⋆ WHEN THEY MAKE YOU CRY
(pt. 2!) in what scenario do the circo members make you cry, and how do they comfort you?
"you aren't easy, great / i think i like that, stay / no, let me chase you, my little breakthrough"
tags and warnings: ticket taker x gn!reader, jester x gn!reader, and doctor x gn!reader. part two of this prompt, part one includes pierrot and harlequin. individual scenarios for each member with specific cws for each one below. i'm still a yapper. more character studies, but i deeply apologize if you find anyone to be ooc! i'd say i'm still learning these sweethearts and how to write them :3 fluff and hurt/comfort. i reread this whole thing over and over foor like two weeks because i really care about it but forgive me for any typos 💔
total wc: 12.6k (4.3k ticket taker, 6.1k jester, 2.2k doctor)
𖦹 TICKET TAKER
cw: themes of people-pleasing, overthinking, insecurities, anxiety, and self-deprecation. mc is ticket taker's assistant. not incredibly important, but mc's first meeting with ticket taker is intentionally a little different from canon.
ticket taker doesn’t like to guess. he won’t ask you what's wrong over and over, but he's also not a mind reader. he'd only get more frustrated if you refused to tell him what's wrong, so he finds other ways to comfort you. while it may initially seem cold that he barely acknowledges your tears or asks what happened, he doesn’t leave you, despite the disruption to his schedule. he stays. he's there to listen and give you his full attention when you do open up, and he never gets angry. he’s willing to get his hands dirty for you— don't you realize? he'll choose to take the time out of his day to stay with you. there’s no better way for him to show that he cares.
you’re very good at predicting.
well... was it predicting, or just thinking?
thinking thinking thinking through every single scenario, having a plan for a situation three decisions out, that's all reliant on a single yes to the question you're about to ask. and if the person says no? well, you've already thought five steps ahead in that case, too.
that's what you were good at. not necessarily predicting, maybe, but being overly prepared for whatever might come your way so that no one, nothing, could ever catch you off guard.
sure, it could be a little tiring, but the method had yet to ever fail you. you scored a job at a café, among other achievements. and making coffee often seemed to require multiple backup plans. because when an angry customer comes storming back in arguing, "no, i don't want a refund. i just want to yell at you—" it pays off to have alternative solutions that will get them out of your face as quickly as possible.
something else your skillful thinking has led to? you had recently been entrusted with a chunk of paperwork belonging to the most organized, detail-oriented, vigilant person you had ever met, who was also nothing short of terrifying.
compared to his expansive knowledge, you would probably describe yourself as an insignificant speck of dust; mindless, blind, and worthless in contrast to his dominating presence. yet he still accepted your help, so surely that meant you had to be doing something right.
you felt like you were in a battle of wits anytime you interacted with him. your eyes searched his face, looking for anything that might reveal a little more about his ulterior motives— you listened and studied every word he said, in what tone, trying to test if he was testing your intelligence. and that all happened in a matter of seconds before you conjured up a response that you prayed was acceptable.
for example, your first meeting with him:
"i can take those papers for you. i'm recycling them, anyway. what a shame to litter such papers around an establishment, right?"
he had been dressed in his usual attire, his dark royal blue uniform with the gold trims and that half black, half white mask. you could guess reasonably easily who he was. you looked down at the papers in your hand, the words THE FREAK CIRCUS staring up at you before you lifted your head back up to him. the papers definitely belonged to him. obviously.
which led to the dilemma: objectively, he was correct. it was wrong to litter, and it's rude to leave trash behind in a public space. however, they were his papers, and you weren't about to insult them to his face and call them trash that had been littered on your premises. maybe you should say "it's fine! the café is all for promoting other businesses! totally!" but what if the real test was your opinion on littering and respecting property?
yeah, maybe you sometimes overthought things sometimes. maybe.
but you had to when it came to him. because there was a difference between your wits. between him and you.
he was confident. he stood tall, and he knew just about everything there was to know. he had no need to test you, no need to play these silly mind games with you. he already knew where he stood, and it was above you.
it was pointless to question him, yet you still witnessed multiple people do it every night. they would always march right up to the gates of the circus and demand attention. they would go on and on about how they deserved to be treated differently because they were "better than the rest."
but pair that with the man who was actually better than them, and it was like watching a small dog bark at the mailman. the mailman doesn't care about the dog; he knows it can do no harm, yet the small dog still thinks it's in control. some visitors towered over ticket taker, trying to intimidate him, but he never took a single step back. he never moved a muscle, and if that didn't immediately make them realize the situation they were in, the doctor appeared. it wasn't that ticket taker was weak or needed backup, it was yet another calculated move: a "since you think things can be resolved with fists, allow me to stoop down to your level."
you, on the other hand? you were just insecure. you've built up these walls of "wit" to hide the fact that you're scared of not knowing. ticket taker was everything you wish you were. he knew the answer to everything, knew just what to say to anyone. you couldn't do that. you have to create entire matrices of situational answers and pray that you say the right thing.
you observe everything, all for the sake of not having to ask someone for clarification. because if you don't understand something immediately, then you're weak.
you observe, you learn, and you predict. 'if ticket taker steps away to help the crying child, i will cover his line for him and punch tickets to maintain the unobstructed flow of business. if he doesn't step away right now, he's clearly relying on me to take care of the child.' it was like thinking before you speak— except you took it a step further. you kept thinking, plotting, and planning until someone spoke. once they said something, then you spoke. you waited until someone else made a move, and only then would you make yours.
the constant thinking only wore you out when it didn't all end at night. you tried to get home as early as you could so that you had time to give your brain a break. it didn't ever fully silence your brain, but when you were all alone, there was no one for your brain to hyperfixate on, trying to understand their very reason for being. if you were out later than usual, or you made a mistake, that was when it all went downhill.
like right now.
one miscalculated step. a singular slip-up that somehow made it past all your double, triple, quadruple look-overs.
you think you’re going to throw up.
but there’s not even anywhere to throw up. no nearby trash can, no nearby exit.
well, more like there's no exit you can get to without risking that you’ll bump into him.
you end up just slumping to the ground, hoping maybe it’ll just swallow you whole and you'll disappear. but it doesn’t. and now you’re starting to shake.
you’re scared.
despite all your differences in wit and how low you put yourself compared to him, you like to think you share a few similarities with ticket taker. you're both perfectionists, organized as if your very lives depend on it. any number, object, color, letter, whatever it may be— anything that can be made into a list has been, either by your hands or his. you've enjoyed working with him— with a brain so similar to yours.
you could only hope he shared some semblance of appreciation for your partnership. as embarrassing as it was to admit, you had been giddy the past few days, just imagining that he was pleased with you. you brought yourself to the brink of exhaustion every day, working from the early hours of the morning until the evening on whatever tasks he trusted you to do. last week, on your way out, he nodded in your direction and said, "good work. see you tomorrow, dear."
his words were short, probably just said out of practiced mannerisms, yet they reached your heart in a way no one's praise ever had. you tossed around in your bed all night, kicking your feet and balling up in your blankets. your heart was in a frenzy, and your face hot. you replayed the words he said in your head over and over; the way he said them, how he looked when he turned in your direction— you barely slept that night.
but that didn't even matter. you were so motivated by the possibility of him praising you again that you felt reenergized every day, always ready to return to the circus and plow through more work.
that was until today.
today, you’ve misplaced a paper.
in the weeks that you’d worked with him, you had never seen him make even the slightest mistake. of course he hadn’t— he was literally the definition of perfection. and you had been good; you hadn’t made a mistake either. until now.
and you’re not sure what to do if a paper is missing. maybe you should have just swallowed your pride and asked a stupid question when it was still justifiable because you were new. but you were too confident in yourself, too sure you would be able to figure out those problems on your own later— and now you’re here.
your lip trembles. the back of your head aches so heavily with stress you think you might pass out. you feel sick.
you don’t want this to end. you don’t want to disappoint him. “please,” you beg, hoping that maybe if you say it out loud, someone, something, will realize how desperate you are. that you're still something good despite your imperfections. “i want to keep working. i’ll do a good job. please, help me find this paper.”
if you mess this up, it’s over. ticket taker will realize he made a severe lapse in judgment by ever considering letting you work here. any value he previously saw in you will immediately be thrown out the window, and all that will be left is the human that was there from the start: useless. good for nothing. flawed.
the pile of papers you brought into his tent is next to you on the floor. you spread them out like a fan, looking through each individual sheet, but it’s not there. it’s just one document that’s missing, but he’ll notice. you know he will, and it’s your fault. tears well up in your eyes, but you’re quick to wipe them away before they can fall and ruin the papers you have in your hands, too.
maybe i can hide somewhere, you think. you were supposed to meet ticket taker in his tent to give him your papers before you left for the day. he would be here any moment now. but maybe if you hid, you could avoid him. not anywhere too far, in case you ran into him— just somewhere nearby. when he left to look for you, you would make a run for it.
and then what? your mind chides. you're not sure. maybe you'll think of an excuse once you have a clear head. or you'll beg on your knees and swear on your life so many times ticket taker will let this mistake slide, just this one time.
time.
you’re running out of time.
you file your stack of papers back into a neat pile, keeping them close to your chest while running quickly to a nearby wooden crate near one of the tent walls. tears spill from your eyes, and you breathe in deeply, trying to expel your panic.
but it’s not working well.
you kneel behind the crate, hiding your body from sight. your worries seem to multiply in the dark shadows, though, and you're too busy trying to keep your eyes dry to notice anything else.
you were supposed to meet with him two minutes ago.
he taps his foot.
he didn’t take you for the kind to be late. you've shown up earlier than he expected for the past two weeks, and you’ve been so obedient to everything he's asked thus far. he concludes that either you’ve disappeared after finding something unsettling about the circus, or something’s wrong.
he sighs, checking the time again. it’s an inconvenience— there’s no denying it. what should have been a quick and easy exchange has now taken up more precious time than he planned for, throwing off his entire schedule.
yet he still begins to look for you. he doesn’t know why. any other person, he would've moved on. he would have quickly redone any of the work he'd assigned his assistant so as to not get farther behind and save figuring out what misfortune had befallen them for when he cared enough to check, which was typically never.
he had stopped trying to reason with himself a long time ago when it came to anything having to do with you. he just seemed to keep coming back to you without meaning to. he didn’t mean to keep you around for as long as he did, but you’d proven yourself useful. he tells himself that's why he's allowed you to stay to make himself feel better, but it's not working.
and he doesn't appreciate how difficult you're making this right now. you listen so well, you're always so eager to please him, so where could you possibly be?
his connection to his tent is… useful. useful for surveying any visitor that walks in, useful in how quickly he can move between each reflective surface. and his office inside the tent is private; impossible for any mere visitor to just stumble upon. they already get lost enough in their own reflection— the chances are nearly zero that they'll ever make it any farther.
you did enter the tent, he notes. but you never exited, according to the mirrors. he knows you’re smart enough that you aren't lost inside the tent anywhere— you've been around him long enough to know his tent. yet he still double-checks every corner of the maze for his own sake. he doesn't find you, but he does pick up a single paper. it was one of the documents he gave you, but there's no trail of other scattered papers or clues. so where could you have gone?
then he sees you.
when he walks into his office, you're in a corner where you probably think you’re hidden. you knew to hide away from any mirrors, at least, but not good enough to hide from him.
he approaches you quietly, careful not to make a sound. you haven’t noticed him, yet. you’re too busy wiping away your tears, pressing your sleeves to your eyes in an attempt to stop them all at once. you let out a quiet sniffle as you open your eyes, and when you see him, you nearly hit your head on the crate behind you when you reel back in shock, eyes wide.
“ah! ticket taker– um, here are the papers. i'm sorry. you– oh, but–” you’re a mess, scrambling for words. you extend your hand out to him with your pile of papers, and then suddenly you're retracting your arm back, eyes averted.
he takes the papers from your hands despite your protests and drops them on top of the crate you’re against. “excellent,” he ignores your exclaims, “now, why are you hiding in the corner of my tent?”
you freeze at the question, desperately wishing you could disappear and escape the weight of his gaze. "i... um..." you try to answer him– you really do. but when you think about the missing paper, the words get caught in your throat. there are tears in your eyes again despite your best attempts to stop them, and you cover your mouth with a hand, turning away from him. you choke back a sob, but the smallest noise still escapes your throat, humiliating you even more.
he's still watching you. he'll only have more questions now that you're crying again. or maybe he won't. maybe he'll just tell you to leave, that he doesn't have time to deal with a crying mess. the one thing you're sure of is that it's over for you. this is it.
he waits for you to respond. elaborate. anything. but the only thing you do is tremble, and you’re refusing to look at him. he hesitates, but then he crouches down to your level. “dear,” he says, and the name makes you freeze for a second.
you’re scared– absolutely terrified. you’re not sure why he calls you dear. you’ve done nothing deserving of the name, nothing to be of value to him, yet he’s called you that since you first met. you squeeze your eyes shut, letting the last tears fall, wiping them quickly before you turn back to him. your lips are downturned, still trembling as if you’re about to completely break down. your eyes are watery, but you’re doing your best not to cry in front of him— again.
“keep your eyes on me, dear,” he orders, and you nod. “good. now, what has you on the ground like this?” he asks.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper, averting your eyes.
“i said look at me. do i need to hold you down?” his words immediately make you look back to him.
you shake your head silently, trying to keep your eyes on him this time. he continues, “then don’t keep me waiting. please, explain. i can’t help you if i don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.”
you don’t want to look away from him so instead, you look at the smaller details on him; the small tufts of hair coming out from underneath his hat, his flawless mask, perfectly split down the middle half black, half white, and then his eye again. “i don’t know,” you start out. “i’m on the floor because i was trying to hide. i’m sorry i missed our meeting.”
your apology reminds him that he hasn’t looked at a clock in a while. how long has it been since you were supposed to meet him now? he could check the watch in his pocket, but he doesn't. he keeps his gaze on you. “it’s in the past. nothing to be done about it now,” he sighs. you may have thrown off his entire schedule, but he was the one who decided to come find you, and you can't be blamed for that. the delays are nothing he can’t recover from anyway, assuming that you'll assist him in catching back up. but he'll have to deal with what's bothering you first. “i’m here now, though. i found you. so, what could you possibly have been hiding from? in my tent, of all places?
"i wasn't hiding from something... i was hiding from you. i was scared." your answer makes his head tilt as he waits for you to elaborate. "i lost one of the papers you gave me. i knew you were going to be mad, and i hid. i messed up your papers and your schedule, i'm sorry. i— i know i don't have the right to say anything else, but i really wish i could make this up to you— i'll do anything. i was scared because i don't want to go. i want to keep working with you, but i'm sure i've made you really upset..." you can't help but look away at the end. it was too overwhelming to be so transparent with him, admitting fault to something you were ashamed of while looking him in the eye. you feel
his gaze remains on you as you look at the ground— it never once falters. he watches your every move; every nervous fidget and the way your chest falls when you breathe out in short hiccups, still recovering from your tears. he counts every time you blink rapidly, trying to hold back more from spilling. "...if there's anything i can do to make it up to you, i swear i'll do it. i know it's silly, thinking i even have the right to ask for your forgiveness— yet i still can't help but try."
you’re right, he thinks. it’s silly of you to promise him things you can’t do. you can't swear on everything when you don't even know what "everything" entails. there isn’t much you can do for him besides continue to beg him to forgive you right now, but there’s a reason he’s kept you around this long.
he never bothers with the whereabouts of missing assistants, never enjoys dealing with the ones that cry, yet he’s here with you. he's waited this long for you to explain the problem to him. can’t you see that? if he were angry, he wouldn’t have bothered staying here for even a second longer; he doesn't ever bother with protecting anyone's feelings. “you’re a fool,” he says, breaking the silence that fell over both of you.
you head drops in shame. you feel as if you're breathless and hyperventilating all at the same time— maybe you are really dying, right here, in this moment.
but then you feel something on your head. is he… petting you…? you feel something drape over your shoulders as well, and look to your side to see a familiar blue jacket, with the golden edging that always catches your attention. his hand continues to rub the top of your head as you look up at him, lips parted in slight shock.
“you worry too much. and here i thought i was the overthinker, hum~ jester makes fun of it all the time. i’ll have to tell him about this,” he seems to be thinking to himself before he looks back down at you. “stand up, my dear.” he helps you stand on your feet before placing his hands on your shoulders, keeping his coat in place.
he guides you to sit in the chair at his nearby desk, and you let him move you around, still confused. “you’re... not mad?” you gather the courage to ask, although your voice is still quiet. his hands place a warm mug in your hand before he straightens, remaining standing at your side. there's a freshly brewed tea inside the mug, and the steam curls up to your face, clearing your nose.
“hum, you’re funny, my dear. you worry over nothing. the paper you ‘lost’ was on the ground. i picked it up while searching for you. it was nothing serious. i could have made another copy of it.” his answer makes your face turn red, realizing how worked up you got about such a small mistake. “you… have value to me, my dear.” he pauses between his words, realizing how wrong they sound. they’re true— he means it, but they're too deep for his comfort. it was more direct than he intended. “you proved it to me before. that’s why i let you assist me. your worth to me would not diminish with such a small, single mistake. if such accidents ended in termination, no one in this circus would be here, including me. i’m a little worried, dear, that you thought so little of me. i don’t trust people easily. you simply earned it."
you blink at him, surprised. you’re not sure you’ve ever heard so many words from him at once. “ah, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to–”
“it’s alright.” he doesn’t let you finish, looking away. he takes off his hat momentarily, running his hands through his hair to fix it. he's always been so put together, maintaining a stable, clean, and perfect image. you've never seen him do anything as simple as move a piece of hair away from his mask.
“it seems i’ll have to… teach you more about myself, i suppose. it will help us work together better. although–” he looks back at you. “it seems you need to relearn yourself, as well, dear one. shall i help you with that as well? you’re obedient, and you take accountability for your actions. that’s more than i can say of any past assistant. but you don’t seem to recognize anything valuable about yourself. you diminish yourself easily– as soon as one thing goes wrong, you think it’s the end.”
he waits for you to answer, but you’re still trying to mull over his words in your head. you feel awkward, under his gaze, listening to him explain how he sees you. he reads you like an open book, while you didn’t even realize you were a book to be read in the first place. “i... you’re right. i’ll be better about not... self-deprecating. thank you.” you look into the mug in your hands again, watching the tea bag float aimlessly inside. “i think it would help for us to learn more about each other; thank you for giving me this second chance. i apologize, i made this such a big thing. and the paper was right in front of me the whole time.” you catch yourself before you say anything deprecating about yourself out of habit, fearing retaliation from the man behind you. "i'll communicate the mistake next time."
“nothing to apologize for, sweetheart,” he answers, observing the buttons of his sleeves, “the time will be made up for eventually. although we have a lot of papers to get through, dearest, more so because of this mishap. i hope you’re ready.”
“right…” you say your goodbyes to seeing your bed for the night, “i’ll get started on that.”
✧ JESTER
cw: mc annotates books. bonding over books. themes of insecurity and self-deprecation. mentions of columbina and mc being a little like her :3 err i'm really not sure what happened this just kept getting longer and longer every time i tried to edit jester's section. but i would say that it's just a lot of talking back and forth. like a domestic deep talk with jester which i (at least) would find very comforting to turn my brain off and just read about jester's thought process. lots of character study in this one </3
when he makes you cry, jester won’t apologize in words. like ticket taker, his approach might make it seem like he doesn't care at first, but it's only because actions show that he cares much better than words ever could. he makes you come closer to him when you try to hide your tears from him. he does it to show you you're worthy enough to be by his side. he'll distract you with a story about him, something he usually only reserves for those he finds worthy, because you are worth it. he comforts you in a way that shows you he cares about you, even if he never says it. "don't close off, don't suffer by yourself." he's here for you.
you’re used to how the circus works by this point.
you know your place, and you’re content with it. they’ve taken a liking to you and allowed you to wander in and out of the circus as you please. you're allowed your own life outside of the circus, but the moment you step into the circus, into their home, you're theirs.
pierrot will grab you to test a new recipe he's tried out. then harlequin wants your attention, and ticket taker says he's willing to let you assist him with his paperwork. the doctor insists he needs you for an experiment only you can help him with—
and the last circus member? somehow you always wind up with him by the end of the day, even if he doesn't get to you first.
he's patient; he'll let one of the other members drag you around until he decides you're his. and once he's shown up to grab you, pierrot will have to say his goodbyes. until tomorrow— if he's lucky. but jester will decide when he's done with you, not anyone else.
your time with him is... strange. that's the best way you can put it. while the other members always have some sort of activity they reel you into, jester doesn't make you do anything. just has you sit with him in his tent. and talk.
it was nerve-wracking at first, being alone with him. no one was there to save you from his watchful eyes, or answer a question so you didn't have to. his questions were sometimes simple, but sometimes a little more invasive. it made you worry that you were eventually going to disappoint him with your answers.
some days, he asked for your opinion; what were your thoughts on a city they had travelled to before, and had you visited it yourself in the past? he was discussing with ticket taker whether they should purchase something new for their family, and what did you think? harlequin wanted a motorcycle (terrible idea, out of the question), and pierrot was banned from driving, so anything vehicle-related was off the table, but he was open to all other suggestions. you couldn't imagine what value your opinion possibly had in such important matters, but all you could do was hope to satisfy him with honesty.
other days, all you talked about was books. the first time you walked into his tent, past the main stage where you initially watched him perform, you were shocked to see his expansive collection of books. they were kept in towering stacks of old wooden crates, which he explained made them easier to transport as they travelled.
the rest of his tent was quite cozy; there were several comfortable chairs scattered about inside. there was one near his books, one at his desk for him, one next to it, mainly reserved for when ticket taker came with stacks of paper to talk him through each individual one, and another for you on the opposite side of the desk if you so desired. but it was intimidating to sit so close to him, so you usually opted for the last chair, which was just a few feet from being right in front of the desk.
he kept the tent dimly lit, lanterns hung sparsely from the top in a loose circle around the center. it kept the middle of the tent well illuminated, but the closer you got to the wall, the more you noticed the shadows that flickered with the flames inside each lamp. the lighting put a focus on the desk in the middle of the tent where he always sat, watching you from wherever you chose to sit.
if he had no specific question for you when you were brought to his tent, your typical routine was to update him on what book you were reading. sometimes you brought it with you, and sometimes he somehow had an exact copy of the book you were referencing. he mentioned briefly that harlequin had once bought him an entire crate of random books from a used bookstore as a gift, and while some of the books had been good, or alright, others... he only made it as far as reading the back cover before he put it down. no matter the book, on these days, you would both sit in silence save for the sound of pages turning from your individual books.
you don't mind the talking, or if it's silent. whatever happened each day, you found yourself looking forward to it, waiting for him to undoubtedly show up any time you were with one of the other circus members. jester had been hard to read, obviously. you still didn't understand in the slightest why he paid you any attention. but at the very least, the time spent with him had given you the opportunity to learn more about him.
sometimes he told you stories, similar to the ones he performed about monsters every night, but without all the actors. he would sigh, disappointed, saying the story was always better on stage with the blood and costumes. but this sufficed too— just him. and you.
other days, your conversations were two-sided and endless; you both bounced ideas and comments off of each other all day long. you wouldn't ever consider either of you extremely talkative, but he seemed to be bringing out a side of you that you didn't realize you had, and maybe you did the same for him.
the circus— his circus had quickly become a second home to you. and not just the members of the circus, the place itself was a comfort, too. wandering around the tents at night with the warm string lights hung between like stars that were just out of reach— and the music that played quietly above the bustle of the crowds of people you passed seemed to heal something inside you. maybe it was the joy that filled the air and the magic of the circus— you hadn't visited a place like this since you were a kid. but now you were older, actively choosing to be here rather than being brought here by your family or friends. you knew the world wasn't pure or kind like you thought it was when you were younger, yet this place still remained untouched by adulthood. the circus was still alluring, charming, and bright, taking visitors away from the worries of their everyday lives and to an entirely new world.
if it was before business hours and you visited earlier in the day, the time you spent with the circus members still had the same sense of magic and comfort. they were who you went to when you wanted a distraction or someone to talk to.
pierrot was the easiest to speak to, unsurprisingly. he was extremely good at listening to you, and his idea of comfort came in the form of compliments and hugs. he always took your side and rather than trying to find a solution to your problems, just let you talk while he nodded and urged you to keep going. listening was all you needed; you would figure out the problem on your own. but pierrot's approach was different from a certain purple-haired man who would certainly have no trouble telling you that you were wrong.
you feared that if you ever tried to be this vulnerable with jester, he would end up judging you, seeing your problems as minuscule, or not anything worthy of being called a problem at all. and he had the right to perceive your problems as such with how much he— all of them had been through. when you first met pierrot, he was being ridiculed and attacked for looking strange. he was blamed for the disappearances around town without any proof, and that hostility was something the circus dealt with everywhere they went. and it was fine if jester couldn't empathize with you; you weren't expecting him to. you could always talk to pierrot instead, anyway.
work had been exhausting. you'd been understaffed all week at the café, and today was no exception. it had also been nonstop busy since the time you had opened, and it hadn't let up even when you were leaving for the day. customers just kept pouring in, none of whom seemed to understand that there were only two of you doing your best to survive the onslaught. while not all of them came up to directly complain and demand their drinks or a refund, it was the stares that always bothered you. the dozens of eyes burning into you, scrutinizing your every move, hesitation, and breath, while they waited to eagerly snatch their drink from your hands and finally leave. it added to the nerves you already had, and if you were unlucky enough to accidentally spill something, the crowd of people watching only made it more humiliating.
"on top of all that, one of the customers tried to walk behind the counter. i had to drop everything and fight with him to step back into the lobby," you're retelling everything to pierrot, who nods eagerly with a frown, opening his arms wide to offer you a hug that you gratefully accept.
"my star, you could have called me. i would have come immediately to take care of the man. you never deserve to be treated like that." his eyes are filled with worry, and he keeps his arms secure around you, one hand rubbing your back. he was the first person you ran to as soon as you made it to the circus, and he could tell that something was wrong as soon as you opened the flap of his tent. your shift at work had ended hours ago, yet you still looked just as totally worn out as when you had left.
"hm~ i could have spilled a coffee or two on the man, that would've gotten rid of him real quick. don't call that red dog next time, little one. what would he do? he can't even talk," harlequin laughs, appearing from a dark corner, scaring both you and pierrot. he approaches quickly, leaning in to stop just inches away from your face, "you'd be much better off calling me, pretty thing. i assure you, i could protect you~"
the side glare pierrot gives harlequin is deadly, and your eyes dart between the two, not daring to say anything. pierrot gives you one last squeeze before he lifts you up, sitting you back on the ground and placing himself between you and his green counterpart. you cover your mouth with a hand in shock as he tackles harlequin to the ground. there are exclaims of pain and violent jingles of bells as the two roll around on the ground, and pierrot's saying "stay away from them! you—"
everything goes quiet, and harlequin and pierrot both freeze mid-punch, looking at the entrance to the tent. you turn around slowly to see what they're looking at, and ice-cold shivers run down your back when you see him. the look on jester's face is darker than the look pierrot gave harlequin just moments ago. when you turn back to the two boys in question, they're both on their knees, hands neatly placed in their laps, ready to beg for forgiveness.
jester's eyes trail to you, and you roll your lips into your mouth, not daring to breathe. you get the feeling you should move into the same position as the other two, pleading to be forgiven for being a bystander.
it's silent in the tent for a moment; no one moves a muscle, and not even the wind dares to blow. then, jester breaks the silence. "[name]. my tent. now."
"right. understood. going." your answer is incoherent, but you move to your feet nonetheless, immediately following orders. you hesitate for a moment, looking back when you reach the tent entrance. harlequin blinks at you rapidly as if you're in any position to help him, and you can only give him an apologetic look before turning to pierrot, who's already looking up to the sky, accepting his fate.
jester turns to you with a terrifying smile on his mask. the hand he puts on your back is brief as he guides you out of the tent with a small push. "i'll see you shortly, little mouse. keep walking."
you close your eyes as you walk away from the tent, mourning the souls about to be lost.
jester's tent is the same as always. the shadows that dance along the walls of his tent catch your eye as you sit down.
today, you forego any of the chairs in the tent for a wooden crate several feet from his desk. it puts you in a position so that you're ready to escape if your doom is coming next after harlequin and pierrot's. it's naïve to think you could ever escape him, no matter how much distance you put between you both— but at least you'll be out of arm's reach if you sit here.
you hear the bells before you see him. sunlight from outside briefly floods the tent as he enters, but it's extinguished just as quickly as it appeared when the flap of the tent entrance falls back into place behind him. your eyes follow him as he walks to his desk, lowering himself into his chair, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, resting on his knee.
"you... wanted to see me?" you start nervously, biting your lip.
he sighs, closing his eyes. his hands reach up to massage his neck. "yes. start with explaining what those two were fighting about just now."
your mouth goes dry. will you be getting them in more or less trouble, depending on how much you say? or are they past the point of saving? "oh! ...that? i assure you it was nothing big. pierrot was mad because harlequin came out of nowhere. i was just talking to pierrot about my day. i had a few rude customers, and he was comforting me— and then harlequin decided he had something to say, too."
"at your coffee shop?" he inquires, and you nod. "hm~ of course. they don't even handle aggressive customers at the circus well. neither is equipped to comfort you about such a thing. and that is hardly an argument for pierrot to pull a knife on harlequin, that boy."
you hum in thought, "they're nice to offer help, but their ideas of 'help' are... a little vengeful."
"so you agree?" he asks, and your heart stops for a moment. was it a trick question? were you supposed to defend harlequin and pierrot spilling hot coffee on any person that had wronged you?
"y-yes... i think since they are representatives of the circus, they have an image to uphold. it would look bad on the circus if they got into a disagreement with someone about something as trivial as coffee. it really is just coffee. that's all my job is. i can handle a few mean customers. it's nothing worth them risking the image of the circus for. and... they probably would have just made the customers more mad at me, too— if i might selfishly add." you play with your fingers nervously, awaiting his judgement.
"i agree. that was a good way to put it." jester nods, and something inside you flutters. any semblance of praise from him was worth the risk of answering his trick questions. "however, your addition isn't selfish; this is all about you to begin with. while it wouldn't have been good for either of them to go, if you find you require help at any time, you're better off asking bil to come. or me."
your eyes widen at his answer, "really? you would come?" you immediately pinch yourself, embarrassed at how eager you sounded. calming down, you continue, "uhm... it's alright. i was fine, no one was hurt. seriously— nothing is ever going to happen at a coffee shop that's worth the trouble of one of you guys coming. but thank you."
he still seems surprised at your initial exclamation, and you wish you could slap yourself. "i would come, if you asked," he answers with a slight tilt of his head. there's a brief moment of silence as he holds your gaze before you eventually have to avert your eyes, feeling a little shy. he continues on like nothing happened, "you never know what might happen, little mouse. it's better to be overprepared now than to be scrambling for a plan in the moment. if something were to happen, pierrot is typically the one handing out flyers near your work. realistically, it would be best to call him because of his proximity, but as we discussed, it may not have the best outcomes. perhaps if there was a rotation..." he places a hand on his chin, eyes narrowed as he continues to think to himself.
jester has never come to your work— never even mentioned it. while harlequin and pierrot thankfully visit when it's slow and you're at least presentable, it would be just your luck for jester to come in while your skin is covered in syrups and milk has somehow reached your hair. you always thought he just couldn't be bothered to come— why would he? even if he needed to see you for something, he would see you at the circus later, so there was no reason for him to ever stop by your work. but maybe he had never visited, simply because he wasn't in the area. would you come, even if there wasn't a problem? just if i asked? the words die on your tongue.
"well, moving on from that—" he straightens in his chair and your attention is brought back to him. "my original reason for bringing you here; i noticed when you walked through the gates— you look a little ghastly today, dear thing. have you had anything to eat or drink? you're lucky i got to you before doctor did." you rack your mind, trying to rack over anything you could consider an attempt at self-care.
"uhm... i drank a coffee, i think," you answer.
he blinks. "you think?"
"well— i would classify it as water, too, because it was an iced coffee. coffe is... technically made with water and the ice melted because i was too busy to drink it. so i did. i drank coffee and water, if that's better." it was a horrible attempt at making light of your situation, because clearly your point is no, you haven't taken care of yourself, but as soon as you finish speaking, you wish you hadn't said anything at all.
"that's the most foolish thing you've ever said," he shakes his head.
you laugh awkwardly, head hanging low in defeat. it was foolish, you know that. but his words still sting a little. it's nothing to get in your feelings about; you were the one who made up some bullshit excuse. but you're exhausted, and your mind is barely working. would it kill him to act a little concerned if he was going to take the time to ask how you were? if you had told pierrot the same thing, he would have urged you to eat immediately. he'd probably even offer to make you something, not call you foolish.
yes, it was your own fault that you hadn't taken care of yourself, but you didn't necessarily have the time and ability to do so today. but sometimes it was nice to not have to do everything by yourself. that's why you came to the circus; you know you would be in good company. pierrot and harlequin provided you with comfort and a distraction from your feelings, so that you didn't wallow in them by yourself. but if jester was going to ask how you were despite clearly noticing you were not yourself and proceed to not do anything about it, then you would have preferred him to say nothing at all.
"what did your nuisance of a customer do? nothing too terrible, surely. or else i'll ask bil to keep a better eye on you." he's confusing. saying things that make your face warm, and then things that hurt your heart. does he care or not? you barely have the space to think about it; you're too preoccupied worrying about how he's going to react if you tell him what happened. but you do, anyway. you offer up your fragile heart again. because he asked. and you want to tell him. you want comfort. you want him to comfort you.
"it wasn't that big of a deal. i promise, it's nothing ticket taker needs to waste time monitoring." you're off to a great start, already downplaying yourself. but you hope that if you act this way, no matter how jester responds to your answer, at least you'll seem unbothered. "there was a man who was confused about where to order. we were understaffed, no one had taken his order, so he started walking behind the counter. i had to leave my coworker to fight with him a bit to stay out of our area, which just shook me up a bit. although— to be honest, that isn't what bothered me most. it was everyone else in the lobby, just glaring at my coworker and me. i hate when people watch me, even more when they're being intentionally rude about it. that's all."
jester places a finger on his chin again, pondering the situation. "we have people try to enter restricted tents all the time. humans never want to listen, do they? they'll just stare you down if you don't give them exactly what they want."
"yeah... but it's a lot more serious for you guys. you have genuine things you need to keep protected and away from the general public. my situation wasn't that serious. i think i'm just exhausted. i almost didn't go into work today, i wanted to stay home. we've been understaffed all week. it's just been rough for me." you weren't trying to lie or oversell the importance of the circus; it was just undeniable that it was a much larger business than your little coffee shop.
"alright. if that's the case, then why are you even here?"
jester's response makes your heart drop. what's that supposed to mean? you want to ask, but it's pretty clear what he's trying to say. you're here because you wanted to talk to pierrot, and to see him, like you do every day, because it brings you comfort. but if he didn't want you here, he should've left you alone with pierrot. and if he doesn't want you here at all, then you'll leave.
you take in a deep breath, blinking a few times. you feel the tears well up in your eyes and you bite your lip, willing them not to fall. you're not sure when they started, right after he asked the question, or when you came to your own conclusion to leave. despite your wishes, one still slips out, running down your cheek. you turn your head slightly to the side, hoping to hide the tear from the man in front of you. you don't wipe the tear away when it falls down to your jaw, you let it fall somewhere on your shirt.
it doesn't matter what you hope for, because that's all it is— a prayer, a wish for something to happen. and rarely does anything go the way you want it to. jester's vision in the dark is remarkably clear. he's noted everything about your body language; your eyes became glassy before the tears you're trying so desperately to hide began to fall. they reflect the embers of the nearby lamp you've chosen to look at instead of him. you tensed the moment he asked the question you have yet to respond to, and you turned your body slightly away from him. the first sign that something was wrong was in the beginning, the moment he entered the tent: your knees were already angled towards the exit, rather than towards his desk— towards him.
"you're crying," he observes, but he doesn't make any move to comfort you.
"i'm not crying," you respond, keeping your voice as steady as possible. you push yourself off the crate, turning to leave.
"why are you lying to me when i can clearly see tears running down your face?" you let out a deep sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. more tears escape your eyes, as he's been so kind to point out.
you open them again, looking directly at him. "i'm not crying."
only a human would be strange enough to deny the obvious. you deny him with such a fire in your eyes, and for what? he clearly sees the truth, and he's not going to ignore your tears just because you say you're not crying. he has a heart, believe it or not.
books have always been the easiest way to get inside someone's head as an outsider. humans and monsters alike all have different perspectives; no two people have the same view. they may be similar, but never identical. what shapes a person's mind is the experiences unique to them: the habits and memories passed down from their parents, what they choose to surround themselves with, what challenges the forces of nature throw at them— they all combine together to develop these unique psyches.
he's read thousands of books throughout his lifetime, and somehow he still has yet to understand what goes on inside your head in moments like these.
"come here." it's an order, but he doesn't say it sternly. just points to the chair next to him. he talks to you levelly because he knows you'll listen.
you don't know why you obey. you grab at the fabric of your pants in tight fists as you sit, trying to will yourself to stop crying. you hold your breath until your lungs burn, bite your lip until it bleeds, pinch yourself until it doesn't sting anymore, but none of it stops your tears and the small sobs that accompany them.
then there's a feeling on your head that makes you freeze. slender fingers comb through the back of your hair to your scalp, running back through the strands over and over. you turn your head slightly, keeping his hand on your head as you look at him in confusion.
his face is neutral as he stares back. "pierrot does this to me sometimes. he likes my hair. used to play with it until he grew his own out to be as long as mine." you try to imagine pierrot behind jester, doing something similar to the way jester plays with your hair now. you didn't even realize pierrot had long hair, besides his strands in the front. "he keeps most of it tucked in his hat after sustaining an injury." he seems to read your mind. he stays silent for a second, and you close your eyes, leaning into the gentle touch of his hand. it was nice to hear something new about pierrot and jester, something to take your mind off everything that had happened today. and you don't remember the last time someone ever took the time to touch you like this.
"drink this," he slides a cup across his desk, placing it in front of you. it's a steaming cup of tea, and another one identical to your own is to the right of him. you didn't even notice when he poured it. "you'll get a headache if you keep crying when you haven't drunk anything today." you nod, taking the cup between your hands, sipping from it hesitantly. but it's the perfect temperature to your surprise; the warm liquid soothes your throat without being too hot to hurt you.
"you thought i meant for you to leave. that you weren't wanted here, didn't you?"
you look up from the tea back at him. "is that... not what you meant?" you ask, your voice cracking from your previous cries.
"no, dear. you said you wanted to stay home today. my question was why you were here, instead of your home," he explains, and your cheeks warm, embarrassed.
"i'm sorry i took it the wrong way," you apologize. "i think... the circus is just so comforting to me. like a second home. i didn't even consider going to my home when i got off work, i wanted to come here immediately and be with you— and everyone else, of course—" you stutter at the end, only getting more flushed. but when you meet his eyes again, there's a small smile on his face you don't think you've ever seen before. he stops running his hand through your hair to ruffle it slightly for a moment before returning to combing through it.
"pierrot would be pleased to know that. as am i," he responds. he seems to hesitate before speaking again, "dear one, you are... welcome here. if you wish to stay here instead of your own home for the night, i'll allow it." you blink at him in surprise, taken aback by his offer. "you don't have to give me an answer now, little mouse. it's just an option. think about it for a moment while i tell you something else." his hand stills on your head, and your eyes follow his other arm as he reaches for the desk drawer next to him. sliding it open, he pulls out a book, placing it on the desk.
your eyes widen when you recognize it. "is that... mine? is that the book i gave you?"
he nods, flipping through the pages. "it is. how long ago was that? i've been meaning to return it." it was one of the first books you had ever talked with him about. one day you brought it in as an offering and although he said it wasn't a book he would typically read, he still took it without a word. you never knew if he had actually read it or not.
you wait for him to continue. would he tell you what he thought of the book? was it good or bad? "you annotate your books. it was interesting to me," he says, and your face goes red. it had completely slipped your mind that while reading the book, you had highlighted and scribbled all over the pages before handing it over to jester a few months after. "writing is ambiguous; good authors don't spell out every little explanation and reaction— it's left up to interpretation. this book you gave me— it itself was fine, but i found reading your annotations far more interesting. i learned more about you through your scattered notes about how you understood the book."
you can't even begin to think about what you probably wrote inside those pages, and it's hard to imagine what jester may have thought the first time he saw your scribbles. "jester?" you say his name, and he hums in response, looking from the book back at you. "why do you care so much about what i have to say? why waste time reading something as silly as my annotations? you have countless smarter people around you than me, like ticket taker. what use am i to you when he can give you the correct answer to anything, circus-related or not?"
his fingers begin to mindlessly play with your hair again as he answers, "i do ask him for his opinions. i trust him with everything. but i've... grown to begin to trust you. your annotations proved to me that your kindness was not a fake front. and don't take that the wrong way— i have a family to protect. i don't trust many, and certainly not easily. skepticism is necessary in order to keep them safe. you may not have meant to, but your book and your notes told me everything i needed to know about you to decide if i was going to trust you even a bit or not." you nod to his words, mumbling a small thanks. "while ticket taker might be smarter in some aspects— or all— that's to be expected, given how much he's experienced. it wouldn't be fair of me to compare you to him because of those differences. besides, you offer me something different— a perspective we cannot always understand: the human rationale."
you tilt your head slightly in confusion, and he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to speak, "but my perspective— or rationale, whatever you want to call it, is inferior to your own. i don't understand why you would want that from me. it's not useful to you." your eyes follow his hand on your book as he runs a thumb along the corner of the pages.
"inferior, maybe, but still useful. take your kindness, for example. you gain nothing in return, yet your first instinct is to still treat others with sympathy. why do you choose not to use force against a man who is so clearly overstepping your boundaries? why would you stand up to an aggressor— why protect one of my own— without knowing anything about us, without expecting a reward for your deeds? your kindness is what separates you from the rest of your town, who is quick to blame my family for anything that will make them feel better about their lives. despite their inferiority," he looks up to the lamps that hang from the roof of the tent. you count them. there are six.
"think of some of the stories i tell you. there was another one of us, once upon a time: the flower." the color pink immediately comes to mind— and then red. you remember the red pool that reached from underneath an actor dressed in pink to across the stage the first time you watched jester perform. "she was kind, almost a little too kind. none of us could understand her at times, and it caused bil a great deal of frustration when he was younger. but her compassion came from a place of purity. she had seen too much cruelty to be innocent, yet despite all she witnessed, she still seemed to see good in everyone. your kindness... is like that. like hers. it's selfless. you give people second chances even when they don't deserve it. you're a rare find, and sometimes still hard to understand, but the more i learn about you, the more i can understand what went on in her head, and in turn what goes on in yours. most humans give up on kindness when they think no one notices— but you, you continue to be kind. even if others are not kind to you, you have never given up on kindness. it's simply who you are." his words recognize something in you that's never been brought to your attention before.
he's noticed and seen you clearly for who you were; your intentions were good, your kindness was second nature, not something you ever really thought about. he mentioned you giving people second chances, but truly, you're the lucky one. he allowed you the opportunity to prove yourself to him and his family, rather than immediately shutting you out. "thank you, jester," you mumble. anything you say back to him will certainly not top the time he's just taken to describe you, but there's still something in your heart that you want to say, "i've learned a lot from you. from this circus you lead. you took a kingdom filled with pain and built it back up to stand proud. you took broken dreams and gave them the chance to be fulfilled again. what you've created is still more than i can wrap my head around, but i'm greatful that you've give me the chance to learn, instead of punishing me for not knowing. thank you."
"hum~ nothing to thank me for, it is simply the truth," he nods, patting your head once more. "should i tell pierrot to account for you when he makes dinner tonight?"
“please.”
✴︎ DOCTOR
cw: actual warnings before a ramble: needles, blood/a blood draw. mc is feeling quite anxious + being poked with a needle isn't helping. touchstarved/lonely mc </3 ramble: i don't want it to seem like i halfassed doctor or reduced him down to medical things because he's so much more than that!!! but i do fear it may come off that way </3 i really don't want it to but i also feel like i'm still learning how to write the doctor and this scenario just fit best in my head as something that would truly happen!
doctor immediately notices when you're upset, but he may not go about it the way others commonly do. to him, solutions are found in cures and results, but that's not what everyone needs. you don't need a cure, you just need comfort. he might need a little bit of guidance, but he’s always willing to try a new approach for you. always for you.
your time spent with the doctor was a little strange, you'll admit it.
there wasn't always a lot of talking, but you liked that. neither of you required words to communicate; enough seemed to be said between blood transfusions, monitoring vitals, the twitches of your body— it all translated to something else:
you trust me enough to let me do this.
i trust you enough to give you myself.
and he wasn't the only one observing during the experiments; you made your own mental notes while he leaned down to secure the straps of your chair. the noises he made to himself when he found something interesting, the tilt of his head when he looked at you, and, of course, the way something new seemed to interest him every day. consequently, you learned something new about him each day as he studied something new.
you visited him every day, interested to find what he had discovered, and he more than welcomed it.
and that wasn't to say you guys didn't speak– you still held plenty of conversations:
“hm, you know it’s not that regular to visit your doctor every day, sweetie.”
“hmm, then you might need to diagnose me, doctor.”
you didn't mind when his experiments ended up hurting you, either. you tried to be a good subject for him. you never flinched or winced when something hurt, although it didn't matter. he was always quick to notice your pain and erase it just as quickly as you felt it. if you were bleeding a little or there was an unexpected side effect, he would patch you up, kiss the bandaged wound, and give you something to get rid of the side effect.
his work was always gentle on you. he never intentionally caused you pain, but sometimes you wondered if the way his fingers grazed your skin was. his touch left chills and shivers running through your body, which he always noted was abnormal, yet he never delved deeper into finding out why. he wrote down every time your heart rate spiked, which happened to be when he smiled, but you were positive he hadn't pieced that together yet.
and that was fine, too. you would take the moments and conversations you could get with him, you would take it all and be thankful for what you had.
you thought you would be able to stay patient that way; stay satisfied and happy with what you already had. but some days, you seemed to crave a little more. you couldn't justify it as loneliness; you were surrounded by people all the time. you interacted with hundreds of faces every day at work and obviously spent nearly the rest of your time with the doctor in his tent. it wasn't loneliness... physically. but maybe emotionally it was. for the longest time, no one had really understood what was going on in your head, and no one ever seemed to care enough to notice something was off.
you didn't want to let it bother you. you hated to demand more from the people around you. even if rationally, talking to them would make you feel better, you couldn't bring yourself to do it. it felt as if you were telling someone they weren't a good enough friend, and that you were selfishly asking them for more. to be more.
you had held conversations with the doctor that were close to satisfying that craving before, such as each of you sharing stories from your childhoods, but you still couldn't gather the courage to say it. you knew exactly what you wanted from him– you wanted to be more than friends. your relationship was abnormal enough as it was; friends certainly did not strap each other to chairs and experiment on one another, but you weren't technically anything more intimate than that. you weren't brave enough to ask for clarification on what you were, so you kept the feeling to yourself, along with everything else plaguing your mind. what scared you more than anything was losing what you already had with him. if you were ever brave enough to tell him something like how much you struggled to get out of bed and he found it off-putting, you would never be able to recover from that.
but today had been a little too much to bear, a little too much to hold inside all to yourself. an draining day of work was a disastrous mix when combined with the loneliness that was already eating away at you. you were tired, but you didn't want to sleep. you wanted to be around someone who made you feel loved. you wanted to be with him.
when you entered his tent, the words almost immediately spill out of you, 'could i have a hug?' but he's ushering you into a chair as soon as he sees you.
"dear one, i've been waiting for you. i have something i want to try out–" he immediately stops everything he's doing, instead looking straight at you and tilting his head. you shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze. "something's wrong," he observes, and you avert your eyes. "you aren't well, dear. what happened? i can tell from your breathing–"
that's the part you don't know how to tackle. he does notice when you're feeling down, but not the way you want him to. he thinks he can help you with some kind of physical treatment, like a medicine. but science can't fix you. what you need is a person. you need someone to comfort you and show you love. but how are you supposed to tell him that? if you don't say anything, he's never going to know. and you know he would listen, but you don't know how to ask for it. every time you try, the words get lodged in your throat, caught by the fear of messing up, and you end up missing your chance.
"your eyes, sweetie. you look exhausted. are you getting enough sleep? do you feel well-rested?" he has a finger on your chin, guiding you to look at him.
no. you can barely think. you are exhausted. you're the farthest thing from well-rested. if you're able to fall asleep, you wake up feeling depressed and worse than the prior night. on the nights that you can't fall asleep, you're wrapped in a blanket that provides no warmth or sense of comfort, because nothing can replace the touch of a living person that you so desperately crave. you want it to be him. you want to be held by him. "i'm not sure..." you mumble, averting your eyes to look at the floor instead of him, unable to answer to his face. "maybe."
"you're taking longer to answer, and you're talking slower than normal. i'm worried, dear." he's actually quite good at articulating what he's feeling. if you had to guess, you would say it's because it's easy for him to say something as long as there's a tangible, logical label for it. being "worried" comes with connotations that he doesn't have to explain any further. maybe you could learn something from him and just say the damn words–
"my dear, i want to take a blood sample. your adrenal hormones might give me a better understanding of what's going on. is that alright?" he begins rolling up your sleeve but stops halfway through, waiting for your approval to keep going.
and you nod, because you really do think it'll be alright. you can handle a small needle– he's done this more times than you can count. and if the doctor says so–
oh.
when the needle pierces your skin, you feel sick. it's just a sharp pinch, a tiny piece of metal, but it's like you're feeling every individual layer of skin it's passing through. surely it's your imagination, but it's as if you can feel the blood leaving your vein through the needle, too. you're nauseous and light-headed, and your entire body is going numb. have you eaten anything today? you don't remember. you want to tell him it hurts, but you're scared. you've never told him you were in pain, you never wanted to disappoint him. and he always seemed to notice when to stop, anyway, but he doesn't stop. your heart is beating so loud in your ears you want to cry– how can he not notice?
and why can't you say anything, why can't you just speak up for yourself? why do you shut your eyes and tell yourself you can handle a little more, instead of just asking him to stop?
the sob you cough out as tears fall from your eyes is when everything stops.
he did notice everything. you don't need to say anything for him to notice; he's never needed words to figure out something is wrong– he sees it. his touch usually relaxes you, but today, you've been tense from the moment you entered his tent. your face is always neutral when he draws your blood, but now you're in tears.
he was waiting for you to tell him it was enough, waiting for you to tell him no if you didn't want the blood test. but you didn't, and he kept going, because he thought it would be alright. he thought if he just had this test, he would be able to figure out what was going on, but now he seems to have only made everything worse.
he doesn't need you to tell him something is wrong, per se, but what he does need is a little guidance. he needs you to tell him what to do when something's wrong. and he only needs you to show him one time and then he'll write it down– no, he won't write it down– he'll engrain it into his memory for you. every experiment is a trial and error until he finds the right solution, but he has yet to find the remedy for your pains.
"my dear, you're hurting," is all he can say, because he's unsure of what to do, how to carry out the plan that he needs to. he doesn't know the plan. he doesn't have the information he needs to help you. his words almost seem to cause more harm as you curl up in his chair, your cries muffled by the knees you bring to your chest.
"my sweet... will you tell me what's hurting you?" his question only erupts another sob from you– is he why you're in so much pain?
"...hug– can you hug me, please? will you hug me? please–" before you can finish, you're wrapped in his arms, fully covered by his figure, fully protected. one of his hands is on the back of your head, cradling you into the side of his neck. he's always burning incense in his tent and the smoke must have stuck to his skin because it's all you smell. it's his favorite one, hard to describe because of how unique it is– it's spicy, but also a little sweet, with something earthy amidst the two clashing scents. just like the first time you smelt it, it calms your nerves immediately. you had complimented the fragrance when he first burn it, he had explained to you that it was his favorite, despite how rare it was to come by.
"don't waste that on me, then, doctor. i'm quite calm right now," you had told him. because of you, you thought, but left unsaid.
"that's alright, my dear. nothing i do is ever wasted on you. i wanted to show you the scent, but i'm also burning it because i enjoy it," he answered, continuing his work on your arm. "i'm glad that you like it. it's my favorite."
your heart didn't hurt so bad back then. not like it does now. you clutch his cloak, burying yourself deeper into him. your breathing is still uneven, but you seem to have stopped crying.
"i'm sorry my dear. i hurt you," he apologizes, rubbing your head gently with a hand. "...what can i do for you? i don't want you to be in pain."
you shake your head. "i just needed this," you breathe, "this is all i wanted." you pull away from his cloak to look at him while his hand on your lower back slowly up and down it. "i just wanted to be with you, without an experiment. but i didn't tell you that. i'm really sorry. i had a bad day... and all i wanted to do was hug you and rest with you."
"my dear, i never meant to hurt you or make you feel worse, i'm sorry." he pulls you closer, as if scared that you'll slip out of his grasp at any moment. "i'll take you somewhere else. i've never shown you the garden with all my plants, have i? would you like to go there?" when you nod, he repositions his arms to support your body as he carries you, keeping you close to him.
you lean your head against his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat seems to calm your own. "that sounds nice," you murmur, "i'd like that. wherever i can be. with you."
he presses a small kiss to your head, warming your entire body. "of course, dear. we can go anywhere."