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“I’m just doing what’s best for you, Scripter. Do you not trust me?”
The words rang in his head in an endless loop, a cycle of torment that mercilessly drilled itself into the depths of his mind. Every check-up, it's the same words. Same concern with that hint of disgust, that same look behind the mask. It's always the same. It's always the same. That sickly clinical white that haunted his brain, that stretch of rotten flesh with wilting flowers. Pungent. Sickly strong to syrup his throat with every breath.
His arms were cuffed behind him with a devastating click as two guards stood on each side of him, both in that same navy uniform with that glint of a golden badge against their right chest, with that same pose that screamed "bootlicker": gloved arms behind their backs, bodies standing tall, heads straight up and staring everywhere but at the criminal inches away. The pair made sure he didn't move an inch out of line, though both eyed each other in unison as they glanced back at the prisoner, lips moving in motions that he couldn't read but could most definitely tell the tone of. Pitying. That's the look everyone gives him if it isn't pure, raging hatred. Scripter growled, his scowl deepening as their eyes drifted away just as quickly.
Please just get this over with already.
Scripter's steps grew heavier, irritation growing at a rapid pace. His head remained straight ahead with a purpose: make it to his cell quick and fast. Now.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?” One of the warders quipped, a hand raising in a signal to halt. The other grabbed at his wrist in perfect coordination with the first, stopping him in his tracks.
The inventor stayed silent. Of course, he did. If he spoke up, that would’ve been another problem to deal with, and he didn’t have time for that.
The guards paused to take another good look before continuing their steps.
***
Scripter straggled against the wall with a hitched curse, the sentry pushing him behind the line of the door, brushing their gloved hands together, as if the inventor was something not to be touched. The jingle of keys and the slam of the door that followed remained nothing but white noise as his optic focused on the one thing he’d been thinking of all this time.
“Ken?..”
His voice was cracked, frail, vulnerable. It was uncharacteristic of him, it was stupidly weak. He was never like this, he was a strong, capable, smart, witty inventor that got the job done and yelled at anyone who got too close. Not..this. Not someone who craved touch like a domestic pet.
Though, still, like clockwork, the artist's ears perked up, their dark eyes, like the expanse of spilled ink, gleamed against the dim light the lava below cast.
“Scripter..? SCRIPTER!—”
They nearly tripped as they scrambled up, practically lunging at the man with desperate need, gloved hands hiding cracked porcelain, feeling down his back, tracing his spine and the metal that lay beneath. Just in case. To know this moment is real, alive.
“Scripter.. Scripter!.. Oh Two-By-Two above..” The Muse fervently whispered words filled with utter devotion, finally releasing their grip as they leaned back to face the other.
“Ken..” Scripter whispered back stupidly, leaning his face against the crook of their neck, breathing in the comforting scent of old perfume-laced pages and ink. “Ken.. Ken…”
He couldn’t stop saying their name if he tried, the word feeling like the only goddamn salvation in this wretched world. His own arms wrapped around their back, chests pressed together as he just felt the other in his grip.
RobloKen gently guided the other to the dirty floor below, the cot only a few steps away promptly ignored as Scripter melted into their arms, his cursor-tipped tail flicking in unsaid contentment.
No words were needed. Just this. Just comfort.
A well-needed talk will be there tomorrow. But right now, they just needed each other.
They traced the rim of the dulled crown, slipping fingers underneath, taking it off to let it rest on the ground. Their hands finally slipped into his hair, noting the bit of slight grease in the platinum strands, but paid no mind to it. Skilled hands combed through in a familiar rhythm, finally feeling the rest of the tension bleed out beneath them.
Scripter lay still, nuzzling closer into their neck with a sigh, ears flicking as their gloved fingers brushed past. This was all he needed after the torment the Doctor brought to him. The humiliation of being dissected and ripped apart for someone else's enjoyment for weeks on end. Only seen as a patient and scrap. Never human. Never Scripter. He needed his safety, his home.
A quiet sob escaped, not sure if it was from them or the other, but it made the artist hold him closer, their grip strong yet so loving. They would gladly hold him as long as he needed; as long as he called for them, they would be there. Always. Forever.
“Just rest, friend.. Alright? You’ve been through so much these few weeks.. You deserve it, Scripter. You deserve everything.”
“Mmmmh..”
“Rest well, dear.. I’ll be here when you wake up.”