Work Text:
There's a drawing on the countertop where there normally isn't one.
Daemon blinks.
It's strange. Things don't usually show up, and if they do, some variable should change within the code she spends her time combing through. But no variable changes. The bug shifts.
And stares.
There's a drawing on the countertop with his face on it. Or- whatever counts as a face, it supposes. Blocky pixels and colors with hexes of #FF00FF and #00FFFF and #000000 and #FFFFFF that shift and sparkle and catch in the sunlight.
But unlike the popups and tresses that form at uneven intervals on his body, the proportions of the drawing look almost like they were always meant to be there. Some artist's touch of imperfection and beauty, error and grace. A multicolor collage a fashionista would be proud of. Something inspiring, something real.
The glitch doesn't dare touch it. One touch could ruin all those perfect imperfections, could send it sparking into 404 Oblivion.
No one wants that. No one wants to be an error. No one wants to be a glitch Daemon is a glitch Daemon is a bug a bug in a beaker a broken thing breaking things a bug a bug a bug
No one wants to be a bug. Crawling in crawlspaces they're not supposed to be in, leaving their mark on a shelf. Tampering with sheghosts and kaomojis and boards of the damned. Exorcised and patched and kicked from a server to find a new home across the way. Walls and halls and stairs corrupted with just one crouch.
If this perfect imperfection is a bug, it's a cute thought indeed, but bugs aren't revered and looked at with such praise. They're feared, avoided, stepped on with a Sassy Chap's shoe. Squashed and squatted and squeezed out. Spraid with Raid and splattered to delete.
Once again, Daemon looks at the top of the dresser. A top of a dresser that, if it were still a dresser, would likely be his shoulder. A shoulder. Something sturdy, not spiky, not shaken. Not changed.
There's a drawing on the dresser of the most feared bug in the entire house. A house, not a home, because the bug was never quite welcome there.
Is it a gift? Who would ever give Daemon a gift? Daemon is a bug not a virus is a bug is a demon is a Daemon not a dresser. Daemon is not normal.
Did You give her this? Did You make her this? Did You praise her this? Did You love her this?
Whoever it was, the thought makes Daemon's artifacted lips turn up in a smile. Lets loose a fractured laugh. Broken. Bright as the sun. A shining sun.
It's an art worthy of Artt, a festivity worthy of Holly, an amalgamation worthy of Jerry, a passion worthy of Dante. A mishmashed collaboration of thematic overlap.
There's a drawing on the countertop of a beautiful bug in a beaker.
And this bug is wearing a golden crown of mayhem.