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Aurora Ghoul, in all her self-proclaimed stupidity, had lost her favourite sock.
Not a problem, she told herself. It must have been dragged along with the sheets she’d stripped from her bunk, thrown into the laundry hamper that could fit two full-grown Ghouls. This was how she found herself bent over it, pyjamas on and one sock pulled up, rifling through clothes and bedding in search of the other.
Her bare foot left the ground as she leaned in to dig for it, one hand gripping the edge. She grunted out a laboured breath, her stomach protesting where it was wedged against the hamper, but she wasn’t giving up now. She’d rooted around enough to find yesterday’s bedsheets. She scrambled through them, tossing aside a pillowcase, and with a triumphant a-ha!, caught sight of some bright pink fluff.
“C’mere,” she grumbled.
Just the toe of the sock was peeking out. Aurora strained her arm to reach it, pinching it between her fingers, and gave a slow, careful tug. Too hard, and she’d lose her fragile hold. She eased it out, groaning, until enough of the sock emerged for her to grip it in her fist.
“Gotcha.”
She pulled hard, yanking the rest of it out from under the bedsheet. The force of it springing free sent her stumbling back, losing her balance when her bare foot hit the floor again. At the same time, the bedsheets shifted in the hamper, and something dark rolled out with them, bumping into the edge.
That was no sock. Not even a pair of boxers.
Aurora took a heavy breath, rubbing her sore stomach with the sock, then leaned forward again to investigate. She didn’t have to reach so far this time. In the dim nightlight, it took a moment of squinting to figure out what she was seeing—it was only when her fingers met matted fluff that she knew it was a teddy.
She grabbed it by its hind legs and leaned back. She stood, sock in one hand, teddy in the other, and gazed into its glass eyes, faded orange and a little scuffed. It was a black cat, soft and floppy. Heavier than her own bunny rabbit. Old, by the looks of it, and well-loved, but by who, she didn’t know.
She knew every soft toy on the bus and who they all belonged to. Every teddy and blanket and favourite T-shirt that might be lying around the den back home. This one was unfamiliar, and with the heavy scents of the pack’s laundry flooding from the hamper, she couldn’t sniff out an answer.
Aurora turned and took a couple of steps away, then leaned against the wall as she brought the cat to her nose.
Papa, it told her, as strong as if she’d pulled the man himself out from under her bedsheets. Her tail flickered with recognition. She kept the teddy close to her face, as if to double-check, but every breath brought the scent of Perpetua, clear as the fluffy sock was hers.
After so many weeks of living in close quarters, Aurora thought she should have known about this by now. It would take quite some effort to hide her own. Not that she would want to hide it, of course; why was there any need, when this was the most normal thing in the world? She’d had the bunny since those first tumultuous days, when everything was strange and new. It had been a reliable comfort ever since. Papa seemed to be in a strange new world of his own; Aurora smoothed the cat’s fluff with one finger, pleased that it could give him some company.
Aurora couldn’t imagine being without hers. Maybe Papa couldn’t either. This thought jolted her into action, and she took both the cat and the sock in one hand, leaving the other free to steady herself as she walked.
She passed other bunks along the aisle, curtains drawn, mostly quiet. The tip of a tail was poking out of one, the corner of a well-used blanket from another. Aurora’s own tail swished to keep her balance. Over the hum of the motorway rushing past, she listened to the heavy breaths of the sleeping Ghouls, and a yawn crept up on her. She rubbed her watering eyes with the hand that held her laundry prizes. The teddy’s head bumped her cheek, and the scent of Papa was so strong that she quickened her pace. If he were anything like Aurora, he might not be sleeping without it.
His bunk was at the end, and the curtains were drawn tight. Holding onto Cirrus’ bunk opposite, Aurora paused to listen; she didn’t hear snores or the shuffle of a duvet.
“Papa?” she whispered, then raised her voice. His hearing wasn’t quite as good as hers. “Hey. Papa.”
A crunch of bedding and a stifled cough. Papa sounded wide awake. That was good enough for Aurora—she knew about that human need for privacy, but didn’t quite understand its limits. If it were any of the pack, or her other Papa, she would have opened the curtains without hesitation. She’d given him more than enough warning. She could move back the curtain, hand him the cat, and they’d both be able to get some rest. Papa with his teddy and Aurora with her sock. She bit back another yawn, and decided it was too late to dawdle.
“Got something for you,” she said, then nudged the curtain open.
Papa sat hunched against his pillow, knees pulled up. He hugged another pillow to his chest. He wore his faded pyjamas, but he’d put his mask over a freshly washed face. His damp hair was stuck at funny angles under the strap. He stared at Aurora, his body frozen, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and wary.
Aurora’s next words caught in her throat. Maybe it was the dim nightlight, but they looked a little red-rimmed.
His mouth opened like he was going to speak, but his gaze flickered down to Aurora's hand. His eyes widened and his shoulders tensed.
That answered that.
“This is yours, isn’t it?” Aurora asked, holding it out. She twisted her arm so the cat faced him. “Sock's mine. They both got caught up in sheets.”
Papa hesitated, though his fingers gripped the pillow he was hugging, and looked at the cat with something like desperation.
But when he looked back up at Aurora, he didn't nod.
She tipped her head, curious. Papa's lack of words didn't shock her—he'd been quiet from the start. This hesitance, and the panic in his gaze and the set of his shoulders, made her search through distant memories of her only other reference for humanity.
Her first Papa, biting his lip and clenching his fists. Upset but trying not to show it. Aurora hadn't often been alone with him when he got like that; his moods and moments of panic would be dealt with by the group. On that day, she was the only one who saw it, and the only one to offer him a hug.
He'd looked at her in much the same way as his brother did now: with urgency and longing, but as if he was holding himself back, telling himself he shouldn't give in. Aurora had seen the flush of his ears, matching the creeping blush below Papa's mask.
Copia had accepted, and after a moment of shakiness, he'd given a watery laugh.
“Being silly,” he'd said. “I am the one who—who's supposed to be looking after you.”
Back on another bus with another Papa, Aurora figured it out.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she told him.
I understand, she thought to say, but she didn't understand his hesitance to admit it. She just recognised the way he hugged the pillow.
Aurora tipped her head in the direction of her bunk. “I have one too. A rabbit. Pink with strawberry ears.”
She searched for a sign that Papa had seen it before, but he just blinked.
“Don't know what I'd do if I lost her,” she added.
Papa looked at her for a long moment. His bottom lip trembled. He pressed his lips together, and slowly, as if he was afraid of it, he shook his head.
“I don't know either,” he whispered.
Aurora held her hand closer and loosened her grip. She smiled as Papa took the teddy, and her tail wagged when he tucked it into his arm. He hugged it like it was precious, turning it the right way up. He wasn't looking at Aurora anymore. He leaned forward until his nose met the cat's fur, and he took a long, shuddering breath, in and out, his shoulders curling tight.
Just as Aurora thought he would relax, that trembling tension returned. Even under the shadow of the mask, Aurora spotted the set of his lip, the pinch of his jaw—he was holding back tears, and the scent of their impedance was heavy in the air.
“Careful when you strip the sheets,” she said.
Papa nodded, fast and irregular.
“Thank you.” His voice sounded thick, but sincerity rang through. In one quick breath, he said, “Can I have a minute?”
“Sure.” Aurora tried a smile. “‘Night.”
“‘Night.”
“Sleep well.”
She caught his nod—you too—and a movement of his arm, before she stepped back and let the curtain fall.
A job well done, Aurora thought. She walked away, sock in hand, on the well-earned route to bed. She was giving Papa the space he asked for, but with her Ghoul ears and a pounding heart, she couldn't help but listen behind her.
Bunk curtains and a clamped palm did nothing to muffle a sob.