Work Text:
Martlet hums, wiping her feathers of sawdust and leaving her most recent project behind her in disarray. Cheerily clicking the workshop door open, she paused, tilting her head to the sound of... shuffling.
The front door was cracked slightly ajar, shoes haphazardly left on the entrance mat. Further in, pressed against a wall, was Thistle. She clicked her workshop door closed behind her, carefully walking closer. She cleared her throat, wings held up to her chest nervously.
"Um– Thistle...? Are you okay?"
Silence filled in their answer—or, rather, the gulping heavy breaths and shaking hands clutching a cardigan so tight their knuckles looked bruised. Now that Martlet was closer, she could hear the signs of an asthma attack that had already begun, but her mind was already whirling with how they didn't look like they were just having an asthma attack. She chirped, crooning again; "Th-Thistle?"
Purple eyes snapped to meet her gaze. An uncanny feeling washed over her, and she startled, feathers ever so slightly bristling. Their gaze, usually focused to a dreadful degree, was looking through her. As though she wasn’t really there.
Thistle’s panicked breathing only got worse, eyes flicking across her visage as they took in that she was there. Her whirling mind finally clicked an answer into place. They were having a panic attack.
Martlet chirped again, her body, on autopilot, taking a few more steps forward; she's dealt with these before, after all!
The tips of her wing brushed Thistles shoulder, and they recoiled. Through hiccuping breaths and a wet inhale, they finally spoke in warning; "I– I’m f-fine."
Martlet tucked her wing back to her side in an instant, taking a weary step back.
"Oh– I'm so sorry, I just want to help–" Martlet began, trying to remain composed—(she knows panicking makes Clovers panic attacks worse)—but wavering in her uncertainty.
Like a whip, Thistle bit back. "I don’t need anything!" Their voice, while sharp, wavered with a sudden sob. Martlet blinked, eyes wide, at the sight of Thistles throat betraying them further; words turning into aborted, violent hiccups and coughing. Their face was splotchy, eyes brimming wetness that has yet to disperse their tears across their cheeks.
Martlet... didn’t know how to help. She knew she had to—she knew she wanted to. For a few more slow, miserable moments, though, all she did was watch this kid break down for the first time in front of her.
It was only when their hands had tangled deep into their loose hair and started to yank that she snapped back into herself, low croons flowing out of her despite the stress, and she fluttered about the room like a hurricane looking for Thistles discarded bag.
She, after far too long—(come on, Martlet, you’re a parent now do better, she chided herself)—grabbed hold of one of Thistles inhalers.
She turned back around, Thistle still yanking at their hair, choked-back sobs punching through their chest as they seemed to try to melt further into the wall. Martlet steeled herself, stepping closer. "Th-Thistle," she cleared her throat, feigning confidence; "I have your inhaler."
She made sure she was standing right in front of them, their frantic gaze locking onto where she held it before them in her wing. The sight seared a look across their face; anger, shame, disgust. Martlet tried not to flinch. "P-Please take it."
She crouched in front of them, reaching her other wing to try and... try to make them stop pulling their hair so hard. They kicked back further.
Aborting quickly, she decided to sit, cross-legged, in front of them. Not too close, but close enough that they could grab the medicine she was still offering.
What seemed like hours seemed to pass like that. Obviously, it could’ve only been a few minutes at most... but her wing was getting a bit sore from holding it up so long, when Thistle finally moved.
One hand twitched, unclenching from their scalp. Like molasses, fingers curled around her offering; carefully avoiding making any contact with her feathers, and she almost cried in relief.
They shook the medicine lazily, a weak exhale, then a spray as they inhaled.
Seconds pass, and repeat. Clicking the cap closed, Thistle discarded their little rescue inhaler; a clatter to Martlets side telling her it landed near their bag.
She stayed sitting, Thistles breathing losing the wet, rasping quality with the minutes that passed. They had taken to rocking, back and forth, clutching at their arms far too hard, and usually Martlet would be sitting right next to them.
Or... not them, she corrected herself. She’d be sitting next to Clover. Arm to wing, body contact, and softly chirping about her day as they rode out their episode. Sometimes, holding an arm firmly, or going through breathing.
But for thistle, she didn’t know what else to do but just be there. Every time they glanced at her, it felt withering. Then they’d melt further into themself, ashamed, and she didn’t really know how to say it was okay because Thistle never listened to that anyway.
Eventually, Thistle seemed to get themself together enough to stand up. They shook out their limbs, stumbling to grab their bag, and just left. Tucking into their room once more.
Martlet, for now, decided it was a good enough hour to have a nice quiet nap.