell of candle wax that always seems to blend with the air, each breath she takes, the weird squiggly feeling of being flesh and not code.
and then the feeling of warmth.
she’s not so sure how’d she write about it, actually. there’s no other way to describe it then… just what it is. she feels warmth, in the borrowed, used up sweater that loosely hugs her body; in the gauze, wrapped snugly around her arms, the glass that stuck to her skin delicately picked out from when she broke out of that screen. or maybe that giddy, yet sore, stirring of her stomach when she remembers that she really is here.
her clothes, her uniform, her being, at one point, now lie innocently folded at the desk nearby. you didn’t know what to do with it, that’s okay, she’s not sure what to do with it either. it was her sprite, her appearance, the only way you know it’s her. but your clothes are much more comfortable anyways.
monika remains quiet as the blanket pounces over her body in waves, tucked into her sides. the texture… it’s rough, the quilt is worn throughout the years of use, with some of the sides having to be stitched back up. monika likes the look of it though, it feels very homey, you could say.
she’s never had a home.
she’s never felt blood pumping through her veins, only code. each breath she used to take was just a play of her mind, but now she can, now she has to. it’s an unconscious, natural ability she earned when she escaped that computer, like the years of yearning for reality seemed to pick up quickly.
you also helped her.
you’re humming, something small, something quiet, but she still picks it up above all the other noise. she decides she likes it, maybe your doing it absentmindedly, or maybe to calm her down when she already feels safe, monika doesn’t know.
well… while she does feel warm, and comfy, and safe, her head is painful—everything’s painful, actually, but mainly her head. it pounds in her ears like it wants to be let out, it makes her eyes flutter as it’s ache reaches the front. her hands, they instinctively press their heels to her temple like that’ll stop it.
you pause from whatever your doing—she couldn’t tell, her vision blurs together—when you hear her quiet moan of pain. she didn’t really want you notice, you’ve been doing so much for her even though she practically broke into your house with that computer.
that’s right, the memory is faint, everything had happened so quick that she couldn’t process it. her world, that computer, the only thing she had known, had vomited her out, every pixel of her fake body turning into flesh. the computer had screamed, she remembers that clearly, it’s gears twitched and crackled, smoke spewing from behind. it was never meant to form life, so obviously it couldn’t make it. the glass had cracked once, then shattered, the first physical pain she had. you weren’t in the room when it happened, but you came just shortly after.
and now here you were, tucking her nicely into your bed, having bandaging her up and comforting her until the noise of life and the absence of static no longer overwhelmed her as much. monika would’ve said she could handle it, that she wasn’t born yesterday, but that’s technically not true.
“i’m fine,” her voice is barely audible, but she manages to say it before you approached her side. it’s weird, how she can hear herself speak, that each word spoken wasn’t just transformed into text. “really, i am, it’s just…” she trails of, swallowing.
you nodded, you seemed to have understood her without her finishing.
it’s just a lot, is what she going to say. really, imagine everything you’ve ever wanted, every wish that seemed to far just being shoved into your hands like it was nothing, like you could’ve just asked this whole time. just yesterday she was trapped in a flat world, wishing for something more, for touch, for reality, for friends, for you.
and now she has it.
that’s right, she’s always wondered who you were behind that little cursor of yours, what you look like, how your voice would sound like as a whisper in her ear, what your hobbies were, if you maybe liked writing poems too. if you were sweet and caring or if you were quiet and cold. now she can know, now she can know the real world, the real you.
you had disappeared to another room while she was thinking, and when you returned, with water and a pill to help with her head, she’s not sure whether to start crying or laughing at the fact that she exists and you’re not bothered by it.
she doesn’t do either, instead she gives you a weary smile as she slowly sits up, to grab the cup and pill from your hands. she stares at the rippling liquid for a moment, remembering how cool it was on her lips the first time she drank it while you were brushing out her ruffled hair.
she repeated the action before popping the pill into her mouth, managing to swallow it first try. she places the cup back on your nightstand, and there was a pause between the two of you for a moment.
“actually…” monika meets your gaze, and offers her small, signature smile. “i could use some company… y’know, after everything.”
so you sit next to her on the bed, and she’s happy to lean her head on your shoulder, holding your hand like a reminder she’s here, and monika closes her eyes.