Work Text:
Heather sits high on a stool at the kitchen counter, her Mary Jane clad feet barely grazing the murky, colorful floor. One of the stool's legs is loose, but she's learned that shifting all of her weight to the right side of her body makes it steadier. Her body is beginning to ache from the odd angle she's been forced to hold for so long, but she knows that freedom is coming soon. She needs to finish her work, then she can stretch.
There's something dully funny to her about calling this work, though. The hardest part about doing this is swallowing her pride and examining how crayons look compared to one another. Any other woman her age would be filing taxes or sending off a report or– well, Heather isn't entirely sure what they would be doing, but she knows they wouldn't be using crayons to fill in somewhat yellowed coloring sheets originally printed a decade ago.
She was handed ten pages today. She knows Director gave some of the other kids pages, too, but he gave them all less. He says she colors the bestest. Director always expects her coloring sheets to be perfect, without a single line colored over. She vaguely remembers when she was six or so, how mad he had gotten when she went out of the lines. When it's quiet, she can still hear how loudly he yelled.
At the studio, her perfect pictures went on the wall before anyone else's. That's why they were the first to go up in smoke.
Heather blinks hard. She decides the light brown color is most fitting for Mama Bear's fur. The end of the crayon is dulled, so she'll have to be careful when coloring so she stays in the lines. She pulls out the darker brown crayon, which is much sharper, and decides that that will do fine. Creative liberties are alright with Director, so long as the characters are still identifiable. One time, Isaac colored Fritz in yellow instead of his usual purple, and Director lost it; Heather can't remember what all he said, but the way he yelled about preserving his characters has stuck with her forever: Ruining my characters is disrespectful to me– I am your director, I am your DAD. I saved you! My characters saved you! Why are you so goddamn MEAN!?
Her eyes glaze over as she colors in Mama Bear’s cheeks. Isaac. She knows he got out of this house right after they all got there. She's never been told the details, and she's not misbehaved enough for Director to force her to watch the tape that must have been filmed the night he left, but she knows that something bad happened when he left. Small dots of red trailed from the off-limit stairs ever since he left. They're still there now. No one's cleaned them. She thinks Director's left them there as a reminder– sure, you can try to leave, but you won't come away unscathed, he'll have his fun with you first.
She can't tell anyone, but part of her is glad that Isaac got away. He deserved better than this. He always hated working on the show, and Director always hated him. He even got a new start, from what she's secretly overheard; he ditched Isaac behind and became Alice, according to Joyce.
Heather looks down. Ah. Mama's cheek has been filled in with layers upon layers of dark brown crayon, making her fur look more black than anything. She frowns. Director wouldn't like that, but there's no way to fix it. If she colors the rest of her body this darkly, Director might get mad at her. Hopefully, he can overlook this one error. She colors everything else lightly. Heather's own cheeks darken when she blushes, perhaps Mama Bear does the same.
Next up, Heather had to color Mama's eyes. The costume's eyes were a striking blue. Heather decides she'll fill in Mama's oven mitt with the same color. As she put wax to paper, Heather realized that, if she were to color in a portrait of Mama Bear's actress, she would have used the same color for her eyes– and the surrounding eyeshadow she always wore, of course. Every day, Mary would arrive on set with her bright blue eyes outlined in an eyeshadow that was only a few shades lighter than her irises, and every day, Director would compliment her.
You know, he would say it like it's a revelation every time, that makeup… it brings out your eyes. Makes them pop. Mary would blush and smile and make sure to apply it again after she sweated off that morning’s application.
Heather never said anything then, and she never will, if she knows what's good for her, but she’s always wondered how Giovanna reacted when she found out about this dynamic. She had to have known, there's no way she didn't– it wasn't like Director or Mary had any interest in being subtle.
Heather's done with Mama's eyes. She goes on to color in the crosshatched oven mitt.
Maybe that's why Giovanna left. It had to have been at least part of the reason, Heather figures. It certainly didn’t help either way.
Heather wonders how Giovanna would feel if she knew that Mary left, too, at the same time Giovanna did. It couldn't have been coordinated, Heather doesn't think; the two women never saw eye-to-eye on anything. She remembers being in the same room as the two of them a time or two. Mary talked to Heather mindlessly, asking her about her favorite scene she's filmed lately or if she wants to do something new with her hair, and Giovanna just stared in silence. Any attempt Heather made to include Giovanna in the conversation was short-lived.
The oven mitt is fully colored. Heather's fingers hover over the crayon box before she selects a pink crayon for Mama's apron and the inside of her mouth.
She doesn't fault Giovanna for being disinterested in Mary. Mary is nice, but Heather can't imagine it was easy for Giovanna to look her in the eye when Mary was making strides to take her fiancé from her. Or, perhaps Giovanna didn't like Mary because Mary knew.
She was aware of Director's behavior. Heather doubts she witnessed anything directly, but the evidence for how everyone was treated was hard to ignore. Heather stayed in Director's good graces most of the time, but she can still see the way Mary's eyes kept flickering over to the swollen, black bruise around Heather's left eye she earned at age seven from flubbing her lines one too many times. She remembers how Mary looked at it, and that she didn't say a word about it. When she asked about her recent scenes, Heather didn't respond; Mary chose to take that as a positive answer for a reason Heather didn't understand then.
She understands now, though.
Heather wishes she had blue eyeshadow now.
The entirety of Mama Bear was colored now, leaving only the scenery: a stove in the foreground, topped by a plate of freshly baked cookies.
She looked across the kitchen. The stove they had in this house was exactly like the one at the old set, so it was the perfect reference image. She plucked out a yellow-green crayon and began working again.
On some level, she knows that the interior design of this house is unusual. She's seen magazines, commercials, photographs of what houses should look like. Their cabinets are not bright red, but soft browns and off-whites. Regular houses have soft grey carpet and pearly tiles, but funhouses have pink and green and yellow concrete all over the floor. Imagining a house like that, so dull and so human, felt just as wrong as this house must look to outsiders.
It was home just the same to Heather. She knew there was a time when she lived in a drab house, but she was too young to remember anything about it other than the odd image of the brick wall her crib was pushed against flashing into her mind on nights she couldn't sleep through. Nowadays, though, she couldn't imagine living in any other place. A house without a million stories baked into the walls and blood speckling the floor seemed as realistic as unicorns and princesses being saved by princes.
How had Alice adjusted? Did she? Or did she paint her walls, wherever she is, the same colors as the walls she's known for the better part of his tween- and teenage years? Does she still live in a technicolor nightmare?
Heather imagines she took to the change better. She, after all, had lived ten or so years before Director hired her. Ten years to live in a regular house, to know how people actually lived, to have a concept of family outside of the cobbled together mess Heather had to scrounge for.
The stove was sufficiently colored in. Instead of reaching for the next crayon, Heather stared down at the page. Her fingers held onto the crayon tighter. The yellow-green, as accurate as it was, looked sickly.
What made Alice so special? Why did she get a chance, a chance to have a life before, to have a life after? Why did Heather have to sit here, coloring like a child, when Alice fled when she was around her age? Alice got to get older, even when she was here, but Heather was stuck in frills and bows and pastels. Her soft, unworking hands reeked of wax and sugar, sticky from jam and chocolate. Her scalp ached from wearing twin puffs and a headband every day since she was four. What was Alice doing now? Working? Going to school for the first time in decades?
Heather felt the crayon cracking in her fist right as she spotted a shadow looming behind her.
Immediately, she dropped the crayon and turned. Her hand carefully covered the crease in the crayon's faded wrapper. A smile was plastered onto her face before she could even register who was behind her.
As she expected, Director was stumbling into the kitchen, ducking under the doorway so as not to hit his head. His goofy smile shows off his too-sharp, yellowed teeth. His face looked even older in the dingy lights of the kitchen. Grey hairs stuck out against the rest of his black, overgrown rat's nest. His clothes were as juvenile as Heather's own, striped with vivid primary colors and clinging tightly to his colossal frame.
“Hi, Daddy.” All of the bitterness had been forced out of her voice. She made sure to sound extra innocent to cover for anything residual lingering on her tongue.
“Heather,” he greeted fondly. He crossed the kitchen floor in only a few long strides. Director bent over Heather's shoulder, tilting his head. The tips of his stringy hair brushed against her shoulder and cheeks; she didn't flinch, just stared up at Director.
“You've done a really, really good job coloring!” Director chirped. His voice was forced into a childish falsetto; after years of putting on this voice, it seemed like his throat was finally starting to fight back. This was his Tito voice.
Heather shyly smiled, modestly bowing her head. “Thank you, Daddy.” Her eyes didn't leave his face as he looked over the coloring sheet she had just worked on.
The silence hanging in the air was nearly suffocating. She couldn't parse if Director approved of her work or not. Nothing in his face gave her anything– he just continued to smile, humming. The melodic humming continued as he fanned out the other five sheets Heather had worked on today.
Then, he sighed. Heather tensed. She barely had a chance to open her mouth to apologize before Director was looking at her. His twisted features were pulled into a dramatically sad face reminiscent of an old basset hound.
“I wish I could color all day,” he whined. His body sagged.
Heather barely stifled a sigh of relief. Director wasn't mad at her. She hadn't made any mistakes. She was careful not to, but some days he seemed able to get furious over nothing at all. Today, though, he was an easily pleased child. Heather preferred him like this.
She giggled sweetly. “You can color with me if you want to,” she offered. Her own voice was higher than it normally sat. “I don't mind sharing my crayons with you, and I have a few more coloring pages, if you want one.” She flipped through the small stack that remained and plucked out a page depicting Tito swinging a baseball bat.
Heather barely looked at the drawing itself. The imagery was too reminiscent to scenes she saw in those films. This page had always been her least favorite.
“Look,” Heather beamed, offering the page to Director, “this one has your favorite character!”
Director's face split into a wide grin. He took the page out of Heather's hands and smiled down at it. His thumb brushed over the character he used to play.
“I wish I could,” he lamented, voice slightly returning to its typical sound, “but I've got a ton of grown up work to do.”
Heather put on a small frown.
Director slid the coloring page on the table, face down. “I know, I know,” he sighed. “I wish we could color all day together, Heather, just you and me.”
“It's okay that we can't,” she comforted. The smile was back on her face. Quickly, she added, “We're still best friends! Grown-up stuff's got to be done, though. I understand, Daddy.”
Director hummed, pleased. His big hand ruffled her forehead affectionately, throwing her headband off balance. “You're right,” he breathed. “Gotta be done. Then, I can play. You'll play with me, right?” He moved his hand to look down at Heather. The desperation in his hollow eyes didn't go unnoticed.
“Of course.”
“Good. Good.”
Without warning, Director pulled Heather into an awkward side-hug, his arm pulling her into his chest, squishing one of her puffs against his shirt. Heather tensed. Cautiously, she put an arm around his torso.. The feeling of his hand stroking the back of her hair made a shiver run down her spine. His other hand rubbed circled on her back.
“You're so sweet,” he mumbled. His voice was gruff. “Always so nice. My bestest friend. You'll be my friend forever. You're my favorite friend, you know. I love you.”
Heather silently nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak right away. Besides, she knew Director wasn't listening. This tone, the rambly, slurred speech, meant he was in a world of his own. Heather didn't know if she was meant to be Heather or Giovanna or Mary or if he'd rather her be a doll for him to hold until his raincloud passed.
Not answering was, historically, worse than showing him the wrong mask. Swallowing thickly, she whispered, “I love you too.”
Above her, Director made a slightly startled noise. He blinked down at her and smiled again. His arms unwrapped from around her reluctantly, warm hands dragging on her back and scalp as they went. Heather was sure none of her discomfort showed on her face; the gooseflesh breaking out on her arms may have betrayed her if not for the cardigan she wore.
Director laughed. “I'll let you get back to it now.” His voice was higher again, but not in Tito territory quite yet. “Keep up the good work!”
Heather giggled back. “I will, Daddy,” she promised. He gave her a squeeze on the shoulder, then turned and left the room, muttering something under his breath that she couldn't make out.
The second he was out of sight, Heather's body relaxed. She turned over the hand that had been planted firmly on the table the entire time.
The crayon had snapped fully in two.