Work Text:
YOU do not have a name. You’re small enough that you don’t even know people are meant to, so you don’t mind. Someone is holding you, gentle but firm. Your tiny fingers curl around one of theirs.
“No,” they say, shaking their head, “Nno.” It’s the first voice you’ve ever heard, the words quick and stilted like they wish they weren't talking at all.
It’s cold here. You thought before was cold, but now you’re learning it can be even colder. White flutters down from the up above, dancing its way down, down, down, before landing on the underneath. One lands on you, tickling your nose, and you wiggle at the unfamiliar feeling. You breathe fast and hard, and someone laughs.
“Patient,” they say, “Wait.”
Wait, you think. You don’t know what it means. Maybe it means it's time to go in the square, because someone is gently setting you inside. You feel colder without arms around you, but you don't whine. You blink up at someone who is all you’ve ever known, and they don’t blink back.
Your name is JEFF. Your dad named you after his favourite thing in the world. You like your name, even though you don’t know how to feel about the source. He says you’re too little to appreciate the mastery of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, but you aren’t so sure it’s an issue of age. You aren’t too young to appreciate the mastery of Dad’s puppets, and in your eyes those are much better. You’ve been coming to work with him since you were a baby. He tried to leave you with Jake, once, but you “screamed the whole darn time like a bloody banshee!” while your dad was gone. He brings you, now. You get to watch him move the puppets around the stage and order the other actors around.
Sometimes, if you’re very well behaved (which you always are), he lets you add your best friend to the episode. You toddle up to the stage, the staff cooing and smiling as you do, and lift up Kermit.
He’s little, like you. Kermit is usually a grown up, but your friend isn’t yet. He’s going to grow up when you do. You fasten the tie of his sailor suit with your tiny hands so he looks perfect, and Dad hoists you up on his hip to help you reach the stage.
DAD: What’s Kermit going to do today?
JEFF: Hn.
Play, you think, and wiggle your free hand like you do when Dad asks if you want to play. He nods.
DAD: Sweet. Is the little guy gonna play by himself, or does he want a buddy?
You consider. Kermit has you to be his buddy, but that’s in real life. This is playing pretend. You nod.
DAD: Gonzo can play with him.
You blink. You don’t have a Gonzo toy. Dad can tell what you’re thinking when you look up at him, eyebrows raised, and he laughs.
DAD: I know. Gonzo is new. New stuff can be hard.
JEFF: Mm.
DAD: Doesn’t mean it’s bad, though. New stuff can be great.
He readjusts you on his hip as one of the other actors hands him a doll. Little Gonzo. You like Gonzo, even if he’s not as good as Kermit. Dad lowers him to ground level, raising his voice high and nasally like Gonzo’s.
GONZO (DAD): Well, hey, Kermit!
You shake Kermit. That means Hi.
GONZO (DAD): It’s nice to meet you!
Kermit and Gonzo are already friends. You look up at your dad, displeased.
DAD: (I know. Let’s pretend they don’t know each other, though. Gonzo can be even smaller than Kermit.)
JEFF: Hmph.
DAD: (Gonzo can be his little brother.)
You squint. Dad’s gaze shifts, and he sets you back down on your feet, Gonzo still in his hand. He looks nervous. You didn’t know he could feel that way.
DAD: What would you think about that? About having a brother one day?
Your name is JEFF STRIDER. You have a brother.
What else is there to say?
His hands are tiny, his face scrunched up like he’s angry anyone let him into the world at all. He’s loud, too, always crying or babbling or playing and hardly ever asleep. Dad says you were an easy baby. Jake says his first son was a crier too, but he would calm down when he was held. Neither of these are true about Dale.
You watch him carefully as often as you can. You are four years old, according to your doctor, and you don’t feel like you’ve changed much at all from when you were small. Quiet, like Dad says. Calm. Collected. You wonder if you were like Dale when you were born, too. Maybe you learned to be quiet. You wonder when Dale will. You’re a little tired of waiting for him to.
He stares at his foot, raised up above his face, and pulls it towards his mouth with grubby hands. Maybe he won’t ever learn. You aren’t supposed to say it, but he’s a little stupid. Jake tells you all babies start stupid, but Dad says you were born cool. You know who you believe more, and it isn’t Jake.
Jake must be where he got the loud from. Dad is only loud when he’s freaking out, and he doesn’t do that often. Dale has Dad’s eyes, though. They’re good eyes, so he must be good too.
Your name is JEFF STRIDER. You are thirteen years old, and you are lost.
It’s hot. The humidity of the city would be wet enough even without the rain pouring down on you, but luck hasn’t been on your side lately. Earlier today, you started playing a game. You are the only player. You can tell you aren’t supposed to be. The game was lonely, and where you’ve ended up is just about the same. Time is your domain, but you don’t know how to work with it. Your first companion told you to try moving its flow, and then you were here. Hot and wet and angry. Scared. For the first time in your life, your dad can’t help you. He told you to stay in one spot if you get lost, but he’s not going to find you here. All you can do is walk.
So you walk. You walk for a few blocks, rain soaking through your hat, until you see a kid.
He doesn’t look at you when you stop. He isn’t crying, the same way you aren’t, but the raindrops trickling down his face almost makes it seem like he is. His lip is busted, still spilling fresh blood, and a bruise is starting to raise on his cheek. Unlike you, the anger in his face is obvious. The fear is, too. You stare at him, at his gangly limbs and oversized shirt and soaked hair. He doesn’t stare back.
KID: fuck do you want.
You shrug. You can see him roll his eyes behind his sunglasses.
KID: you get kicked out too?
You shrug again. More like running away, even if it wasn’t on purpose. He huffs, wiping the blood off his lip.
KID: you retarded or something? can’t talk?
Anger flares in your throat, hot and painful. Instinctively, you lower the brim of your hat to cover your eyes as if they aren’t already hidden by your shades.
JEFF: Fuck you.
KID: so you can talk.
JEFF: Fuck.
JEFF: You.
KID: whatever. fuck you too, retard.
You try to step away, but your feet don’t move. You can’t stop looking at him. The rain is still pouring over his face, hair clinging to his skin. You pull your hat off, and before he can argue it’s settled snugly on his head.
JEFF: Rain.
He doesn’t thank you. He doesn’t take the hat off, either. Maybe it’ll make him a little kinder.
You keep walking. You’ll figure out how to work with time bullshit if you’re patient.
Your name is JEFF STRIDER. You are fifteen years old. You are a lord of time, according to your best friend, and your control of your aspect is leagues better than it was when you started playing a game. Time has become something you consider carefully. Stable loops are what make you who you are. Stable loops and your family.
CARE: ………umn…… jeff ……
JEFF: ?
CARE: imn…….. nervous ……
You tilt your head, eyebrow raised. She knows what that means. Why?
CARE: …… new famnily ………
You nod. The others are joining the session soon. It won’t be just you and Care anymore. This place won’t be a secret you hold close to your chest.
CARE: wat if ………… 3:> …………
CARE: wat if they domnt…… like care ………
You feel the words bubble up behind your throat. Why wouldn't they? You’re great. If they don’t like you, they have shit taste. You’re their family, too. They should love you. They’re going to love you. How could they not love you?
Nothing comes out. You can’t, today. You can’t most days. You shake your head instead.
CARE: u …… camnt be sure ……
You’re very sure. Everyone who knows Care loves her deeply. Uncle Dave does, long after having another child. He and Jade picked out a due date that would have been her birthday. They celebrate every year. She’s the purest form of love there could ever be. She’s your family. Care notices your knitted brow.
CARE: wat are u … thimnking about …!
JEFF: Hng.
CARE: paber …… ?
You nod. You can’t blame her for being unable to decipher your thoughts when you go quiet. No one can, other than Dad. You normally default to text when your voice is stuck like this, but Care can’t read, so you take the paper and crayons from her hands and start to draw. She likes pictures. She’s a much better artist than you, objectively speaking, with her natural sense of space and colour. Your hands are more stable, so your drawings make more sense, but they aren’t nearly as beautiful.
You drag the yellow crayon across the page for her body, peach for her folded ears. Grey next. Simple, rigid. Care nods, because she knows this scene. It’s you two.
JEFF: Hn.
Green for Jack, and red for Ruby, and cyan and blue make a whole family. They’re all smiling. You nudge your head at the paper, see, they’ll love you, just wait, and Care’s tail wags.
CARE: more famnily …… ! euueueueu …!
More family, you think. You hadn’t drawn Dale.
You nod.
Your name is JEFF STRIDER. You are seventeen years old. There is a baby in your arms. She’s smaller than you thought she’d be, wide eyes staring up at you as she gets comfortable in your grasp. You reach down to tuck a stray lock of hair out of her face, and she latches on to your finger the moment it’s within reach. Her little hands are strong. They hold on tight.
“No,” you say, shaking your head so she understands, “Nno.” The words come out less confident than you like them to. Your stutter doesn’t make itself known as often these days, and your only audience is an infant, but you still feel the embarrassment crawl up your throat. There’s no reason to let her get attached to you. In a few hours, she’s going to be home with Dad. Dirk Strider will be the only father she ever knows, and the burden of the truth is yours to carry until she becomes you. Your name is JEFF STRIDER, and hers is too. Someone is going to give her, you, that name. Someone is going to love her more than anything.
You pull away and she doesn’t protest. You don’t want to get blood on her. That’s not a very nice goodbye present. You should have washed your hands before picking her up, but you can’t find it in your heart to put her down. She’s you. That’s why you decide nobody else will ever know how this happened. Your uncle’s leg is dust, now. It was always going to be. It was always going to make you. Dirk Strider is your father twice over, and you will be the third person made this way that he calls his family. You will be the first to be a daughter and not a brother.
You raise your free arm and feel the snow falling before your feet hit the ground. It’s an odd spot. Discarded cardboard is piled up taller than you, unlucky boxes flattened by tires as they drift on to the road. If you didn’t know exactly how this was going to go, you would probably pick somewhere else. You don’t, though. The baby in your arms wriggles as the snow dances around her, her cheeks already glowing red in the cold. When a snowflake lands on the tip of her nose she looks up in awe before letting out a quiet sneeze. You snort. It’s the same way Care sneezes.
“Patient,” you say, “Wait.”
Wait, you tell her. She doesn’t know what it means, but she will one day. It means Dad is coming soon. It means she just has to wait a little bit longer. You know she’s good at waiting. One of the boxes is for muppet brand diapers, an immediately perfect choice, so you lift the baby out of your arms and carefully lower her inside.
She blinks up at someone who she is going to be one day. Behind your shades, you blink back.