Work Text:
When Poppy and her crew informed you of their intention to host you as an inside source, you couldn’t help but doubt the purpose of it. Especially with Chum handling such a similar role.
It didn’t help that you quickly became expected of bigger and bigger jobs.
Or that “standoffish at best” would not describe the Prototype in all his close-up glory. In fact, it was a drastic understatement you used to bargain with yourself. His jester-like appearance hadn’t suited his status in the slightest, the way he spoke, and definitely not the subjects he wanted to speak of.
And your job just had to get this close, didn’t it?
You had added new features to him more than once. He enjoyed making use of the resources right before him and your preexisting knowledge (paired with your fascination with helping) was more than enough to plant the idea in his mind that you could work out these upgrades. Currently, well…
This addition was a bit prissy. A slight tear in one of his sleeves. He commented about important meetings, presentation. Special guests. The fabric was ripped enough to see the robotics working underneath. A ladder stitch would fix that, even if he cackled about you accidentally “stabbing” him. You knew he didn’t feel it.
Yet he watched on as you fumbled to apologize despite the facts, his gaze following almost suspiciously. Squinting at every move of the sewing needle as if it were holding the threat of death. He’d claim it was fascinating to see how the traits you were created to have still showed. How the mere memory of your design shaped you. How you “clung to your niche.”
Charity, he recalled. He often whispered it to you in a mocking tone between his monologues. Even nicknamed you after it. But here he was, forcing you to present that exact virtue.
After the repairs of his sleeve, you were securing the remnants of Catnap to whatever would hold those features down. Just stitching and hoping that would hold enough. He spoke more about the meeting, you listened, he observed as you worked and paused his soliloquies for further instruction. Moved to expose whatever stitches were sloppy.
It was almost like he was just looking for excuses for you to work more. For him to feel further in control.
And you felt guilty about many things: how you bore guilt for how he perceived you, that you’d gotten so close and the lies you had to tell to remain this way. This was a guilt that bubbled up in your throat when he cued responses and reactions from you and that kept you quiet. How you stared and pondered his speeches like there was a true discussion to be had.
Watching sharp, silver hands adjust ruffles and direct. Comparing them to your own palms in the confines of your mind. Reminding yourself that staring will get you caught while he spoke about Lily Lovebraids with repulsion caked in his ever-changing voice. You let your thoughts wander the subject.
Lovebraids had a familiar voice, one that The Prototype often parroted when the topic shifted to her. It’s one of those voices that has all the kindness of a knife. It feels weirdly nostalgic hearing it. You tied the thread into a knot, trying to put a finger on where you’d heard her voice before.
Your thoughts were cut short by him swatting your hands (still equipped with the sewing needle) away. He’d check the sewing knot and the seams, take a pace around you, eyes never peeling from the added fabric. When the metal tapping against the hardwood floor ceased, he was standing in the center of the room again, expecting your own rambles about the limitations of your sutures.
You had to speed talk. I mean, of course you tried to make the knots hold but be easily undone, but he couldn’t exactly know that. So you talked about minimal movements, sounding as doubtful of your own ability as physically possible.
And what was his response? Picking up one of the strings of yarn attached to your head, ensuring he was close enough to analyze your expression, and moving the strand to the other side. Calling you his little helper, voice switching between the words. You realized that your self-doubt had an unintended effect.
He paused, fixed his vest, straightened the fabric. Snickered at the thought of taking you with him to this meeting.
And this time, when you huffed about unsaid thank you’s, he paused at the entryway; looking back at you and mumbling an enthused thanks.