Work Text:
The first time Clark got lost, he panicked.
He followed the same route he always took: from the marked spot on the wall, he took two lefts, then went straight, took the second right, followed down the hall... But that second right—no, left now, only lefts. No right turn for him to take.
His hand brushed against where the opening once was, now a flat wall. The yellow pattern mocks him.
"This… No, I marked it," Clark muttered to himself, out of habit. He glanced behind himself, to the left turn looming as his only choice. He takes the second left, the hallway shorter vertically, forcing him to crouch slightly to get through.
There's a painting, half inside a wall. Clark steps forward, the room unfamiliar, filled with hallways and an acrid smell—rotting, he knew, something (someone) was rotting here. He chooses to inspect the painting instead of dwelling on it, a child's, on cheap canvas. The half he can see is some kind of animal, orange in color, with a large tail. A dog or a cat, who's to say, because he can't see its front half. It's some kid's pet, and the rooms decided only one half was important.
He turns back to the options of hallways presented: two are open, and one is closed with a door. From the first path, it looks empty, just the same yellow walls. The third path, he sees a set of stairs going down. Clark tries the door but finds it locked. He tries again, this time by kicking it—a stupid mistake on his part, but he was starting to get nervous and acted on impulse. Where had his home moved to?
He groans in pain, feeling the shock travel up his leg, his muscles already stinging with the force he used on the wood. He falls to the floor, clutching his shin. Clark isn't athletic in the slightest—he had no idea why he thought that would work.
There's footsteps behind him. Clark turns his head and spots himself, face twisted into a wide, silent wail.
"Oh, Captain, hey there." His voice strains, the upward angle making the twisted version of himself scarier than usual. It hasn't hurt him, not yet, but he still worries. "Just got a bit turned around, heh. No big deal." Clark leans back on his hands, leg still stinging faintly. "You lose your way home, too, big guy?"
The still life limps closer until it's right in front of him, staring directly down at where Clark is sitting pathetically on the floor. His heart is thumping in his chest, fast enough that Clark feels it in his fingers.
"Everything alr—" Clark is cut off as it bends down, and then grabs him. He won't say it out loud, but he yelps as its arms hoist him off the floor. He clings to the still life's shirt, his own arms thrown around its wide, bony shoulders, but it has a good grip on him. His heart speeds up for an entirely different reason now.
"Y-you taking us home, Captain?" He asks, though it doesn't answer him, just limping off in a direction, Clark in its arms. Clark trusts it, somehow, that it knows where it's going, where it's taking him.
And, he will admit, being carried is nice. He hadn't been held like this since he was a boy—or held in general for several years now. Somehow, the still life is warm. Its skin feels like skin, not like the other ones he's met. He tracks the path it takes—a left there, down a hallway, a right there, ducking under doorways—until, at last, he's home.
The familiar dimmed lighting, the hexagonal dining table, the fridge, and the still life in the corner with its lamp. He shifts in the Captain's arms, and it bends forward to let Clark back onto the ground. "You really know your way around, don't you?" He comments, just loud enough he thinks it hears him, looking up at its face. He swears it's smiling at him. "Thanks, Captain." He smiles back.
"Now come on, sit," he beckons it forward, "let me tell you about my day."
The second, it's not that he's lost, but exploring.
Actually, he's looking for the Captain. He prepared dinner, got them drinks, and even found a vase of flowers as a centrepiece for the usually plain table. Fake, plastic flowers, but flowers.
He waited at the table for about 10 minutes before he stood up. It would've been their first dinner together. They discussed it. So Clark went looking. He stormed down hall after hall, calling for the Captain all the while, and he received not a peep in return. He just about gives up, turning corners to more unfamiliar locations, until finally—finally, he runs into the man he's looking for.
Literally.
Clark bumps into the Captain, and he stumbles back. The still life makes a low groan before reaching a hand to grab onto his shoulder. "I'm okay," he says, patting the other's arm, "didn't mean to run directly into you." He looks up at the Captain, who looks down at him, a questioning tilt to his head.
"I was looking for you," Clark answers. The hand is still on his shoulder. "We had dinner plans, remember? You didn't show up, so I…" He gestures with one hand toward the other. "I looked for you."
Captain creaks, and places his other hand on Clark's shoulder. Both hands slide to instead grip his torso, and the still life lifts Clark into the air. "Careful, big guy," he mumbles, lifting his arms to grab onto the Captain. He never seems to mind when Clark clings onto him like a baby. The Captain starts walking, and Clark watches the wallpaper move past as he's carried back to the dining room.
The Captain doesn't smell like the other still lifes. They smelt the same as everything else in the backrooms: stale. Their flesh smelt of sweat and tasted like plain white bread. The Captain smelt… good. Familiar. Vaguely oceanic, but mostly like fresh soil. It's a smell he'd grown used to, and found comfort in. He subconsciously buries his face into the crook of the Captain's neck—it was just more comfortable, he rationalised, even as his scent grew thicker and Clark felt his face warm.
They reach the dining room before he knows it, and Clark feels an ache in his chest as he's set down onto the ground. The chunks of still life on the plates still look fine, and after a quick squish with his fingers, he confirms that nothing has changed.
"I grabbed dinner a while ago, but it should still be fine. I don't mind finding something fresher, though." He turns, confirming the Captain is still hovering nearby, and moves to one end of the dining table. He pulls a chair out, like he always does. The Captain limps forward with a chortle and sits down like he always does. Clark's gotten better at categorising the sounds his still life makes, and he knows that that specific one, the chortle, is positive. He does it when Clark offers him a seat and when Clark offers him food, and he's done it once before when Clark admitted he missed the other. He thinks the Captain misses him too, when he's gone.
He takes the seat on the opposite end and looks over at the Captain, his eyes peering over the flower vase.
"Do you like it?" Clark pauses for a beat. He gestures to the vase when there's no answer. "The flowers."
The Captain's head angles downward, and he stares for a while. He grunts.
"Is it the color?"
Captain grunts.
"Do you just not like flowers?"
He doesn't answer this time, and lifts a careful hand to brush against the plastic petals, the flower turning in the vase with the soft movement.
"I know, they're fake. I thought about grabbing real ones, but… I didn't want them to wilt." The Captain looks back up at him, lowering his arm to the table. "Time's funny here. If I'm getting you flowers, I want them to last."
Captain chortles in response. Clark smiles.
"Thank you. Now, eat, before your food goes cold."
Clark eats only what he grabbed for himself, but he ends up having to grab seconds and thirds for the Captain. It only makes sense, him being so big. Or maybe he just likes having Clark feed him. Either way, they eat in relative silence, minus the occasional chortle from the Captain.
He's always a bit clumsy when he eats, almost like a toddler, not properly closing his mouth but trying to anyway. Clark finds it… 'Cute' isn't the right word, it couldn't be, but it's the closest thing he finds. It's cute.
For a while, he just watches Captain eat. When he's done eating, he then just stares at Captain in general. He doesn't seem to mind the staring, and Clark likes looking at him, like how one would at a painting of themselves. His face is so similar to Clark's, yet so different. His eyes are uneven, his head too big, mouth too wide, and yet, Clark doesn't find himself offput by it anymore. He used to avoid looking Captain in the eyes—but now, he can't help but stare into his eyes.
The spell is only broken when Clark fails to fight back a yawn, covering his mouth with a hand.
Captain tilts his head at him. "I've been up for a while, just tired." He runs a hand over his face, exhaustion beginning to settle over him. Clarks stands up and pops his back, watching as Captain struggles to get out of his chair, long limbs sliding around at awkward angles in an attempt to avoid knocking things over.
Clark turns, staring out at the exit, listening to the Captain's limping gait pull up next to him. He's no stranger to being tired, but right now, he doesn't feel like making the trek back out to the store. To be alone again. He sighs and slumps against the wall instead. Captain tilts his head at him.
"I'm too tired to walk all that way, Cap. I'll just nap here for..." another yawn interrupts him. "For a few hours…"
A thump startles him from his drowsy state, and he looks over to see the Captain sitting next to him, close enough that Clark can feel the subtle heat radiating off him. "Gonna nap with me, big guy?" Captain just looks at him, but Clark leans into his side. He's surprisingly comfortable, which isn't saying much.
Even with his exhaustion, sleep doesn't come easy. The Captain borderline cuddling him helps, but he still isn't a good pillow, and sleeping upright isn't very good for his neck. He tosses and turns for a while before Captain pokes him gently. Clark looks up at him, and he tilts his head in question.
"I'm not used to sleeping on people like this, it's a bit uncomfortable." Clark moves to try and stand, but the Captain pulls him back down, positioning the other to be only half in the still life's lap, closer to lying down. It's immediately more comfortable. "Next time, maybe let's get a bed… Or move one of those couches in..." His eyes fall shut, too heavy to keep them open.
Clark swears he feels a hand in his hair before sleep claims him.