Archive of Our Own

Things were never dull at Gardenview Center. Between the personal shenanigans and adventures the toons got into and the seemingly never-ending supply runs, there wasn’t a ton of downtime to be bored during. Sprout, especially, almost always had his hands full.

The strawberry took great pride in his role as a leader, both in the kitchen and deep in the abandoned, treacherous floors of Gardenview. If he wasn’t leading a team to success on a run, he was cooking up something delectable for all his fellow toons to enjoy. The kitchen was a place of comfort for him, both because food prep was a way to clear his mind, and he got to spend time with one of his favorite toons in their small world: Cosmo.

There was nothing more special to him than the cake roll, and he fondly remembered the day they first met like it was just recently. Friends, yes, they were created to be friends, but over the years, it was clear their relationship was destined to blossom into so much more. Everyone else seemed to know it before they did; Sprout recalls many a conversation in which various toons tried to nudge him toward something a little more than friends.

The dialogue that always stuck out the most to him happened to be during an exchange with Vee, in which the television nudged him hard in the waist with her metal elbow, thrust her mic into his chest, and griped:

“Oh, you absolute idiot! What do you mean, you think he doesn’t like you that way? For fuck’s sake, Sprout, just look at the way he looks at you! Little cakey gets bug-eyed when you’re fuckin’ near him! Berry-boy, if you think he doesn’t like you, you’re stupid. Even Delilah knows you two like each other. It’s so— fucking— obvious.”

Or, at least, that’s what he got when he filled in the blanks. Of course, being a children’s show character with very rigid programming, Vee was unable to actually say cuss words—they just came out as a bunch of angry static and beeps. It made heated discussions between her and anyone, really, a lot more amusing to listen to, though. 

Oh, focus, Sprout. The strawberry shakes out his leaves to ground himself back down to present day, looking down at the friendship bracelet clutched in his hand. There was something about the sensation of running his finger back and forth across the smooth, metal charm that always sent him drifting off into the depths of his mind. 

Sprout looks down at his forgotten notepad, covered in all the random scribbles of things he didn’t want to forget: to-do lists, recipes, and most importantly, plans for runs. Given that runs were draining, scary, and frequently dangerous, the toons regularly switched run teams to prevent burnout. Sprout, of course, was in charge of organizing runs, and making sure teams were optimized, fair, and well-balanced. 

Today, he had himself and Cosmo listed as healers, Looey as the main distractor—he went on more runs than most, because for some reason he actually enjoyed them—Astro and Tisha as support, and Rodger, Shelly, and Glisten as extractors. 

Bit of a mixed-bag team, he thinks, tucking the notepad in his bag for later, but oftentimes the most random combinations make for the best teams. Efficiency was at the top of his mind with that thought, but honestly, many considered random teams to be the most fun as well.

Releasing a long, deep breath, Sprout steps out of his room and into the main hallway, offering his kind, charismatic smile to some of the other toons still making their way out of their own rooms. An unexpected yawn crunches his face, and he shakes out his leaves with a huff to clear the minor bout of sleepiness it had brought on. 

No big deal… I was up a little later than normal working out the plans for today’s run.

Out in the lobby, the toons were all starting to gather in front of the Gardenview sign. Some of them were excitedly chattering away, while others were more nervous in their talk, and others still refrained from speaking at all, even. 

However, as soon as Sprout steps into view of the crowd, his confident stride draws in their attention fairly quickly, and the chatter begins to dull. His emerald eyes flit back and forth across the group, counting their heads and searching for familiar faces. His gaze briefly locks with Cosmo’s—previously engaged in lighthearted conversation with Cocoa—and he mirrors the cake roll’s flustered grin, awkwardly readjusting his scarf to compose himself.

Sprout clears his throat to pull in the rest of the toons’ attention, pulling his notepad out of his bag. “I need Looey, Tisha, Rodger, Shelly, Astro, Glisten, and Cosmo to meet me by the elevator. For those of you feeling strong today, Dyle has a shipment coming in about fifteen minutes—he’ll need about… ten to twelve of you guys over there to help him unload. The rest of you, if you’re itchin’ for something to do, can talk to Scraps about helping renovate the projector room. Otherwise, enjoy your day off! Get some rest, spend some time with each other.” 

He remains standing in place for another minute or two, watching his fellow toons break off into their respective groups once more. A dull chatter arises again as they begin to discuss where they should go to help, how they should spend their free time, and some expressing their relief about not having to go on today’s run. 

With that over with, Sprout approaches the group he’d asked to step to the side, flashing a toothy smile to greet them in hopes of easing some of the nervousness in the air. “Alright, then, is everyone ready to go? I assume we all know our roles…” His eyes dart back and forth across the group, attempting to gauge how his fellow toons were feeling by looking at their facial expressions.

Mostly neutral… I mean, Glisten looks like he doesn’t wanna be here, and Astro looks like he’s going to fall asleep, but that’s relatively normal on both of their ends. 

Shelly clasps her hands together behind her back and excitedly rocks from her heels to her toes. “Sprout, what would you like me to do today?”

Without skipping a beat, Sprout answers, “I want you on the machines as much as you can, but don’t be afraid to grab some supplies if it’s not too far out of your way.” He looks up to address the rest of the group as they step into the elevator, “That applies to all of you. Keep your eyes peeled for cables especially, and remember to watch each others’ backs, okay?”

The others all mumble various affirmations to confirm they heard what Sprout had said. Minus Cosmo, whose nod was very enthusiastic, as he appreciated listening to the strawberry any chance he could get. Sprout feels his stomach flutter with anticipation as the cake roll steps forward with a contented hum. 

“You’re so good at this, Sprout,” Cosmo mumbles, and the feeling of his soft fingers lacing with Sprout’s more worn, calloused ones makes his red complexion even brighter. “You make sure to be careful too, alright?”

Cosmo’s warm, sugary scent nearly makes Sprout’s head spin, and biting the inside of his lip is all he can do to keep from breaking into an adorable, flustered smile. “Oh, Cos, you’re worrying about me again, don’t do that…~” The elevator jolts to a stop, signalling their upcoming exit… and temporary, but inevitable separation. “You stay safe too. Let’s make this quick.”

The door slides open with a loud grinding noise, and immediately, Looey takes off running to gather the twisteds, Astro and Tisha right on his tail to provide their support when needed. The extractors, trinkets in hand, follow soon after, splitting up to cover more ground and hopefully find the machines quickly. Cosmo trails after Shelly to offer his companionship, as he wasn’t usually needed as a healer until later.

Sprout, last but certainly not least, finally steps out of the elevator and carefully surveys his surroundings. Forcing himself to stop and take a deep breath, he mutters to himself, “You’re good, Sprout… You’ve done this hundreds of times before, and you get nervous every single time. It’s only because you care.” However, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was going to happen. 

The first twenty or so floors breezed by with minimal happenings, and for a while, Sprout almost forgot about his nervous premonitions. Even after a very close call on floor twenty-nine between Looey and twisted Pebble, things seemed to be going very smoothly. The extractors weaved through each floor with ease, turning wheel after wheel on machine after machine with skill that always deeply impressed Sprout—admittedly, he had never been very good at working the machines—and even while doing so, they were able to collect a fair amount of supplies between extractions. 

It was around floor forty-eight, however, when Sprout started to notice something… off.

Glisten had been complaining to Rodger about the absolute tragedy of breaking one of his nails on a machine, albeit very dramatized and loud, and because Sprout didn’t care to listen, he took a moment to survey himself for any injuries he may have sustained when bringing a stray twisted to Looey. Adrenaline was always a funny thing, after all, and he often didn’t notice he was hurt until long after the damage had been inflicted. Oddly enough, when he went to roll up his sleeves, he found his wrists and fingers were becoming a bit tender. A little soreness during a run wasn’t abnormal, though, especially because he’d been doing more machines than normal.

However, as they continued deeper into the center, where machines and twisteds alike grew in number and difficulty, a dull, throbbing ache began to creep through him, starting in his feet and spiraling all the way up to his head as the floors progressed. Turning the machines’ wheels was starting to pose a bit of a challenge, and more than once, due to the pain in his legs, he’d tripped over his own feet; never clumsily enough to make it all the way to the ground, but he’d taken a pretty hefty blow to his shoulder when he fell into a wall to catch his balance. Thankfully, no one saw that embarrassing feat, and he was able to simply dust himself off and keep going. 

Then, he was cold. Warehouse floors were always cold, often inflicting shivers on its visitors through both temperature and fright, but the prickling sensation of chills radiating from his core made Sprout wish he had a jacket. 

A jacket. On a run. While everyone else was out there sweating, panting, and flushed in the face from exertion, Sprout was cold. Luckily for him, nobody necessarily noticed that either, because he always had his arms crossed for comfort when he was idling. 

Oh, and the worst part? He was so, so tired. Because he was very well fed and hydrated, his head was usually clear, his concentration sharp, and his energy levels high. Just walking in and out of the elevator was starting to feel like a miserable chore with the amount of pain he was in, and trying to keep his head high and posture straight was definitely not helping. 

A thought finally dawns on him somewhere between floor sixty and seventy—he’d lost count a little while ago, what with the brain fog eating his focus and not—when crouching to the floor to grab a jumper cable leaves his head pounding. 

Am I… getting sick? Sprout sits up a little straighter on his knees, brushing his leaves to the side and pressing the backs of his fingers to his clammy forehead. Oh, come on, you know that’s not a reliable way to take a temperature.

He forces himself to stand up for the millionth time that day, catching himself hard on the wall when his legs shake under his own weight. 

“Come on,” he mutters to himself through gritted teeth, shaking out his dampened leaves to try and clear his head, “focus, Sprout. All you have to do is get off this floor, and you’re fine… You’re fine!”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one listening to his secret pep talk. 

The sound of a low, throaty growl hits his hearing. His eyes widen, and his heart rate picks up significantly. For a moment, he had almost forgotten his true position, here. Never at the advantage. Never the predator. Always the prey.

Instinct kicks in a fraction of a second too late. 

Sprout pivots his upper half just in time to watch a feral, twisted Toodles dart at him on all fours at full speed. He yelps, a little higher-pitched than personally appreciated, and dodges with a quick step to the side. 

“Looey! Ah—! Looey, you lost the eight-ball!” 

She dives at him again, and thankfully, he has the good sense to run. 

Alright, you’ve handed off hundreds of twisteds before, just bring her over and pass her off. No biggie. 

But… the trade-off never happens. Even with Looey in sight, the distance between them doesn’t close nearly as fast as the distance between him and Toodles.

All at once, the terrible cacophony hits Cosmo’s hearing. 

First, the sickening crunch.

Then the scream. And another. 

Cosmo anxiously steps away from the machine he was on, swallows hard, and checks his bag, making sure he had all necessary items prepped before heading out to help his injured teammate. He was used to injury, to pain, to the sting of temporary death brought about by these sadistic runs. The job of a healer was never going to be pleasant, pretty, or clean, but every so often, things got a little more messy. Something about this, however, makes him feel more uneasy than normal.

He weaves through the rows of warehouse shelves, following the noise of commotion to lead him to the scene of the crime. When he stops in the doorway, however, the sight he’s met with makes his stomach drop, his chest tighten, and what feels like his heart ceasing to beat altogether.

Sprout.

Cosmo’s medkit tumbles to the floor with a clatter, his widened eyes fixed on the sight in front of him: Sprout, collapsed against the wall on the cold, gray, concrete floor, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths through clearly gritted teeth. Strewn across the floor were countless, strained splatters of ichor, showcasing the intensity with which the injury was inflicted. If Cosmo didn’t know better, he may have guessed one of the twisteds had somehow come up with a gun and shot his precious strawberry. Wait, what?

The nauseating, slightly metallic scent of ichor makes Cosmo’s face crunch in disgust, and his stomach only turns more when he follows the dark puddle to Sprout’s leg. Something had sunk its nasty teeth straight into his ankle, and with it, took a decent chunk of his foot. When Cosmo took a closer, more trained look, he could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse of something grossly osseous. 

Tisha, formerly knelt over the strawberry and doing her best to provide hushed comfort, rises quickly to her feet and brushes an absence of dust off her dress. She clears her throat, offering up a single word as a supposed explanation for Sprout’s condition: “Toodles.” Then, after watching Cosmo take a couple worried glances around the area, trying to catch sight of the little devil, she clarifies, “Sprout was trying to bring her to Looey, I believe. Looey… heard the yell and was able to come get her.”

The ice fixing Cosmo’s feet in place melts, allowing him to grab his dropped supplies and carefully kneel in front of Sprout to give him another thoughtful examination. His leaves, more visibly wilted, clung to his skin with sweat. A deep, nearly sinister-feeling flush had spread across his face, and Cosmo’s heart drops with sympathy at the sight of tears streaking down his cheeks. Sprout never cried—at least not publicly—so he must have been in an exponential amount of pain or exhaustion to be letting this display go unfettered. Upon further examination, the strawberry had clearly sustained a couple of other slashes to his legs and arms, and, while not nearly as bad as the current state of his ankle, Cosmo knew how much they probably stung.

There was one particular thought that stood out in Cosmo’s mind. Sprout was normally so much more careful. 

He was surprisingly graceful in his movements, something that made Cosmo swoon when he thought about it a little too much. He’d watched Sprout pass off hundreds of twisteds to the distractor with such ease, even going so far as to distract them himself sometimes if the moment called for it. Sure, he had still made his fair share of mistakes, as did everyone, but he was hyper-independent and normally handled the more minor injuries on his own. 

“Sprout, baby—” the pet name easily rolls off his tongue, eliciting a small smirk from Tisha but no response from the strawberry, which was very concerning— “how did this happen?”

Sprout lolls his head back against the wall to look up at the cake roll, sucking in a pained breath through his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, forcing more tears past his lids. “Cosmo,” he strains, licking his visibly chapped lips in discomfort, “you’re… worrying again.”

Cosmo narrows his eyes, and his tail bristles with disapproval. “Yeah… over something completely reasonable!” He pulls a bandage roll, a large gauze pad, and a small bottle of antiseptic out of the medkit, swallowing hard before surveying the damage done to his ankle. “This… This is gonna hurt, but I’ll try to be fast.” 

As soon as he sprays the cold antiseptic over Sprout’s wound, another raw, guttural scream sends him curling in on himself, and Cosmo’s heart aches in sympathy. He can’t help but wonder what the other toons on the run were thinking, hearing their beloved leader’s pained cries while they spun machine after machine. He mumbles a soft apology before carefully setting the gauze over the injury and wrapping it tight with the bandage. 

“There… that’s the best I can do until we get back up, okay?” Cosmo offers up a small smile, reaching a hand toward his face in hopes of wiping some of the tears off his cheek. Instead, when Sprout sluggishly tips his head into his palm, the pastry is met with an unpleasant surprise: heat. “Oh— Oh my goodness, Sprout, you’re burning up!” 

Everything was starting to come together. The crying, the apparent clumsiness…

“Baby, why didn’t you tell someone…?”

Before Sprout can slur out an answer, his mouth hanging open tiredly, the sound of padded footsteps approaches them from behind, sending a chill down Cosmo’s spine and forcing him upright on his feet in preparation of any danger. The tension releases with a sigh when he locks eyes with Astro, who offers a sleepy smile to Tisha and Sprout before addressing the cake roll. “We heard the commotion… Rodger has the last machine primed; we wanted to give you guys time to get back.”

Cosmo dips his head respectfully, mumbling a small thank you as the moon sluggishly drags himself back to the elevator. Always so formal… I don’t think he particularly likes me. He brushes the thought away with another sharp sigh, pivoting on his feet to look over the sniveling strawberry, who was now attempting to wipe some of the sweat and tears off his face with a weak wrist. 

“Tisha, would you be able to help me get him to the elevator?” Cosmo asks, unsurprised yet grateful for her enthused nod. “Great. I’m thinking we can each take a side, and he can just put his arms around our shoulders.”

When they both hold out a hand to help him up, however, Sprout interjects with an uncomfortable air to his voice, “Ah… no, no, I can get up myself.” 

Tisha raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Cosmo simply steps back. 

He’s taken a massive hit to his ego today… might as well let him keep some shred of independence if he thinks he can.

It takes a good moment, but eventually, Sprout pulls himself up onto his good leg using a nearby shelf, already panting for breath after just that little bit of exertion. Cosmo’s heart aches yet again. No wonder he had trouble getting away. He holds back the urge to coo lovingly at the berry, instead busying himself with the task of tucking under Sprout’s arm to provide stability. As soon as Tisha follows suit on his opposite side, she gasps with the contact, pulling away in surprise with furrowed eyebrows.

“Oh, Delilah’s sake, Sprout. Cosmo’s right, what the hell were you thinking, going on a run with a fever like this?” She places her hands on her hips and looks him up and down in disbelief. “If it were anyone else, you’d be tearing them to pieces for doing this!”

While Cosmo felt her delivery was a bit harsh, he couldn’t disagree with anything she was saying. Sprout did take his teammates’ health very seriously, and he’d witnessed his fair share of reprimandings whenever the healer had found out there was a sick toon refusing to rest. 

Sprout tucks his chin nearly down to his chest, his rheumy eyes flicking to the floor in shame. “Y-Yes, Tisha… you’re absolutely right. I don’t mean to be a hypocrite.” 

There was a genuineness to his words that made Cosmo think Sprout’s intentions were, in fact, not hypocritical. Then again, he always wanted to give Sprout the benefit of the doubt because he absolutely adored him. 

“It’s okay, we can talk about it later, shortcake. Let’s just get out of here.” Cosmo squeaks with surprise when he feels Sprout’s tail affectionately wrap around his waist, a pleasantly familiar heat rushing to his cheeks and forcing a flustered grin to his lips. He refrains from making any further comments for fear of derailing their mission even further—poor Looey had been holding onto those twisteds for quite a while now, after all—taking the initiative to start moving them toward the elevator.

The process was slow, and most likely painful on Sprout’s end, but the berry did a surprisingly good job masking it. Just like Astro said, Rodger had left the machine right next to the elevator primed and ready to pop, so as soon as the trio arrived, the rest of the toons were able to slip inside the elevator. A heavily panting Looey sprints in moments later with only seconds to spare before the door slams shut. 

“Sprout—!” Looey looks up, hands resting on his knees while he catches his breath, and ashamedly apologizes, “I did not mean to get you slimed out by Toodles. Honest mistake.”

Sprout hums tiredly to acknowledge the apology, but the small smile drops off his face once more when his eyesight flocks over his shoulder, squinting miserably at the moon engaged in soft conversation with Dandy at his shop. 

Cosmo caught bits and pieces of what Astro was saying—mostly voicing his shy request to end the run due to a severe injury on Sprout’s part that needed serious medical attention, a phrase that sent a shiver down the cake roll’s spine—but for the most part, he tried not to eavesdrop. He didn’t really care to know what they were talking about otherwise.

“Hear that, Sprout?” Cosmo gives Sprout’s waist a loving squeeze, lips curving into a slight frown when his glazed eyes display no reaction. “…It’s okay. We can get someone to take a look at your foot when we get back up,” he turns his head to ensure his mouth is a bit closer to Sprout before he mumbles his next offering, “and probably your fever too. You need to rest…” 

The elevator door slides open with a loud grinding noise, followed by a rusted squeak as the gears click into place. The familiar sound draws excited footsteps and the childish yells of a little girl. “Rodger! Rodger, you’re back, you’re back!” 

Cosmo can’t help but chuckle a little, watching Toodles run to the elevator as fast as her little legs could carry her to reach her desired destination: a final leap of faith into Rodger’s arms. The sight of the little 8-ball, however, elicits an anxious twitch from Sprout, and Cosmo nearly loses his grip on him when he tries to back up. “Sprout, Sprout— calm down, it’s just Toodles. Real Toodles.”

Upon hearing her name, Toodles wriggles right out of Rodger’s arms, presenting herself at the pair’s feet with her hands tucked into energized fists at her side. “Here I am! Hello Sprout! Hello Cosmo!” Her gaze travels down to Sprout’s uneven stance, and a gasp escapes her. “Oh, Mister Sprout, you’re hurt!” Ignoring Cosmo’s attempt to start stammering out an explanation, she continues, “Did you get bit by a real twisted? Do you need help? I can help!”

Thankfully for the flustered pastry, Sprout is able to collect himself enough to offer Toodles a small smile, softening his voice to the same one he always used when talking to the children in years past. “Yeah, I did… just a little bit.” 

The blatant lie makes Cosmo cringe, but he understands Sprout’s desire to hold onto what little was left of the child’s innocence. Sure, Toodles had been on her fair share of runs, but at such a young age, she was still having a bit of trouble wrapping her head around the severity of the situation. The toons had collectively agreed that it was best not to trouble her with more information than what was absolutely necessary, but most of the time, they tried not to refrain from telling her the truth when she pried with curious questions. However, detailing the severity of a wound was something easy to glaze over. 

Sprout continues, “Thank you for offering to help, but I’ve got some friends who are going to help me, okay?”

“Okay—!” Toodles, unfazed by the rejection, skips off to catch up with Rodger, busied almost immediately with the task of badgering him with questions about the run and tales of the games she played with Gourdy while they were gone.

The smile drops off Sprout’s face, once again replaced with a resting grimace of pain. Clearly, the exhaustion was eating at his bones—his posture slumped, his breathing shallow, and now Cosmo could see the dark circles swallowing his glassy emerald eyes. He tried not to stare at them for too long, for fear of flustering himself beyond usefulness if Sprout happened to meet his gaze.

“A’hem, why don’t we— uh— go find someone to help us out, then…? At the very least,” he starts gently nudging Sprout to limp along with him, “we can go to that awesome medical station Bassie helped us set up. Who knows, maybe someone will be there who can help us out?”

Sprout offers Cosmo nothing more than an affirming hum, more focused on holding a steady rhythm to his breaths to dull the pain coursing up his leg. The walk to the medical station was a short one, but in his current condition, it felt like miles before they reached their destination. Thankfully, busy restocking the little bins and shelves was just the toon they were hoping to see.

“Bassie, hello!” Cosmo exclaims, wincing when the basket jumps with surprise, sending leaves twirling to the ground. 

Bassie twirls around, her skirt twisting with her elegantly, and her eyes widen a bit with her pleasant, yet forced smile. “H-Hi Cosmo… Sprout…” She dips her head toward the both of them, fidgeting uncomfortably with the bottom of her shirt. “What brings you two here…? I— I don’t need help with this job, if someone sent you…”

Cosmo lightly shakes his head. “Nope. Actually, we need your help right about now…” The way Bassie chokes in further surprise confuses him greatly, but he decides not to question the familiar, yet odd behavior.

“Me?!” Her singular word comes out as a shout, and her hands fly up to her mouth sheepishly when the pair in front of her winces with the volume. “Sorry… I-I just— ahahaha! What do you need help with?”

“Sprout, uhm… had a run-in with twisted Toodles,” Cosmo explains, nervously watching as the strawberry sits himself down on the table to start unwrapping his bandages on his own. “...Lost a pretty hefty chunk of his foot, heh— ..that’s not funny.” He clasps his hands in front of himself, rocking rhythmically from his heels to his toes. “I’m not the greatest at dressing wounds this… severe. I was wondering if you could lend me a hand?”

Bassie grips onto her handles and gives them a concerningly firm tug, another string of nervous laughter slipping out her lips. “C-Cosmo… I’m… I’m not a healer—!”

“I’ve seen you help people out before, though…!” The cake roll offers her a nervous smile, exaggerated to match her wide, frightened eyes prompted by the sight of Sprout’s ankle when he finally peels off the gauze with a throaty whimper. “Please? We can do it together, I’m just not confident doing it myself… So, the way I see it is that if neither of us are confident doing it alone, then with both of us, we could probably do a pretty good job—!”

A short silence ensues. Sprout glances back and forth between the two of them, still clutching the ichor-soaked bandages. “…You know,” he rasps quietly, then aggressively clears his throat into his shoulder to smooth out his voice, “I can tell you guys how to do it…”

Cosmo and Bassie exchange a thoughtful glance with each other. 

Finally, always being the one to take initiative, Sprout sighs. “Grab a cloth, wet it with warm water, and try to get as much ichor off as you can…”

Back when “Dandy’s World” was still actively being recorded, Delilah and Arthur had hired a special kind of caregiver to deal with all injuries and illness: a curious, young nurse who had enjoyed the television show as a secret comfort since its release. During that time, injuries were few and far between, but the nurse was always impressed with how well the toons healed up. Her only viable suggestion was that, possibly, the ichor allowed for some sort of sped-up healing process, which included regrowth that humans would not normally be capable of without surgical intervention.

It was times like these that Sprout dearly missed his humans. Cosmo and Bassie had done their best, but the repairs were still insanely painful. Turns out, even with what was their best attempt at creating a local anesthetic, stitches hurt—somehow even more so than when he’d set the kitchen on fire so many years ago and burned a decent chunk of his left side. 

Now that his foot was adequately bandaged and braced to promote quick healing, adrenaline having washed out of his system, he was nothing short of exhausted. 

Sprout looks up from his foot to stare tiredly at his current helpers—Cosmo and Bassie—attempting to clean up the messes they’d made in their minor panic. He snakes his hand under his scarf to feel the side of his neck, wincing when his fingers delicately brush swollen lymph nodes. 

When he opens his eyes again, Cosmo is hovering in front of him, gently twisting back and forth at his waist. The worry in his eyes makes Sprout’s heart ache. If he’d felt a little better, he would tease Cosmo for being so nervous all the time.

“Sprout, Bassie wants to take your temperature.” Cosmo frowns, reaching out to gently cup a hand to the side of Sprout’s face. “Your eyes are so hazy… so red. What were you thinking, going on a run with a fever…?”

I didn’t have one when we started! Why is everyone assuming I’m being so hypocritical? Sprout huffs and flattens his eyelids, opening his mouth to accept the thermometer from Bassie with great hesitance. I take care of myself better than every other toon in this center. This was a fluke. An accident. 

He pulls out the thermometer himself, not ready to give up his last couple shreds of independence just yet. 

101.

Shit.

“Oh, that’s no good,” Bassie coos lovingly, carefully recentering his scarf to help him maintain his desired appearance. “No surprise you hurt so bad, hm?”

Sprout sheepishly tucks his head down, swallowing hard to disperse the anxious lump in his throat. “I’m fine,” he rasps, attempting to clear the scratchiness from his voice with a forced, dry cough. “...I’m going to my room.”

He starts to slide off the table, but Bassie puts a hand to his chest to stop him, her furrowed brow causing her bright eyes to bore into his own. “Wait.”

“You can’t bear weight on your foot,” Cosmo chimes in nervously. “I know you probably want some alone time,” he continues, “but you just… need something to balance yourself.” The berry watches him duck below the counter, rummaging around for a particular item. “I know they’re… Ah! Here, from when Looey broke his foot ages ago.”

Sprout’s face twists into a very disgruntled grimace, gaze resting on the crutches in Cosmo’s hands. The phrase fix your face comes to mind, and he devotes a considerable amount of brain power to taking a deep breath and relaxing his facial muscles. “Thank you, Cosmo.” He pauses, bashfully reaching out for the crutches to slip them under his arms and slide his weight onto his good foot. Oh, boy. I don’t want to be seen like this. He looks up at Cosmo, whose eyes rest affectionately but anxiously on Sprout’s face. 

The strawberry offers him the most genuine, albeit weak, smile he can muster. “I love you.”

Cosmo blushes furiously, despite the fact that they’ve exchanged these words hundreds of times before, and will for hundreds of times to come. “...I— I love you too. Now go away!” he teases playfully, pointing a finger to the medical station’s exit with a soft giggle. “Go rest. I’ll check on you laaater~”

Sprout rolls his eyes affectionately, smile growing substantially, and slowly limps away, the careful, rhythmic click of the crutches following him down the hall. His cheeks burn with shame as he feels trained, familiar eyes rest on him. Their gazes spell out concern, worry, and compassion. All the berry reads, however, is judgement. 

He could understand, though. A leader was supposed to be strong. A caretaker was supposed to be healthy. And here he was, hobbling down the halls of Gardenview with a broken foot, a fever, and an ebbing migraine. The thought almost brings hot, prickling tears to his eyes again, but at this point, he was much too dehydrated to have tears left to cry. 

How utterly embarrassing.

As soon as he reaches his room, he lets the crutches fall to the side with a loud clatter, his body following soon after as he flops into his pillow. 

God, I feel terrible. 

Without bothering to unwrap his scarf or remove his apron, he curls in on himself and lets his hot eyelids flutter shut to engulf him in comforting darkness. Yes, yes… a nap would do him good. Naps make everything better. Maybe then, he’d feel well enough to make his way down to the kitchen and still have the time and energy to cook dinner. And, of course, hang out with Cosmo.

The half-baked plan, thankfully, allows his nervous system to relax, and sleep soon carries him away with gentle arms.

“Oh, Nurse Peggy— do you know what’s the matter with him? Poor thing says he’s been in pain all day.”

The nurse pushes her glasses up and bends down to look over the subject in question: a considerably younger, smaller Sprout, pressed limply into his handler Sam’s chest. Behind him hovers Arthur, the one voicing the anxious concerns about his precious creation.

She takes in a couple obvious observations about the strawberry: the sudden shivers, his clammy complexion; the way his leaves appear pale, wilted, and sickly, and—most incriminating of all—the radiating heat wavering off his little body. 

“Well,” the nurse chuckles, straightening herself back up to make eye contact with Arthur, “it’s hard to say, because all of my education, remember, is… for humans, and humans only. Human children, yes, but humans nonetheless.” She purses her lips, reaching for something, anything she can say to provide consolation to the distraught man. “He… has a fever? I assume they cause pain to toons in a similar manner?”

“Yes, but— but the others have been stricken with similar afflictions as well, and have not suffered nearly as much as he…”

 Again, the nurse looks over Sprout, her heart aching with sympathy when a particularly violent shiver prompts the poor thing to produce a noise of pain in the back of his throat. Sam rests a large hand on his back, and it seems to relax him for the time being.

“Maybe the little guy just has an overactive immune system. We’ve already established he has some significant allergies… Autoimmune conditions in children are certainly possible.” She steps over to the sink and dampens a towel with cold water, wringing out the excess before placing it on the strawberry’s forehead. “But… you’re the real expert on the toons. It might be up to you and Doctor Keen to figure this out, Mister Walton.” Another dry chuckle punctures the air. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. He’s persistent. Stubborn. He’ll be fine.”

The weight of pain settles over Sprout’s sweaty figure, an unwelcome greeting grounding him back into the land of the living. When his rheumy eyes crack open to join the rest of his body, they’re greeted surprisingly by darkness; darkness intense enough he thought for a second he might have forgotten to open his eyes at all.

I left my lamp on when I went to bed… Someone must have come into my room.

He lifts a heavy arm to flick the switch on his lamp, snapping his lids shut when the light unkindly adds a new layer of discomfort to his facial features. As his eyes adjust to the sudden shift in lumens, his nightstand blurs into vision in front of him. After a couple firm blinks, his sight clears, and he sits up to get a better view of what was seemingly left for him. 

There on the table sits a small bottle of water with a curious sticky note pressed to the side. He squints to get a closer look at the little yellow paper.

“Hi, baby! Pls drink this & msg me when u get up. I’ll bring u soup from the kitchen. Luv u!”

Of course, it’s signed “Cosmo”, and the cake roll had covered the sticky note in little flourished hearts. Sprout’s heart skips a stricken beat, and he relaxes his cheek back down into his pillow with an adoring, tired smile. He’s so cute.

A couple months ago, some of the more tech-savvy toons had come up with a solution for communication on runs when larger, more dangerous floors popped up and toons were spread thin: a sort of walkie-talkie system, although more akin to a messaging platform to those more familiar with communication systems than the isolated toons. 

Once they had been finalized, Dandy—despite doing absolutely none of the work to configure them or the initiative—felt as if they should be named after him, as he was still the head of most of the operations, and branding was always in his name, obviously. Vee, being the one who had the largest hand in designing and programming the devices, insisted it was only fair she got to pick the name. After all, it was tech, and she was tech, so it only made sense her little creation got to share a name with her. The main toons had heard their handlers speak before about this evasive, curious communication concept called an “e-mail”—something that seemed to frustrate them, especially Delilah, beyond belief—so the solution for naming their new creation was simple.

So, then, that’s how the toons ended up with “Vee-Mail”. It ended up being much more practical than its original intention, as toons used it to coordinate events, hangouts, and figure out the locations of others within Gardenview Center itself. Even Dandy, as much as he found himself grumbling about its branding, used it to send out his little ‘announcements’ regarding shop items, run statuses, Gardenview projects, and whatever he felt like every toon needed reminder of.

But right now, Sprout only needed to use it to send Cosmo a short, sweet message letting the cake roll know he was awake. Blushing fervently under his feverish flush, he tacks on a simple “<3” at the end, burying his face into his blanket once he hits send.

Oh my stars, pull yourself together… 

Either way, he can’t keep his face in the blanket for long, as the heat being trapped against it became quickly, unbearably much too hot for him to remain there. Now, all he had to do was wait for Cosmo to read his message, and then the pastry would come rescue him with soup and, hopefully, some medicine or a cold cloth. He didn’t want to be too much of a bother and ask for these things directly—he felt like enough of a burden for not being able to help with dinner anyway—but he definitely wasn’t going to turn down a warm bowl of soup. His appetite hadn’t been the greatest this morning, and the run had gone right through lunch, so he hadn’t eaten since the day before, and it was starting to catch up with him. 

Before long, a gentle knock rattles Sprout’s door. He weakly lifts his head just enough to extend his hoarse invitation, “Come in, Cos…”

Cosmo hums lovingly in greeting, slipping sideways through the pushed-open door to avoid bumping his head. In his arms, he holds a small bowl of soup with a towel draped over to hold the content’s steamy warmth inside. Atop the towel, he had also balanced a thermometer, and he was carefully clutching a bottle of cold medicine by the cap. 

His thoughtfulness makes Sprout’s eyes water a bit. “You brought me medicine…?”

Cosmo almost looks confused, setting the bowl and the bottle on Sprout’s nightstand. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I, baby?”

There it is again! That nickname! For someone who disliked vulnerability and prided himself on being a very leaderlike, predominant figure, Sprout really, really liked the way the pet name made him feel like someone… less than that. Someone simple enough—special enough—to be worth being cared for. The prickle of blush heats his cheeks up for the hundredth time.

“I, uhm… ah— never mind. Thank you, Cos. I really appreciate it.” Sprout gently dabs his sleeve to the edges of his eyes, stifling back a yawn. “You didn’t have too much trouble with dinner, right…?”

“Nope. Boxten was eager to help out today, and actually, so were the kids…?” Cosmo chuckles, pops the cap off the medication, and pours a generous dose into the spoon he’d brought for Sprout’s soup. “It was cute. They wanted to play ‘restaurant’, I suppose, so I gave them each an apron and let them stir your soup. Actually, I’d say Boxten did more work on the soup than I did…! Uh, open up~?”

Sprout bashfully parts his lips to accept the bitter liquid, grimacing at both the taste and the acidic sensation sliding down his raw throat. His tail coils up like a tense, unhappy spring, which makes Cosmo giggle.

“Oh, good job, Sprout…~!” Cosmo’s laughter only grows when the little leaf on Sprout’s tail twitches with contentment at the praise. “Oh, do I tell you enough that you’re ab-so-lute-ly adorable?”

The strawberry’s internal heat nearly reaches a boiling point, and his eyes squeeze shut sheepishly. “Cosmo, you cheeseball, stop that. Just tell me about the soup.”

Cosmo slips the towel off the bowl to free the steamy goodness, and almost instantly, the pleasant smell hits Sprout’s sinuses, making his tail flick excitedly. Slowly, making sure to pronounce every syllable—similar to the way chefs did on those cooking/baking game shows the two would sometimes watch on the lobby television—Cosmo presents, “Creamy… chicken… pastina. Star edition; the kids insisted.”

Sprout’s hazy eyes twinkle at the soup placed in his lap, and admittedly, his heart swells with pride toward his special mentorees. “Oh, Cos, this looks delicious.” His tail happily thumps against the mattress, only increasing in intensity when he takes a tentative bite and finds the taste to scale up nicely with the presentation. “Ah— this is wonderful…” His eyes well up with tears once more, which Cosmo quickly brushes away with a soft swipe of his thumb. “Please tell Boxten I said thank you.”

Cosmo’s soft laughter finally subsides, and he takes advantage of the downtime to press a gentle kiss to Sprout’s forehead. “Of course, baby. I love you.”

Yeah, if Sprout hadn’t boiled over yet, he definitely had now. He looks up from his soup when he feels Cosmo’s weight sink into the bed next to him.

“Although… I did want to talk to you about the run, still.”

Sprout’s tail rests against the bed, externally showcasing the returning pit of shame in his stomach. “Cos, to tell you the truth, I didn’t have a fever this morning. Honest. I was feeling a little tired, but I had been up a little later the night before, so—”

“Sprout, Sprout, slow down…!” Cosmo chortles again, setting a hand on his leg and giving him an affectionate squeeze. “I be-lieve you. That’s all I wanted to know, I promise.”

…What?

There was no way. 

No ulterior motives? No pushy questions? No disbelief? No—

“Even if you had had a fever this morning, I would’ve probably just teased you for being so uptight and secretive about it. Y’know, it’s really obvious when you’re feeling poorly,” Cosmo continues, oblivious to Sprout’s shock and confusion. “You get really gimpy,” he coos, lifting his hand to cup it around his cheek instead. He smiles more when Sprout leans into the coolness of his hand. “I just worry when it looks like you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“I know.”

Cosmo adoringly tilts his head when a particularly large yawn brings little tears to the corner of Sprout’s eyes, his tail wobbling with the minor strain it puts on his muscles. “Okay, okay…” He laughs softly and rises from the bed, much to Sprout’s dismay. “It’s getting late, I think you should probably rest now. Finish your soup and go to bed.”

Sprout puffs out a tired laugh as well, leaning back against his pillows and taking another small bite of his dinner. “...Yes, Cosmo.”

“If you wake up and need anything, you can come to my room, but please use your crutches. I don’t wanna find you facedown in the middle of the hallway in the morning because you tried to limp around without them.”

“Cosmo?”

“Yes?”

“...You’re worrying too much again.”

For that, Sprout receives an affectionate shove to the shoulder, which sends the two of them into a synchronized bout of giggles. Their eyes lock, and mutual affection dances between the two of them, warming the moment into something that feels much more intimate than just the simple shared vulnerability. And, as the cake roll utters his final goodbye, slipping through the small crack left in the door, only one thought runs through Sprout’s mind while he lackadaisically finishes his soup:

I am so lucky to have someone as special and wonderful as him.