#classification au

[xenonitestrap]

some fanart for @caregivertime's fic 'under pressure' !! little grace is sooo important 2 me <3

[indulgentphm]

🔭Classification AU doodles

Cg Stratt&Little Grace💫I’m an absolute sucker for Littles who are taller than their cg, Grace feels absolutely perfect for it. Carl for sure gives Stratt a hand when carrying Grace around the vat, such a clever boy but he is a little no matter what.

Grace is in a constant state of clinging, stage 5 clinger forever. Luckily Stratt doesn’t mind, her little boy can hold onto her for however long he likes.

[caregivertime]

littles are known grace tiny and eva!!!

Littles-are-known/Classification Agere AU for Project Hail Mary 🪐

CW: angst, prescription drug misuse ("suppressants" and stimulants), "impure"/stress-induced regression, panic attacks. || This got away from me, oops. This turned into an entire unbeta'ed 2.3k oneshot my bad o7

☆ This AU establishes age regression as common, with humans either being Littles, Caregivers, and Neutrals, though some deviation from the norm exists. "Instincts" exist between the groups and they fit together like puzzle pieces. A Caregiver can be filed as a Little's official proxy of sorts (ex. being on file as an ICE number in the hospital). Drugs exist to stop regression and instincts regarding care, but these need to be used carefully to avoid long term health consequences (seizures, heart issues, etc), dependency, drug resistance, and more. All age regression remains sfw.

☆ Grace is three things: a Little, stubborn, and a man who has gone through grad school. He's sure that he abused enough Adderall to take a few years off his life, so his inconsistent regression-suppressant use doesn't worry him.

Research, starting his life over, becoming a teacher—Grace worked his behind off to get where he was in life. He experienced no shortage of people talking down to him like he was a child, excluding him, or finding an legal-loophole to refuse him a position "just in case." He resigns himself to separating his small and big sides—shaky hands and crayons had no place in the cold, sterile environment of a laboratory.

As per the recommendation of his prescribing doctor, he takes bimonthly breaks from the drugs so he doesn't wreck himself beyond repair. It's easy to lie about a Caregiver on his file—he never gets himself into a situation where they'd call his old roommate anyway—and not have any eyebrows raised about neglect or endangerment.

The inevitable crash always has him plummeting, but the wails and fear stays confined to the walls of his apartment. He doesn't need a Caregiver—Grace has been doing this long enough on his own to know himself well enough. He buys microwave meals and makes sure his sheets are clean the day before; he cleans the result of the tiny tornado that went through his apartment the day after. He's on top of it, but if he cries because he can't kiss his own bruised knee, then that's no one's business but his own.

...Until it becomes the government's business beyond the L they put on his driver's license. And worse, the information gets into the hands of Eva Stratt—a woman who is so head-strong and serious that Grace wouldn't have guessed she was a Caregiver in a million years if it wasn't for the small pull he felt towards her.

☆ Stratt has a tendency to study everyone she interacts with like they're a bug, but it doesn't help the unease in Grace's stomach whenever she looks at him like he's something to figure out.

She saw his file and still wanted to recruit him to the Petrova Taskforce. It's not his fault if she missed something.

It's not like Grace is lying about his classification—he's been tested, stamped, and approved Little for over a decade. It's public knowledge and helps him be protected from getting fired for needing days off (that he doesn't use, but he would bend over backwards to make sure someone else got what they needed). He's just... not being as truthful as he should be.

Grace's file in the medical system reads 'Age Range: 4-6.' There's never any evidence for a provider to assume otherwise—Grace is a doctor, he should have been on top of his own life enough to be right about whatever he tells them. It's not too out of the realm of possibility. Saying he regressed to 12 would warrant questions about recklessness. Any younger and there would be concern for his own safety—someone dropping so young on suppressants needed blood tests and check ups to monitor the hormones and neurochemicals responsible. A doctor would surely have to talk with his Caregiver because Grace obviously wouldn't be able to advocate for himself.

So he fibs a bit. Ryland Grace: the middle school teacher with a doctorate in molecular biology and Little who drops to ages 4-6. No one has any reason to think differently.

☆ There's plenty of people across and beyond the spectrum on Stratt's Vat. They have their own med bay room for any drops or emergencies (read: a repurposed office that one of the nurses had taken time to decorate) that Grace had been mortified when the director suggested he stop by.

They're the best minds on the planet all working toward their planet's survival. There's no time to doubt each other's qualifications for something as silly as a N, C, or L.

Everyone seems to be on the same page: the world is ending, sometimes you need to drink the anxiety away. For some that's hitting their taxpayer-funded liquor cabinet. For others, that's crying your eyes out into a juice box in a room with animal posters on the walls.

Grace, who is the leading authority on astrophage, doesn't get the luxury of taking a break. He always has a call to make or an email to answer or yields to report. There's so much work piling up that he doesn't know what day it is, much less the last time he took a small break. He's vaguely aware his body is going to reach it's limit sooner or later, but that's a bridge he can cross when it gets there. As soon as the fuzzy feeling enters the back of his mind, he tosses back another pill with an energy drink and locks back in.

☆ The others who share his classification watch a movie every Friday night.

A simple but needed break from the hustle and bustle of their lives. They get together in one of the conference rooms and use the whiteboard as a projector screen, sharing whatever snacks they manage to get from the cafeteria.

The Caregiver who hosts it—a cheerful, chartered financial analyst he should really get the name of—always puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him what movie they'll be watching. Like clockwork, every single Friday at 3 pm, she's there with the warmth that threatens the stability Grace fights to keep.

The first sign that something was wrong should have been that when the woman says they're watching Finding Nemo, he really, really wants to say yes. He catches the yes before it leaves his lips, instead letting out a vague grunt and gesturing to his double laptop setup.

"Maybe next time," even though there's been 10-something next-times he's failed to show up to.

Grace wonders if she believes he'll cave. He offers her a little shrug and turns around, ready to kick off this Friday's all-nighter once this little routine ends.

She doesn't leave. Her hand stays put and the patches she touches through his sweater burn—maybe it's a fever from whatever is going around, shame, or a mix of both.

"I think it's time to take a break." She whispers, despite the fact it's just the two of them in the soundproof lab. "You know you're not supposed to be small in here, bud."

The tone should have anger swell up in his chest, barbed wire wrapping around his throat. Instead, it has part of him stumbling—desperate to run away from the harsh sterility and into the gentle, welcoming vibrato. Every neuron in his body screams for it, yearning coded into the very core of his being.

He doesn't need a break—he's more than qualified to get this done. He has half a dozen hormone-stabilizing patches all over his body and took a pill half an hour ago. The strong ones from home that kept his head steady.

Grace, though, has never been farther from steady. His fingernails dig into his palms as he gets ready to defend himself.

"'M not a kid," and nope, that's not convincing one bit.

He wants to hit his head on the metal table until he forgets this interaction ever happened, wants to tell her to go away, but all that comes out is a little defeated sound.

"How long have you been out here, Dr. Grace?"

Dodging the denial; asking questions meant to frame the conversation like Grace was in control; using his name to create a feeling of trust. Top tier manipulation, to be expected of a government employee.

Or from someone who cares.

"It's only 7," because Grace is a government employee too, "got stuff to work on."

He points a shaky finger (betrayal) to the laptops and she raises an eyebrow.

The screens aren't on.

Panic fills his brain. What the heck has he been doing for the last few hours? He could have sworn he was deep in emails and Overleaf files—did he not plug anything in? Did the battery run out and he didn't notice? God, what if he didn't save and lost all the work from the past week—

She crouches down and places another hand on his shoulder, and that's the final straw. The breath he doesn't even realize he's holding comes out of him a startled, choked-out wheeze. The air is pulled back in as soon as it leaves and Grace's lungs burn from the effort. His face feels too hot and his hands won't stop shaking. His ears are ringing and there's snot coming from his nose and he's going to die.

The fear of not being able to breathe is much bigger than him, now, as he drops down, down, down.

He's pulled against something soft, something warm. He can't do anything to fight it but lightly smack his fists against the soft, comforting wall. The big part of him that knows this isn't very 'AR: 4-6' behavior desperately tries to save some of his dignity.

"Oh, we're small, huh?" The wall vibratos, and the rumbling helps smooth out some of the sharp barbs keep his lungs constricted. "Gonna call Stratt, okay?"

The Caregiver says it so casually, like it's not the end of the entire world. Like Stratt isn't one of the most powerful people on the planet who can drop everything at a moments notice to come get her lead scientist because he couldn't handle a little stress.

The displeasure he makes known is covered by bouncing and shushing. He tries to stifle some of his crying to not be annoying as she talks on the phone, but it just makes him sound like a kicked animal.

Exhaustion starts to take over. Grace is dead weight against the other, all of his energy being used to letting months of angst out. He doesn't know how there's still any tears left to cry.

He recognizes the smell of Stratt's flowery perfume before he sees her and dread sets in.

She can't see him like this. He shoves his face into the sweater he's ruined, inhaling the scent of peach-scented lotion like it'll save him from his fate.

The Caregivers talk above him, but it sounds like Grace's ears are full of water. He makes out words like expired and prescription and young, all adding fuel to the fire that is his shame.

"Dr Grace," a hand rubs up and down his back, separate from the pair holding him close.

She sounds disappointed. He's going to lose his job, or she's gonna hate him and send him away. There's snot all over the nice lady's shirt too, so he's gonna be left all alone because he's gross.

"'M sorry," comes out in a strangled cry and once the words start coming, they don't stop. "Didn't mean t' be bad 'n bother you. Sorry, sorry, sorry."

The rest comes out as gibberish, but Grace's muddled brain can't bring itself to care as it desperately tries to force syllables into words that exist in any language. He sounds ridiculous; he sounds Little.

Arms remove themselves from around him and he shuts his eyes hard enough that his ears sound like bees. This is it, they're gonna send him away or make him swim all the way back to California.

He's being lifted and his breaths come out in erratic gasps again. They're walking somewhere, but Grace keeps his eyes firmly closed. He doesn't want to see the end he knows is coming, just wants to believe the warm coat he's held against is safe.

The cold air outside hits him, but the cold bite of the ocean never comes.

"Breathe, Ryland."

A warm hand comes up to his under-eye and gently smooths the crinkled skin where his eyelids strain. His breaths even out the slightest bit at the gentleness of it all and the cold night air filling his lungs is leagues better than the smell of bleach and ethanol.

Teary blue eyes open and he's met with Eva Stratt. She's in her usual sweater and navy blue coat, but there's no serious crease to her brow. The director isn't looking at him with disappointment; the Caregiver looks at him like Grace is worth something gentle.

Her hands move to the unruly mess of blonde tufts on his head, attempting the Sisyphean of smoothing them out. He giggles a little at her concentration and gets to watch as Eva Stratt honest-to-God smiles.

Pieces fall into place and Grace realizes just how much he's been missing, just how long he's been telling himself he's been treading water while drowning. Alone in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles away from his apartment in San Fransisco, unable to turn around and run. Grace finds himself not wanting to.

Maybe trying to hide secrets from the most powerful woman on the planet wasn't a great choice—Eva knows everything about everyone on the Vat. Especially not lies that she kinda-already-sorta knows the truth to, and most certainly not when a medical file from Grace's recruitment, an emergency Caregiver number belongs to one Eva Stratt.

"There he is."

[distracted-duck]

Gn!Reader who is isekai'd into a classification AU - Part Two

A/N: thank you for all the love on the first part! I know it's a cliche, but I didn't expect anyone to care, haha. Also a cliche, but I genuinely didn't think I was one of those people who gets motivated by people liking their stuff...but here we are ;)

Reader is breathless and wheezing by the time they feel that they’ve sufficiently escaped the two strange adults. It’s almost entirely dark outside now—the streetlights have switched on, filling the empty road with a warm glow—and becoming colder by the minute as the sun dips below the horizon. Reader shivers once they’ve caught their breath, the warmth from their mad dash quickly dissipating, and clutches their dirty jacket close to their body. 

As they continue to walk, they turn the day’s events over in their mind, and it soon dawns on them that wherever they are, it’s not home. This city may resemble their home, but something is wrong—and it’s not just that their physical house is nowhere to be found or that none of the names of anything looked familiar, despite physically being familiar. 

So, Reader thinks, trying to ignore the frigid air nipping at their fingers, I’m either in a really weird city on the other side of the woods that I never knew existed and which never showed up on any maps, or I’m in some sort of alternate dimension. Neither option seems plausible, but one is far easier to fix than the other; just find a place to charge their phone and book a car ride home. 

Yes, Reader considers as they come across a warmly-lit cafe with a late closing time advertised on the door, find a place to charge my phone and then get home. With shaking, shivering hands, they pull the door open and are immediately greeted with a warm gust of air on their face that instantly works to thaw their aching body. 

There’s only two other customers in the cafe; an older man intently tap-tapping away on a laptop, sat in a plush armchair in the corner with a half-eaten scone on a ceramic plate next to him, and a young woman thumbing through a book, nursing a cup of something steaming. Taking a breath to steady themself, Reader nervously treads to the counter. The short-haired barista catches Reader’s eye, and she smiles, though there’s a strange, almost confused quality to her expression. 

“Hi,” Reader starts, fidgeting with their hands. “I’m so sorry, this is sorta weird but—do you happen to have a phone charger I could borrow for a little bit? I just–it’s dead and I don’t have any other way to get home, you know?”

The barista, whose shiny nametag reveals her as Angela, blinks for a moment as she processes. “Um, yeah! Of course. I’ll, uh, go grab one from the back. There’s an outlet at that table there,” she points to a table in the back of the cafe, nestled in a cosy corner with a couch and chair next to it, “if you want to wait there while I get it?” 

“Oh my gosh, thank you so, so much!” Reader says earnestly, genuinely relieved. They settle on the couch next to the outlet, sinking into the squishy cushions. It’s only until after they’ve sat down that they realize just how tired they are; their feet ache from all the walking and despite it still being relatively early in the evening, they feel as though they could fall asleep right then and there. 

The faint clatter of a plate has Reader’s eyes shooting open—wait, when did they close them? They blink, rubbing their eyes before plastering an apologetic expression on their face as they look up to face the barista now in front of them.

“I found a charger,” Angela says, holding up a cable and block with a smile. “Will this work with your phone?”

Reader pulls out their phone and takes the cord, thankful when the charging bit fits in their phone’s charging port, and plugs the block into the wall with a grateful smile. 

“Oh, and I brought you a little something!” Angela says, gesturing to the plate in front of them. It’s a large muffin—raspberry, by the looks of it—with a perfectly-browned streusel topping and polka-dotted wrapper. Reader’s mouth waters just looking at it, but they hold themself back.

“I don’t have any money on me, I’m sorry!” They exclaim, biting their lip, but Angela just shakes her head. 

“Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” She says, waving a hand. “Also, if you want to call someone while your phone charges, you’re free to use mine. You seem like you want to be home sooner rather than later, no?” Her tone is friendly, but there’s an underlying implication in her words that Reader can’t entirely parse out.

“Ah—no, but thank you for the offer. I’m just going to book a ride home once my phone turns back on. ‘Sides, I don’t really…have anyone to call,” they admit, unsure as to why they’re being so open with a stranger in the first place; maybe it’s because they’re so tired, or because Angela seems so nice, so soothing, and she smells very much like lavender and it’s very relaxing…

Angela’s eyes are wide. “No one?” She asks, voice low and concerned in a way that has Reader shifting uncomfortably. 

“I mean—not no one, I guess, but I don’t think any of my friends are available right now, you know?” Reader tries to amend the situation; for some reason, there’s this insurmountable urge to make her happy and unconcerned again that’s clawing at their insides. Just seeing her frowning lips and drawn eyebrows makes Reader want to cry.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to pry, but…don’t you have, like, a caregiver?”

There’s that word again. Caregiver. Hearing it again should freak Reader out  more than it does, but at the moment, they’re just confused and too tired to be scared. The cafe is warm, and Angela is nice, and she hardly seems like a creep. 

“What do you mean by that?” Reader asks evenly, though that familiar feeling of wrongness has started its swirl in their stomach again. “What’s, um, a caregiver?” 

If her eyes were wide before, it’s nothing compared to how they are now. Her mouth opens and closes for a half-second, chin moving like a fish. “Are you—” she stops herself, the crease between her eyebrows deepening as she pauses. “Oh my god, you’re not joking. Oh, oh, honey. Where on earth do you live? How did that even—I mean, surely someone—…wait here. I’ll be right back.” Angela wastes no time to hurry behind the counter and into the backroom, door swinging shut behind her. 

Both of the other cafe patrons look up at the barista’s outburst, confused, before zeroing in on Reader as the cause. Reader stares back at them, wide-eyed, and raises their hands palms-up to signal their shared confusion. 

Just as the two patrons return to their previous activities, Reader’s phone buzzes with life; good timing—they really, really want to get home, and preferably soon. But as they open their newly revived cell phone, another problem quickly makes itself known: no service. What a total piss off, because Reader knows they paid for the unlimited plan. Luckily, the cafe has free wifi, and Reader’s soon reconnected to the sweet, sweet internet. Breathing a sigh of relief, they open Maps.

Nothing loads. The entire digital world is infuriatingly grey and no amount of zooming in and out has any effect. 

Where am I?

“Hey, kiddo,” a gentle voice sounds, startling Reader from their thoughts. It’s a man, on the shorter side, also donning a barista apron; his silver nametag says JJ. 

“Um, hi,” Reader responds, too distracted to notice the nickname. 

“Can I sit with you?” JJ asks, gesturing to the empty seat across from the couch Reader is sitting on. 

“Yeah?” Reader is confused. 

“Awesome, thanks.” JJ slides into the chair. A dark cherry scent flows into Reader’s nose—must’ve been his cologne—and it has a strangely calming effect. “How’re you liking your muffin?”

As if on cue, their stomach grumbles, and Reader blushes. “I haven’t tried it yet. I’m sorry.” 

“Nothin’ to be sorry for. You should try some, though—the raspberry is my favorite.” JJ nudges the plate closer to them. 

The muffin is excellent, just as it looked; fluffy and moist, bursting with flavor from the raspberry pockets inside, and decadently sweet. It takes maybe thirty seconds for Reader to devour the entire thing. 

“You liked it, then?” JJ teases lightly.

“Sorry,” Reader says sheepishly, realizing how unmannerly they must’ve looked. “Didn’t realize how hungry I was.” 

There’s a twitch of a frown that flickers over JJ’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “So, Angela tells me you live all by yourself?” He says it casually, but Reader stiffens. What are these people’s problems? So what if they live alone—Reader’s an adult. It’s perfectly fine for them to be by themself.

“Um, why do you ask?” Reader says cautiously, trying to gauge the man’s reaction. 

“Well, you know, it’s not exactly…typical…I just wanted to see if you were okay, you know?” 

“What do you mean, ‘not typical’? Tons of people live by themselves?” 

JJ looks suddenly very uncomfortable; Reader is glad they’re not the only one. 

“Look, kid…I didn’t want to say it, and Angela kinda told me not to, but…you reek of Little.” His tone is gentle, cautious, but his words make no sense. 

“Little? A little what?” 

Reader is seriously getting sick of shocked expressions. 

A/N: Hope the OC names don't bother y'all too much; I literally put zero thought into them and went with whatever popped into my head first. Would you guys mind if I made permanent OC caregivers for this? I'm still not entirely sure where I'm going with this LMAO

Also hope y'all don't mind the like, scent thing too much - I used to dislike that sort of thing but one fic I read made me love it and I wanted to try writing it loll

Feel free to drop suggestions in the comments/asks - I may not respond or get to them, but I promise I'll look :)

[immeasurablesaladagere]

Thinking about classification agere AUs not because I particularly like the trope, but because the world-building potentials are interesting. Feel free to use any of these if you want

Littles-only subway/train cars. Similar to women-only train cars in Japan, they are a safe and quiet way to get where you're going if you're suddenly small after a long day of work or out and about on the town. Attended at all hours by a caregiver member of the security staff. Accompanying caregivers or babysitters may also tag along if vouched for by the little.

Classification markers on government-issued ID like drivers licenses or passports.

If you're into sociopolitical angst, employment discrimination! Many jobs will not hire littles in favour of neutrals or caregivers.

Flips being the forgotten middle-children of the classification world, feeling left out of the cg and little-specific dynamics. Not taken seriously/trusted by caregivers to look after other littles while simultaneously defaulted to caregivers by other littles because they're the "mature" one.

A majority of workplaces being mandated to have a designated room for regressed individuals. Technically the only part required by law is an enclosed room that is a physically safe area, so most break rooms would suffice, but depending on the boss or company they may be an entirely separate place and much more lovingly furnished.

Little models on billboards or in gear stores like you'd see models in an Old Navy, wearing aggressively cutesy merchandise that gives other littles insecurity over the things they like

Bullying and stigma against male littles because all of that "man big strong no emotion unga bunga" junk would totally still exist.

Little-specific events and businesses

Hide-a-beds that are cribs or similar bed types so you don't need to have multiple dedicated bedrooms. Need the crib? Pull it down from the wall! Don't need it anymore? Back in it goes, you can sleep in your regular bed.

Little idols and celebrities with hyper-kiddish brands who are mistreated like Kpop/Jpop idols

[tinytinybumblebee]

classification au with caregiver!strat and little!grace where he's actually fine on his own and very used to regressing alone but she's actually struggling with deprivation symptoms cause she's got nobody to look after and either she asks him or he offers to drop w/ her?

Yes!!!

Littles have deprivation illness when they can't be tiny BUT that also goes for those who are classified as Bigs!!

Stratt always brushed it off, she never considered herself caregiver material. She was too brash, too cold, not the type of caregiver one saw at a playground kissing boo-boos or cooed. So, Stratt just, sealed that part of herself off.

Of course that lead to migraines and other inconvenient symptoms, feeling her heart aching whenever she did see a Little. Something she tried her best to avoid.

But now shes here, her lead in astrophage is a Little and they're professionally together a lot!

Grace notices, of course he does. Grace also knows Stratt will never admit what she biologically needs so, Grace decides to initiate.

Maybe it's after a meeting and they have some downtime so Grace goes to Stratt and is like, "Stratt can I drop in your office? My room is too far away," he says, slightly playing it up as he scuffs his shoe against the ground.

Stratt glances up from her tablet, fingers hovering over the screen.

"Only if you don't intend to drool over my desk," she says, her voice even, very much Stratt-like as she goes back to her tablet.

But, Grace can see the tension in her shoulders lessen slightly when he plunked beside her with his stuffie ♡ (And Stratt refuses to admit that perhaps she herself is feeling a bit more relaxed with tiny Grace beside her☆)

[dragon-queen21]

Littles are known au prompts

Because I’m tired of seeing the basic, Character A doesn’t want to be a Little-> presents as a little-> hides their classification until they are sick-> gets outed as a little-> happily ever after

It’s a great formula, I adore these fics don’t get me wrong, but I am here to give people some inspiration and hopefully encourage some fics to go outside of the box

~~~

~Newly classified caregiver who doesn’t know how to caregiver. Maybe their past never allowed them to. Maybe they are afraid they are too scary or are going to hurt someone so small

~Caregiver who’s been told their whole life that they would never be good at taking care of a Little. They are too gruff/ stoic/temperamental/uncaring/etc (bonus points for them taking care of a little that doesn’t like being coddled. Who’s been told they should enjoy/ need more attention. Neither have to change much for the other and it’s perfect for them) (extra bonus for gruff but loving dad caregiver, no one understands except their Little, that no, they are really kind and caring and loving, just not dousing every word of theirs in metaphorical honey)

~Character who swears they are going to present as a Little, they have always adored looking through Little sections online/in a store, still collect toys that they think look interesting or fun, dreaming up paci designs, what the perfect day out would look like when Little. Turns out they present as a Caregiver instead and those little instincts they had were really all a longing to care for someone else

~Two Littles who swear they don’t need a caregiver between them. Screw the system! They’ll look out for one another. (This either goes terribly or wonderfully for a while you decide) Does someone eventually step in to help? Realize that the two aren’t Flips? What happens if both are biologically in the mindset of a child at the same time?

~Age ranges for Caregivers and what Littles they are best suited for looking after, much in the same way as Littles get classification ranges

~Little who is bitter at the world, because how come people only started to care after they had been classified? Maybe if the soft fondness was present in their everyday life they would be able to accept the fact that people cared, but it isn’t so it all now feels fake

~So most Littles are known aus typically say that Littles and Caregivers are rare, and then proceed to make the whole cast fall into one of those two categories. So with that in mind…

~One character within a group presents as a Little, the rest are all neutrals, who swears they are going to do their best to take care of the little. There are no twist Littles, or secret Caregivers in the group, just a bunch of friends bumbling around trying to make sure their other friend doesn’t feel like they can’t handle this new part of them.

<- (Bonus points for the Little feeling like a burden and saying they don’t mind getting a Caregiver to help, only to be met with “and let a perfect stranger take care of you? Don’t you trust us?! Honestly…. No, never going to happen. We’ll just do better”)

<- Extra Bonus points for a the group asking a classified caregiver a bunch of questions on how they caregiver. “Well it’s instinctive” “That doesn’t help us!!!”

~A Little and Caregiver dynamic told from an outsiders pov. For example, a friend group where two characters are a Little and Caregiver dynamic, and the third friend, who’s a neutral wants to fit in, but just can’t. Maybe they try too, try too hard, or start pulling away all together. All they know is their friend group isn’t the same anymore. (Positively or negatively, up to you)

~A Little who upon being classified is told they have a baby age range. Only… that’s not right. They’ve regressed before/never felt that way. They aren’t drawn to pacifiers and bottles and baby blankets, rather action figures and video games, and soft hoodies. Is the classification test wrong? Are they wrong? Maybe they never felt safe enough to regress so small. Maybe they have been without realizing it suppressing their instincts. Maybe this works better for them. (Bonus points for adding and older sibling type caregiver for them to regress around who encourages them to do what they feel like. If they one day want to use a pacifier sure, they’ll buy one for them. In the meantime, come one. I’m gonna kick your butt at Mario kart >:3)

~Littles getting sick from not regressing? Nah nah nah. Caregivers getting sick from not having a Little to take caregivers of. It makes them irritable, and snappish. Sleeping too much or too little, but still tired. A longing in their chest for someone to hold and coo over. Small bursts of being too “overly protective” or “clingy” to friends who aren’t classified as Littles.

<- perhaps a Caregiver who never told anyone of their classification. They made due with having house plants and pets to take care of. Maybe they find a little… or maybe a friend who isn’t classified yet, or isn’t a Little, offers to help the caregiver by pretending to be small. Sure they can act like a child for one evening. Get dinner made for them, watch cartoons and get free snuggles while being read to? Sounds wonderful! (Bonus points if this is how they find out their classification is wrong, or that they are going to present as a Little)

<- maybe the following day being confronted by this they brush it off and say that they were just too tired/overworked/playing it up/well your really good at making people feel cared for, of course I couldn’t help but settle

Masterlist

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

The Shape of Care

Assigned to You

Caregiver!Trinity Santos x regressor!dynamic disability!reader

Summary: Four days into her career at PTMC, newly classified caregiver Trinity Santos is unexpectedly matched with a fiercely independent psychiatry attending who has spent years hiding her regressor classification and resisting care. Their ninety-two-point-seven-percent compatibility begins not with instant trust, but with sharp banter, carefully negotiated consent, and the tentative realization that care does not have to mean surrendering control

word count: 5.6K

Warnings: caregiver/regressor classification AU, age regression discussed, government-regulated matching system, chronic illness and dynamic disability, wheelchair and mobility-aid use, pain, nausea, medication taken with food, hand tremors, medical and administrative ableism, disclosure of private classification and medical information without consent, institutional pressure/coercion, caregiver anxiety and fear of failure, difficulty accepting care, brief mention of an actively suicidal patient, food monitoring, caregiver title “Mama” discussed, and gradual negotiation of boundaries and consent

Authors note: I've been working non-stop on this while I've been home and not feeling well. I was also partly in the headspace while writing some of this out

The classification system had called you compatible.

Not perfectly compatible. There was no such thing, no matter what the government advertisements liked to imply with their smiling caregiver-regressor pairs and polished little slogans about instinct, structure, and lifelong support, but compatible enough.

Trinity had been twenty-six, newly classified, newly hired, and visibly irritated that the hospital had assigned her a regressor before she had even finished learning which supply closets were consistently stocked.

You had been thirty, an established psychiatry attending, and had spent most of your adult life pretending your classification was something that existed only in your medical chart.

Neither of you had known what you were doing.

Trinity Santos had been working at PTMC for four days when she was summoned to the classifications office.

She had barely figured out which supply closets would consistently have what she needed and which ones were for people to go scream into. She had not yet learned the difference between Dana’s patient silence and Dana’s furious silence. She had been corrected twice for entering through the wrong ambulance bay doors and had spent most of her second shift pretending she absolutely knew where the clean supply room was.

She had patients.

She had medical students already looking at her as though an intern should contain every answer they had ever failed to memorize.

She had Robby who had told her, with an expression of profound disappointment, that “because it looked cool” was not an acceptable justification for choosing a particular suture technique.

She did not have time for an administrative meeting. Especially not one scheduled for eleven in the morning, directly in the middle of her shift, on an upper floor of the hospital where the carpets muffled footsteps and every hallway smelled faintly of printer toner and old coffee.

Trinity stepped out of the elevator wearing black scrubs, her ID badge clipped crookedly to her chest and irritation already gathering behind her eyes. The receptionist glanced up.

“Dr. Santos?”

“Depends.”

The woman blinked. “On?”

“Why I’m here.”

The receptionist’s mouth tightened in a way that suggested she was accustomed to residents arriving already defensive. “Classification Coordination. Room 814.”

“I know what the email said.”

“Then room 814.”

Trinity looked down the hall. Every door appeared identical.

“Which way?”

The receptionist pointed without changing expressions. Trinity muttered something beneath her breath and walked in the indicated direction. She knew why she was here. Probably.

Her caregiver classification had been finalized six weeks earlier, after months of evaluation, instinct assessments, psychological screening, medical clearance, and enough questionnaires to make her regret ever answering honestly.

The classification itself had not surprised her. She liked being needed. She liked solving problems. She liked the moment someone’s shoulders loosened because she had arrived and knew what to do. She had always been the one who stepped forward first. The official label had merely taken those instincts, laminated them, and mailed her a packet full of legal responsibilities. 

What had surprised her was how quickly PTMC had incorporated the classification into her employment paperwork. The hospital had asked whether she would consent to active matching. Trinity had said yes. Confidently. Possibly too confidently.

She had completed every required training module in two nights. She had scored near-perfectly on the written assessment and argued with three of the answers she missed until the coordinator admitted one question was “open to interpretation.”

Trinity had left that meeting feeling vindicated. She could do this. She was already proving herself as a physician in a department that seemed designed to expose every gap in her knowledge. She could prove herself as a caregiver too. It was care. How difficult could care be?

Room 814 was at the end of the hall.

The door stood partly open. Trinity knocked once and entered without waiting. The office was exactly as stuffy as she had expected. No windows. Beige walls. Two framed posters about ethical matching. A bookshelf filled with classification law manuals no one had opened voluntarily in at least a decade.

Behind the desk sat a woman in a navy blazer with a tablet positioned neatly in front of her. Beside the desk sat you. In your wheelchair. Trinity’s first thought was that she knew you. Not personally. Everyone knew you in the ED. You were one of PTMC’s psychiatry attendings, young enough that Trinity had initially assumed you were a fellow until she heard another physician ask for your approval on an emergency hold.

She had seen you twice in the ED. Once while you were speaking to a patient who had barricaded himself inside an exam room. Once while correcting Langdon with a calmness that had somehow made him look smaller without raising your voice.

You wore dark trousers, a soft blouse, and an expression of carefully managed annoyance. Your wheelchair was angled slightly away from the desk. One hand rested on the push rim. The other held a paper cup of coffee you did not appear to be drinking. You looked at Trinity. Trinity looked at you. Neither smiled. The coordinator gestured toward the empty chair.

“Dr. Santos. Thank you for coming.”

“I was told attendance was mandatory.”

“Yes.”

“Then thanking me seems unnecessary.”

Your mouth twitched. Barely. Trinity noticed. She sat. The chair was lower than yours, which irritated her immediately. The coordinator folded her hands.

“I’m Miriam Cole, senior matching coordinator for PTMC.”

“I read the email.”

“Yes, you mentioned that outside.”

Trinity’s eyes narrowed. The receptionist had reported her in under two minutes. Impressive. Miriam turned slightly toward you.

“And this is Dr. Y/N.”

“We know who each other are,” you said.

Trinity glanced at you.

“Do we?”

“You interrupted my consultation yesterday to ask whether psychiatry had cleared your patient.”

“You had been in there for forty minutes.”

“He was actively suicidal.”

“I was checking.”

“You were impatient.”

“I was efficient.”

Your eyebrows lifted. Trinity felt something sharp and competitive spark behind her ribs. Miriam looked between you both.

“Excellent. You’ve met.”

“That is a generous interpretation,” you said.

Trinity folded her arms.

“Why am I here?”

Miriam tapped the tablet.

“As part of PTMC’s integrated classification support program, employees who consent to active matching may be assessed for compatibility with other registered staff members.”

“I know.”

“You signed the forms.”

“I also know that.”

Miriam’s gaze sharpened. Trinity sat back slightly. Apparently the classifications office had its own version of Dana. Miriam continued.

“Dr. Y/N has been registered as an unassigned regressor for approximately three years.”

Your fingers tightened around the coffee cup. Trinity noticed. You did not look embarrassed. Not exactly. You looked displeased that the information had been presented aloud as though you were not sitting there. Miriam continued anyway.

“Previous placement was delayed due to scheduling incompatibilities, professional boundaries, and Dr. Y/N’s request for a caregiver with sufficient medical literacy to understand her disability-related needs.”

Trinity’s eyes moved briefly toward your wheelchair. You caught it. Your expression cooled. She looked back at your face immediately. Miriam tapped the screen again.

“When Dr. Santos’s registration entered the system, the preliminary compatibility score was unusually high.”

“How high?” Trinity asked.

“Ninety-two point seven percent.”

Silence settled over the office. Trinity stared at Miriam. Then at you. You looked equally unimpressed.

“That is not possible,” Trinity said.

Miriam’s eyebrows rose.

“You have been here four days,” you added.

“That’s not why.”

“Then why?”

Trinity looked you over. You sat with your spine carefully straight despite the faint tension around your mouth. Your cane was hooked against the side of the wheelchair. A small pouch rested in your lap, likely medication or mobility supplies.

“You don’t like me,” she said.

“I don’t know you.”

“You seem to have formed an opinion.”

“You entered the room insulting the coordinator.”

“I did not insult her.”

Miriam looked down at her tablet.

“You implied gratitude was redundant.”

“That is not an insult. That is an observation.”

Your mouth twitched again.

Trinity saw it.

“You’re trying not to laugh.”

“I’m trying not to encourage you.”

“That sounds like laughing with extra steps.”

Miriam placed the tablet flat on the desk.

“The compatibility score does not depend on whether you currently like one another.”

Trinity looked toward her.

“That seems like a design flaw.”

“It measures temperament, communication style, care needs, caregiver instincts, conflict patterns, medical considerations, lifestyle compatibility, professional schedules, and a variety of psychological factors.”

You lifted your coffee.

“Apparently mutual irritation scored well.”

Miriam ignored you.

“Ninety-two point seven percent is one of the strongest matches this hospital has recorded.”

“Recorded over what period?” you asked.

“Ten years.”

Trinity shifted in the chair.

The number had sounded abstract until then. Now it felt heavier.

“Does that mean we’re assigned?” Trinity asked.

“No.”

You answered at the same time.

“Absolutely not.”

Trinity turned toward you.

“I was asking her.”

“And I was clarifying.”

Miriam lifted one hand before the argument could gather momentum.

“No permanent assignment has been made. We are proposing a supervised trial period.”

Trinity frowned.

“How long?”

“Six weeks initially.”

“Six weeks?”

“Afterward, either of you may decline permanent placement.”

You looked at Miriam.

“Without penalty?”

“Without formal penalty.”

Your expression hardened.

“That qualification is doing a great deal of work.”

Miriam sighed.

“You would both return to active matching. Refusing a high-compatibility match may result in a longer wait before another suitable candidate becomes available.”

“So a penalty,” you said.

“A consequence.”

“Administrative synonyms are still synonyms.” You had stared at Miriam without expression. 

Trinity glanced at you.

She liked that answer. She did not intend to. Miriam turned to her.

“Dr. Santos, the trial would require weekly coordinator meetings, scheduled contact outside clinical duties, and development of an initial support plan.”

Trinity nodded as though none of that troubled her.

“Fine.”

You looked at her.

“Fine?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known this was happening for approximately three minutes.”

“I read the training materials.”

“That is not the same as knowing me.”

“No, but it means I know what a trial involves.”

“You don’t know what my care involves.”

“I can learn.”

The answer came quickly. Too quickly. You studied her. Trinity held your gaze. She was not going to hesitate in front of either of you. She had spent four days at PTMC being tested by every attending, nurse, resident, and medical student who watched her work. Everyone wanted to know whether she deserved to be here. She was not about to let a matching coordinator decide she was uncertain now.

“What do you need?” Trinity asked.

The blunt question made you blink. Miriam opened her mouth. You answered first.

“Privacy.”

Trinity’s jaw tightened.

“I meant from a caregiver.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Then why not answer?”

“Because you asked me in front of someone who just summarized my classification history without permission.”

Miriam’s expression became strained. “The information was relevant.”

“It was mine.” You spoke lowly.

Trinity looked between you both. She could feel the room changing. The urge to prove herself pushed at her. So did another instinct, quieter but stronger. You were uncomfortable. Not because you were a regressor. Because decisions about you were being discussed around you. Trinity uncrossed her arms. She turned toward Miriam.

“Can we speak alone?”

Miriam looked surprised.

“This is an official intake meeting.”

“You said this is a trial, not an assignment.”

“Yes.”

“Then we should know whether we can speak to each other without someone translating.”

You watched Trinity carefully. Miriam considered the request.

“You will have time after we review the trial conditions.”

“Can you give us the conditions in writing?”

“They were included in the packet.”

“Then we’ve both read them.”

You said, “I have.”

Trinity glanced at you.

“See?”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed. Trinity gave her an innocent look that convinced no one. After several seconds, Miriam stood.

“I will give you ten minutes.”

“Twenty,” Trinity said.

“Fifteen.”

“Fine.”

Miriam picked up her tablet. Before leaving, she looked toward you.

“You are not required to disclose anything you are uncomfortable sharing during this initial conversation.”

“Thank you for explaining consent after sharing my registration history.”

Miriam’s mouth tightened. Then she left. The door closed. Silence rushed into the office. Trinity leaned back in her chair. You stared at the closed door.

“She does that a lot?” Trinity asked.

“What?”

“Talks about you like you’re a file.”

You looked at her. The irritation in Trinity’s face was no longer directed at you.

“Most coordinators do.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is standard.”

“Standard can still be ridiculous.”

You looked down at your coffee.

It was the first thing she had said that sounded less like performance and more like herself.

Trinity shifted in the low chair.

“So.”

“So.”

“Ninety-two point seven.”

“Apparently.”

“You think they made it up?”

“No. I think the criteria are imperfect.”

“You think I’m imperfect?”

“I think you’ve been here four days and have already argued with a classification coordinator, interrupted one of my assessments, and gotten lost twice.”

Trinity sat straighter.

“I did not get lost.”

“You asked Dana where trauma two was while standing in trauma two.”

“The curtains were closed.”

“Rooms do not disappear when the curtains close.”

“It was a long shift.”

You took a sip of coffee. Trinity noticed your hand tremble faintly when you lifted the cup. You noticed her noticing. Your shoulders tightened. Her eyes returned to your face. She did not ask. That surprised you.

Instead, she said, “You know things about me.”

“You are difficult not to notice.”

The words slipped out before you could soften them. Trinity’s eyebrows lifted. You looked away.

“People talk.”

“What do they say?”

“That you’re smart.”

Her expression became pleased.

“And?”

“Overconfident.” Less pleased. “Defensive.” Her mouth flattened. “Good with frightened patients.” Trinity went still. You looked at her again.

“They say you act irritated when you care.”

“That’s not true.”

“You are currently irritated.”

“I was summoned upstairs during shift.”

“And you care whether this works.”

“I care whether I’m wasting my time.”

Your expression cooled.

Trinity realized the mistake as soon as she said it.

She rubbed her palms against her thighs.

“I didn’t mean you would be a waste of time.”

“You don’t know enough about me to decide either way.”

“I meant I don’t like administrative theater.”

You looked toward the posters on the wall.

“That we agree on.”

The tension loosened by one thread.

Trinity leaned forward.

“What do you actually think about the trial?”

You were quiet for several seconds.

“I think I consented to matching three years ago because I believed wanting care would be enough to make accepting it easy.” Trinity waited. You looked down at the cooling coffee. “It wasn’t.”

“Why not?”

The question was direct, but her voice had softened. You considered refusing. Then remembered she had asked Miriam to leave.

“Because most prospective caregivers saw my file before they saw me.”

Trinity’s gaze flicked toward the pouch in your lap.

“Dynamic disability,” she said.

You nodded.

“Chronic pain. Mobility limitations. Medication schedules. Occasional help with transfers. Nausea. Fatigue.”

“And regression.”

“Yes.”

“What does that look like?”

“Different depending on why it happens.”

Trinity listened. No writing. No checklist. No clinical note being opened behind her eyes that you could see.

“Sometimes I’m mostly verbal,” you continued. “Sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I need physical comfort. Sometimes touch makes everything worse.”

“How do I know which?”

“You ask.”

“That simple?”

“No.” The corner of your mouth shifted. “But asking is a start.”

Trinity nodded. “What else?”

You studied her.

“You really want a list.”

“I want information.”

“You want to pass.”

Her jaw tightened.

“That too.”

You had found the soft point beneath her confidence. Trinity looked toward the door.

“I’m new here.”

“I know.”

“Everyone is watching me.”

“I know that too.”

“They keep giving me medical students like I’m supposed to know how to teach when I only just stopped being one of them.”

“You’re an intern.”

“I know.”

Trinity exhaled sharply. You waited. She rubbed one thumb over the side of her palm.

“I’m good at my job.”

“I believe you.”

Her eyes lifted. The immediate answer caught her off guard.

“I have watched you with patients,” you said. “You are skilled. You are also new to this hospital.”

“Yes.”

“And new to caregiving.”

Trinity’s shoulders rose.

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You agreed to a six-week trial before asking whether I wanted one.”

Her face changed. The accusation landed. Trinity looked down.

“You’re right.”

You had expected an argument.

Instead, she sat with it.

“I heard ninety-two percent and thought saying yes immediately would prove I could handle it.”

“To whom?”

“Everyone.” Her mouth tightened. “Myself.” The answer was quieter.

You set the coffee cup on the desk.

“What happens if you can’t handle it?”

Trinity looked at you sharply.

“I can.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She recognized her own tactic being used against her and did not appreciate it.

“What happens if I make a mistake?” she asked.

“You fix it. Apologize. Try again.” You tell her and then ask, “What if I’m angry?”

“You tell me.”

“What if I need too much?”

Trinity’s brows pulled together.

“You’re the regressor.”

“That was not an answer.”

She stared at you. You held her gaze. The matching system had apparently seen something neither of you had yet. Trinity cared by moving forward. You protected yourself by holding still. Both of you mistook the other’s instinct for certainty.

“What if caregiving is difficult for you?” you clarified. “What if you are exhausted or frightened or resentful? Are you going to tell me, or are you going to act like proving yourself matters more than being honest?”

Trinity looked away. The question had found too much too quickly.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

It was the first truly useful answer she had given. You leaned back slightly in your wheelchair.

“Neither do I.”

Her eyes returned to you.

“I don’t know if I can let someone care for me without trying to make it easy for them,” you said. “I don’t know if I’ll tell you when I’m slipping. I don’t know if I’ll ask before it becomes unavoidable.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because then you might decide the match is wrong.”

Trinity went still. There it was. Your fear beside hers. She feared failing. You feared becoming evidence of that failure. For the first time since entering the room, Trinity stopped trying to impress you. She sat back and looked at you properly. Not the wheelchair. Not the attending title. Not the ninety-two-point-seven percent score floating invisibly between you. You.

“What do you want?” she asked.

This time, the question sounded different. You took a moment.

“A trial.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want to see whether the match means anything outside their testing.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“We tell them no.”

Trinity nodded slowly.

“No punishment.”

“There may be consequences.”

“Then we deal with them.”

You studied her.

“You say that as though consequences are optional.”

“They usually become more optional if you argue long enough.”

“That is not how policy works.”

“You’d be surprised.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. Trinity noticed and immediately looked pleased with herself. You rolled your eyes.

“Do not make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you think you’ve won.”

“I got you to smile.”

“That was not the goal of the meeting.”

“It was one of mine.”

“You developed it thirty seconds ago.”

“Still counts.”

The sassy confidence was back, but now you could see what lived underneath it. Nerves. Effort. The need to be useful before anyone could decide she was not.

“What would the trial look like?” she asked.

“According to the packet, scheduled check-ins, at least two hours of contact outside work each week, one home assessment, and gradual development of a care plan.”

“That’s very clinical.”

“It is a clinical program.”

“You don’t regress on a schedule.”

“No.”

“So scheduled contact doesn’t tell us much.”

“It tells us whether we tolerate each other.”

Trinity considered that.

“Dinner.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“For the first contact.”

“That sounds like a date.”

“Caregiver-regressor pairs can eat dinner without dating.”

“I know.”

“Then dinner.”

“You have decided this quickly.”

“You said you wanted a trial.”

“I did not say you were in charge of the calendar.”

“I have a difficult schedule.”

“So do I.”

“Fine. What day works for you?”

The question sounded confrontational despite being exactly what you had asked her to do. You looked at your phone.

“Thursday.”

“I work until seven.”

“So do I.”

“Eight?”

“That’s late.”

“You’re an attending. You stay awake after eight.”

“My body does not care about my title.”

Trinity’s eyes flicked toward your wheelchair again. This time, there was thought rather than assessment behind it.

“Then earlier on a day off.”

“Saturday afternoon.”

“I have mandatory simulation training in the morning.”

“After.”

She nodded.

“Two?”

“Two.”

“At your apartment?”

You hesitated. Trinity caught it.

“Or somewhere public.”

The correction came immediately. Your shoulders loosened.

“A café first.”

“Okay.”

“No classification language unless we choose to discuss it.”

Trinity frowned.

“What are we supposed to talk about?”

“Anything else.”

“Like what?”

“You’re asking a psychiatrist how to have a conversation?”

“I’m asking someone who has spent this entire meeting criticizing mine.”

“That is different.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You looked at each other. The edge of irritation remained, but it had changed shape. Less defensive. More curious. Trinity leaned forward again.

“Can I ask one actual caregiver question before she comes back?”

You nodded cautiously.

“Yes.”

“When you’re regressed, what do you call your caregiver?”

Your face warmed.

“I don’t have one.”

“I know. I mean what would you call one?”

You looked down at your hands. The question felt far more intimate than it should have.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How far I’ve regressed.”

“Do you use names?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else?”

You were quiet. Trinity waited.

“Mama,” you said finally, quietly. Trinity could have mistaken it for you slipping just by saying the word with how soft the edges sounded. The word barely crossed the space between you. Trinity’s expression changed. Not amusement. Not discomfort. Something softer and startled.

“Oh.”

You immediately regretted answering.

“It does not mean I would call you that.”

“I know.”

“It can take months.”

“I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

“I’m trying to respond without making you regret telling me.”

That stopped you. Trinity’s hands rested open on her knees. No reaching. No assumption. Only attention.

“Thank you,” you said.

Her shoulders lowered.

“You’re welcome.”

She hesitated.

“Do you want to know what I was scared you’d call me?”

You looked at her.

“What?”

“Dr. Santos.”

A laugh escaped you.

Trinity pointed.

“See? That would be humiliating.”

“You are Dr. Santos.”

“Not during regression.”

“You’ve already created a boundary.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The door opened before either of you could continue. Miriam stepped back inside. She stopped when she saw you both sitting differently than before. Trinity had moved her chair closer without either of you noticing. Your coffee sat forgotten on the desk. The irritation had not disappeared, but it no longer felt like a barrier. Miriam resumed her seat.

“Have you reached a decision?”

Trinity looked at you. She did not answer first this time. The small act of restraint mattered. You nodded.

“We will do the trial.”

Miriam tapped the tablet.

“Both of you?”

Trinity waited until you looked at her.

Then she answered.

“Yes.”

Miriam brought up the agreement.

“The initial trial lasts six weeks. Either party may request suspension at any time. Contact outside the hospital must remain within agreed boundaries. Clinical authority and caregiver authority are separate.”

Trinity frowned.

“Obviously.”

Miriam looked at her.

“It is not obvious to everyone.”

You watched Trinity absorb that. At work, you outranked her. Within the trial, neither of you automatically outranked the other. Miriam continued through the rules. No unscheduled entry into your home without prior consent. No medical decision-making outside defined emergency parameters. No using regression to override your expressed grown preferences. No assumption of physical contact. No disclosure of either classification without permission. Trinity listened with growing seriousness. Then Miriam reached the trial emergency plan.

“If Dr. Y/N regresses unexpectedly at work, Dr. Santos may be contacted if clinically appropriate and if doing so does not compromise patient safety.”

“What happens if I’m with a patient?” Trinity asked.

“Another registered support person or psychiatric staff member will assist.”

Trinity’s jaw tightened.

You noticed.

“She has survived this long without you,” you said quietly.

Trinity looked toward you.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to be available every second.”

“I know.”

The answer came too fast.

You raised your eyebrows.

She sighed.

“I will work on knowing.”

Miriam looked between you.

Perhaps the system had seen something after all.

She turned the tablet around.

“Sign here.”

You signed first. Your hand trembled slightly around the stylus. Pain. Fatigue. Nerves. Trinity watched. She did not offer to help. She waited until you finished. Then she took the stylus and signed beneath your name with a quick, decisive stroke. Miriam collected the tablet.

“The trial begins immediately.”

Trinity looked at you.

“Immediately?”

“Yes.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Miriam’s expression remained neutral.

“You might begin by asking Dr. Y/N.”

Trinity turned in her chair. You lifted your eyebrows. She looked briefly irritated at being put on the spot. Then she visibly gathered herself.

“Do you need anything?”

The words were careful. You considered giving the easy answer. No. I’m fine. Nothing.

Then you looked at your untouched coffee and felt the nausea that had been building beneath your ribs since morning. Trinity was watching. Not impatiently. Trying.

“My medication,” you said.

Her attention sharpened.

“What about it?”

“I need to take it with food.”

“Did you eat?”

“Breakfast.”

“What time?”

“Six.”

Trinity looked at the clock. It was nearly noon. Her eyebrows rose. You immediately bristled.

“Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a face.”

“It was a medically appropriate face.”

“You are not my physician.”

“No, I’m apparently your trial caregiver.”

The word made both of you pause. Trial caregiver. Trial regressor. Temporary language for something that already felt strangely personal. Trinity softened first.

“What can you eat?”

“There are crackers in my bag.”

“That’s not food.”

“It is literally food.”

“It is emergency bird food.”

You stared at her. Miriam lowered her gaze to hide what might have been amusement.

“There’s a café downstairs,” Trinity continued. “I can get you something.”

“I can get it myself.”

“I know.”

The answer came without argument. Your shoulders loosened slightly. Trinity stood.

“May I get you something?”

You looked up at her. She was trying so hard not to turn the first act of care into a test. You could see every instinct pulling at her. Fix it. Prove it. Do something impressive enough to justify the ninety-two-point-seven percent. Instead, she asked.

“Yes,” you said.

Her face brightened before she could contain it.

“What?”

“Toast.”

“That’s it?”

“My stomach is unsettled.”

“Plain?”

“Buttered.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Water.”

She nodded as though committing an emergency protocol to memory.

“Buttered toast and water.”

“Yes.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Food restrictions?”

“Not relevant to toast.”

“I’m being thorough.”

“You’re interrogating carbohydrates.”

Trinity’s mouth curved.

“I’ll be back.”

She reached the door, then turned.

“Do you want me to bring it here or to your office?”

You considered the question.

“My office.”

“Okay.”

She left.

Miriam looked toward the closed door.

Then at you.

“Well?”

You stared at the space where Trinity had been.

“She’s exhausting.”

Miriam waited. You looked down at the copy of the trial agreement in your lap.

“She asked.”

“Yes.”

“She stopped when I corrected her.”

“Yes.”

“She also called crackers bird food.”

“That was not part of the compatibility criteria.”

You smiled faintly.

“No?”

“No.”

Miriam gathered the remaining paperwork.

“Her caregiver assessment indicates high protective instinct, strong adaptive problem-solving, and a tendency toward overcompensation when insecure.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“Your assessment indicates high sensitivity to perceived control, strong preference for mutuality, and a tendency to conceal needs until they become urgent.”

You looked at her.

“That summary feels judgmental.”

“It is clinical.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Miriam’s mouth almost curved.

“The match score reflects potential, not certainty.”

You nodded.

“I know.”

“Dr. Santos will make mistakes.”

“I know.”

“So will you.”

You looked down at your hands.

“I know.”

The fear remained, but somewhere beneath it was the memory of Trinity turning toward Miriam and asking for privacy before asking anything of you. Fifteen minutes ago, she had entered the office determined to prove she could be a caregiver. She had left to buy toast because you said yes. Perhaps that was the beginning. Not the match score. Not the signatures. Not the classification system deciding your temperaments fit neatly enough to try. The beginning was Trinity asking whether she could help and you, against every practiced instinct, allowing her to.

✩°｡🧸𓏲⋆.🧺𖦹 ₊˚

She returned twelve minutes later carrying a paper plate, a bottle of water, and three additional items you had not requested. You stared at the small pile she placed on your desk.

“What is all this?”

“Buttered toast.”

“I can see that.”

“Applesauce.”

“I did not ask for applesauce.”

“In case the toast is too dry.”

“A banana?”

“In case you want something more substantial.”

“And the ginger ale?”

“For nausea.”

You looked at her. Trinity shifted her weight.

“I may have overdone it.”

“You bought half the bland-food section.”

“I didn’t know what would be safe.”

“You could have asked.”

“I was already downstairs.”

“You have a phone.”

Her face fell slightly. Not dramatically. Enough that you noticed. She had tried. Too much, perhaps, but not carelessly. You picked up the toast.

“Thank you.”

Trinity’s shoulders loosened immediately.

“You’re welcome.”

She remained beside the desk. You took a bite. Trinity watched. You stopped chewing.

“Are you going to supervise?”

“I have to know if you can take your medication.”

“I am capable of eating without observation.”

“Right.”

She looked around your office.

There was only one visitor’s chair. She sat in it. You stared.

“What?”

“You are still watching.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You can supervise sitting down.”

“Then yes.”

You should have told her to leave. Instead, you ate another bite. Trinity picked up the trial packet and began reading the first page again, pretending not to monitor your progress. After half the toast, you opened the medication pouch. Your fingers shook when you pushed against the childproof cap. Trinity looked up. You tried again. The cap slipped. Her hand lifted. Then stopped.

“May I?”

You looked at her fingers hovering between you. The question felt larger than a bottle. You handed it over. Trinity opened the cap and passed the medication back without comment. No triumphant expression. No praise. No proof that she had noticed weakness and turned it into authority. Only help. You swallowed the pills with water. Trinity waited until you set the bottle down.

“Good?”

The word came out naturally. Your fingers tightened around the water. Trinity noticed. Her face changed.

“I meant, are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Was that…”

She gestured vaguely between you.

“Was what?”

“The word.”

You understood. She had completed the training. She knew praise could affect regressors differently even while grown. She had not yet learned how it affected you.

“It was fine,” you said.

“Fine good or fine tolerable?”

You considered the question.

“Good.”

Trinity’s expression softened.

“Okay.”

She did not repeat it. That restraint mattered. You ate the rest of the toast while she sat beside you. Neither of you spoke much. It was not comfortable yet, but it was not unbearable either. When Trinity stood to return to the ED, she gathered the empty plate and left the unopened food on your desk.

“For later.”

“You cannot stock my office after one meeting.”

“Apparently I can.”

“You are very pleased with this caregiver authority.”

“I have no authority. You just signed something saying that.”

“Then why are you bossing me around?”

“Because I’m naturally talented.”

You looked up at her. She smiled. Sassy. Certain. Trying so hard to become someone you might trust that she had not yet realized trust could not be won by force. At the door, she paused.

“Saturday at two?”

“The café.”

“I remember.”

“No hospital questions.”

“I’ll try.”

“No caregiver quiz.”

“That seems unfair.”

“Trinity.”

“Fine.”

You watched her.

“Thank you for the toast.”

Her expression softened again.

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again.”

Trinity leaned against the doorframe.

“You’re welcome.”

For one second, neither of you moved. Then an overhead page called Trinity back to the emergency department. She straightened.

“See you Saturday.”

You nodded.

“Dr. Santos.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Do not start.”

The door closed behind her. You looked at the applesauce, banana, and ginger ale lined up beside your computer. Too much. Unnecessary. A little ridiculous. You reached for the applesauce anyway.

Downstairs, Trinity returned to the emergency department with the matching packet folded inside her scrub pocket and the certainty that she could make this work.

She would learn everything. Your medications. Your pain signs. Your safe foods. What made you regress. What helped you return. She would be the best caregiver the classification office had ever approved.

It would take her several months to understand that being good at this had very little to do with proving herself.

It would take you just as long to understand that letting her try was not the same as surrendering control.

But on the fourth day of Trinity’s career at PTMC, the two of you had signed the same page. Ninety-two point seven percent compatible. Six weeks to decide whether the system had found something real and your first act as a matched pair had been Trinity buying too much food while you complained about all of it.

Years later, neither of you would remember the exact language of the trial agreement.

You would remember the toast.