Caretaker gets protective when people start asking to see whumpee in recovery. They don’t know how they’ll react, seeing it took them days to learn how to enter their hospital room without frightening them.
So, caretaker writes out a list of rules. Just a few things, like no raised voices, no touching, no sudden movements, no loud noises, no questions, no reaching for them, keep a soft tone-
The list goes on, and on, and on.
Snacks are acceptable.
(So evil of me for my mind to go in this direction but…)
Whumpee finds the list. Finds it and thinks it’s for them. They’re not allowed to be noisy, probably not even if they’re in pain. They must go back to walking with feather-light steps and slow careful movements, never reaching for things that don’t belong to them.
Don’t touch Caretaker’s things, don’t make a mess, sound sweet and happy at all times.
Snacks, they find once they reach the end, are allowed. It’s a small gift, one they’ll be grateful for, but it’s so little compared to what they’ve had these past weeks. Caretaker must have grown so tired of them so suddenly to go to the effort of writing it down and leaving it pointedly for Whumpee to find. They hold back the tears and swallow it all down.
Caretaker didn’t even want to talk about it–probably expecting Whumpee would make a scene if they did– they just left a note for Whumpee to read, alone, and obey.
They’ll be better. They’ll be different. Caretaker will see… they’re worth keeping around. They promise to themself, they’ll make this all right, they’ll show they can learn.
This is a series in the same homebrew fantasy world D&D 5E setting as Harrow and his friends, a world called Tsanet.
Please heed the TWs at the top of each one, this is kinda dark.
If you like Recovery Stories, you can start with Strange Brothers, the second part of this ongoing story. Scroll down!
General TW: Slavery, dehumanization, conditioning, torture, religious abuse, forced cannibalism, non-con touch, non/dubcon/r*pe implied rather than explicit but still
The unsettling closeness between a stranger caretaker, and a severely wounded whumpee:
The stranger picks them up and carries them when they can’t walk. Whumpee hasn’t felt a shred of kindness in so long they blindly cling to it, tucking their face under their chin to hide.
Unspoken trust as caretaker patches them up; but even though it hurts, whumpee stays silent and still.
Seemingly alien conversations when caretaker asks if they’re okay with being carried or touched. They tell them beforehand everything they do before they do it, not surprising or starting them with any pain.
Taking a damp cloth to whumpee’s face, lathering off sweat, blood, dirt, or all three. Whumpee’s too flustered to say anything, they just lower their head shy of speaking.
The night falls cold and whumpee starts shivering. They hold their breath and curl up against the back of the stranger, hoping they aren’t angry when they wake up…
Whumpee can’t close their eyes without reliving nightmare after nightmare. The day is physical pain, while night is mental torment. The rare few times they’ve fallen asleep was draped over caretaker’s chest, cheek squished against their shoulder with their bruised bandaged hand being softly held.
“Will you still be here if I fall asleep?” Whumpee muffles.
“When you fall asleep-” Caretaker corrects, chuckling as they brush a strand out of their face.
“I’ll still be stuck under you, yes.”
(Unspoken caretaker rule: if there’s a whumpee in your lap, DON’T MOVE)
Whumpee swore that’s what they heard, but it was hard to tell with all the loud noises ringing through their ears.
“Focus, whumpee.”
The voice became impatient and whumpee felt something grab their face. It forced their head up, their thumb digging into the side of their cheek.
“Open your eyes and look at me”
They opened their eyes and looked up. The person who had a hold of their face looked worried and upset, but their expression softened the moment they saw whumpee’s eyes. They took a quick sigh of relief and composed themselves.
“You had me worried, I took you for dead. I was about to give up on you in a minute or two.” They spoke, glancing at their watch like they were actually counting. - At first, whumpee thought they were restrained. But after some squirming, they felt it was just a heavy blanket tightly wrapped around them.
“Who…” Whumpee murmured. Their voice was so weak it was hardly audible. “Who are you?…”
The stranger huffed a smile, before pouring them a cold cup of water.
A/n: Sorry for not posting anything I’m 5Ever Motivation and Ideas recently decided to just *Pouf* — But one decided to drop in suddenly and I actually felt a shred of motivation tonight. Not my best but I’m happy with it.
× × ×
A soft musky scent faintly filled the room while Caretaker sat downstairs on their computer, catching up on some light paperwork they had put off until the scent softly hit their senses.
Their brows arched curiously.
A familiar scent, though it wasn’t one they were too fond of, lingered in the air around them, and as they turned, they could see a soft haze of smoke swirling through the rays of light peeking through the curtains.
Caretaker sighed while shaking their head slowly while getting up from their seat, walking towards the stairs while following the aroma to Whumpee’s room, where the smell had become more pronounced.
They reached out to the door, knocking softly while resting their other hand on the knob, “Whumpee.. Can I come in?”
“Yeah… I guess.” They heard Whumpee blandly respond from the other side of the door as Caretaker turned the knob, letting out a soft sigh.
“So this is all you’re going to do with your life now? Smoke weed and isolate yourself from everyone?” They asked carefully, in a more concerned way than questioning.
“Guess so…” Whumpee said while staring up at the ceiling with a deadpan expression as they raised their hand to their lips, softly inhaling off a lit joint, feeling the smoke softly burn their throat and lungs, causing them to cough quietly.
“Whumpee, come on. This isn’t going to help you with anything.” Caretaker frowned softly while leaning against the doorframe, crossing their arms slightly in front of themselves.
“Alright, if you say so, caretaker."
Whumpee rolled their eyes, faintly feeling a sudden flare of annoyance, while sitting up, reaching their hand over towards an ashtray, putting out the joint while running their free hand through their hair.
"Seriously?” Caretaker clicked their tongue softly while sighing, letting a clear disappointment underline their tone.
“Look, you wouldn’t get it, okay? Just… leave me alone. I’m not hurting anyone or whatever. I just want to be by myself. Why is that so hard for people to understand!”
Whumpee glared towards Caretaker feeling more heated as their voice rosed towards them in an angry, cracked way.
Caretaker gazed at Whumpee with a light shock. They had never genuinely raised their voice in anger at them before like this.
“Yeah, I’ve been smoking a lot more recently, and perhaps it’s because when I do, I feel something other than nothing—or just hating myself—and I just want to be alone.”
Whumpee lowered their tone after a moment while laying back down, turning so their back faced Caretaker.
The air between them grew thicker as a tense silence overcame the room.
Caretaker softened their expression after a few minutes, hearing the subtle soft whimpers of Whumpee from their bed.
“Do you really want to be alone, Whumpee..?” Caretaker asked quietly.
Whumpee stayed quiet while biting the inside of their lip softly, though tightly clutching the blankets around them, shaking their head slowly, letting out a soft, “No…"
"Do you want me to sit with you for a bit?"
”…yes please..“
A few cold tears escaped their eyes, staining their cheeks and leaving a damp trail behind them.
Caretaker hesitated for a moment before moving from the doorframe and walking towards the bed, sitting down on the edge of it while looking towards Whumpee in a more sympathetic way.
"Whumpee, I’m.. sorry. If I upset you or anything, I’m just worried about you."
"I know.. you didn’t. I just.. want to feel normal again. It’s been four years almost and I still–"
Whumpee cut themselves off while moving the blankets over their head, feeling a tight knot in their stomach and throat, thinking of Whumper, and how the thoughts of them still tainted their memory.
"Look I’ll never.. I’ll never understand, or even attempt to understand, 100% of what you went through, but I’m not giving up on you Whumpee, and I’m not going to let ‘Them’ get close to you.”
Caretaker paused for a moment while watching Whumpee curiously for a moment.
“Is it okay if I touch you, Whumpee?"
They stayed quiet for a moment before nodding faintly, only to quietly reaffirm themselves with a soft, "Yes…"
Caretaker smiled lightly, though it was in a more tender, softer way as they reached out, putting their palm flat against Whumpee’s back while slowly moving their hand up and down in a more soothing motion.
They felt Whumpee tense lightly initially, though they understood this was only an automatic response. After a few minutes, Caretaker could feel Whumpee relaxing a little more, slowly easing against their hand in a sense while moving the blankets from their head after a few minutes.
Whumpee took a few slower, deep breaths while turning over towards Caretaker.
Feeling more relaxed and less anxious from their gentle care, it made Whumpee feel faintly guilty now for snapping at them so irrationally.
"I’m Sorry.."
"You don’t have to apologize, Whumpee—”
“No, I do.. I just overreacted as usual.. I know you’re worried and just.. want to make sure I’m doing okay, and sometimes it’s hard to know that someone actually cares.."
"It’s all right, Whumpee; I forgive you for what it’s worth, but I don’t think this is necessary.”
There was a light pause of silence between them as Whumpee turned more towards Caretaker, sitting up while reaching their arms out around their shoulders, resting their head down a bit.
Caretaker looked down a bit more surprised while feeling unsure of what to do for a moment, before slowly moving their arms around Whumpee’s back, lightly holding them.
“Can you.. just hold me like this for a few minutes, please..?"
"Mhm, I think I can do that for you, Whumpee.” Caretaker smiled faintly while tightening their grip a little bit, so they had a more firm, yet soft hold on Whumpee while leaning back against the headboard.
Caretaker noticed Whumpee had fallen asleep after a few minutes; their heads rested against their shoulders, their arms now loosely draped around Caretaker.
Caretaker smiled softly while raising their hand, brushing a few strands of hair from Whumpee’s face while shifting them a bit into a more comfortable position, keeping their arms securely around Whumpee while closing their own eyes after a moment, before falling asleep themselves a few minutes later.
Whumpee was waterboarded for months. They’ve refused to shower or bathe for the longest time, but Caretaker has finally, gently persuaded them into letting Caretaker help.
It starts very slow. Whumpee turns the tap on, dressed in a bathing suit or whatever they’re comfortable in. Caretaker is in the room, careful to keep a watch on Whumpee.
Eventually, Whumpee decides to sit in the bath, in the shallow water. When they’re ready, Caretaker half fills a jug, pouring the water on Whumpee’s body at first whilst Whumpee’s knuckles turn white clenching at the sides of the bath. Caretaker sings various songs whilst they do this to try and remind Whumpee of where they are.
The hair washing is the hard part. That requires Whumpee to tilt their head back, and for the most part, they manage, though their arms are shaking violently. Caretaker keeps singing, cautiously keeping an eye on any other signs that Whumpee is having a flashback, before carefully pouring the water over Whumpee’s hair.
Whumpee jumps initially- quickly insisting that they’re fine- before Caretaker gets some shampoo, beginning to massage it into Whumpee’s hair. Whumpee begins to relax- shoulders not quite so tense, not trembling quite as much.
The second jug of water doesn’t go as well as the first.
This time, Whumpee jumps, bringing their hands to their face as they begin to cry. Caretaker drops the jug as once, pulling Whumpee out of the bath and onto the towels.
“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, you’re here with me, it’s Caretaker. You’re safe. It’s over. Its alright.”
“Basically…” he says, sitting on his hands on the folding chair, “I can’t do it on my own.”
Hari looks at him over her reading glasses. She hadn’t paid much heed to his appearance when he sat down, and she rectifies that now at hearing such an unusual response to how can I help?
Mr Gallagher looks to be between thirty and thirty-five. His face shows haggard signs of wear, but her instinct tells her this is not from the simple trials of life, and he is likely younger than he appears. His hair is cropped short, but with a longer part on top that sits shaggy over his forehead to one side. He has a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and two studs in his visible ear. He’s wearing a denim jacket with a wool collar and a black bandanna around his neck.
“Can you tell me more?” she says, keeping her voice kind. She has learned not to judge people in this job, and more importantly, never to seem like she could be. It’s hard enough to come and seek advice; one wrong word and some people never try again.
“Uh, yeah.” Mr Gallagher scratches the back of his head, avoiding her gaze. “I have two kids. They’re great. They’re my whole world. But they’re getting bigger, and we’re all living in my dad’s flat with him. They don’t have their own rooms. My eldest, she’s…uh, she’s started school. I figure she’s going to ask, soonish, about everyone else having their own rooms.”
This is a concern Hari has heard many times, from parents with limited finances, making do in houses they can’t afford to leave. “You think she’ll want her own space?”
“No.” He glances at her, measuring her reaction. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, and his eyes shift away. “She doesn’t. But that’s its own problem, you know? It’s not good for her to be around when I‘m… I have my own stuff that I don’t want her to see, to have to see.”
“You need your own space,” Hari says. “I see, yes. That is just as important. It is immensely difficult to focus on yourself when your children are present.”
The reassurance doesn’t seem to affect him. “Sure,” he replies, not going as far as to agree. “And my dad, he’s put up with – my baby boy, he’s running around now. He keeps my dad up at all hours.”
She nods. She wonders, as she always does, where the mother is. She never asks. There is always something, if the other parent is not mentioned.
“What can we do to support you?” she asks, when it seems he has explained his situation to his satisfaction.
“I dunno really. I don’t know what you can really do. Just thought you might have – some ideas.”
He isn’t asking for the moon, which is always her fear. She’s been working with the charity for four years now, and some parents come in demanding, or simply desperate for a magic fix. To them, Hari, in her cardigan and reading glasses, is an austere being of immense power. She is a font of peerless wisdom. She is more than a volunteer with a few training courses under her belt.
“That’s alright. I know more about what we can offer than most – I hope.” The gentle humour, like the kind words, seem not to scratch his stony surface. She imagines him with his children, serious and careful. “Why don’t you tell me what your ideal outcome is?”
It’s odd to watch a grown man talk with his eyes on his knees, sitting on his hands, but that’s what he does. There’s a slight ripple in his nose from this angle. “I guess… The kids having their own space they can grow up in. But also, being able to make that work. I can’t do it alone, but dad isn’t moving out for it, and mam can’t either, she’s got her whole life out in the sticks. So it’s kind of impossible.”
“Impossible is fine,” she reminds him. “The ideal is a larger house, enough bedrooms for everyone, and support for you?”
His mouth lifts at the corners, but it’s not a smile. Perhaps it was once, before time hammered it into a different shape. “Sure,” he says again, enigmatic. “As long as the kids are happy.”
Hari smiles a little more sincerely, beyond her default polite pleasantness, to hear that phrase. It’s one of her favourites. Parents and carers alike have that driving principle.
“Of course. But in an ideal world,” she returns carefully to that word, to the reminder that they are talking simply about what he would want, if he could disconnect from crushing realism, “I hope you would also be happy, Mr Gallagher.”
He looks away again, shrugging a shoulder awkwardly, still sitting atop his hands. “Sure.”
Nothing more follows the word, and Hari finds her smile stuck for a moment as she tries to think of what to say next.
He’s difficult to read, she realises. That’s why she feels so nervous, overanalysing his every gesture and word. She can’t pin him down.
Deep breath. She’s had reticent parents before.
“I’m going to ask another question, and it may sound judgemental, but I want you to know it is not said with that intent. This is a genuine question, not a judgement.” She pauses, resting her hands on her knees. “What makes you feel that you can’t do this alone?”
He snorts, arms twitching like he wants to fold hem. “Well, that’s easy. I have PTSD, night terrors, chronic pain, I can’t keep to a schedule, I lose track of time constantly, ADHD basically, although without all the other shit it wouldn’t be so bad, oh, and I was fucking stalked so I’m kind of paranoid.”
Again, he hits her with a direct look, searching for something in her response. She frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He coughs a sudden laugh, empty of humour. “Yeah, people usually are.”
She gives him a moment, but he’s done. He’s finally opened up and given her the real problem, and she’s relieved to hear it.
“Mr Gallagher,” she says slowly, settling back into her kind, professional manner, “let me reassure you that you are not the only parent we work with who has experienced trauma. Parents often come to us feeling as though they are failing their children simply by having their own needs as human beings. I’m not saying I have worked with someone who has had your exact experience, but I can say that I have heard and helped families many times where the person who needs help the most is not the child. What we can do—”
“How many times?”
Hari’s mouth hangs open for a moment before she gathers herself. “I can think of a dozen with the service now, half of which I have met personally.”
“Not currently, but many times in the past.” She finds herself smiling, really smiling. Underneath the aggression, she is starting to get a sense of the vast fears he has been hiding. “Parents do not simply cease to have their own lives and their own struggles when children are born.”
He breathes another, very different laugh. “Yeah.”
She gives him another moment.
“…So, what would you do?” A look. A measure of her response. Is he assessing her for competence, she wonders, or for risk? “With someone like me.”
Hari meets his gaze without judgement, without threat, simply acknowledging him. His eyes are hazel with a glimmer of sunlight from the window to their left. He looks tired, as parents here always do. “I would suggest they join our mental health support group, where they can meet other parents experiencing similar difficulties. I would refer them to the Play with Meaning scheme, where you and your children can attend workshops to help build secure relationships. And I would also strongly recommend that they seek one-to-one counselling—”
“Got that one,” he interrupts. When she blinks, he grins. “Yeah. For me and for the kids.”
She smiles back. “Then you are already ahead of the curve, Mr Gallagher, and I’m glad to hear it. I have one other suggestion, or question, really. Do you have friends who are parents?”
“Uh.” She’s surprised him. “Uh, no. I’m kind of a young dad, if you hadn’t noticed. And we didn’t exactly… Go out much. Still don’t, really.”
“I think it may help,” she says gently. “All parents doubt they are doing the best for their children. Again, I’m not saying your experiences are directly comparable to anyone’s, but – some aspects of what you’ve told me about are, in my experience, something everyonefeels.”
She can see it now, with the shock of hearing those words cutting past the barriers. She can see the vulnerability, the genuine need for help, the fear that he’s a failure. For whatever reason – and parents, she knows, will always find one – he believes his every need subtracts from his children’s own.
Then he recovers, and the shutters go back down. “That’s…” Life-changing, she thinks. She hopes. “Okay. That’s good to know.”
a little piece of a character ive been thinking abt ! i meant to use this for angstpril but completely forgot to write anything for the whole month
–
It’s quiet. He sits on the windowsill, hugging his knees and watching a pigeon try to pull a suet ball out of the birdfeeder in the garden. It’s a futile effort; it crumbles against the grate of the feeder, scattering suet and seeds all over the grass.
In a few minutes, Lulu will notice and shoo the bird away, then pick up the pieces and put them in the small bowl by the birdbath, leaving them there for a bluetit to have when the larger birds take over the feeder.
He doesn’t know what the pigeon sounds like, though. He knows that its call is loud and almost vulgarly unfamiliar, especially when compared to the silent stillness of Sir’s house, but he doesn’t remember exactly what it sounds like. This house is strange, filled with mismatched cushions and doors that don’t quite fit into the frames, filled with noise.
Filled with noise, but quiet now.
The sun is creeping over the horizon, and the garden is filled with a pinkish light that burnishes the grass and dyes the white of the windowsill a faint peach. If he were to touch the window, he would find it damp with condensation, cool to the touch from the frigid night. He doesn’t, though, and instead watches his breath turn the glass cloudy, obscuring the pigeon from his view.
It disappears, and for a moment, Auden is entirely alone.
He wonders if, even for a second, he could abandon the identity crafted for him. For a moment, he could relinquish being the person that Luca and Lulu believe him to be, could return to being Aurel in the hopes that he could return to Sir’s house, where the noise is measured and predictable, and where he knows everything he needs to know about the world around him. His world has imploded now, bursting into a supernova of people and places and sound. Sound unmeasured, uncontrolled, unpredictable.
Markus says that he just needs to give it time, that he’ll understand the ways of the outside world after a while. Markus doesn’t seem phased by the awful newness of everything, greeted Luca and Lulu with a smile when he turned up at the door and introduced them as Markus and Auden.
Markus doesn’t understand the way this outside world makes him ache.
The silence of the dawn starts to quell the way his chest burns, and his heart seems to creep back into his chest from his stomach as the stillness settles, and he watches the pigeon come back into view as the cloud of breath disappears from the window. For just a moment, it seems that he and the pigeon are the only two beings in the world, and just for that infinitesimal moment, Auden feels less alone.
When it’s quiet, he’s almost able to pretend that he’s back with Sir, that he can relinquish the identity created for him in favour of returning to the person he once was - the person he still believes himself to be. He knows that Auden is not him; a similar name, one he chose purely because if he ignored just enough of what people were saying, he could pretend that nothing ever changed.
Markus’s name didn’t change; he altered the spelling, but Auden would have never written it anyway. He was the one who pulled Auden from the comfort and stillness and quiet of Sir’s house, who decided that everything would change, who wanted everything to change; and yet he is still Marcus, only different in the few times Luca’s written their names down to keep track of dates and people. Markus was the one who wanted change, but Auden’s is the life that has been turned upside down and inside out.
Auden is now surrounded by people, but has never felt more alone.
He doesn’t understand how all of these people have been able to turn away from the people that chose them, that fed them, clothed them, even loved them. He feels traitorous to be living amongst them, knowing that they all hate or fear their previous owners, and still, Auden is filled with nothing but a hollow longing for the past.
He doesn’t understand why they all stand at arm’s length from him, why Markus won’t stay near to him. His skin burns with yearning, but hugging his arms around his knees and pressing them as tightly to his chest as possible does little to quell it. Nonetheless, he pulls his arms around himself and watches the pigeon as it pulls chunks out of the suet ball.
As he thought, Lulu comes through the sliding doors and waves a hand at it. She’s gentle, though, and he can make out a small smile on her face as she watches it fly into one of the trees, scooping the chunks from the grass into the palm of her hand.
She looks up though, and immediately the illusion is broken. She smiles at him, and he suddenly feels a poisonous disdain for his ability to be regarded and pulls himself from the windowsill.
Coriander was kneeling next to Linden’s chair on the balcony. The morning sun touched their faces with gentle warmth, and glinted on the detritus of a demolished breakfast. Linden took another sip of his masala chai, enjoying the milky sweetness and the scent of cardamom and cloves.
Cory was also sipping his tea, cupping both hands around the warm cup. It made Linden feel bittersweet, seeing how effortlessly Cory could use his hands.
“I do this with Col, you know. Sit on the balcony together. It’s pleasant… he likes the sunshine a lot. And I like the view.”
“It’s very nice, Sir. So much birdsong.”
Linden smiled. “Yes. Do you and Lydia often, um, spend time together like this? Just enjoying your surroundings?”
He had never felt more awkward in his life. Making conversation with a borderline stranger was tough at the best of times, but for once, Linden didn’t feel as if he needed to subtly interrogate Cory- to try and worm some evidence of Lydia’s sadism out of him. No, he just wanted to get to know the man a bit.
Cory’s eyes unfocused as he visited a memory in his head. “Miss Lydia has a garden, Sir. When the weather is good, we sit out there together.”
“That sounds nice. Do you like it?”
Cory paused. “Y-yes, Sir. This pet does.”
“I’ve only had Col for a few months, but I’ve been doing my best to make him feel safe. Secure. What… what makes you feel safe, Cory?”
Linden had no idea if that was a question Coriander would be able to answer. He might have pushed too much, but- a memory of Lydia taking Colton to the conference flashed through his brain. Cory was surely more stable, if Lydia had intended to take him?
There was another pause. Linden looked out over the town. There was a pair of teenage girls standing at the bridge, throwing sticks into the river. Seeing which one travelled through the water faster.
“Miss Lydia… takes the time to tell this pet things. Before they happen. Uh-” he shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake the right words into the right order. “She tells this pet when someone is coming over, or if something is going to hurt. It’s- it’s more than this pet deserves, of course. It would never expect this treatment, but…”
“It’s alright, Cory.” Linden tried to keep his voice calm and friendly. “You don’t have to worry. I just want to hear what you think. There’s no wrong answer, I promise.”
Coriander swallowed hard, his voice shivering, but he pressed on.
“Miss Lydia, s-she keeps her promises. If - if she says that something is going to happen, then it usually does. S-she is very kind to this pet, and… and patient.” He looked nervously up at Linden. “And she asks for this pet’s opinion.” He said the last in a hushed voice, as if he was admitting something elicit. “That… that was very hard at first… but now this pet kinda likes it.”
He looked down, cascading blonde hair covering his eyes. In a small voice he continued.
“A-and she touches this pet.” At Linden’s sharp intake of breath, Cory shook his head, aghast. “Not like… not like that, Sir. Miss Lydia doesn’t do that. B-but she often pets this pet.” Awkwardly, he pulled a hand in a caress over his own hair. “Or… or hugs it. S-she is affectionate.” At that Cory looked straight into Linden’s eyes, as if daring him to contradict his description. After a brief moment of bravery, he lowered his gaze again.
“That’s wonderful. Thank you! Thank you, Cory. That…” Linden leant back in his chair. “I’m so happy to hear that.”
Patience, and affection, and speaking. Linden was delighted that he had been on the right track, more or less.
He hoped- no, he knew- that Col could be like Cory one day. Opinionated, and trusting and… dexterous.
He wouldn’t want Col to be too similar, of course. Linden was excited to find out more of what Colton’s personality really looked like.
Each separate thought ran through his head, pushing for his attention. He felt both hopeful, and overwhelmed.
“I’ve never given Colton a hug,” he blurted out, the realisation hitting him. “I’ve been too worried that it would scare him. But he likes it when I pet his hair, or hold his hand. Maybe I should offer him a hug.”
“T-this pet couldn’t say, Sir.”
-
Coriander briefly considered telling Linden that Colton had spoken well of him, back at the hotel. But it was every pet’s duty to be loyal to their master, and Linden surely knew that already. It wouldn’t mean anything to him, except alert him to the fact that the two pets had been speaking together, unattended, about their owners.
At present, Linden was smiling up at the sky. Cory allowed itself a small measure of pride, at having answered such a broad question well.
The darkness swallowed the room whole, seeping away at their warmth and hope until nothing was left within Caretaker but cold, dark fear.
The soft glow of the nightlight barely seemed to make a difference, illuminating a small circle of wall and floor around it, but nothing more.
The curtains were drawn tight over the shut window, yet the cold somehow still managed to slip in, chilling Caretaker to their bones.
With a shiver, they leaves forwards, grabbing the folded blanket off the foot of the bed and fanning it over Whumpee’s unconscious form.
If they were cold, Whumpee had to be freezing…
For a moment, caretaker paused, squinting through the darkness as they tried to make out the bruised features of their friend, but all they could see were layers of shadows upon a canvas of darkness.
With a sigh, they slumped forwards, arms falling to rest against the mattress as their head dropped.
They were nearing the three day mark. Three days since they had rescued Whumpee from that horrible, horrible place. Three days and they hadn’t woken up.
Caretaker wasn’t entirely sure when they had begun to drift off, but the next thing they knew they were jolting awake to a light knock on the door.
“Caretaker?” A soft voice called through the wood, as the knob jiggled and the door slowly swung open. “I brought you some food…”
“Thanks, Friend,” Caretaker sighed, wincing as they say up straight, their back cracking. They blinked a few times, clumsily rubbing the sleep from their eyes.
“Of course,” Friend smiled sadly, propping open the door with their foot as they stepped inside, flicking on the light with them. “Any change?”
Caretaker let out a small groan, squeezing their eyes shut against the sudden exposure.
They took a moment to adjust to the light, their eyes bloodshot and cloudy as they glanced over to Whumpee’s abused face, looking exactly the same as it had all those hours prior.
“Still asleep,” Caretaker mumbled, heart twisting as they smoothed the blankets over Whumpee’s chest.
