21 cis-female, autistic, Hufflepuff. I’m pretty new to this particular community, but I do have other blogs on here. I’m using the same base characters, but their names and stories will be different, so if you recognise them by any chance that’s why. Advice and suggestions appreciated.
This series revolves around a bonded box boy pair who run from their cruel owners. They end up in a safehouse that helps runaway box boys abd box babes adjust to freedom. One is excited about this new life while the other fears he's losing his bonded. Collaboration with @cubeswhump who is the creator of several of the safehouse characters.
Primary Series
First (my writing) - The bonded pair meet their owner and receive their names.
Second (my writing) - Ginger and Yates struggle with life at Stanley's house.
Third (my writing) - Ginger fills in while Yates is ill.
Fourth (my writing) - A bit of rebellion with drastic consequences.
Fifth (collab) - Ginger and Yates struggle with life on the streets, and find an ally.
Sixth (collab) - Ginger and Yates go to their new home, and Ginger gets medical treatment.
Misc. Content
Ginger's Punishment (art by @cubeswhump )
Sleeping in their old room (art by @cubeswhump )
Spinoffs
Always One (cube's solo writing) - A pair of bonded Romantics have a conflict of interests.
Description + drawing (by @albino-whumpee ) of Ghost
His Tricks and Lies (doodle/comic) - Jack wonders where his boyfriend got his scar.
Unnamed doodle/comic - A boy walks by himself, hoping his mother is getting his voicemails.
Levi before he was Levi. If anyone wants to be tagged in Levi fics, let me know.
Warning for institutionalized slavery, abuse, burns, drug abuse, working in retail.
This isn't what I wanted.
What? Where did such a thought come from? What wasn't what 262847 wanted? Maybe he wanted something else when he signed up. Was that it?
No. This was perfect. He wanted this.
He had a comfortable bed. The other boxies never told on him. They got to eat the food that didn't sell and would otherwise be thrown out. But once, a customer was watching videos on her laptop, and 262 snuck glances when possible. There was an ad showing a boxie and its owner, and the owner was so tender and loving. 262 wanted someone to hold his hand, stroke his hair…
He slapped his own face hard. One of the two box babes stared at him.
None of them had actually met their owner, who worked way up in corporate. A huge package deal of several hundred boxies trained to be the perfect employees, several placed at every location in the UK. The managers, -- hired employees rather than pets -- were the ones who kept them in line, and though 262 would snatch up whatever positive attention he could get, it wasn't enough.
Yes it was. He was a pet and he would be happy with whatever he got. He was grateful.
A little voice in his head said it was weird to have a coffee shop boxie. But it made sense, right? His owner was so smart. His owner knew they would save money by having pets rather than employees, as pets could work longer shifts and didn't get paid. Smart.
262 nudged the other boxie at the counter. "861."
"Piss off," the girl mumbled.
"861, what's coffee shop AU? It just popped into my head, and…"
"I don't care. Stop talking to me."
He talked too much. The handlers couldn't beat it out of him, but it suited him well in such a role. The boxies arranged amongst themselves that 262 would always be at the front to deal with customers directly as the others tended to freeze up if a customer went off script and said something they weren't prepared for. 262 even did well dealing with those who hated corporate boxies.
"It's so unfair. They buy a bundle of you freaks and put us all out of jobs!"
And 262's eyebrows would furrow, head tilting to the side. "Gosh, really? Oh no, I'm so sorry."
He'd listen while the customer ranted their heart out, nodding along and sometimes giving shocked apologies. And he'd often sell them a cup of coffee or muffin.
It was one of these interactions. The customer ranted, called him all sorts of names, but eventually wanted a caramel macchiato with no foam. No foam, always no foam. Do they even know what a macchiato is?
He forgot to strain the milk. He took a small spoon and started flinging foam into the sink until 476 told him to "stop being an idiot" and that he was "gonna get us all in trouble."
Good enough. Just thinking those words nearly made him double over at the pain in his head.
There is no such thing as good enough. There is only perfection and failure.
Yet he found himself handing the woman her drink. She pulled the lid off as he turned to the next customer, smiling.
"I said NO FUCKING FOAM!"
The coffee shop blurred. He screamed.
The customer continued to shout. 476 didn't pause from tending to another customer. And fire licked at 262's face. At least, that's how it felt.
Mister Evan, the assistant mansger seemed to appear from nowhere, going "I'm so sorry, Ma'am. 262, stop that blubbering and apologize now. We'll fix that for you."
Within the hour, 262's skin was scarlet, cheek and jaw swelling, right eye unable to open. The tears kept trickling. Evan had him sit out in the employee break room, out of sight. 262 was terrified to step foot in such a place. Boxies don't get breaks. The light overhead flickered. There were no windows. Looking at the posters on the wall made 262's head pound as the letters danced.
A millenia seemed to pass. Then the door opened. Miss Donna, the manager, stood in the doorway and gasped.
"Evan, you didn't tell me tmit was this bad!" she cried.
And that made 262 start crying too.
A heart-sinking to a pet-friendly hospital in Miss Donna's own car. 262 was such a nuisance. She had better things to do.
She sat with him through hours of tests, picked him up the next day when he was discharged, picked up his medicine. Bad pet. Burden.
Second degree burns on more than half his face. Burned cornea and the start of a corneal ulcer. Lid edema, whatever that meant. He had to wear a patch over his eye for two weeks and then they'd know how his vision was affected.
Ointment. Eye drops. Pills. No one told him what they were, just apply ointment three times a day. Apply eye drops five times a day. Take one pill once in the morning and once at night -- Miss Donna changed that to only take it before bed so it doesn't impede on his performance at work. May take over the counter painkillers every 2-4 hours.
He couldn't make out most of the labels. He was pretty sure the ointment was silver something, but the second word was a doozy. But at night, when it was meant to be lights out, he holled up in the bathroom and squinted at the label. The words grew clear: OXYCODONE 20MG.
861 was brushing his teeth. 581 was waiting to use the loo. 262 just wanted them all to go to bed, leave the bathroom to him.
You're meant to take the tablets whole. Don't lick or get wet in any way. don't crush, don't break them or it releases the compound too quickly. He wasn't sure how he knew that.
Everyone was asleep, or pretending to be. 861 definitely was asleep, his snores echoing off the walls. It surprised 262 that they didn't get rid of that in training. But the girls said 262 snores even worse.
He carefully shut the door behind him and got the bottle out of the drawer. He took out one pill, two pills, and set them on the counter. There was a tub of face moisturizer in one of the drawers, as management wants the box babes to stay pretty. He tapped it on the counter, ensuring it was hard plastic and not glass. Then he crushed the pills under it and scraped the dust off.
He smuggled a plastic straw from the shop and cut a small piece from it earlier. At the time, he hadn't known what he was doing, but his body worked on his own accord. The pieces clicked into place. One end went in his good nostril and the powder was sucked through the other end. He closed his eyes in bliss.
Something pushed at the fog in his brain, but he didn't dwell on it. He needed to savor this feeling.
Trigger warnings for ableism (especially toward drug addiction), victim blaming, vague mentions of sexual abuse including a prison joke, implied physical and psychological abuse, institutionalized slavery.
WRU Releases Video Showing Xander Atkinson's Shocking Transformation
By Matthew Werr For Dailymail.com and Kayla Sharp For Dailymail.com
Laced drugs caused the deaths of four and hospitalizations of nine between 10 November, 20XX, and and. 2December, 20XX
The drug was traced back to Xander Atkinson, then 19
Atkinson, who had previous convictions, faced forty years to life in prison
Atkinson accepted an offer to be trained to as a box boy instead of spending his life in prison
Now Whumpees R Us UK has released a video showing Atkinson's shocking transformation
Today is a proud day for Whumpees R Us. They have provided evidence that they are not harming the community but rather helping it, giving hope to the hopeless and providing second chances to anyone who accepts.
Caption: Xander Atkinson smirks in his mugshot as he faces charges for manslaughter, drug trafficking, and reckless endangerment.
Kyle Walker, director of WRU UK, stunned the nation by reaching out and offering Xander Atkinson a new life. The then-nineteen year old was facing forty years to life in prison after selling a crack laced with fentanyl and even powdered cleaning chemivsls that left four dead and nine hospitalized.
Leading up to the preliminary hearing, a recording of Atkinson mocking his victims was released. He spoke over the jail phone with an anonymous male, presumed to be the poster of the recording. Atkinson could be heard saying, "They're trying to get me [expletive] life without parole. This is blooming absurd. It's not my fault they're junkies. I didn't make them buy or take it. You know I didn't mean for them to die, but you gotta admit they're better off, yeah?"
Caption: Jurors were appalled by Atkinson's callous behavior at criminal hearings.
Though Atkinson didn't speak throughout his preliminary hearing, he could be seen yawning and rolling his eyes. The prosecution used this to their advantage, calling out his lack of remorse and asking what he had to say for himself. He then responded, "Well, is there much point trying? I'm pretty [expletive] anyway."
It was within the days after the broadcast of this hearing that Walker requested a visit with Atkinson. The official WRU UK Twitter page announced that they would be taking Atkinson on as a trainee of unspecified designation.
RELATED ARTICLES
Suspect in drug-related deaths is a 19 year old boy
"Being some rich [expletive]'s pampered little pet sounds better than being some thug's prison [expletive]boy." Xander Atkinson has accepted generous Whumpees R Us offer
Today, the official WRU UK Instagram has released a video showing Atkinson, now 20, whose new WRU identification number is censored for his and his prospective owner's safety, following commands issued by an off-screen handler and demonstrating 12 of the official boxie positions.
Pet libs will have a hard time arguing against the WRU now!
---
Sometimes, Andromeda wondered.
Xander turned his head away from the spoon and scrunched his face up.
"Full already?" Andromeda asked. He'd begged Jay to let him feed Xander his tea so he could get some much-needed sleep. Jay was up all night worrying about poor Xander. "You haven't eaten much."
Freckles splattered Xander's skin the more time he spent in the sun. His hair almost reached his chin now. He looked more and more like the pictures from the articles. He had the red ears, the wide lips. If he had Atkinson's prominent teeth gap and overbite, Andromeda would know for sure. But most of Xander's teeth had rotted out, and the WRU tended to fix "imperfections" such as crooked teeth anyway.
Maybe he wasn't Xander Atkinson. They'd started calling him Xander to see if he'd react, but he never showed any recognition, and the name just stuck after a while.
"How about we go for a stroll and then we can try to eat more? Do you want to go for a stroll while it's still light out?"
Xander didn't answer, of course. But he didn't flinch away or hide under his blanket, so Andromeda got him changed and bundled up in a hat, scarf, and jacket. Harley came along, chattering as Xander's wheelchair rumbled over the bumpy road.
Maybe Andromeda was just hoping. Maybe he didn't want to see Xander as that. But what did it matter if he was Xander Atkinson? He wasn't that person anymore, and no one deserves the fate lying within the WRU, and definitely not what Xander went through.
@more-miserables : I'm terrified of fire and airplane crashes. So many fatal catastrophes were caused by poor safety regulations and greed. I make a mental map of escape routes wherever I go. Cube, wear shoes when you go outside and don't get bitten by snakes.
Me: What if I wake up one morning and everyone has the same face and voice? What if someone I know disappears one day and no one knows who I'm talking about abd there's no record of this person existing? What if someone turns around and they have no face and
@cubeswhump here. This title has no significance. Y'all know I'm terrible with titles and there's this bit about wedding dresses and I got that stupid Billy Idol song stuck in my head.
Tagging @liliability @albino-whumpee If you're not tagged and want to be, just let one of us know.
Yates was hoping he’d be able to curl up with Ginger under those soft, frilly bedsheets and take a nap, hoping he’d have time to digest all the extraordinary information they’d received in the past thirty-six hours. Ginger looked like he would have benefitted from some sleep too - but he didn’t even wait for his face to regain its colour. He hauled himself up on his wobbly legs, clinging to the wall for support.
“Come on,” he hissed. “I want to look around. Check everyone out.”
“I really think you should rest for today,” Yates mumbled, though he was already trailing after Ginger. “We don’t even have any real clothes.” Andromeda had brought them strange, soft pyjamas when they’d both showered after the doctor left. Ginger’s looked practically brand new - plaid pants and a soft black shirt with long sleeves. Yates’s were older, with a slightly washed-out look, the bright pink faded to a sickly peach. They were patterned with bright red roses; it seemed the person closest to his size was one of the girls.
“I doubt they’ll care what we wear. But we need to make sure these guys are the real deal, okay? Make sure they won’t report us.” The stairs were causing Ginger some difficulty, and Yates held him round the waist to guide him up. “Thanks. Look, I’ll sleep after we meet everybody, if you really want.”
“Okay…”
They jumped when at that precise moment, someone knocked on the door at the top of the stairs. Yates opened the door very reluctantly, and Andromeda strode down the stairs, smiling brightly at them both.
"Are you two hungry? Shall I bring a tray here again or would you like to come upstairs?"
“Upstairs please,” Ginger said, while Yates was still dithering over the choice and the astonishment that they’d been given one. “We want to look around.”
“Ginger does,” Yates whispered. He’d much rather cower in the basement himself.
"Well, we'd love to see you," Andromeda said, "but if you want to stay here while he looks around, there's the TV or I can find you an audiobook or some drawing stuff…"
“No thank you,” Yates said hastily, grabbing Ginger’s good hand. “I’d prefer to stay with him.”
Andromeda nodded, and though he smiled, the look in his eye and his lingering gaze made Yates uncomfortable. He chatted as he led them upstairs and through elaborately decorated, spotless halls.
"There are lots of choices so I think you'll find something you like. Everyone likes different things here. Xander gets sick from a lot of foods so we have to limit certain things. David is back over and he just likes toast and tea, but you can have something more exciting if you'd like."
“We should probably introduce ourselves to David, if he’s our new owner,” Yates said. “We need to be respectful.”
"No, he's not your owner. No one has owners here," Andromeda said calmly, and added, "Well, except the animals."
“It might take him a while to grasp it,” Ginger mumbled. “He was always better at this than I was.”
The kitchen was its own room with the wall connecting to the flamboyant living room knocked down. There was an actual booth by the very large windows, blue benches with grey pillows and a marble table, and a table with chairs that matched the bench nearby. This was clearly the main room they ate in.
Tina, Nils, and Harley were at the table - and there was a new boy there too, pressed right up against Tina's side. His hair had more brown to it than Ginger's, but Ginger almost felt glad he wasn't the only redhead. But this boy had skin that was almost tan and none of the freckles splattered all over Ginger.
There were three more people at the other table, a baby in a wooden highchair, a woman, and a… Yates did a double take and was pretty sure he was a man. The woman wore a very fancy nightgown, decorative lace and silk and way too much effort to sleep in. Her legs were propped up on another chair and she had on fuzzy slippers with rabbit ears, ruining the effect. She was very pretty, though, with dark eyes and smooth brown skin and high cheekbones. Her hair was very big and curly, dark brown with blonde highlights. The baby had very dark hair with curls like hers and skin the same shade, and the frilly pink clothes suggested she was also a girl.
The man across from her seemingly ignored her for his phone, sipping his tea carefully so he wouldn't smudge his lipstick. Who in their right mind would wake up and put on a full face of makeup this early? His shirt was shiny purple silk that matched his nails and his black hair fell in loose curls, and judging by the lines around his eyes Ginger secretly thought that wasn't his real color.
Yates ducked behind Ginger, suddenly shy. This man - if he really was a man, Yates still wasn’t totally sure - was unlike any he’d ever seen. He looked nothing like any of the men who came by Stanley’s house, and he didn’t look like the people at the facility. He couldn’t help seeming rather formidable, with his cool air of class and his perfect posture. The serious look on his face didn’t help. Ginger couldn’t think why anyone would paint their face just to sit there looking miserable, but he was quickly distracted by the baby. She was cute, sure, but also the most unexpressive, dull baby ever. He squinted. Was it even blinking?
Andromeda ran through a list of vaguely familiar names: "You've met Tina, Nils, and Harley. That's Briar, that's Priscilla, and that's David. Xander and Jay usually sleep in and Crow's a little nervous to meet you two just yet."
Yates heard none of that, and he didn't see the auburn-haired boy glaring or the unfamiliar woman sizing them up. He also didn't hear this woman say, "Fresh meat."
He only heard Andromeda say David. He saw the finger pointing at this new man, and David turning to nod at them. He saw David shake his head at the woman at his table.
This was David, the new owner. And Yates had no idea what to expect from a man like this. He went to kneel and show respect again, but Ginger caught him by the scruff of his pyjamas and held him there. Yates froze, staring at David helplessly.
Yates nearly jumped when this man spoke. His voice was surprisingly deep and very plummy.
"You don't have to stay standing. There's space over here, or you can sit over there since you're acquainted with Tina and Nils," he said, waving a hand in their direction and adjusting his glasses with the other.
Yates started asking in a tiny voice which David would prefer, but Ginger wasn’t in the greatest mood after having his hand hacked at for half the morning. He grabbed Yates mid-sentence and dragged him over to Tina’s table.
Andromeda was by their side, running down a list of food options, but both were distracted. At the forefront of Yates' mind was this David, and Ginger was having a staring contest with Nils. Only Nils would not make eye contact and Ginger had no clue what he was staring at. His drink was in a sippy cup and his waffles and fruit were cut into tiny bits. Odd.
“What were you trained as?” he asked. Maybe a domestic - he wasn’t particularly pretty, just like Ginger himself.
Tina gave Nils a fond pat on the shoulder. “Nils didn’t quite have the same background as you, dear. But he’s equally safe and happy here.” She didn’t elaborate, and Ginger was left more confused than ever.
Nils looked at her, squinting like he had no idea what she was talking about. But he went back to his plate, dripping syrup down his bare chest and whining when Tina wiped him down with a flannel. He didn't close his mouth to chew either. Watching him eat wasn't terribly appetizing. Ginger was almost glad he didn’t have much appetite, but he put a waffle in front of Yates. “You should eat something. When did you last eat properly?”
Yates bent his head. “I’m… not sure I should eat.”
“Why not? You must be hungry.”
“But I haven’t done anything to deserve it,” Yates muttered. His voice was low, but Tina still heard.
“You don’t have to earn food, sweetheart,” she said. “Nobody does. You can eat all you want here. You’re not going to get into trouble for eating.”
"It's good to keep our energy up, yeah?" Andromeda called from where he sat at David's table. "You can have however much you want. Both of you."
Yates nibbled his lip. This had to be a trick. Stanley used to do it too. He’d ask Yates if he thought he deserved to eat, and if he said yes he was punished for taking luxuries for granted, and if he said no he’d be punished for not working hard enough.
Ginger sighed. He cut off a corner of the waffle and held it up to Yates. Yates sucked in his lips and Ginger snorted. “Are you five? Come on. Just a bit.”
Yates shook his head stubbornly.
“For me?” Ginger said, putting a breathy, sickly-sweet imitation of Yates’s own voice. Yates gave him a disgruntled look - but parted his lips slightly all the same. Ginger quickly stuffed the fork in his mouth before he could reconsider.
Andromeda caught Tina's eye and grinned. She winked.
As Ginger helped Yates through his breakfast, he stared across the table again, trying to size everyone up. Nils was still painting himself with syrup, commanding most of Tina’s attention, so Ginger looked at the boy clinging to her other side. Brian, was it?
Nils stole most of the attention but when you actually noticed this boy, he was possibly weirder. He just stared at Tina wordlessly and wouldn't touch his eggs and pancakes until she nudged him, at which point he would take a bite or two and then go back to staring. At one point, he noticed Ginger's gaze - and gave him the most ferocious scowl.
Ginger felt affronted and pulled a hideous face back, sticking out his tongue and wrinkling his nose.
"Ah!" Nils suddenly yelled out, jumping up and pressing his face to the window. Harley barely glanced up, like this was ordinary, but Ginger's eyebrows shot up at the goat grazing just outside.
“What is he doing?” Ginger asked weakly. Not that he was upset by the sight of the goat. It looked quite sweet. Maybe it would let him stroke it? If he was allowed. No, even if he wasn’t! He was through taking orders now.
“Why don’t you show them the animals when we finish eating?” Andromeda called over. “Maybe you two new boys would like to see around the house.”
“I’d rather see the animals,” Ginger said. Yates wasn’t too keen on that - he’d much rather look around the house - but he didn’t want to be away from Ginger. He kept quiet.
After everyone had finished, Andromeda collected plates and started cleaning up. Nils crawled over Tina and Briar, who yelled, “Get off!” He was standing before anyone else, waving his arms at Ginger and Yates in an exaggerated beckoning gesture.
They stood obediently, Yates clinging onto Ginger’s good hand. They could’ve been glued together now for all the time they spent linked. They followed Nils to the door, Ginger having to drag Yates out because he didn’t want his bare feet on the grass. Nils, though fairly clean right now, looked like he belonged out here with the animals with his toffee-colored hair standing out in every direction, shirtless with freckles all across his face and torso and barefoot with overgrown toenails. He ran to a shed first.
“What’s in here?” Ginger asked, pointing to the shed. “Which animal?”
Nils turned to them, bunching his four fingers and thumb together and tapping his lips twice before leading them into the shed. The shed was small and from what Ginger could see, there were no animals in there. Just canisters, buckets, metal bowls, and hay. Nils popped the lids off to canisters and started filling a plastic bucket with grey-brown pellets.
“I don’t know what your hand gestures mean,” Ginger told him. “Can you point to what I need to get?”
Nils grunted a bit as he picked the bucket up, and he shoved it into Ginger’s arms. Ginger had to let go of Yates to grab it, and Yates clung to his shirt instead. Then Yates was nearly knocked over when something bashed into his shoulder. He looked down to see the small block of hay that had hit him, and back up to see Nils pointing at him.
“You want my help too?” He hastily grabbed the hay block, eager to be of use. Nils nodded and gave Yates another small block, and he filled up another bucket with pellets and corn and hauled it up himself, cheeks puffing out, and led them out the door. He was almost as small as Yates, and at least a few years younger, but he seemed to trust himself more with the heavier of the feed.
“I guess we’re not worthy of the hard jobs yet,” Ginger muttered, but he didn’t sound cross. He was smiling.
Nils dragged them around the yard. It was big, a bit too big as Nils kept nearly dropping his bucket and when he set it down to take a break, a big goat and a smaller one ran at him. He held it above them and shook his head, but he turned to Ginger and tilted his head toward the goats.
“This?” Ginger checked, pointing to his bucket. The goats were showing a lot of interest in him. The little one lowered its head and bumped Ginger’s legs, making him squeak in surprise.
Nils nodded. “Oh,” he said, like an instruction.
Ginger scattered the food rather nervously. The goats stayed by his bucket, clearly unimpressed, so he tried again, bolder this time. He scattered large handfuls of feed and the goats pounced on it. He looked at Nils while they were distracted. “Can I touch them? Do they mind?”
Nils nodded, patting the little one. Another goat trotted over, roughly the same size as the bigger one but this one was black, brown, and white. Ginger knelt by the brown one. It was preoccupied with the food; it probably wouldn’t mind being stroked. Ginger ran his good hand over the coarse fur, feather-light and tentative. Nils picked his own bucket up again when the little one became interested, hugging it to his chest to keep hold of it. Yates stood back, holding his hay blocks like a shield. He wasn’t too sure about these goats, with their staring yellow eyes and weird smells. He gasped when one of the goats started sniffing at the blocks, but Nils pushed it away with his foot, nearly overbalancing and falling over.
He made another noise, nudging Ginger with his shoulder.
“Are we done here?” Ginger asked. Nils nodded. “Where to next?”
Nils led them around, showing them a giant pig and her piglets in a big pen (who practically inhaled the bucket of food and blocks of hay), returning to the shed to get food for the noisy chickens (Ginger actually squealed when he saw the tiny chicks), and the two cows who wandered the yard with the goats already had their food, hay and other plant matter, that they ate through the bars of a circular fixture. Ginger was running back and forth after they’d finished feeding the animals, as if he couldn’t get enough of them all, and though Yates allowed himself to be pulled to and fro, he was more focused on the two men who had appeared by the fence than the animals.
One was fairly tall and dressed in black with hair that matched, and the other was in a wheelchair, chin-length brunette hair sticking out in all directions like a dandelion. He had an eyepatch over one eye and stared back at Yates as the other man spoon-fed him from a bowl.
“Who are they?” Yates tried to ask Nils, but he just made some of his confusing gestures. He accosted Ginger instead, but he was even less interested.
“Who cares? I’m going to see the baby pigs again,” he said.
Yates hesitated. If he was perfectly honest, he didn’t really want to go look at the pigs again. He wanted to meet everybody, to make sure they would be safe here. He looked up at Ginger. “Stay by the pigs? So I can still see you. I want to meet those men.”
Ginger nodded. “I will. Be careful with them. You never know what people can do.”
You never know what people can do. Yates never knew he’d be able to push old men down their stairs. He shook his head hard, going towards the two men by the fence. He wouldn’t think of Stanley.
The wheelchair was similar to Stanley’s, designed to be pushed by another person rather than driven by the user, with its tall back and armrests. But this wasn’t a weary old man; he was… an adult. Yates couldn’t quite distinguish ages. People were children, adults, elderly. This man was probably on the younger side of adulthood. He looked around the age of most trainees: above eighteen, always. All WRU trainers are of legal age. But never too old, no. They had to be young and desirable. He had no collar, of course. He wouldn’t be a pet. But no one here wore collars.
And this man shrank down in his chair as Yates approached, pressing his head down to his knees with his red-gloved hands over it protectively. The man standing smiled, though his expression was guarded. “Hey. You’re the new guy?”
“One of them,” Yates whispered. He felt quieter and quieter when he was separated from Ginger, like he started fading away altogether.
“Yeah, you can’t miss the redhead. He abandoned you then? The animals can be a big draw. Nice to meet you, anyway. I’m Jay. This is Xander.” He gestured to the man in the chair. “He’s kind of shy with new people. Hey, Xand! Don’t you want to say hello? It’s alright, this one looks quiet and docile.”
“I am,” Yates assured them, trying to be helpful.
Xander didn’t move for a moment, but then he slowly sat up. He looked back and forth between Jay and Yates.
“Do you have a name yet, Curly?” Jay asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh well, that’s something you can think about. Don’t worry too much about it here, it’s really okay when you get used to it. We’re doing okay here, eh, Xand?”
Xander just returned his gaze to Jay, staring up at him.
“Are you a bonded pair too?”
“No,” Jay said shortly. He didn’t offer any other explanation and his smile dropped. Yates backed away and ran back to Ginger, terrified he’d upset them.
Ginger, along with Nils, was in the pig pen. Yates gasped. “Ginger! Don’t get your bandages dirty.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ginger grumbled. “We need to think of new names now. Good names. Anyway, never mind that. Look at this pig!” He held up the smallest piglet. “He’s so much smaller than the other ones!”
“Put him down, you’re going to get your hand infected all over again,” Yates cried.
“I’m barely touching him with that hand! It still hurts a lot. Stop fussing. Don’t you want to come in and meet the pigs?” Ginger said distractedly, still with an armful of piglet. He wasn’t looking at Yates. He was grinning right at Nils.
Yates felt his cheeks growing warm. He had a sudden terrible urge to snatch Ginger away from Nils, away from the animals, away from this very house. He’d never had to share Ginger’s attention before. It hurt even more that Ginger didn’t seem to notice, laughing at something Nils did. Making friends without him.
Yates could feel his eyes burning. He wasn’t supposed to cry, but the rules were so weird here, maybe he could. Even so, he didn’t want Ginger to see. Yates turned and trailed back to the house - and the fact that Ginger still didn’t notice made the tears start pouring.
"Excuse me? Are you all right?"
Yates just about had a heart attack. It was David. Yates scrubbed his face hastily. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
"Did something happen?" he pressed on. Yates couldn't detect anger in his tone or face, but he couldn't detect much else either.
“I’m being ridiculous,” he sniffled. “Acting like a jealous child…”
"Well, sometimes people react in ways that are… that they think are absurd. But it's better to just let it happen." He paused. "As long as it isn't a reaction that harms anyone."
“I wouldn’t hurt anyone!” Yates cried - then his face went pale. He started shaking, eyes wide.
David looked taken aback. He looked around as if wanting to signal help.
“I wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Yates insisted, much louder. Don’t think about Stanley, don’t don’t don’t...
"I'm sure you wouldn’t. I was just adding as a general rule of thumb."
Yates didn’t know what that meant. He looked down at his trembling hands. Did thumbs have rules now too?
David fumbled in his bag - would that be called a purse or a satchel? - and handed Yates a tissue. He took it and quickly tried to wipe away any evidence of tears. “I don’t think I’m Ginger’s favourite anymore,” he said mournfully. “He likes those pigs best.”
David was silent for a long moment. "Would you like to sit down? I'll make tea."
Yates decided those kinds of questions could be taken as orders. He sat at once.
"Havin' a tea party, Davey?" That singsong voice… The woman with the baby.
That woman left a moment later, patting her baby's back. She paused and winked at Yates, and he shrank down until she disappeared.
At last, David returned, looking unnatural carrying a tray.
"Make your tea however you'd like," he said, taking his own cup.
“I don’t really know how I like it, sir.”
"Please, just David." He looked at the younger man's mug, patterned with flowers. "Why don't we experiment and find out what you like? In general, do you prefer foods that are very sweet?"
Yates still wasn’t sure. Didn’t David know they were given the barest, blandest food available, if they were fed at all? But he obediently spooned a little sugar and honey into his cup.
"Yes, see if you like that. Add more if you would like, but I would suggest only a little at a time. You can always add more but not take away."
Yates couldn’t understand why they were having such a blasé conversation while he was just mourning the loss of his partner to some stupid animals. Maybe David didn’t understand how devastatingly serious this was. “It’s Ginger who likes sweet things. He’s good at making cakes, doing the frostings.” His words wavered as his eyes filled up with tears again.
"You're speaking as if he's died."
“He’s not dying!” Yates started sobbing in earnest.
David was quiet for a moment. He took the smallest sip of his own tea. "Then it sounds like this problem can be resolved.”
“How?” Yates wept. “I don’t know how! We were just us before. Nobody else.”
"Yes, you're a bonded pair. Tell me, what will happen if you spend an hour or so apart, and then come back together?"
“Well… Back at our old place, we wouldn’t see each other all day. But we’d be chained together at night. It was okay again.”
"Don't you share a room? You'll still be spending nights together."
“Ginger might want to sleep with Nils instead. He’s funny and he knows about animals. I don’t know anything about them,” Yates said glumly. “And I’m not funny. I’m really boring.”
"I'm sure that's not true. But I think while he's preoccupied with the animals, you might like to find something you enjoy. A hobby."
“A hobby.” Yates muttered the word like it was another language. “Just for myself?”
"Yes. Most of the residents - recovering boxies, that is, like you - have hobbies." David sounded like he was making a business proposal, tone very serious and expression unchanging. Yates wasn't sure how he knew this, but David was definitely a businessman.
"I've met two other bonded pairs, one here and one at another property I work with," he went on, "and while they all stayed very close with their former bonded, I think they all found something to do on their own. Two from the same pair have even gotten jobs separately."
Separate. The very word frightened Yates. “H-how..?”
"Well, it took some time."
“I don’t remember… a time when we were separate.” It was like Yates couldn’t even comprehend the possibility.
"I think everyone needs some alone time. Spending time alone doesn't mean you're growing apart. If anything, I think it may help you both."
“How?” Yates burst out. “I don’t want to grow apart!”
David looked at him properly. He looked him in the eye, and Yates realized they hadn't made eye contact this whole time. David hadn't looked at his face much at all.
"Two people will form a sort of bond by marrying. They agree to spend life together, but do they spend every moment of the day together? Do they share every interest and hobby?" David asked. "Identical twins come from the same tiny cell that breaks apart. They develop and are born together. Parents frequently dress them alike and people treat them as if they're one person rather than two. But they are individuals and they typically develop their own identities, establishing their own style, separate interests, take different classes in uni."
“But me and Ginger don’t look alike,” Yates mumbled. He found it hard to grasp what David was talking about. He wished he’d just come out with it.
"You were treated as a single unit, but that's not what you are. You're two individuals. Separate people."
Yates wasn’t really getting the point, and it was clear on his face. Weeks of intense training couldn’t be erased so quickly. Maybe they were two separate people, but Ginger felt like a part of Yates. It felt like Yates wasn’t whole without him.
"Why don't you give hobbies a try? Then when your friend comes back in you can tell him about what you've done. It'll give you lots to talk about."
“What sort of hobbies?”
"Why don't you get to know some of the others and ask? Andromeda knits, Harley likes all kinds of arts and crafts, Priscilla has been able to relearn how to read and she likes poetry and makeup, Crow - well, he won't want to be bothered yet. But everyone will be friendly."
“I can just go up to them? They won’t be angry?” Yates checked.
"They won't, no."
“Okay. Thank you, sir - David.”
David nodded. Yates left the table, going in search of somebody else. Probably Andromeda, if he could find him. At least he made more sense than David.
Yates was struck by the messiness of the place as he moved from room to room; Stanley and Ivy had insisted on keeping a clean and tidy house. This place was chaotically cosy, with bright pictures on the walls and various possessions scattered about. The furniture was clearly high quality, though frequently buried under blankets.
"Hiya!"
Even while he was seeking Andromeda out, Yates jumped when Andromeda greeted him in the hallway.
“Hello, sir. David says I should try some hobbies,” Yates reported.
"Oh, he did?" Andromeda asked. "Do you want to right now, or would you rather not?"
“Well… I don’t really have any other tasks to perform. And Ginger is busy,” he said mournfully.
"It's okay to do nothing for a little while. We can put something on the telly, maybe, or we could try a hobby."
“I’m allowed to watch the television?” Yates seemed a tiny bit brighter.
"You are! Everyone's jealous you have a TV in your room," Andromeda laughed, "but you can watch TV in the living room as well."
“We can give the TV to someone else if you’d prefer,” Yates said quickly.
"Not if you and Ginger enjoy it!"
Yates decided to ask Ginger later. He was sick of making decisions.
"What will it be then?" Andromeda asked, smiling. "Telly or an activity? Or we could even do both."
More decisions. Yates mumbled that he’d like to try watching TV, mostly because he knew you just had to sit there and watch it. He felt exhausted already.
"Living room or your room?"
“Living room?” He said it like he wasn’t sure. But Ginger would have to pass the living room when he came back. He’d see Yates and want to sit with him again…
"Okay! Would you like me to watch with you?"
“Yes please. If you don’t mind, sir.”
"I don't mind at all," Andromeda said cheerfully, walking him back to the living room. David was no longer on the sofa. Yates sat on the floor automatically. Those sofas were fancy, there’s no way he’d be allowed to sit on them.
"Are you comfortable there?" Andromeda asked, perching on the leather cushion.
“I’m perfectly fine, sir.”
He flinched when Andromeda moved suddenly, but then could only blink his eyes in confusion when he found Andromeda sitting beside him on the floor.
"Let's see what's on. Looks like someone was on the wildlife channel, but I take it that's more your friend's style?" Andromeda said, different images flashing across the screen faster than Yates could keep up. "Cooking, baking, cartoons, reality - which is more scripted and dramaticized than real, but if I'm being honest… I love trash TV. Fashion, more reality, more cooking, cartoons again…"
“Why are those ladies choosing such fancy white dresses?” Yates asked, seeing a wedding dress program flick by.
Andromeda went back to the channel. "Oh, those are wedding dresses! They're choosing their outfits to get married in."
“Married?” He’d heard of that, but only when referring to their potential masters back at the facility. Yates knew weddings had giant fancy cakes because Ginger had been taught how to make them - but he’d never realised they had these special dresses too. “That’s what ladies wear to weddings?”
"Mhm. Big white dresses are customary, at least in primarily English speaking countries. Where I grew up, women would usually wear colorful silk with patterns and hats, though the white dresses and veils have started catching on."
“You didn’t grow up here?”
"No, I grew up in Mongolia," Andromeda said, though his accent sounded no different from his own. "Do you know where that is?"
Yates shook his head. He didn’t have a clue where Mongolia was. He didn’t even know which side of a map it’d be on.
"Do you know the seven continents? Asia?"
“Sort of,” Yates said vaguely. The names felt familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. Like déja vu.
Andromeda got his phone out of his pocket. He showed Yates a screen with clumps of green surrounded with blue. "We're here on this little island, which is actually rather big and doesn't feel much like an island. This is Mongolia waaaay over here."
“It’s bigger than here,” he mumbled. “Do you remember it?”
"Mhm. My parents and I moved here when I was twelve."
“Why don’t your parents live here too?”
"Well, they died after coming here, when I was still a kid. And I don't have family in this country so I went into foster care. Do you know what foster care is?"
Yates shook his head.
"When there's no one to look after a kid, they go into foster care where designated caregivers look after them."
“So is David your caregiver?”
"He was. I'm twenty-eight now, well past aging out of the system, so now I'm taking on some caretaking myself."
“Caring for us?” Yates clarified. It still seemed foreign to him. They were the ones trained for caring.
"Mhm."
“But that’s our job.”
"Well right now, both our jobs are to judge that wedding dress."
Yates frowned, but faced the television obediently. “She doesn’t look very happy with it.”
"What kind of clothes would you be happy wearing?" Andromeda asked. Any clothes. Not necessarily wedding."
“Um…” Yates paused. “I don’t know a lot of clothes. Just something comfy?”
"Comfy sounds nice."
“I don’t know what kind Ginger likes. Probably ones with animals on,” he said, a little tartly.
"Do you like clothes? Do you like the design and stuff?"
Yates shrugged. “I’d like to see more of them.”
"So you like this show?"
Yates nodded. He did like it too, he wasn’t just saying what he thought was the right answer. This show was simple. The women came in, picked out a few dresses they didn’t like, then found their dream dress and everybody cried and hugged and went away happy. He liked that.
Doodle story? I guess? I don’t have the energy to post full on solo stories and my ADHD won’t let me sit down and format a complete collab. But I can go to an interview, do schoolwork, finish a book… but format a chunk of text? Nah.
Okay, so this probably doesn’t make a whole lot of sense and the art style is ass but. I have no follow up. The idea sounded great in my head. I did this in my math notes. These are Jack (More’s character) and Levi (my character), who will be properly introduced in the near future. Levi is pretty relevant to Ginger and Yates’ story.
If anyone wants, I can type up a transcript and/or an explanation if it’s confusing.
Tagging the usual group for when @more-miserables and I collab: @albino-whumpee @liliability @stitchy-positivity (Sorry if you don’t want to be on this list Stitchy. You sent an ask to More and I thought I should put you on the taglist for our boxie series. I’ll remove you if you want!)
Warning for burns, violence, verbal and physical abuse, drug mention, implied institutionalized slavery.
This is set in the box boy universe, same as my Sweetie stories and collab with @more-miserables . This is set in England, far from Sweetie, and this story is very much affiliated with my and More’s collabs.
@liliability @albino-whumpee @haro-whumps @broken-horn @eatyourdamnpears @whumpsblog because some of you are on More’s taglist and/or my Sweetie one. Let you know if you don’t want to be tagged in this or if you do. If I missed anyone, sorry. My taglists were on my old phone that’s super broken.
Warnings for institutionalized slavery, abuse, ableism, dubcon/noncon, violence, minor blood and gore.
They were one. Everything she did was for him.
Chained together night and day in training. Sharing a single number. Packaged and shipped together.
Always one.
He couldn’t see well. His eyes shook at all times and the bright lights of the facility rendered him practically blind. Most trainees who had vision problems got a surgery to fix it, but she later learned that his condition was not one that could be fixed. He was pretty, though, with his pink-white skin and pale blue eyes framed by lashes as light as his silky white-blonde hair, and that was all that mattered. She was pretty too, blonde and small, big green eyes. All Romantics needed was their looks.
She’d gotten well into the habit of guiding her bonded even after their purchase, his hand clutching her upper arm as she took him room to room.
“Here, careful on the stairs.”
“We’re at the toilet now. I’ll wait outside.”
“This is our room.”
Their owner joked that she was his guide dog, and so she got the name Hound. He was Ghost.
Hound was dutiful to her bonded, perfect. But she didn’t feel it was mutual.
His rebellions were small in training. The way he would mumble to himself and speak out of turn, or refuse to respond when expected to. She remembered when he stepped on a handler’s foot, claiming he didn’t see the man. Hound begged to be beaten instead, and Ghost apologized till he was blue in the face.
But he lost all rationality when they met Mistress.
Hey y’all. It’s @cubeswhump . Don’t blame April for this terrible title.
So yeah. This is a collab with me, @cubeswhump . Second collab in this series. This is a collaborative thing that is 99% self indulgence but the collab was planned from the start and will make sense plot-wise, I actually was like “April I have an idea make a whump blog” and here we are.
Tag list: @albino-whumpee @liliability
Warning for institutionalized slavery, aftermath of abuse, descriptions of wounds and infections, medical stuff.
Time seemed to slow as Jamie went up to the door, but somehow she still moved much too fast.
"Oh! Andrew, right? David's kid?" Jamie talked much too casually, letting the broad-shouldered man come in. He was a few years older than herself, wearing a green knit sweater over plaid pajamas with his black hair in a lopsided bun like he'd just rolled out of bed.
"No, it's-"
"Oh yeah, you use some unusual name, right? I remember the press getting mad and comparing you to that celebrity kid named after a fruit. Hold on, I'll get it."
He turned to Yates, smiling widely. It almost looked friendly. "Hi! I'm Andromeda. You can call me Andy if you prefer."
"Oh, Andromeda! I was gonna guess Milky Way," Jamie snorted, and went ignored.
Yates automatically knelt down and pressed his head to the floor. “I shall wake my partner, sir, and then we can accompany you.”
Andromeda knelt down too. "Look, we're on the same level now. But that can't feel nice on your forehead, can it?"
Yates glanced up at him, feeling like his brain just short-circuited. How was he meant to react to this? They’d never taught him what to do when someone superior goes down to your level. “Um… No?” It came out like a question.
Andromeda pressed his forehead to the floor. "Hm. No, this doesn't feel too good. What do you think we should do instead?"
“Maybe you should stand up..? If that’s what you’d prefer, sir.” This was weird. Yates felt like he was flying blind.
"Just me, or both of us?"
“Am I allowed to stand?”
"Well, do you want to?"
This was really stressful. What was the right answer?! “I don’t know,” Yates whispered, suddenly near tears.
"It's okay, it's okay! How about we both stand up? Oh, I think I've made a bad first impression."
Yates stood obediently, blinking back the tears. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been… difficult for the past few days.”
Andromeda stood too, just about towering over Yates, but that wasn't unusual. "That's okay, you're allowed to be upset. I'm sorry I made you upset. But how about we don't worry right now? I have the heater on in the car and we'll have your friend's hand looked over at the house, okay?
“Okay.” Yates dashed off to coax Ginger awake, glad to escape. Andromeda was weird and confusing; nobody ever asked Yates what he wanted. He didn’t know how to answer.
Ginger was less polite when he staggered into the hall on Yates’s arm, not bothering to bow. He nodded to Jamie, then did a double take when he clocked her bare face, makeup scrubbed away. “Oh my God, your eyebrows are gone.”
Jamie rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut your gob. Like you lucked out in the eyebrow department, red."
Ginger smiled a little. It was nice to have playful banter instead of hostile bullying. “Thanks for helping us,” he said, quieter now. “We owe you one.”
"Nah, no debts with me," she said, waving her hand dismissively. Andromeda hovered, watching Ginger as if he expected him to fall over.
Ginger nodded at him, looking wary. “Hello.”
"Hello! I'm Andromeda."
Ginger just nodded again. He clung to Yates, partly protectively and partly because he really was struggling to stand. He was white as a ghost and shaking, but he tried to look fierce.
"I have my car out front," Andromeda went on as he walked. "Would you both be all right going for the ride?"
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Ginger said. “To take us to a safe place.”
"Well, yes."
He hesitated for a second and looked at Jamie. “You’re sure this is that David’s son?”
"Yep," she said. "Adopted. Maybe fostered? I dunno."
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“Keep in touch,” Yates added. She gave a thumbs up.
"Thank you for all your help, Jamie," Andromeda said as they walked out.
The car in the formerly empty drive was a smaller one, pale blue and shimmering in the dim streetlight. The two runaways couldn't even guess the make, or know if it was expensive or not. Andromeda opened the back door, and there was a blanket draped across the seat and more folded ones (knitted wool, soft fuzz, none if the scratchy material like in their bedroom at Stanley's or the thin sheets at the facility).
"Feel free to use the blankets, any of them, if you get cold."
There was another man in the passenger’s seat too; they could see a silhouette of smooth, dark hair and then big, curious eyes as the person turned to stare at them. Ginger pulled Yates close and cocooned them both in a blanket, shivering. Those bright eyes staring at them were eerie, though they didn’t show hostility.
"Hi Harley! These are our new friends," Andromeda enthused as he got into the driver's seat.
“Hi,” Harley said quietly, still staring. “Two ones. Like Xander and Jay?”
"A bit, but Jay wasn't a… he wasn't made to be a pet," Andromeda explained. "These two both were, but I think they're very good friends like Xander and Jay."
Ginger and Yates watched this new boy warily. He just smiled in a docile way, fiddling with a strand of his black hair. “Pair.”
"Mhm. They're friends like you and Crow too."
“Is Crow a person or an animal?” Ginger muttered.
“He people!” Harley giggled. His voice was lively, but slow and deliberate, like it took him longer to select and vocalise the right words. Andromeda smiled a bit, but when he went to adjust the rearview mirror he seemed to look at the two in the backseat for a split second.
“I figured as much,” Ginger said. “I didn’t think you could buy real crows.” He didn’t care how Harley spoke. It was just nice to be smiled at for once.
"Some people in our house picked their own names," Andromeda explained. "I think Crow likes the wild birds he sees out his window, though we do have some chickens too."
Ginger nodded like that made perfect sense. “Maybe I could be an animal name…”
"Maybe! No rush on it though. I think rest should be priority the next few days. Speaking of, this is a long drive. Do you want to sleep?"
“You really should sleep,” Yates whispered to Ginger. “You’re poorly.”
“I’ve only just woken up. You’re the one who should sleep.”
Harley didn’t speak to them directly, but he very softly started singing lullabies, mixing up the words, sometimes jumbling several together, but the tunes were soothing. In the end Yates and Ginger both slept, and Harley smiled triumphantly. He hoped he’d been helpful.
Andromeda laughed a snorting cackle that made him sound ten years younger. "Good job, Harley.
****
The sun was shining bright.
No one touched him, but Yates jumped like he'd been slapped awake. It was only Andromeda standing two feet away from the open car door going, "Hey guys, we're here."
Ginger was harder to rouse, and Yates had to shake him. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat where he’d leaned on Yates and he was very pale. Yates hoped he wasn’t going to vomit again. It wouldn’t be the best first impression.
Andromeda was ready with an unopened water bottle, handing it to them. He started talking while Yates helped Ginger drink, wringing his hands and looking up toward the sky thoughtfully.
"So um, we tend to give shelter to runaways that will need a bit more support. A lot of Romantics will fall under that category. So we have some Romantics staying here, but everyone is friendly and no one will bother you."
Yates bit his lip, glancing at Ginger nervously. Now Stanley was gone, Yates had shifted to taking orders from Ginger instead, though Ginger told him not to. Yates knew they'd been taught not to trust Romantics. He didn’t want to be outright rude to anybody, but they weren’t really supposed to speak to them either.
Ginger shrugged indifferently. He was far too miserable to care about decorum and rules now. Yates mirrored the shrug, but he still looked worried.
"A woman named Tina will want to have a look at you both if you'll come inside," Andromeda went on. "She has some medical education under her belt, and she helps me run the house. It seems David's here." Yates followed his dark eyes over to a very shiny blue car. "I asked him not… He'll be inside, but I think we should see Tina before we talk to him."
“Is Tina… Does she have access to proper medication, sir?” Yates asked shakily.
"She can tell us if the materials she has on hand are enough to treat it. If not, we have a doctor who treats our residents and would never tell." He looked to Harley. "Remember Doctor Miller?"
Harley nodded. “She nice. Kind. Tell jokes and blow up plastic gloves.”
Andromeda nodded. He didn't say anything more to Yates and Ginger, no questions or commands.
“Um… can we come inside please, sir?” Yates asked.
"Of course! Come on."
Yates helped Ginger stagger over the threshold. A plumpish woman with short blue hair and a nose ring came down the stairs to meet them, smiling warmly. She was carrying another child on her hip. Scrawny as he was, he looked way too old to be hauled around like that.
Looking around, there seemed to be no one else in the living room or around the stairs, but the floorboards creaking overhead and hushed voices in the kitchen were so ominous that neither noticed the child's rapid hand movements at first.
“Hello,” the woman said, keeping her voice lighthearted while her eyes flicked over Ginger and Yates, looking for injuries. “I’m Tina. It’s lovely to meet you. And this is Nils.” She gently jogged the child on her hip.
Nils reached toward Ginger but Andromeda pushed his hand down. Ginger moved away instinctively, standing in front of Yates, though he was so weak he could barely stand, let alone fight people off.
"We should probably get them lying down," Andromeda murmured.
Tina nodded, gently putting Nils down. “How about you go play with Harley while I help these two?” she said.
Nils made some gestures the newcomers didn't recognize and grabbed Harley's skinny wrist. Yates worried that the kid must have been freezing, shirtless and barefoot in just a pair of thick pyjama pants.
“Is he being punished?” Yates whispered fearfully. “Is that why he’s not allowed clothes?”
“No!” Tina said quickly. “No, Nils isn’t a fan of clothes. It took a lot to get him to wear the pants.”
"Perhaps the downstairs sitting room will be a good place for right now?" Andromeda suggested, no connection to the previous conversation. "It's not a proper sleeping space, but…"
“They’ll have privacy,” Tina agreed. “I think it’ll be okay.”
Andromeda nodded. "It's this way."
Tina went to help Ginger, but he shied away and clung to Yates instead, following Andromeda down into the basement - because that's what it was, a basement, even if it was furnished and given deep plum walls and a cream carpet, even if Andromeda gave it a different name.
Ginger was laid on a sofa the colour of pink candy floss, and Andromeda shared a look with Tina. She smiled at him, though her eyes were trying to give him stay here signals. New arrivals could be nervous, skittish, sometimes hostile. She might need his help. He just smiled too, and Ginger bristled a bit, feeling that something was just communicated between them, but having no idea what. Now he kind of wanted to puke on their carpet.
Tina turned to him, still smiling. “David said you were injured? Could you show me, please?”
Ginger stuck his arm behind his back, scowling. Yates tugged at his shirt. “You need help!” he hissed.
"Aren't you in pain?" Andromeda asked.
“No,” he muttered, while Yates nodded his head vigorously.
“He is.” Yates put his head on Ginger’s shoulder, his fingers digging into his shirt. “Please let them help you. For me?”
Ginger sighed heavily, and held out his bandaged hand. “I hate it when you do that,” he mumbled, but he laid his head against Yates’s.
Even as Tina's fingers encircled his wrist and turned his hand over in hers, Andromeda's eyes taking this in from over by the wall was somehow worse. Ginger felt itchy and exposed under his gaze.
“What?” Ginger snapped at him. Honestly, he wanted to see what Tina would do when he was so blatantly rude to this man who was her… boyfriend? Who knew. But she clearly liked him. “Why is he staring at us? What’s he even doing he— OW!” He gasped as a sharp stab of pain travelled all the way up to his elbow. Tina was pulling off the bandages, trying to be as careful as she could, but the blood and pus had hardened into a clumped mess with the bandages. Removing them would also mean ripping off scabs and bursting blisters.
Tina shook her head. “This is bad. You’ll need stronger pain relief than we have here.” She nodded at Andromeda. “We need Doctor Miller.”
Aside from his light brown skin paling a few shades, Andromeda didn't react much. He nodded. "Mm. Okay, I'll call her and let David know what's going on."
“Probably best not to let David come down here. You know he’s pretty squeamish.” She turned back to Ginger as Andromeda headed up the stairs. “Your old owners did this to you?”
Ginger gave her a look. “No, I just really felt like holding my hand against the cooker one day.”
“I tried to help but I didn’t have the right medication or supplies,” Yates said miserably. “And now it’s so much worse.”
“You did a really good job, considering the circumstances,” Tina said. “Don’t worry, we don’t do those kinds of things here. No punishments. Nobody deliberately hurting you.”
“But what if we’re bad?” Yates whispered. “Don’t we get punished then?”
“Nobody will hurt you now, no matter what you do.”
Ginger and Yates glanced at each other. Neither looked convinced. Stanley had played nicey-nicey at first, after all. The punishments came later.
Andromeda was back down within minutes, and for some reason he had several metal mixing bowls and washcloths. He put them on the marble coffee table.
"Doctor Miller is on her way. You know I'm a dope with the medical stuff but I did my best to explain it and she doesn't think he needs to come down to the clinic, but if he does you know how that goes, that's fine, but hopefully they can just stay here," Andromeda gabbled, scarcely taking a breath.
Tina went to put an arm around him. “Thanks, love. Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine. I’m sure she can treat them here.”
Yates and Ginger stared. Obviously Ivy and Stanley weren’t a couple, so they’d never really experienced any sort of romantic affection between two people before. They knew about the Romantics, of course, but they had been taught to ignore those things themselves. How much was allowed in ordinary households? Was kissing a private or a public thing?
"And David's aware," Andromeda went on. "I convinced him to wait here a bit longer and see these two after Doctor Miller leaves. Priscilla's keeping him busy for now."
“That’s good. Hopefully he’s keeping an eye on Nils and Harley too. You know how Nils can lead Harley into trouble.”
Andromeda nodded, very serious. "Crow and Briar are still in bed but I'm a bit late to making breakfast. I'll try to get Nils and Harley to 'help'," he said, doing air quotes.
Tina laughed. “Thank you. I’ll come help as soon as I can.”
Andromeda grinned and dashed off. He seemed to be in a perpetual state of motion, running to and fro every which way.
“Are Harley and Nils your brothers?” Yates asked.
“They’re like family now, but we’re not biologically related. Nils is my adopted child,” Tina explained. “Harley is like you guys, though he was on his own. He came to us a couple of years ago.”
“He’s nice,” Yates mumbled.
“Yes, he’s a sweetheart. But he was treated very badly before he came here. It took a long time for him to feel safe, and he still struggles sometimes. But Harley is proof that it can get better for you guys, okay?”
Ginger and Yates exchanged glances again. They didn’t say anything else to Tina until Doctor Miller arrived.
She was a big, plump woman - not as tall as Tina but rounder, and decades older. Her coiffed hair, stiff as a helmet, was dyed very bright orange, but Ginger didn't think she was a redhead before she'd gone grey. Her lips were crimson and her eyelids blue all the way to her miniscule eyebrows. She wore the signature white lab coat but also a big wooden bowtie and giant, round glasses. Under her coat were lilac scrubs patterned with puppies and kittens.
She was, without a doubt, a pediatric doctor.
"Hiya lovelies, I'm Doctor Miller!" she said, shaking both their (uninjured) hands.
Somehow the doctor was more comforting, strange and patronizing as she seemed. Well, not comforting, but… predictable. The scientists at the facility's clinic were never as serious and cruel as the handlers. This was just a job, a paycheck. Few got the sick thrill the handlers did. Doctors were doctors and that was that. These people, this Tina and Andromeda… not so much.
As this clown of a doctor looked at and gently prodded his hand, Ginger imagined her mercilessly stripping flesh right from bone along with the bandages. But she filled one of Andromeda's mixing bowls with some clear fluid and had him keep his hand in there for what felt like ages. When he started to get fidgety, she said, "There there, we're almost done."
Finally she instructed him to pull his hand out.
"This might feel a little funny," she told him, "and it'll look worse. You might not want to look."
Yates buried his face in Ginger’s shoulder obediently, but Ginger shook his head. “I’ll watch.”
If soaking his hand took ages, removing the bandages took a lifetime. Sometimes he wasn't sure if she was even pulling, and when any gauze didn't strip away instantaneously she stuck his hand back in the water. And as the last of the rusty-coloured gauze came off, his stomach turned over.
"This here," she said, pointing with a blue-gloved finger to a giant red lump with smaller bumps of yellow-green, "is a carbuncle. Funny name for a not so funny thing. But we can easily defeat this beast."
“It’s disgusting,” Ginger said hoarsely. “Just cut my damn hand off.”
"It looks worse than it is," she promised. She moved the bowl of fluid away and replaced it with an empty bowl, continuing with this no-big-deal attitude even as she delved into her bag and pulled out torture devices in plastic packaging.
Vague memories of needles and bags of icy fluid and the white walls at the facility pushed at his brain and he initially refused to give his hand over until Yates pulled the, "Please? For me?"
"That's so not fair," Ginger grumbled.
She stuck the needle in and injected it around the "carbuncle" and the smaller pustules around it, and his hand became numb and tingly. Doctor Miller had to ask him to stop poking at and shaking it.
"You were so brave!" exclaimed Doctor Miller. Ginger felt… was that frustration?
When she pulled an actual knife from plastic packaging, Ginger wondered if they vacuum sealed thumbscrews and pears of anguish too. Other instruments of torture.
He frowned then. Where did he learn about those? He couldn't place the era those tools were from. Probably not modern… right? Though maybe Ivy would’ve liked them.
“What’re you going to do now?” he asked Doctor Miller warily. “Slice it?”
"We need to drain as much of the pus as we can. The rest will be treated with medicine and bandages."
“Fantastic,” Ginger sighed. He glanced at Tina. “Is… is everybody going to watch?” He felt strangely self-conscious, as if they were watching him use the toilet.
"They can go if you're sure that's what you want."
“It’s just embarrassing,” he mumbled.
"It's your decision, lovey."
He sighed. “Just… nobody else? Please?” He didn’t think he was allowed to order people around yet, even if they were playing nice. He couldn’t just tell this Tina to get lost.
"All right. Some privacy, please, you two," she told Yates and Tina.
“No, I need Yates!” Ginger cried, grabbing at Yates with his right hand. He pulled away from Doctor Miller again, his eyes suddenly wild and panicked.
"Okay, then. Tina, love, give us a moment," Doctor Miller said calmly. Tina smiled and nodded, going upstairs without a word.
Yates cuddled against Ginger’s side. “I’m here. I’m staying.”
Doctor Miller nodded, smiling a bit at them. It only lasted a second, and she pulled on goggles and a new pair of gloves. "Can I see your hand again?"
Ginger held it out reluctantly. “Will it get better?” It had looked so awful before that he’d worried it’d never heal. Yates told him it would, but Yates probably would’ve fibbed to stop him panicking.
"If we keep up with treatment, it will. You came just in the nick of time." She continued talking as she moved his numbed hand over one of the bowls and pressed the tip of the knife into one of the yellow-green bumps on the carbuncle, not flinching as cloudy liquid spurted out.
Ginger pulled a face. “Yuck…” This was going to take ages. His cheeks started burning with shame. He felt responsible for having such a disgusting thing happen to him. “I’m sorry.”
"Don't be. Bodies do yucky things. We humans can't help being gross sometimes."
His face went from pink to crimson. The childish language was even more embarrassing, though Ginger knew it was kindly meant. He started fidgeting again, a tight knot tying itself up in his chest. He had that terrible, itching urge to run.
She didn't just slice and poke, she squeezed and scraped and splattered the metal bowl with cloudy yellow-white and red. It smelled like rot.
It was horrible. After a while Ginger stopped watching. He fixed his gaze on a corner of the ceiling and tried to forget where he was, his vision blurring around the edges. He used to do this during training, when the pain was so bad and he felt so miserable he didn’t want to wake up. Yates called it dissociating; Ginger didn’t know that word. Maybe it was a medical thing.
Eventually he was jolted by a firm pat on his back. "All done, love."
His hand was wrapped and everything. He remembered none of it.
“Will it get all disgusting like that again?” he asked.
"Not if you take your medicine and let Tina change your bandages."
“What kind of medicine?” He looked panicked again. “The sleep medicine?”
"No, none of that. Antibiotics. All they do is stop the infection and help you heal," she explained, and as she zipped up her bag Ginger realized everything was already packed up. Where did she put the dirty bandages and instruments? Both used bowls and the other unused ones still sat on the table, and the smell lingered. "I'm going to send in a prescription to the chemist and someone will pick it up."
“Thank you so much,” Yates whispered. “We’re very grateful to you.”
She stood up, smiling at them. "I'll tell one of them to pick up his prescription on my way out. Be good, loves."
“We’ll do as we’re told,” Yates promised. That’s what be good meant, right?
"No, no, only with the medicine. Well, and other things meant to keep you safe. You listen to yourself otherwise."
Yates frowned. Listen to himself? He didn’t think he knew how to do that anymore. Maybe he’d just listen to Ginger instead.
She was gone, upstairs, and they were alone in this frilly pink-and-purple room, not sure what would happen next.
Happy new year! Thanks for all the great whump this year! Ill be looking forward to more in the future and some comfort for the poor boys! Also, I absolutely wish you the best on the year to come!
Ahhhh, thank you!! This is my first ask on this blog! Happy new year!
Hi this is actually @cubeswhump editing on April’s blog. That’s why there’s a title, and why it’s so bad.
So this is a collab with moi, Cube. We’ve had this planned since even before April’s first whump fic.
Warning for abuse, death, institutionalized slavery, vomiting, trauma response.
The life of a runaway was far from glamorous. Ginger remembered daydreaming while he scrubbed endless floors and windows, picturing himself living with Yates in a calm, peaceful woodland, cradled every night by the soft ferns and leaf litter.
The city wasn’t calm or safe. Ginger didn’t stop running for a long time, hauling Yates along, until they were both gasping and red in the face. They dipped into a dark alleyway and Ginger ripped off his collar right away, grinning. It felt liberating. He tossed it away gleefully.
“Get rid of yours too,” he told Yates.
Yates didn’t react. His eyes were blank, though a steady stream of tears were pouring down his flushed cheeks. Ginger went to remove Yates’s collar himself, sighing. Yates didn’t fight him off, but he whimpered.
“Look, you can keep it if you really want to. You just can’t wear it, or it’ll be obvious we’re runaways.” He balled up the collar and stuffed it into Yates’s pocket.
They camped out in the alley that night, curled together under a nest of old newspapers - and that’s where they stayed for the next few days. Yates stayed in his weird catatonic funk, so it was Ginger who had to find them food and clothes and some sort of housing. It was harder than he’d thought. He knew so little about the outside world now. He learned to hang around market stalls, snatching at their displays and then running off with whatever loot he’d managed to grab.
He couldn’t properly treat his burned palm now. He couldn’t even wash it properly. It soon grew more painful than ever, weeping through the grubby bandages. Then Ginger woke with a fever, and he couldn’t drag himself up to go find food. Yates snapped out of himself enough to cradle Ginger’s burning head in his lap, stroking his hair.
Ginger peered up at Yates’s pale, grubby face through the fever haze. How would Yates manage if he died now? Maybe Stanley really was dead. Maybe they’d lock Yates up. He didn’t know if pets who committed crimes were refurbished or incarcerated. He pictured Yates stuck in prison all alone, crying for him. He couldn’t die. He could fight off anything. He had to.
The first time Ginger heard it, he was emerging from a dream where he was being chased by something bulky, heavy. Clomp, clomp. It continued when he woke up but softer. They huddled together frightfully, but the sound became smaller and smaller.
When it came again the next night, Ginger dared to look, and blanched when the figure looked back. It was gone the next night, but the night after that the clomps paused much too close to their hideout. And then they resumed, coming right toward them.
“What is that?” Ginger gasped.
“Maybe it’s the police,” Yates said shakily. “Because I’m a murderer.” He gave a little sob.
“You’re not. Stanley just fell,” Ginger declared.
“Shh!”
The footsteps stopped right in front of them, and a bright light shone in their faces. When Ginger dared give his fiercest glare through his fever-flushed face and squinting, he met big, blue eyes and shimmering glitter.
"Aha! Thought so," said this odd girl, long, black hair nearly touching their faces as she bent right over them.
“Go away! I… I’ve got a weapon,” Ginger lied as savagely as possible.
“Do you?” Yates gasped. “Where’d you get that?”
Ginger sighed heavily.
The snort was too loud for the girl. She set her phone down on the dirty ground, its flashlight shining toward the sky, and sat right in the alleyway with them in her clean jeans.
"Hiya there, Tweedledee and Dum." Her accent was on the brink of familiarity but impossible to place, and nothing like those of Stanley or Ivy or anyone at the facility. "Don't make those faces. We're comrades."
“Those aren’t our names. You must be mistaking us for someone else,” Ginger said.
Her face changed to something between a laugh and a grimace. "Righto. Mister and Mister fifty-sixty-ten?"
“That’s… not quite our number,” Yates whispered.
“Shh!” Ginger hissed. “Don’t tell her.”
She paused, tilting her head, then rolled back the sleeve of her big coat.
"See this?" she asked, tapping on one of the big, green serpentine creature wrapping all around her forearm. The sparkly nail touched upon a segment covering her inner wrist. Ginger rubbed his eyes, trying to see clearly. His vision had been wobbly for a while now. She pointed the flashlight at it.
He frowned. “There’s nothing there..?”
"'Xactly. Numbers aren't forever, love," she said, the bright light dancing around as she pulled her sleeve back down over the tattoo.
“You mean you were one of us?” Yates asked.
"Bingo," she said, pointing at him. "C'mon, up up. You can get warmed up at my place while I make a few calls, yeah?"
She paused, head tilting to one side. She added, "You're probably not too keen on trusting a stranger, one of your own or not, but Little Red here ain't lookin' so hot, and I don't think you've many options."
“He isn’t,” Yates said desperately. “I can’t get his temperature to go down. Can you really help us?”
"Yep, sure. You able to walk, Little Red?" She stood up, shining her phone at him. The light also illuminated the height of the platforms of her weather-inappropriate shoes, and it was clear what the clomping was.
“I dunno. Haven’t tried in a couple of days.” Ginger shakily got to his knees, and Yates helped him up the rest of the way.
"You got it?" she asked.
“I think so.” He paused. “Why’d you wear shoes like that? They look uncomfortable.” Neither Yates nor Ginger had shoes at all, their bare feet cut and filthy.
"Uniform, of sorts. I don't feel like carrying an extra pair of shoes to put on when I'm done with work."
“What job makes you wear shoes like that?”
"Tell ya later," she said, unzipping her jacket and tossing it to them. Despite the chill, she seemed fine in the tank top underneath. "Anyway, I'm Jamie. You guys got any name preferences for yourself?"
Yates opened his mouth, but Ginger shook his head quickly. Maybe Stanley’s “accident” had been on the news. They didn’t want to be tied to his surname. “Not anymore,” Ginger said.
She seemed more cautious when they entered a neighborhood, looking at the windows of all the houses. It was nothing like Stanley's neighborhood, junker cars in tiny driveways and people shouting with open doors.
"Well, that's something to think about. You've got plenty of time though."
“We shouldn’t be out in the open,” Ginger hissed. He was still trying to look threatening, though that was difficult to pull off when he was leaning heavily on Yates just to stay standing.
"No duh, but we don't have much of a choice," she muttered, pulling out a smartphone and typing away on it. "My house isn't far from here."
“Who are you texting? You’re not turning us in, are you? Is this a trick?”
"Can you read? Genuine question, I know lots of us can't. I'll show you the conversation, I'm just telling my mate we're havin' company."
“I… a little bit. He can’t.” He pointed at Yates. “I’m not good at… being us.”
She held the phone out to Ginger, showing a text conversation with someone called Vivi:
Get bread read a green bubble, and then, And strawberries.
The following white bubble said: I'm already on our street. Needy cunt.
There was another white bubble with a later timestamp, seemingly unrelated to the previous exchange: Bringing some blokes over.
Green: Wtf - followed by a crying face emoji.
White: Chill, they're cool.
“What’s this word?” Ginger asked, pointing to the Wtf message. “There’s no vowels. Why doesn’t it have vowels?”
"Acronym or anagram or something. Each letter stands for a different word, in this case it means 'what the fuck'."
“Oh. She doesn’t seem too pleased that we’re coming.”
"She's shy, not angry. She'll just hide in her room," Jamie said, pocketing her phone. And she walked down an empty driveway, not allowing them much time to process this response.
“This is your house?” Ginger asked. He sounded relieved but breathless, his face waxy pale and sweaty.
"Yep. Mi caso- casa, su casa," she said, trying the doorknob before patting her pockets for the key. She swung it open and kicked off her shoes very loudly, both thumping against a stained wall. She was about the same height as Yates now, possibly smaller if she washed out her hairspray.
"Hey Vivs!" she yelled to no one in sight. Ginger winced at the noise, closing his eyes against the bright light. Everything hurt.
"You guys wanna shower?" she asked, and gestured toward the bathroom. "You should prob'ly get cleaned up and then we'll see what we can do about that fever. We prob'ly have some pyjamas that won't fit too terribly."
“I wanna sleep,” Ginger muttered. It was getting harder for Yates to keep him upright.
"Uh, sure." She gestured for him to follow as she walked into the tiny living room. The furniture was surprisingly nice, and the TV looked gigantic against the wall.
"So, do we know what's causin' the fever and general… drowsiness? I haven't heard you coughing or sniffing." Her voice never seemed to lose volume, just as loud as she disappeared through a doorway.
“I think he has an infection,” Yates said. “He’s got a terrible burn and we couldn’t get it properly treated.”
She appeared again with two glasses of water, setting both on the silver coffee table that was squished in between the sofa and the stand the TV sat on. "Can I take a look?"
"Don't you want me to put somethin' on it until we can have it properly looked at?"
“Well… The bandages could use a change.”
She paused. "Would you be more comfortable if I gave your buddy the supplies so he can do it?"
“Yes,” Ginger said quickly. “I need him to do it.”
She disappeared in a different direction this time. Cabinets opened and closed with thumps.
"Viv, what shit do I use for an infected burn? Hey, where are bandages?"
Footsteps, this small girl impossibly loud in her bare feet. "What do I use for an infected burn and where do I find it?"
The response, if there was one, was inaudible but after some more thumping, Jamie emerged with a tube of antiseptic and bandages. "One sec, I'll get you soap and water. Oh, a towel too. Vivien says to wash first and pat it dry, then…"
She went on as she disappeared into the kitchen. Yates tried to follow her and Ginger stumbled, not expecting the movement. They ended up in a heap on the carpet.
"No, I'll get a bowl! Wait!" She reached toward them as if to just yank up two grown men, but she stopped herself. She straightened out and offered a hand instead.
Yates went to take it, but then Ginger bent over and puked on the carpet. Yates’s face crumpled and he quickly positioned himself in front of Ginger, hunching over him protectively. “I’m sorry! It’s not his fault. He’s been vomiting for the past few days.”
"Uh, yeah, that happens." She was suddenly a bit quieter, smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Yeah, I'm gonna… can I help you get him on the sofa?"
“Please. I can’t… I don’t think he can stand anymore.” Yates was near tears. “He’s been like this for a while and I hate that I can’t do anything. He tries to push himself for me but then this happens.”
The corner of her lip twitched. "I get that."
She knelt down and gripped Ginger under his arms, dragging him up. Her brows knitted together, teeth grit, but she managed to frog march him to the sofa and forced him into a sitting position. Yates sat beside him and held his shoulders when he started slumping forwards. Ginger was barely conscious now, his eyes glazed and half-closed.
The hours were a blur, soap and antiseptic and coaxing painkillers and water down Ginger's throat while he was still pliable. Jamie was all over the place but the faceless Vivien never made an appearance. By the time they’d finished, Ginger was asleep - or unconscious.
And then Yates was stirring, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. When did he fall asleep, and how long? It was almost pitch black save for a light from the hall.
After a quick check that Ginger was still breathing, he heard it: mumbled voices from down that hall. He carefully moved off the sofa, silent in his bare feet, and crept towards the noise and the light. He peered through the crack in the door.
"Just- okay," Jamie said, trying to control her volume as it started to rise. "If you're goin' to be fookin' useless, just give me David's number."
"What's she saying?" This voice was unfamiliar, and effortlessly quieter than Jamie's. "Jamie, what's she saying?"
"She thinks a phone call will put her safehouse in danger. She's worked with countless o' us and she's too chickenshit to take on a pair that's got in a bitta trouble. What? Murderer? Marianne, that's blimey unfair to call him that! Just give us David's number!"
Yates started shaking at the word. Murderer murderer murderer. Was Stanley dead then? Did people know about it already? He hadn’t really meant to push Stanley - or he hadn’t planned it, at least. When Stanley had been ranting and raving about how he was going to split him and Ginger up, something in Yates just snapped. Stanley was hovering right there, tantalisingly close to the perilous staircase. He pushed without thinking. But he’d still pushed. He was a murderer.
"Jamie, they'll hear you! You're so loud!"
"Mar, just… Vivi, can you go check on them?"
"No fear!"
Yates was trying to stay quiet, but murderer was still spinning in his head. A little whimper slipped out before he could stop it.
There was a beat of silence that seemed to last for hours.
"Hold on, gimme a sec. And you better not fookin' hang up."
The door opened slowly. A girl with a puff of frizzy brown hair and gigantic eyes stared from the bed, but she faded to the background. The girl standing before him was almost unrecognizable with her black hair lying limply and makeup washed off; no contouring giving the impression of high cheekbones, eyebrows and eyelashes almost nonexistent at a glance for they were so pale. But the voice was unmistakably Jamie.
"Hey, so you heard that. That's fair, it is your business, but… this prob'ly wasn't the best way to start the discussion."
“You promised you wouldn’t turn us in,” Yates gasped. He felt like all the air in the room had been sucked out, and he gasped frantically. “You said you were on our side! But now they’ll come for us and split us up.”
"No one's turnin' anyone in. Come sit down, you look ready to faint."
“I h-heard you say it. You called me murderer,” Yates whispered.
"No, I was sayin' that you're not, I know the kinda circumstances…"
“We’ve got nowhere to go,” Yates said, starting to sob frantically. “I don’t know what to do!”
"Listen, listen. There's people who help us when we escape. There are places for us to stay. And I'm tryin' to get you to one of these safehouses so you'll be safe."
“You promise?” Yates wept. “You won’t split us up either?”
"No way. Vivien and I met in a safehouse, didn't we?" Jamie asked, and the frizzy-haired girl gave a jerky nod. "They're fine, way better than what we left. No owners, none o' that shit."
“Will they help Ginger’s hand?” He gasped. “Oh, I said his name!”
"Ginger?" She raised her invisible eyebrows, snorting humorlessly. "I was interchangeably Blondie and Bimbo. Yeah, they'll help him. They'll have all the right medications."
“I don’t think he likes his name much. He says we can choose our own now,” Yates said. “But I don’t think that’s allowed.”
"Come in, sit," she said, practically forcing him to sit on the bed, as Vivien retreated from the room. "Who says it's not allowed?"
“Everyone…” he mumbled. “Everyone in training and Stanley and Ivy.” Yates wasn’t too good at this lying low business.
"So? You're not pets anymore. I named me Jamie."
“Why Jamie?”
"Dunno. Felt right. Not too girly, not too boy-ee, short and simple, straight to the point."
“Did your owners name you first?”
"One, not owners. Slave drivers. Two, kind of, as I said earlier. Not a proper name, just…" She pulled a face, and put on a deeper, plummy voice. "''Come here, Blondie!' 'Don't drop that, Bimbo!'"
“Stanley called me by his surname. He could be so kind to me,” Yates mumbled, fingering the collar still in his pocket.
The phone on the bed vibrated. Jamie picked it up and looked at it as she talked. "Tell me, Curls. Should a human have possession of another human?"
“I…” He winced as his head throbbed and he reverted back to the phrases drilled into him in training. “That’s none of my concern. I just have to work diligently and follow orders.”
"Why? Why do you have to do that and not, say, Stanley? Think about it, I got this schmuck's number."
“Schmuck?” He didn’t recognise that word. Was it bad?
"I don't know the origins but yeah, it's derogatory. I like to think of it as a mix o' shit and fuck but there's an m, so I dunno."
“You have his number?” Yates started shaking again, biting his lip. What did she mean? He’d had a number before, him and Ginger. Was this David one of them too?
"Yeah? His mobile? He's this big money agent of sorts, he's not so bad actually but ya know, rich people."
“Sorry, yes, of course. It just… started to feel real,” Yates mumbled dazedly. “And you’re sure he’s good? He won’t turn us in?”
"Nah, he has a huge network for pet lib. Uh, pet liberation. He helps us get free. He doesn't run a safehouse, he's too much in the public eye so he'd get caught, but he, like, funds a bunch and I think his son runs one. If I ring him he'll know where to place you."
“Can’t we just stay here with you?” Jamie was the first person to treat them kindly since… well, as long as Yates could remember.
"You can come and visit, I'd love that. We're mates now, right? But you guys need medical care, therapy, shit you won't get here. Plus I work nights six days a week and Vivien, much as I love her, won't be a great hostess to you two."
“But we can visit? Definitely?”
"Yeah, and if David tells me where you are I'll visit too."
Yates smiled; it was very weak, but it was his first real smile in days.
It was almost peaceful - almost - with the orange-pink light of the rising sun filling the room, a steaming cup of watery hot chocolate in his hands, a cartoon playing on the TV, him and Ginger getting a good night of sleep for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. The anxiety was still there as Jamie murmured to an unseen stranger on the phone, occasionally peeking out of the kitchen to check on him, and the uncertainty surrounding Ginger's fever and bandaged hand.
Jamie came out at last, the rectangular outline of her phone in her baggy pyjama pants. She grinned and gave him a thumbs up, perching on the arm of the couch.
“Is it all fixed?” he whispered, hardly daring to hope.
"Yep. Says he'll be sendin' someone promptly, his words. Hopefully you get someone fun, my Marianne was such a fussy grandma."
“I don’t think Ginger would like fussy people.”
"Let's cross our fingers, bud." She crossed her fingers for him to see. "But you won't be placed with anyone bad, I promise."
“Okay…” Yates still didn’t look too sure. He stuck close to Jamie, following her around like a puppy. He jumped violently when there was a soft knock on the door sometime later.
Warnings for institutionalized slavery, power abuses, victim blaming, dehumanization, violence, blood, hints of dubcon (nothing explicit). Skeevy stuff.
“I’ve given you every fucking reason to trust me!”
“You stick your dick in anything with a pulse!”
She pressed the heels of her hands against her ears but the noise grew louder.
“She’s just going through a phase!”
“She’s out of control!”
Sweetie clenched her teeth against the throbbing in her head.
Michelle was awake so she had to be too, though it wasn’t like she could anyway with all the noise. She paced about her room, forcing herself to listen to Kurt and Michelle’s shouting, because if she let her mind wander she would imagine herself in a different home with long hair and no-
Bad, very bad. This was her home and she was very happy with Michelle as her owner… more so when Kurt wasn’t here.
No, no. She loved Kurt because Miss Michelle loved Kurt and she loved Miss Michelle… Wait, no, Miss Michelle said not to even look at Kurt, but…
She draped a scarf from her cat-ear headband and stuck it on her head. Flicking the scarf back and striding about, she could pretend that was long hair she felt down her back even while she stayed grounded in the apartment she loved, listening to the owner she loved so bicker with the man Sweetie… existed in the same space as.
“Don’t put your fucking hands on me!”
The scarf and headband had scarcely touched the carpet before Sweetie was out the door, exiting the hall, flinging herself between the man and woman.
“DON’T HURT HER!” Sweetie screeched.
They could hear each and every breath, her heartbeat, a pin dropping on the pavement outside as two sets of eyes bore into her.
“Don’t… what do you take me for?” Kurt asked incredulously.
A tug on a lock of hair near Sweetie’s nape, sharp and quick. Again, longer.
“Look at me! NOW”
The world slowed as Sweetie turned and looked into her owner’s red face.
“What the fuck has gotten into you?”
“I thought…”
“You didn’t think! You don’t! Nothing goes on in that stupid fucking head of yours!” Michelle roared it, anger defying gravity as spittle flew up into the tall girl’s face. “I said not to leave your room, and you come out screaming like a banshee. What the fuck?”
She grabbed Sweetie’s wrist, nails biting into her skin as they went toward the smaller bedroom. She let go and pointed at the air mattress, calling after Sweetie as the latter hurried into the room, “Do I need to remind you to stay like you’re a fucking dog?”
The door slammed shut.
“Oh, good, it’s not just me you’re a bitch to,” Kurt snorted.
Sweetie pressed her hands against her ears again, sitting on her bed.
Fuck Kurt. She wished the elevator would fall when he got on it and they could go back to the time before Kurt, their wonderful grace period. The party ruined everything. Kurt, the Heathers, those other people… They should all just…
No. Sweetie loved Michelle and Michelle loved her friends so Sweetie loved Michelle’s friends because Michelle loved them and Sweetie loved Michelle… But Sweetie was for Michelle and Michelle alone so don’t love the friends, only love Michelle…
What was the answer?
“No, no,” Sweetie mumbled to herself. Serve Michelle, don’t wish death on anyone. She was a pet, how dare she act like she was better than anyone? She lifted her hand near her face but lowered it, then raised it again to tug on her hair.
Why would she disobey a command? Of course Kurt wouldn’t harm Michelle. And now Michelle was upset with her.
I was trying to keep a steady-ish posting schedule but that hasn’t happened. I’m flakey as hell now I don’t have teachers and deadlines. I don’t know if any of you guys still remember or care about my pair of whumpees, but I was randomly inspired tonight. Hope you enjoy this anyway.
Tagging: @albino-whumpee @cubeswhump @liliability
Warnings for dehumanizing language, institutionalized slavery, boxboy universe, implications of past self-harm, implied and obvious abuse, implications of drugging, very brief implication of an eating disorder, panic attacks, lots of messed up stuff, you guys know.
Yates never seemed to get completely better after his illness. He stopped coughing, his fever went away, but he stayed very pale, and Ginger could hear how crackly his breathing was at night. His nerves didn’t seem to recover either. Yates’s hands shook now whenever Stanley gave him a task, and he became clumsy and jumpy, forever dropping things. Stanley stopped being so soft with him and started yelling, which just made things worse. Yates was a bundle of stress.
He cried bitterly every night, cradled in Ginger’s arms. “I’m a failure,” he sobbed. “I keep messing up. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“It’s not you, it’s never been you. You’re just tired, that’s all it is,” Ginger insisted over and over, but Yates couldn’t seem to hear him.
Seeing Yates looking so pale and miserable all the time made Ginger burn with fury. He didn’t care about the pain in his head now; he was frequently spitting in Ivy and Stanley’s food, arguing back, slamming doors, doing anything he could to draw their attention away from Yates. He was disciplined over and over, in new and creative ways, until he was black and blue all over, but it was worth it to keep Yates safe.
The first time he swore at Ivy he was chained up in the garden all night, completely naked. Ginger drew his bare knees up to his chest and held them tight, shivering. English winter nights could grow cold enough to kill, especially when a person had no protection; maybe that’s what Ivy wanted.
Maybe that’s what Ginger wanted too.
“Ginger?”
Ginger jumped, his head snapping up off his knees. Yates was standing beside him, pale and anxious, carrying a blanket.
“What’re you doing here? How’d you get out of the room?” Ginger asked.
“Window,” Yates whispered, cuddling up beside Ginger and wrapping the blanket around them both. “I couldn’t just leave you out here. Give me your hands, I’ll warm them.”
“You’ll get into trouble if they catch us,” Ginger said, linking his fingers with Yates’s.
“I couldn’t leave you,” Yates repeated firmly. He clasped Ginger’s freezing hands between his own, rubbing them hard.
Ginger smiled weakly. Maybe he didn’t want to die just yet.
It was hard to hang onto that feeling during the day, even so. Ivy found fault with everything he did now, and Stanley was equally brutal with Yates. Ginger’s headache was constant, but he refused to lie down and take it. He argued, yelled, swore and spat like a wildcat, allowing Yates to creep around relatively unnoticed.
Ivy had taken to standing in the kitchen while Ginger cooked, peering over his shoulder and critiquing every single thing he did, even the most basic things like pouring water. Each correction carried its own insult.
“Stir that syrup, it’s sticking to the bottom of the pan! Are you blind as well as stupid?”
“I thought icing cakes was your speciality? Seems you only specialise in failure.”
“You’re too heavy-handed with that whisking. I don’t know why we ever bought you. You’re such a disappointment.”
Ginger knew Ivy was just trying to wind him up - but it was working. He felt like he was boiling along with the syrup. It was so unfair to be stuck making wonderful desserts for two people who told him he was stupid and useless and disappointing - and he couldn’t even spit in the food with Ivy hovering.
Ginger held his tongue, presenting Ivy with the finished cake. It was baked beautifully despite Ivy’s complaints, with pin-neat icing flowers and swirls, the buttercream smooth as silk. It was perfect - but Ivy sniffed scornfully. She gripped the plate and slowly pushed it off the counter, watching it fall face down on the floor with a depressing splat.
“Make another one,” she commanded, then turned on her heel to walk away.
Ginger felt like someone had ignited a bomb in his chest. He burned all over with rage. Without thinking, he grabbed hold of the egg box, took one out and pelted it with all his force at Ivy. The egg hit her squarely in the back of her head, splattering yolk down her back and in her hair. The force of the blow sent her staggering forward with a scream. She peered over her shoulder, looking bewildered. For a second.
Ivy’s face flushed a deep red, and she rushed at Ginger, gripping fistfuls of his red hair and slamming him against the kitchen counter. “How dare you!” she screamed, shaking him so violently he felt she’d yank out clumps of his scalp too. “I won’t stand for this. You’ll learn if I have to beat you till you piss blood!”
“Get off me!” Ginger yelled back. He tried kicking out at Ivy, but he was weak and undernourished, and Ivy was a big, strong lady. He couldn’t wriggle free.
“Give me your hand!” Ivy commanded. Ginger didn’t, so she took hold of his left wrist herself, dragging him over to the cooker. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. You’ll be able to look at your hand every day after this and remember what happens to disobedient little pets.”
She swept the dirty saucepans away with a flick of her arm. The hob was still on, glowing bright red with heat. Ginger renewed his efforts to break free, but Ivy hung on grimly, battering him about the head with her free hand.
“Remember this,” she snapped, and pressed Ginger’s palm firmly against the hob.
The scream Ginger let out echoed through the whole house. It was barely human, like the howl of a dying animal in a trap. Ivy held his hand down for a good three seconds, though it felt like a lifetime to Ginger. He arched his fingertips, trying his hardest to escape the blinding heat, but Ivy had her hand pressing down on the back of his own, so Ginger’s palm couldn’t be spared.
When she finally let him go, Ginger collapsed in a heap on the floor, whimpering. He cradled the burned hand to his chest. It was bright red and already starting to blister. The kitchen was filled with a sickly sweet, burning smell, and he gulped in horror when he realised he was smelling his own cooked flesh. He couldn’t stop the tears this time, though he hated Ivy seeing how much she’d hurt him.
Ivy laughed heartlessly. “I told you so,” she said. She crouched down in front of him, her voice soft, menacing. “You’ll never win. You’ll learn to do as you’re told if it kills me - or if it kills you.” Then she stalked out the room, leaving Ginger sobbing on the floor.
Yates was horrified when he saw Ginger’s hand that night. He’d heard the scream, but Stanley hadn’t allowed him to go investigate. Ginger told him the whole story, whispering because his crying had left his voice raw and painful. He couldn’t remember how long he’d cried; it must’ve been hours. His hand was still so painful he couldn’t move it. His fingertips were mostly spared, though they were raw and red, but his palm was screaming and covered all over with throbbing blisters. He couldn’t even make a fist anymore.
“Ivy did this?” Ginger had never seen Yates look so angry. “That’s horrible! Oh, you must be hurting so badly. How could she?” He took hold of Ginger’s hand. “You poor thing... Here, I’ll help you. I’ll fix it.”
They sat up well into the night while Yates cleaned, treated and bandaged Ginger’s palm as best he could with the limited supplies. He didn’t have anything stronger than pharmacy painkillers and it barely touched Ginger’s agony. Before the burn was even properly dressed, Ginger had been begging Yates to stop for almost an hour. He was howling again, light-headed with pain.
“Stop, stop, please...” he moaned.
“I’m almost done, I promise,” Yates whispered. He saw Ginger starting to wobble and quickly pulled him close, right onto his own lap. Ginger was bigger and heavier so Yates must’ve been very squashed, but he didn’t complain. “Put your head on my shoulder. I don’t want you fainting. Your eyes keep losing focus.”
Ginger let his head fall on Yates’s shoulder with a thump, biting his shirt hard when the treatment continued and the pain returned with a vengeance. He managed not to faint, but the agony combined with his sobbing made him retch. He thumped Yates’s shoulder weakly with his good hand. “Le’ me up,” he gasped. “‘M gonna puke.”
“No, you stay there,” Yates said firmly. “I don’t care if you’re sick. Do whatever you need to. Vomit, bite my shirt, bite me if you need to. It’s alright.”
So Ginger stayed, and when he did bring up bile and spit all down Yates’s back and across their mattress, Yates didn’t even flinch. Ginger felt a soft hand rubbing up and down his back, a gentle voice shushing him when he groaned.
“I know, I’m sorry, but we need to make sure it’s treated properly,” Yates said, his own face crumpling whenever Ginger whimpered. “I’ll change your bandages every day, but it’s going to take a while before this heals. How’re you going to do any cooking and cleaning?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Ginger sighed wearily. “Never mind that now. I don’t even care about the mess. Let’s just get some sleep, please.”
The next day was exceptionally difficult for Ginger. He supposed that was what Ivy had wanted. His bandages were cumbersome and clumsy, and the pain was still so terrible he couldn’t put any weight on the afflicted hand. Ivy made sure to give him every possible job that required two hands, eventually resorting to ordering him to move heavy furniture across the room and back with no real purpose other than to cause him pain. Several times Ginger’s knees buckled from the agony, his vision becoming dark and fuzzy at the edges, but Ivy’s shrill voice would always drag him back to reality. He vomited again three times before noon.
Ivy elbowed Ginger out of the way when he prepared Stanley’s lunch tray, piling it with half a dozen plates, cups, cutlery, even a teapot. She smirked, handing it to Ginger. “Be careful, it’s heavy!” she said in a falsely bright voice. “Hold it with both hands.”
Ginger couldn’t. It wasn’t even about defiance anymore, he really truly couldn’t. He was almost sobbing with the pain already, shifting the majority of the tray’s weight to his right hand. He couldn’t take this anymore. He wanted to run far away, across fields and over pavements and through cities. He wanted to lock himself away with Yates and never see another person again. He wanted to cut his own hand off to stop the pain. He wanted so many things and none of them were allowed.
Stanley’s door was closed. Ginger tried nudging it with his foot, but it didn’t budge. He didn’t know how he was supposed to get the door open with just one working hand. He knocked, but Stanley just barked at him to come in already and stop hovering outside. Ginger sighed, juggling the tray and trying to hold it just for a second with his left hand as he grasped for the door handle with his right.
Sharp pain surged all the way up his left arm in an instant. He stumbled through the doorway with a yelp, dropping the tray with a terrible clatter. Food splashed all across the linoleum and crockery shattered into shards of glass like glittering stars. Stanley and Yates gawped as Ginger landed on his knees on the bedroom floor, crouched in the midst of the mess.
“You stupid, clumsy idiot!” Stanley roared, his face flushing scarlet. He grabbed his walking stick and raised it to swing.
“Oh please, sir! It’s not Ginger’s fault,” Yates gasped frantically. “He’s hurt his hand, sir. He shouldn’t really be working at all. Please don’t hit him! He’s being so brave and-”
“Shut up, will you! You’re getting far too mouthy. Ginger’s a bad influence. You shouldn’t question me, boy.” Stanley paused, walking stick still raised like he was about to conduct an orchestra. He suddenly smirked, holding it out to Yates. “Okay. I won’t hit him.”
Yates took the stick gingerly. “R-really, sir?”
“Am I not a man of my word? You, Ginger!” he barked.
Ginger raised his head, glaring through his curtain of red hair.
“Hold out your hand!”
Ginger did as he was told.
“No, not your right hand. The one with the wound,” Stanley said, still smiling. Ginger did so, far more reluctantly. Stanley turned to Yates. “I won’t hit him. So you’ll have to do it for me. That’s what you’ve been trained to do, correct? So whack him six times on that hand with my walking stick. And don’t you dare hold back or I’ll double the punishment.”
Yates stared at Stanley, mouth gaping. “But... but he’s so badly hurt, sir.”
“That’s no concern of mine. Get to it.” He paused. “At once!”
Yates glanced at Ginger, helpless and terrified. Ginger tried to smile at him. It’s okay, he mouthed. He wanted to comfort him, but Yates’s eyes filled with tears - bad tears, that’s what they’d been taught. He’d never seen Yates cry properly.
“No,” Yates said quietly, his voice wobbling. He put the stick back in its usual place by Stanley’s bed.
“What?” Stanley snapped. “What’re you waiting for? Do as you’re told, boy!”
“I won’t,” Yates said. He blinked, and two fat tears ran down his face. “I’m not going to hit him, especially when he’s hurt.”
Stanley trembled with rage. He grabbed his stick and aimed a swipe at Yates instead, and Ginger hurried to his feet to drag Yates out of reach. Stanley shakily swung his legs out of bed, leaning heavily on the stick, practically frothing at the mouth.
“You disobedient little swine!” he yelled, pointing mutinously at Yates. “You’re more loyal to him than me, the man who feeds and clothes you and lets you live under his roof. All Ginger ever does is hold you back! How dare you! You’re not to answer to Yates any longer. I don’t want you attached to my name. You’re not worthy of it. You’re nothing.”
Yates was sobbing in earnest. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t hurt Ginger like that. I’m still loyal, I promise, I can still be Yates, I-”
“Shut up!” Stanley screamed. He turned to Ginger, crimson in the face and breathing heavily. “And you! You were a mistake right from the start. You’re the cause of all this!”
“What the hell is going on up here? What’s all the noise?” Ivy demanded, rushing into the crowded bedroom too. “Oh for God’s sake, look at the mess on the floor! And what’s your idiot blubbering about, Stanley?”
Stanley wasn’t listening. “Get him out of here!” he boomed, pointing at Ginger. He sounded so fierce that Ivy did as she was told at once, grabbing a fistful of Ginger’s hair and yanking him out the door.
“You just wait!” Stanley continued, staggering out into the hall and yelling down the stairs as Ivy pulled Ginger away. He was exceptionally wobbly without his wheelchair, supporting himself on his stick and the wall. “I’ll turn you out of my house without a care. You’ll die like a dog in the gutter, you’ll see. I won’t have you two together anymore. You’re getting in the way of Yates’s work. You need to be separated!” He wavered precariously, eyes wild.
Ginger felt sudden panic, raw and sharp. “You can’t split us up! We’re a pair!” he yelled.
“I can do whatever I want with you. You’re mine,” Stanley said triumphantly. “And you’ll do as I say, and be out of here by-“
Stanley was cut off by a sudden cacophony of bumps and thumps, then eerie, still silence. Ivy, almost back at the kitchen with Ginger in tow, quickly hauled him back to the bottom of the stairs.
They stopped short. Stanley was lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, head twisted uncomfortably and staring at the ceiling. There were shallow, rasping gasps coming from low in his chest. His eyes swivelled round frantically, the only part of his body still able to move freely.
Ivy started screaming. Ginger’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t make a sound. He looked up - and saw Yates standing there at the top of the stairs, face ghostly pale, eyes wide, outstretched arms shaking, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done.
There wasn’t time to think. They couldn’t let Ivy recover from the shock. Ginger dashed up the stairs, grabbed hold of Yates and rushed him down past Stanley’s crumpled body, along the corridor and out the door. They ran like rats despite the hard pavement cutting their bare feet. They ran even though they had no idea where to go next.
I felt really uncomfortable and lonely while writing this.
Tagging @brutal-nemesis @more-miserables
Warning for blood, brief surgery, narration that reminds me a lot of depression moods.
“Good morning, Deary,” Lorelai whispered, petting along his coarse dreadlocks. No movement, no change in his steady breathing.
“Can you hear me, Dearil?”
Empty bedpan. Administer vitamins.
“When you wake up, I’ll be here. We’re gonna be okay.”
She returned when she was dressed in her scrubs, hair tied back. She stroked the back of right his hand with her thumb, the other in a sling. She carefully avoided the row of staples to kiss his forehead. She switched on the baby monitor before she left.
Do ICU nurses get this lonely when they tend to comatose patients? Brushing his teeth, washing him with a sponge, doing anything – he was completely unresponsive.
Everybody talked and they never stopped. Viktor’s replacement was unbearably chatty. Her supervisor complained about his absense. Classmates wanted to compare notes.
Class went terribly. She hardly paid attention to the lecture and kept going over the pathetic answer she’d written down: Patient has sciatic neuritis.
That was so obvious, surely the instructor wanted her to elaborate. Causes. Treatments. Lifestyle changes.
She was such a fucking failure. She wanted to just sit on her car with her head in her hands, but she had to check her messages.
Her nextdoor neighbor was holding onto a package. Perfect, the G-tube. Now Dearil could eat properly. Did she have time to pick it up. Go home, and insert it? No way, she had work in an hour and a half, and to drive to the beach house and back was two hours.
Baby monitor was silent as ever, just the beeping that told her he was alive.
A private message from Magickal_Shells asking aboyt her progress. Ugh, why did she make that post in the first place? She was considering deleting her account, but paused.
She sent aessage back: Prove you’re not a fed.
She picked up the package and thanked Mrs. Jeffreys. “I’ve been staying wuth my boyfriend, he’s going on and on about getting a house together.”
The old woman rolled her eyes, laughing. “Men always want to go too fast. You be careful with that one.”
Lorelai checked her phone as she got back in the car. Another message from Magickal_Shells. A picture of a driver’s license with a tiny UK flag, no information blurred. Was this girl serious?
Lorelai was momentarily intrigued by how subtle and plain the card was compared to her flashy United States one, but she turned her attention to the details. Why was the information numbered?
Morgan, Shelley Patricia.
18.1.20XX. January 18, or 18 of January. Nineteen years old.
Lincolnshire, England.
Organ donor.
Lorelai plugged the name into a background check website. She didn’t check the cost before entering her bank account details to pay.
Sparkly clean record. Popular in green witch communities. Student at some low-ranking university. Currently worked as a cashier at Aldi’s and volunteered at a homeless shelter.
Lorelai never trusted a goodie-two-shoes.
She sent a quick message: Skype call on Saturday?
The response was a happy emoji. Lorelai sighed.
What time works for you? she asked, already regretting this.
I can chat after work. 2PM?
Lorelai checked the time conversion and cringed. She was not talking to some overly enthusiastic stranger first thing in the morning.
They worked out a better time, 12 PM Eastern standard, 5PM British standard.
Another message from Shelley: I can’t wait XX
Lorelai cringed and exited the forum.
Work came at last. She was almost relieved to work among the bodies with Chatty Cathy (or was her name Amy?), but she stopped at the entrance to the morgue, her breath catching.
On the door was the biggest black moth she had ever seen. Or was that a butterfly? She took out her phone but before she could pull the camera up, it flew at her face. She swallowed a scre as she batted at the stupid insect.
A black butterfly means death, change, or misfortune. Rarely has positive connotations. A black moth is said to be the soul of a loved one saying goodbye.
She checked the baby monitor right there in the hallway, and the steady beeping allowed her to breathe.
She didn’t have time to stand there any longer abd look up visual differences between butterflies and moths. Either way, right now she really hated lepidoptera.
A couple hours with Chatty Whatever. An hour drive home lengthened by traffic.
It was so cold by the water as Lorelai got out of her car. She was glad she’d bundled Dearil up nice and warm before she left.
“Deary, I’m hone,” she called, shutting the door softly behind her. No response, never a response.
She pureed fruits, vegetables, and protein powder with the food processor under the counter. Dearil would hate if she put any meat in there. She set the sludge aside and went to tend to Dearil. Change bedpan, change into clean gloves, ice and benzocaine a few inches left of the sutured Y-incision.
It felt so wrong slicing into him now that his skin was warm and his chest rose and fell, but he needed to eat. Blood poured around the newest incision. Dearil took a sharp breath and Lorelai gasped.
She wanted to be gentle, but she alsp wanted this over with as soon as possible. It was harder to dorce the bulbous end of the G-tube into the incision than she expected, and she stood for a full minute after watching him for signs of shock.
She was being ridiculous. It would take more than an inch-long incision and a bit of plastic in his stomach to kill him after everything.
She filled the feeding bag eith the vegetable puree and hung it from the hook she’d installed on the wall.
“There,” she murmured after what felt like the longest silence. “You must be hungry.”
She paused, looking him over. The bandaging holding his jaw shut, the discolored pstches of skin held with threading and staples, the eyes taped shut, a white arm in a sling, the IV in one hand, and now a G-tube.
But he was still Dearil, and one day he’d thank her. Just not today.
Warning for violence, sexual humor (or Elias’ attempts at humor), burns, blood, broken bones.
“You really believe this load of shit?“ Elias huffed, looking over Asiri’s shoulder at the tiny screen. Alicia Aldridge.
"No, of course I don’t. But if there really is some poor girl they’re torturing…” Asiri had that look on her face, that self-righteous burning. He glanced at his coffee and took a sip instead of splashing it in her face. “If there’s any chance, even the tiniest chance that this girl exists, I’m not gonna risk-”
“Blah blah, I have a hero complex, blah.”
“I don’t… You know what, fine.” Asiri got up and went into the kitchen to do her research in peace.
Alicia Aldridge was legitimately the medical director at Grimaldi Calbot University. Her lip curled as she read the page. “Pretentious fucking…ivy league wannabe…”
Alecia, the bespectacled, smiling blonde on the page. But was the caller truly Alicia? A few clicks and she was on the line with the medical institute.
“Please hold while I transfer you.”
“Please hold.”
“Do you know your party’s extension?”
“Please hold.”
She sighed. There goes her afternoon.
***
Asiri had worked as a vet for decades, and she knew that bathing cats was easier than getting Elias into her car.
Refused to get out of bed until Asiri threatened to smash his windshield, refused to put on clothes until she grabbed the hammer, took his sweet old time putting on makeup and doing his hair.
Asiri tended fo dress more formally than even the older generations still living, but Elias… this was absurd. Her slacks and well-ironed button down were one thing. Sje no longer batted an eye at Elias’ three-piece suit, compleye with a magenta vesy and fill face of makeup. At least the curling iron he used was of this century.
“Your perfume is way too strong,” she complained.
“You can deal with it,” Elias shot back, dropping the lighter into his purse.
Two hours in the car with Elias. Conflict aviudance, conflict avoidance…
Elias propped his feet up on the dashboard, shoes glinting in the sun. Asiri reached for the radio, but he slapped her hand away.
“None of your modern bullshit,” he told her.
“What, so you want to talk to me the full drive?” she snapped. He pulled a book out of his purse.
“No, I want to read in silence.”
“Okay, fair.” She was dragging him on a ride he didn’t want to come on.
She squinted at his page as she pulled out of the driveway, making a face. “You know there’s digital porn nowadays. Like, with visuals.”
“Yes, I have magazines,” he told her, and she didn’t bother explaining video. “And this book isn’t solely pornographic. The plot is mostly romance. A bit of erotica.”
“Do you even do romance?”
“Of course. My favorite part of a loving relationship is when the man I’ve grown attached to goes senile, forgets who I am, and dies.”
“Has… has that happened before?”
“No way. I only do flings.”
Okay. Chat over. Well, in theory. She hated silence.
She took out her phone at a stop sign, and Elias frowned as the radio came to life.
“How’d you do that?” he asked. “You didn’t even touch it.”
“My phone is hooked up to the radio,” she explained.
“No it’s not. There’s not a wire.”
She had no idea how to explain Bluetooth, and lapsed back into silence.
“Well turn this shit off.”
She rolled her eyes but hit pause just to keep the peace. Back to driving, and silence.
“Ugh!” She couldn’t take this. “So, this immortal got, well, wrapped up in the Holocaust.”
“Just got wrapped up in it?” Elias snorted. “Got caught up in some inconvenient genocide?”
Another eye-roll. “You know what I mean. Anyway, after you’ve been around for a while, you tend to know how to avoid danger, persecution.”
“We know how to avoid trouble,” Elias said, not looking up from his book, “you say, as we walk straight into the arms of some scientists.”
“Shut up. I’m wondering, could she be new?”
“I’m sure there are some of us that kept a low profile.”
“Who, not that. That refers to objects, who refers-”
A white finger pressed to her lips. The perfume was overwhelming.
“Sh,” Elias said, staring at her. “Shut your fucking pedantic mouth or I throw myself out of the car.”
“Okay, okay, go on.”
“Anyway, there’s that, euh, Korean guy, and the Spanish girl you were totally in love with-”
“Kyung-soo,” Asiri hissed, glaring at him before her eyes flicked back to the road, “and Fernanda. Fernanda is from Argentina, and we were just friends.”
“You have such a stick up your ass,” Elias said, chuckling. He stopped, eyebrows knitting together. “Good God, there might be some that stopped aging even younger than us. Did you even get your first period?”
“For a matter of fact I did, jackass.”
“Well, kids hit puberty later back then… but married younger. It’s wild. But imagine being stuck in a kid body forever. You’d never lose your virginity.”
“They’d still have a child’s brain, you pig!”
“Yeah, biological… uh, physical? Well, like, regular brain development would stagnate - no, stop entirely - but socisl development probably changes, yeah? I mean, your personality got super shitty just in the last…” He counted on his glimmering pink nails as she rolled her eyes. “Forty years. We still change, just not on a physical level. You’d be more mature than your biological age. Being a kid forever would completely suck.”
“This is a disgusting conversation. You’re disgusting. Sex isn’t the only thing on most people’s minds,” Asiri said pointedly.
“I suppose it does make sense that you’d shut out thoughts of what you can’t have. Poor, poor virgin Asiri.”
“How do you even get people to listen to the shit that comes out of your mouth long enough to get them in bed?”
“You know how charming I can be, cher,” he drawled, winking at her.
Time to end this conversation.
Elias stared at his page for a while before turning it. He was a horribly slow reader, spending ages on each page, and when he finally got to the next chapter he bent the top corner of the page and closed the book.
“If you’re done reading, I’m putting on music,” Asiri murmured.
“No chance in hell,” Elias replied. He put his book back in his bag and fished around until he found his cigar and ligher.
“Don’t you dare,” Asiri growled. Elias brought the cigar to his lips, lighting it with a grin.
“I do dare,” he breathed, smoke leaving his red lips.
“Elias! Put it out!” Asiri yelled, rolling down the windows. He took another, much longer drag and turned towatd her, bowing the stream of smoke out right in her face. She flushed red, gritting her teeth.
Her hand shot out. Elias could scarcely blink before the cigar was in her hand and then soaring out the window. He sighed heavily, and her eyes went back to the road.
The passenger door opened. Her head whipped around in time to see Elias, knees pulled to his chest, leap out of the car. She slammed on the brakes inches from the back of the car in front of her. A man’s head poked out.
“YOU STUPID BITCH! WHO TAUGHT YOU HOW TO DRIVE?” he was screaming, but she was watching the redhead zigzagging in and out of traffic, one arm flapping limply at his side.
She had to look away to pull onto the shoulder of the road, and she’d barely looked away for a few seconds before there was a thump!
She couldn’t apologize enough to the old woman in the other car. She was crying even after Asiri showed identification and proved their immorality status, assuring her, “he’s okay! He’ll heal!”
She wound up giving the woman most of the cash in her wallet even though it was just a little dent, and finally sent her on her way. People were slowing down to stare as Asiri gripped this idiot under his armpits abd dragged him into the grass.
“Easy on the arm, fuck,” he hissed, but he was laughing even as his face creased with pain. And the cigar was pinched between his lips, unlit.
“Happy now?” she snapped, and he squeaked when she dropped him on the ground. “What hurts?”
“Definitely broke my hip. No, whole pelvis. Internal bleeding, vieil ami.” His voice was tense and wobbled as he delved into his coat pocket with his good hand. “Yep. Maybe ruptured my bladder, I might have peed a little. Is it obvious?”
Asiri rolled her eyes, but helped him lean back againstthe car. “Be serious.”
“Seriously a bad day to wear grey. I won’t think you’re flirting if you look at my crotch.” His hand shook as he brought his lighter up to his cigar. The flame kept going out. Asiri snatched the lighter away and lit it for him. “Thank you, cher.”
He took a drag and took the handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping at the blood dripping from his temple.
“Do you feel like a winner?” Asiri asked him.
“I sure do. Hey, can you pop my arm back into place? It’ll heal faster that way.”
Asiri peered at Elias’ oddly-hanging arm, coat torn. She drew her fist back and punched him right in the shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, and then she was reeling back as her forehead ignited with white-hot pain. She patted at the singed circle of flesh, then smacked the cigarette out of his hand as he was bringing it back to his lips.
“When you’re at least 70 percent healed, I’m going to beat the shit out of you for all of this,” she warned. He waved dismissively. “You better be able to walk when we arrive. Ugh, we’re going to be so late.”
Elias chuckled, and winced.
Asiri dropped her head into her hands, sighing heavily. “You’re on your own with your arm, asshole.”
