Paper Stars
CG Dadiplier x Little Simon
Tw: negative self talk, description of anxiety and past trauma (through metaphors, but yk)
If Simon didn't have something to do in the next five minutes, he was definitely gonna lose his mind. He'd been teetering on the edge of a dangerously small headspace for the past few days, definitely understimulated, and was currently marching his jittery self down to the kitchen.
He found Host sitting at the counter, softly narrating what Google was doing. The android didn't cook often, from what the others said, but had taken to watching culinary competition shows and was determined to show that he could do leagues better than the contestants. He had what looked like thirteen hundred things going all at once, and was working at an inhuman speed.
Simon watched him, fascinated. All the droids he'd ever seen were rudimentary at best; certainly nowhere near as advanced as Google. His counterpart Bing, with his more humanlike disposition, was even more baffling. After awhile, Google noticed Simon's eyes on him.
"Can I help you?" Simon tried not to let the flat tone feed the anxiety pooling in his gut, but shuffled on his feet nevertheless.
"Um...do you...need help?" He asked.
"Negative. I am sufficient to handle the workload." Then he paused and turned to Simon. He looked him up and down, most likely scanning his elevated heart rate and nervous movements.
"...Thank you, Simon." The words came out awkwardly, as if they felt strange to say. Before Simon could contemplate what that meant, Google had turned back to his tasks. Simon watched for a few more minutes, then sighed and left the room.
"With a resigned sigh, Simon took his leave." Host mumbled behind him.
That was about how it went. Yancy and Illinois were out on a jog, Darkiplier was reinforcing the protective barriers on their home with Annus, and it seemed like absolutely nobody had anything for Simon to do.
"Maybe just try relaxing for today, Si." Yandere suggested.
"Uh, yeah. Sure." Relax. Did he even know how? Simon's quest to relaxation led him to one of the three libraries in the Manor. He tried to sit down, but his leg bounced uncontrollably when he did. So, he stood up and began pacing around the room. His hands came up, beginning to wave up and down with his movements. Dr. Iplier was right, that did feel nice. He suddenly heard movement in one of the reading nooks, creeping over on silent feet to investigate.
Stan was sitting on a loveseat surrounded by colored paper. The self appointed 'Dad' of the house, Stan seemed surprisingly docile. Not like any Fathers Simon had been raised with. He never yelled, never demanded anything of him, never punished him physically. The Fathers he'd known were nothing like Stan. Whether Simon trusted the man or just found him harmless, it was hard to say. As Simon watched, the man cut long strips and began folding them. Then he fiddled with the paper for awhile before setting it in a growing pile of... something. Curious, Simon stepped forward to take a closer look.
Stars.
They were little stars, of all different colors. Simon stared at the little tub full of them, completely forgetting the man in front of him until he spoke.
"You want me to show you how to make them?" Simon jerked his head to face Stan. The man had a patient expression. He'd been given that look a lot during his time here, and never knew what to do with it.
"Do...do you mind?" Stan patted the cushion next to him invitingly. Simon sat down, and Stan offered him the paper. He thought for a moment, then chose a yellow strip.
"Good choice! Now, here's what you do..."
Simon followed Stan's directions to a T. Did everything exactly as he said. Even so, his star came out looking significantly more lopsided than Stan's. He stared at it, unable to stop the wave of frustration that bubbled up.
"What's wrong, Champ?"
"Mine looks like shit." He grumbled. Stan chuckled in response.
"Ok firstly, language, young man. Secondly, I've been doing them for ages, yours isn't gonna look the same as mine. And besides, just because it's not perfect doesn't mean it looks bad; that's pretty darn good for a first try!" Stan handed him another yellow strip, letting Simon follow along with him. The next one was a little better, but still crooked.
"Paper stars are a lot like people, Kiddo. No two are the same, but they're all beautiful in their own way." He explained. Simon picked up another paper, blue this time. That small headspace poked at the back of his mind, and it was getting harder to fight. Something about the way Stan talked to him made him feel like a kid again.
And not necessarily in a bad way.
"But what if it's really bad? Like, what if it doesn't even look like a star anymore?" He asked. Stan chuckled.
"Well that's the beauty of it. You can pull it open and try again." Simon paused, picking up his first star. He glared at it like it personally offended him.
"Wouldn't it be better to just throw it away, crumple it up and forget it even existed?" His hand closed around it, and he let the flattened star fall to the floor. Stan hummed thoughtfully.
"Well you could do that. But you know what happens then?" He reached down, picked up the star, and carefully unfurled it. He used his thumb to gently smoothen the paper and began to fold. Simon watched Stan, until his eyes began to tear up and he was forced to look away. After a few minutes, a warm hand came to rest against his back, and Stan gestured for Simon to hold out his hands. He did so, and Stan placed the perfectly folded star in his palm.
"What happens then, is that someone comes along. They see it on the ground, or in the trash, and they pick it up. They take it in their hands, and help it become something beautiful. And even after it's been fixed, it still isn't perfect." Simon examined the star. It still had crease marks, and wasn't symmetrical. Still, it was...beautiful.
He let out a shuddering breath.
"W-wha-...what if it's not worth the...effort?" Stan moved to wrap an arm around Simon, and he let himself be pulled into a side hug.
"It's always worth it, Champ. Always." Stan rested his cheek against the top of Simon's head, rubbing his back. Simon bit his lip, fighting back the wave of emotions that was suddenly hitting him. He set the star on the table, afraid he'd break it again.
Just like he broke everything.
With that one thought, the dam burst. Simon's resolve crumbled, and he let out a quiet sob. Stan cooed softly, and the sound only made him crash harder. Simon buried his face in his hands, chest heaving with the force of his cries.
"Oh, kiddo. You've sure been bottling this up, haven't you?" Stan mumbled. Simon no longer had the energy to fight it, and gave a weak nod. Stan kept rubbing his back, kept holding him, and kept talking in that gentle voice.
It felt like ages before he was finally able to stop. Simon let out a few strained hiccups and murmured soft apologies.
"Hey now, none of that. You've got a lot of big feelings going on inside, and I'd be willing to bet it all just hit you at once? It's ok, it happens to all of us. Even old Dad here!" Simon sniffled, clumsily wiping at his eyes. His face was hot with both tears and embarrassment; he couldn't even look at Stan. Simon sniffed again, and Stan offered a box of tissues.
"Here ya go, kiddo. It's ok, Dad's got ya." Simon didn't know what it was, but something about those words flipped a very specific switch in his brain.
"Hey, Simon?"
"Hm?"
Simon met Stan's gaze. The man's eyes held a soft warmth. An understanding.
"You're doing great."
