While you’re self-deprecating on the terrible blue website, you don’t notice the quiet footsteps of a small and very beautiful girl. “Mom,” she says, and you startle a little, fingers poised over the keyboard as you look over at her from your bed. She’s wearing black pajamas with little teal leatherwing silhouettes on the pants, and a more detailed, big one emblazoned across her oversized tee. “Good morning, Frifaj,” you tell her, and she just looks at you expectantly. You’re quick to scoot over and pat at the edge of the bed with the flat of your hand. “Please, come up.”
She obliges without time for dallying, and she picks up Sir Battington from your pile of oversized pillows. You smile a little, but it kind of stings at the same time, considering current goings-on. “You’re sad,” Frifaj states, as if it were as simple a fact as the sky being red or water being wet.
“I’m alright,” you begin to protest, but she shakes her head, hair floofing up a little. It’s starting to get longer, she’s beginning to look a lot like Vriska. You should ask her if she wants to cut it, soon.
“You’re sad a lot,” she murmurs, petting the crudely-made leatherwing plushie as if it could register petting. “When everyone else is asleep, I come sit at the base of the stairs for a little when you don’t have company. I listen for a few minutes, and then I go back to bed.”
You blink.
“You always murmur to yourself in the other language when you’re sad,” she tells you, pointing to her ears. Proportionally, they’re about the same size as yours. “I can tell how you’re doing from listening a little while.” You leave your palmhusk on to keep contact with Mituna going, but you close your husktop, intent on listening.
“I don’t want you to be sad, Mom. I want to keep you company, if that’s okay. I don’t know if you grew out of snuggles, but they help, sometimes.” Your beautiful, darling girl. Her words are mature, but the look on her face and the slight, uncertain quiver gives away her facade of stoicism and control.
She already sounds six or so, it blows your mind that she’s only three, but that’s probably the Serket in her. You see her every day, but you feel like her entire wrigglerhood is slipping through your fingers and you’re just waving it goodbye without watching. Setting your husktop aside, you pull your darling girl into your arms and bury your face into her hair, rubbing her back in slow circles.
“I love you, honey,” you tell her, eyes squeezing a little tighter. “I love you so much.” “I know,” she tells you, wrapping her arms around your waist. “I love you, too.”
