(🧽 ask from this game) cw: what it sounds like...but maybe not that bad in the way you would think...? idk
masterlist
Absence gnaws the air when he comes to. Even though it sinks its teeth into his mind instantly, impossible to ignore, he can’t quite put his finger on what’s missing. He feels it like an unexpected step between the rooms of sleep and consciousness. His stride falling through empty space for untethered seconds until it hits home, lower than anticipated, jolting the body with its newfound altitude. A few inches felt like miles.
He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within.
It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone.
Nothing but empty, cold air.
Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side.
No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination.
His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real.
The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin.
He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.
The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming.
His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too.
He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen.
It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable.
A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation.
Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath.
What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements.
For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core.
He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake.
As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea.
Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed.
His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation.
He’s naked.
Harrison is bathing him.
How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move?
He doesn’t want any of the answers.
Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin.
But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.
If only it were that.
He peeks one eye open.
Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow.
He opens his other eye.
Something simple, dismissible, understandable.
Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.
Harrison sweeps down his side.
He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing.
He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt.
Keeping still is nearly impossible.
Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold.
He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him.
Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.
The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable.
He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air.
Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.
The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name.
Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect.
It’s no easier to bear.
He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights.
His eyes fall back to Harrison.
Again
and again.
Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him.
He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.
Harrison continues to his hips.
Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore.
There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist.
As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself.
What if—
What if—
What if—
He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down.
But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either.
He’s relieved, numb.
He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone.
The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way.
He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named.
Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands.
He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake.
He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells.
Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone.
Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind.
Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits.
What possible name can he give to this kind of creator?
Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end.
Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers.
All that matters—
Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing.
His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs.
Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.
Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now.
He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers.
Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before.
It’s impossible he didn’t know all along.
An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins.
Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse.
Wave the white flag.
The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable.
He closes his eyes.
Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange.
Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them.
He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head.
Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh.
He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost.
Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart.
Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.
And leaves.
He’s cold, alone.
masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)
A narrative parallel I love: Whumpee seeing themselves in other objects/animals/etc that Caretaker interacts with.
-Caretaker gently carrying a spider or other creepy crawly out into the garden instead of squashing it gives the Whumpee who was always considered expendable a lump in their throat.
-Caretaker having a “scary” dog breed like a Pitt bull or Rottweiler but treating it like a pet and lapdog, loving on it instead of training it to attack. Living Weapon Whumpee watches hopefully from their spot standing guard as the dog lays its head in Caretakers lap.
-Caretaker fixing their old beater of a car instead of getting a new one, even though they could afford it, and the Whumpee who was replaced after get hurt/making a mistake/getting too old/etc feels a sense of overwhelming relief.
-Caretaker feeding and watching over a feral stray cat from a distance, never trying to trap it or get too close, just making sure it’s okay. Stoic/defiant Whumpee not letting themselves think about how that makes them feel. Also, if/when Caretaker has to catch and treat the stray because it’s gotten injured or sick, realizing that that’s what Caretaker had been doing for them. They just were too scared to understand.
-Caretaker oiling and polishing their tools, putting them away carefully, taking pains that they were well taken care of and would last forever. Mentioning offhandedly that if you take care of your tools, they’ll take care of you. Slave Whumpee nodding emphatically, hoping that mindset extends to them as well.
-Caretaker tending their garden, trimming buds from flowering plants to keep the plant healthy instead just pretty, and Whumpee who’s only ever been valued for their appearance feels less shame and guilt for “letting themselves go” in recovery.
Hmm rich Whumper in BBU/adjacent universe custom-ordering a pet for their friend, Caretaker
Bonus points if Caretaker can't free Whumpee, either because there's not a legal way to do that in this universe, or because Whumper will assume Whumpee wasn't up to par and will just order them another one. :)
You can do a lot of fun/interesting things with the "custom-ordered" aspect in particular. Caretaker ending up with a Whumpee they didn't want nor plan for is a tried and true trope, but it adds delightful new layers if Whumpee is made specifically to appeal to Caretaker by someone who knows them.
Maybe Whumpee is trained in a service or task that will make Caretaker's life easier, maybe even something Caretaker needs. Maybe Whumpee is a Romantic who fits Caretaker's tastes exactly (the implications!). Maybe Whumpee was picked to fill a specific lonely hole in Caretaker's life. Etc. The important thing is that even though Caretaker wants to do right by them...the temptation to take advantage is non-zero.
Especially if Whumpee is conditioned enough to consistently beg for it and/or be upset that Caretaker's not using them as they were intended. >:)
honestly i go back and forth. it kinda depends on whose perspective i'm writing at the time lol! both of their internal worlds are very interesting to me...
Francis watched the mall approaching. Sir had explained it to him- it was a big building with lots of small shops inside. He had never been to the shops before, but Sir and Ma'am said that you could buy lots of different things there. Some shops were for food, others for clothes. There were shops that would sell you music, though Francis wasn't sure how, and others that sold books, which made more sense.
Sir pushed a button and the doors opened without anyone holding them, wide enough for Sir to push his wheelchair through.
"It'll be down here, on the left," Sir said. He didn't even sound like he was nervous, which was comforting to Francis, who thought his heart might beat out of his chest.
As Sir had predicted, there were a lot of people there. Some of them moved very quickly, their arms full of items and bags hanging from their elbows. Others moved slowly, talking with each other or stopping to examine the things in the windows. And, sure enough, a few of them looked straight at Francis, looking long and hard enough to remember him later. He did not like that.
Francis tried to take deep breaths, like Ma'am had taught him once, and to focus on looking around. Sir had promised that the shop wasn't far away.
They passed a shop filled with bright colors and some of the items inside showed characters Francis had seen on television. Then they passed a shop that smelled beautiful and was full of small jars. Francis found himself turning his head to look as they went past, enjoying the scent.
"They sell tea there," Sir said, his voice relaxed, like he did this every day. Did he really go out into crowds like this all the time? Did Ma'am? It was overwhelming, though the tea smell was nice.
When they arrived at the store Sir was taking him to, Francis was relieved in one way, but nervous in another. They would be getting out of the busy part of the mall, but staying in one place would make him easier to watch. He had no choice, though, and Sir pushed the wheelchair through the doors.
"Okay," Sir said. "Here we are." They came to a stop near the entrance, but slightly to one side, where Francis took some comfort in the fact that a display blocked the view through the large, glass front windows.
"Angie and I put together a shopping list," Sir went on, "But it's all pretty basic stuff. Shirts, pants or shorts, some pairs of socks... should be easy to find."
Sir moved them over to a display of shirts and stopped close enough that Francis could reach out and touch them with his hands.
"Look through here and see if there's anything you like." Sir's suggestion was casual, but also impossible. There was too much. How was Francis to begin? And it wasn't as if he had... preferences. Likes. Francis gazed up at Sir in total bewilderment.
Sir didn't react- he just nodded, as if Francis should know what that meant. Still watching to make sure he was doing the right thing, Francis reached out and touched a shirt. Nothing happened and he decided maybe this was what he was supposed to do. Francis tried to look at the different designs, buying himself time to figure out what happened next, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone, that someone could wander up to them without warning.
It was when he looked up that was when Francis realized he was, in fact, being watched. There was a counter along one wall, halfway between the front and back of the shop, and there were two women sitting there, eying Francis and Sir with frank curiosity. Francis looked up at Sir, his eyes wide.
Sir followed his gaze, but when he realized what Francis was looking at, he just smiled, as if everything was all right, and nodded to the women. They smiled back, which made them look less frightening, and shared a look with each other that Francis couldn't decipher.
Then, to make things worse, the women got up and started walking towards them. Quickly, Francis pulled his hands back and settled them in his lap. He dropped his head so they wouldn't see him staring around the place as if he belonged there.
"Hi there," said one of the women. Francis sneaked a look up at them and found that it was the one with blonde hair talking. "Is there anything we can help you find?" She was talking to Sir, but the other woman was looking at Francis and when their eyes met, he lowered his gaze again, feeling his cheeks burn red with discomfort.
"I think we're just looking around," Sir said with a shrug. "My friend could use a few things."
The two women exchanged a look and the brown-haired one crouched down a little, so she wasn't standing over Francis.
"Man, what happened to your legs?" she asked, straightforward but not unkind.
Francis looked up at Sir again. This was exactly what he had feared. How could he even speak without giving them away? He knew the way he spoke was unusual.
But before Sir had a chance to respond, the blonde woman said, with a knowing look, "Would you like to take advantage of our private shopper program?"
This was clearly some kind of code, because Sir grinned at her like he knew what she was talking about and said, "Yeah, actually, that would be perfect."
"Great!" the woman replied. "Okay, I'll close the doors up. Would you grab me the sign?" The other woman popped back up and hurried over to the counter and brought back a sign on a string, which the first woman hung on the doors as she closed and locked them.
"This is a program they have for the Safehouses," Sir told Francis quietly. "The owner of the store is one of us and his employees are, too, or at least they're on our side. They'll close up for a little while so we can shop in peace and you don't have to worry about strangers."
The two women were strangers, Francis thought, but he knew what Sir meant.
"So," asked the brown-haired woman who wasn't afraid to speak her mind. "Is this your first time in a store?"
Next Time: Francis makes friends and tries on clothes
Master List
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds
Whumpee wants to be good so deeply, wants to get the pats on the head, the praise, the safety that comes with being good.
But here, they couldn’t figure out what good was.
They’d stay awake all night, cleaning in practiced silence, till the entire apartment was immaculate, but all they got was a worried look and encouragement to sleep, to “rest”.
Why? What benefit did their master get from them sleeping or resting? Sleeping was a necessary delay, they knew that well enough, but resting? They’d never had so little to do that there was time to waste resting.
Of course, it wasn’t up to them, even if they didn’t understand, it was their job to obey. So, here they were. “Resting”.
They even thought they were doing that wrong, with how master kept glancing at them out of the corner of their eyes. Sitting criss cross on the floor, perfectly still. Resting.
“Hey honey?”
(Honey must be the name master had picked for them, though it seemed like they weren’t sure if they wanted to call them Honey or Buddy, but that was okay, they figured out to respond to both.)
“Yes?”
(Master didn’t want to be called master, or sir, or anything, so it made all of their sentences sound choppy and clipped, like a mouth with a missing tooth.)
“How about you come sit over here on the couch?”
Their heart sank. They must have done something wrong if Master wanted them within arms reach. Or they were expected to mess something up, and would need to be corrected often.
Carefully, they stood, and sat on the couch, trying to figure out what it was that they’d done wrong. Were they slouching? They sat extra straight, just in case. Had they been making a face? They made sure their expression was exact, placid and pleasant. What else could it be?
“You can slouch you know, it’s just us here.” Their tone was light, almost playful, but he knew better. He’d learned already, he knew how to win this game. He looked towards them, carefully avoiding eye contact, then looked forward again. Acknowledge, but don’t lapse. It was a test, to see if he’d break the rules without being told to. It had caught him thousands of times before, but not anymore.
But when Master only sighed slightly, it didn’t feel like he’d won.
Did they want him to mess up? Were they looking for a reason to punish him? They truly didn’t need a reason, surely, but…
It was good, right, that they would only punish him if he did wrong, even if they wanted to otherwise? But then, how long before they grew frustrated, and the impending punishment would be so much worse.
All of those thoughts happened in seconds, and boiled down to a single question. Should he slouch?
On one hand, he should, it would give them what they wanted and it would be better than waiting for a worse fate down the road. On the other hand,,, Even the idea of being hit or scolded made his chest tighten up painfully.
Selfishly, he stayed still, heart beating in his throat.
He wanted to be good so bad, he hadn’t figured anyone out yet here and it was going on two weeks. And they seemed so much nicer than the others, he hadn’t be punished even the few times he’d slipped, why now?
“Honey…” their voice was so soft, and so was the gentle hand on his shoulder, but he flinched anyway, “you really can relax, it’s okay.”
His mouth was so dry he almost changed his mind, but he figured one way or another, he’d have to do this eventually.
“Do I have permission?”
At least if he got hit for asking, it would give them what they wanted. He braced for the worst but all that came was-
“Huh?”
“Do I have permission to relax?”
“Of course? Yes, yes, you have permission to relax, please do.” There was something in their voice, almost like relief, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that exactly, and that certainly made no sense anyway.
CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump
The cold wrapped around Coriander like a silk cloak. The pet took care to close the door as quietly as it could, yet the sound echoed in the still air.
The street was empty when it walked the familiar way to the edge of the forest, snow crunching under its feet. The light of the short winter afternoon was already fading towards night. Christmas decorations still graced the houses with strands and sprays of warmly yellow or brilliantly multicoloured fairy lights.
With every step, the pet could hear a chorus of bad pet, bad pet, bad pet echoing in its inner ear. The trees finally closed in around it - white birches with their filigree branches silvered with frost, dark spruces shelving the snow, a strand of regal aspens reaching towards the deepening sky. Without thinking, the pet took the well-trod path up the hill, towards the pines on top of the ridge. Every now and then, an image of Miss Lydia on the floor rose unbidden in its mind. Her heartbroken expression when the pet rejected her apology.
The pet was shaking. Full-body tremors that had nothing to do with the cold. The warm jacket - bought for you by Miss Lydia, as a part of the pet’s mind unhelpfully reminded it - kept the winter’s chill at bay. The storm that made it shiver was all in its mind.
It was violently thrown between feeling almost triumphant - it was right and finally it had got to say it - guilty - Miss Lydia had taken care of it, unlike its previous Masters - and terrified. What if this was the breaking point, the time Miss Lydia decided to send it away, for retraining or simply to be returned to the WRU?
bad pet, bad pet, bad pet, bad pet, bad pet
The path meandered up the hill in lazy serpentine swirls. Dusk was slowly gathering among the trees, but the sky still held on to its brilliant blue light. Every breath was tinged with scents of frost and woodsmoke.
No one else was around. The forest was quiet, not even birds stirred. The fresh snow on the ground revealed that only the pet had been walking here for at least some time. The glimpses of fairy lights receding down the hill as the pet ascended reminded it of warmth, and companionship, and buttered toast in front of the fire.
It was lonely out here, and suddenly, the pet felt a new kind of fear. What if there was someone here? Someone dangerous, someone threatening, someone who did not wish the pet well?
Logically, Coriander understood that this was not likely. Who would stand and wait at the edge of the frozen forest on the off chance that a stranger would pass? But the fear remained.
The pet considered turning. It had no real reason to climb the hill in the first place. The chill made its bad shoulder ache. If it wanted to go, it could still go in the morning.
It could return home. To the warmth and safety, it could even apologise to Miss Lydia, mend their relationship. This could all pass.
But somehow, stubbornly, Coriander continued. Putting one foot in front of the other. A long line of footprints in the snow behind, untouched snow like an unwritten page ahead.
The stars came out in the darkling sky, like lanterns lighting one by one. As Cory followed the path, it felt like the pet would soon walk among them. It was fully dark among the trees now.
Even if Coriander already knew what to expect, the sudden unfolding of the forest still took the pet’s breath away.
The snowy pines like a shield at the pet’s back. In front of it, the lights of its own neighbourhood and the other residential areas nearby, rising to a city center crescendo almost straight ahead. The streetlights, bright neon signs, lit windows, moving cars, and left-over Christmas decorations shining like jewels in a giant’s chest of treasures. Further away, roads and fields and forests, stretching away into the night.
Coriander had always thought that a life without a Master would be desolate. Stretching out in front of it as a wasteland, devoid of hope, devoid of meaning. Now, for the first time, the pet considered an alternative.
Dear House 17,
Thanks for getting in touch! We're excited that you're ready to begin planning your first outing. Below, find a list of rescuee-safe businesses. We wish you all success during this new adventure!
"I promise, I'll be with you the whole time. This is a safe place to go- our network has people who work there and they vouched for it."
Francis didn't answer, which was the closest he got to arguing. He was sitting very still, quiet and tense. His hands were laid neatly on his knees and his lips were firmly set and trembling.
"I'm sorry," Tim sighed. "I know this is tough for you. I mean, I know it's even harder than I can understand. We'll take it slow. But this is an important thing to try. You need clothes- ones that are really yours. And you need to leave the house eventually. A shopping trip will check both boxes."
"Francis will be fine," Francis said, but it was an automatic response and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
"Okay," Tim said, mostly because he needed to say something. "Well, we're not going today, anyway, so that gives you time to get used to the idea."
"Yes, Sir," Francis replied, still automatic; as much as he was trying to hide his true feelings, they were clear to Tim. Tim patted him on the shoulder as he left the room and when Francis flinched, it made Tim feel like a monster.
That flinch didn't mean they weren't going to go, however. Francis had barely left the house, except for a quick trip to look at Christmas lights, and it was time to help him expand his horizons just a little. Tim had a plan for helping him take the next step, and he introduced it the following afternoon.
"I was thinking about our excursion," he said, trying desperately to sound casual, as if this conversation wasn't likely to send poor Francis into a very well-controlled panic. Indeed, Francis stiffened and stared straight ahead, setting his facial expression very carefully.
No way out but through, Tim thought to himself, and kept talking. "I've got something for you that should make your day easier. Let me go grab it." He left the room and returned a few moments later, holding a large bag. Francis still had not moved. "I got you something from our friends at the hospital, the one Mikey went to."
Francis' curiosity got the better of him and he looked up, though he couldn't bring himself to meet Tim's gaze. His eyes were wary, but not afraid anymore- not exactly. Tim was relieved at this; he was always a little terrified that he was going to damage Francis in some new way. He set down the bag and pulled out a tall, padded medical boot, then another.
"These are for your feet," he explained, in case it wasn't obvious.
Francis was still watching with slight skepticism, and nodded slowly.
"What do they- um- do they do?" he asked, somewhat fearfully.
"Protect your feet," Tim explained. He pulled back the velcro straps and removed the front. "You put your foot in here and then the front goes on, like this-" he demonstrated, holding it out so Francis could touch the velcro straps "-and then you velcro it shut." Anticipating the next question, he added, "It's not tight. It's really soft on the inside and the plastic on the outside means if something bumps your foot, it won't hurt you."
Francis' expression brightened at this and he consented to put the boots on. Tim held the boot while he placed his right foot gingerly into the padding, but he let Francis close and tighten the boot to his own preference.
There was a pause as Francis held his foot up, then nervously set it to the ground. He watched it, deep in thought, and then nodded. Tim helped him with the second boot and then Francis sat on the edge of the couch, staring at his feet.
"How do they feel?" Tim asked. Francis just nodded a little and shifted so that his feet were flat on the ground, as if he was going to stand.
"They feel very soft," he said in a wondering tone. "Like Francis could stand and it wouldn't hurt so much."
"We can try that," Tim suggested. "If you want- you don't have to."
There was another long pause and then Francis nodded. "Francis wants to try," he said. "But- but what if he cannot balance?"
"I have a solution for that, too," Tim grinned. "I was going to save this until you were ready, but if you want to try walking now, we'll go for it. Hang tight, I'll be right back."
Tim disappeared for a minute, leaving Francis sitting on the sofa, turning his legs slightly, even though it made him wince, and examining his new footwear.
This time, when Tim came back, he was holding a pair of forearm crutches. "I'll help you walk at first, while you're getting used to it, but then when you get more comfortable, you can use these."
Francis nodded, looking almost awed, and he very gently took the crutch Tim handed him. He ran his fingers along the cool metal and then slid his arm through the cuff to wrap his fingers around the grip.
Now he looked up to see Tim watching him and he smiled.
Francis took to the crutches right away and practiced with them daily, although he was usually pale and tired after being on his feet for more than a few moments. When the day came for their outing, Tim put a folded wheelchair into the back of the car.
"It's not that I think you can't do it," he said, "But I want you to have another option if you get sore. The mall is kind of big and it's a lot more walking than here at home."
"Yes, Sir," Francis agreed, automatically. He was nervous again and sitting in the front seat wringing his hands, although Tim had the distinct impression that he wasn't aware of it.
They made the short drive to the mall in silence and when Francis saw the size of the building, he said, "Oh," in a very small voice.
"What do you think?" Tim asked, not really expecting much of an answer. "Should we start with the wheelchair and you can bring your crutches along to use in the store?"
Francis looked up and down the length of the building and nodded slowly.
"Okay. And we don't have to cross the whole thing. We're parked near our store, or at least I think that's the one we'll want."
There was another silent nod and Tim stopped talking. He got the wheelchair out and helped Francis sit in it. Francis was suddenly very pale and his hands were shaking. He whispered something and Tim had to bend down to catch it.
"What if someone sees me?" Francis whispered again. Tim straightened up and studied him. In his hoodie, sweatpants, and medical boots, Francis mostly just looked like he had been in some kind of accident. The look on his face was a giveaway, if anything was.
Tim took a deep breath, mostly to give himself time to choose a response.
"People are definitely going to see you," he admitted. "The mall is a pretty busy place and you're in a wheelchair, so, honestly, people are probably gonna stare. And it's gonna be weird." He stopped for another breath. "But they won't know you're a- a Box Boy. There's no way for them to see that. Okay? You're gonna mostly just look like a normal guy who hurt his ankles."
To his surprise, Francis looked comforted, and Tim was glad he hadn't lied.
"You ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir," Francis agreed, and gripped the armrests with shaking hands.
Next Time: Francis visits the mall
Master List
Notes: I've had the idea for this subplot for literally a year or more. It was going to be a single chapter, but... so were lots of things.
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds
Talk (part 3 of the infamous ill-fated romangst arc) wherein protective/stern leo deals with alternatingly repentant and defiant aiden...
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Leo lets go the second they cross the threshold. Leaving Aiden alone to toe off his shoes and hang up his coat, biting back dread the whole time. When he turns the corner into the living room, Leo holds up a glass of orange juice.
“Sit. Drink.”
Aiden doesn’t bother trying to say he’s fine because his hands are visibly shaking as he reaches for the glass. Leo sits on the coffee table in front of him, silently waiting for him to finish.
Waiting until he’s finished to start.
Aiden slows down, sick anticipation worming under his skin, making him feel clammy all over again. He tries to draw out the last sip as long as possible. He has no idea what he’s going to say. Leo holds his hand out for the glass, setting it down on a coaster soundlessly.
“M’sorry, sir. I…fucked up,” he rushes to say. “I’m so sorry.”
Leo raises his eyebrows.
It’s been weeks and weeks since he regressed like this but he doesn’t know the script to go with whoever he was impersonating today. As shameful as the backslide is, the acrid taste of self-loathing is familiar on his tongue. It’s oh so easy to raze the floodgates they’ve painstakingly fortified so he wouldn’t have to be this. But if he wanted to be something better, he would have told Leo where he was going.
“Please, I didn’t—it won’t—” He’s just babbling now, cheeks hot because he’s only digging himself deeper and they both know it. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry…”
Leo waits, lets the silence gather weight. Aiden wishes it would push him through the floor. Leo sounds tired when he finally asks, “You done?”
He swallows and nods, unable to find his voice again.
“What’re you doin’?”
“I dunno,” he whispers to his knees.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
Leo lets him squirm for another minute, waits until Aiden works up the nerve to meet his gaze. Leo looks even more disappointed than he sounded on the phone. Probably because after worrying all afternoon, Aiden’s trying to pull shit on him.
“If you’re that upset, we don’t have to talk now,” he says because Aiden gave him no choice. Even if they both know he was faking, floundering, Leo can’t leave it unsaid. Can’t abide even a hypothetical chance of Aiden being uncomfortable. “I won’t push you.”
His throat tightens, mouth thick with saliva. “I know.” He hates the look in Leo’s eyes, questioning and full of distrust. In Aiden’s ability to handle this and, even worse, in Leo’s ability to handle it carefully enough for Aiden. “Sorry,” he whispers. Leo just watches him.
A twist of hopelessness grips his chest and he blinks back hot tears of frustration. One mistake after the other. Impulsivity keeps winning out. A handful of seconds, a snap decision and he’s at the bottom of a hole that took months to crawl out of. The worst part is that he knows better. He knows.
Maybe he should use the out, take the night to pull himself together, but he can’t stand the idea of making Leo wait on him even longer.
“We can…we can-can mmm, talk…now.”
“Okay.” Leo scrubs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. “What happened today?”
He pulls the cuffs of his hoodie into his fists. “I dunno.”
“The last time I didn’t know where you were, you came home beaten to shit,” Leo says, so softly it’s almost a whisper. His eyes are red, more than just exhaustion at the end of a long day. Guilt stabs at Aiden’s heart.
“I know…m’sorry.” It doesn’t feel like enough.
Leo reaches for his hand and Aiden gives it, tears almost falling in relief. He never deserves any of Leo’s forgiveness but if nothing that just makes it all the more precious.
“It’s not that you need my permission or have some curfew. All I want is to know that you’re safe.”
“I kn—” His voice breaks. “M’sorry,” comes out a whisper.
“Hey,” Leo says, squeezing his hand. He looks up sheepishly, even under the gentle admonishment. “Just talk to me, what happened today?”
“Delia had to…go…”
He trips through the retelling: Noah trying to give him the usual exam until his nerves couldn’t handle the switch and how Aiden talked him out of doing it at all.
“I told him—”
Leo reaches for him and he flinches. He didn’t realize he was shrinking into the couch, curling away from Leo.
“M’sorry,” he says quickly, shaking his head at his reaction.
“Hon, what’s happening here?”
“I—I—” He shakes his head again, this time to dispel the tears and panic rising in tandem while he struggles to get a grip. “I told him…the, uhm, exams just get me out and…” He’s whispering by now to force the words out. “Give you a…break.”
Leo frowns. “Aiden…”
“S’fine.”
“Hon.”
“No, Leo,” he pleads. He turns away from the look of sympathy, pity. Concern that makes him want to choke.
“Aiden.”
He wants to fold like a lawn chair at that tone and the weight of Leo’s gaze. It’s the first time in months Aiden’s felt the phantom pressure of fingers against the back of his neck trying to push him to his knees. His lower lip starts to tremble but he refuses to give in.
Leo is just as content to wait him out, which might be even worse than being insistent. He pulls his sleeves over his fists so Leo won’t see him digging his fingernails into his palms.
As bad as that last part was to say, the next admission feels worse. Ungrateful. A lick too close to spoiled that would have angered his father and started the kind of argument that usually ended at the bottom of the stairs.
“Said I’d, uhm, wanted to go…to New York.” He swallows. “Before.”
Leo tilts his head, brow furrowed. Searches Aiden’s face for a second as he chooses his words. It makes Aiden’s stomach twist. “This isn’t a confession,” he says gently.
Aiden’s cheeks burn. Would he have told Leo everything anyway? Because it felt like he had to? That he owed him full transparency after leaving him in the dark for a few hours? It’s embarrassing no matter how he spins it: Over-sharing as a defense mechanism or being too thick to understand the nuance of the question. Either way, it’s hard to keep the bite out of his tone: “So? What?”
Leo raises both hands in a show of peace. “I just want to understand how you wound up at some arcade with Noah and not on the bus like usual.”
“M’trying,” he grits out, tears of frustrating burning in his eyes again. This time he pushes himself to his feet even though it makes him feel a little sick to his stomach to walk away from Leo in the middle of this.
He faces the big front window and stares out, forcefully tracing the line of the trees in the twilight to distract himself. The bright reds and oranges of the turning leaves muted to deeper tones, the forest mourning-veiled over a time that just a few weeks ago was still daylight. The summer sun has long since waned.
“We went to-to…people watch,” he says, once he’s sure his voice will come out steady. “At first.”
“Right.” Leo’s still sitting on the coffee table, hasn’t moved to follow him.
“Then we, we, mmm’played some games.” It feels strange to admit. Sounds so foreign, he can hardly imagine it was really him, that he knew how to do that, start-to-finish, back to the car in one piece with only one huge oversight. “I, uhm, should’ve…”
Aiden tenses unconsciously when Leo moves behind him but he makes sure to relax before Leo’s hands gently rest on his shoulders. Leo’s murmured, “Easy,” tells him the revision wasn’t missed.
It’s alright. You’ll remember next time.”
He leans his head back against Leo’s shoulder and Leo wraps him up in his arms.
Something unwinds inside him and his exhale feels impossibly long until he’s wrung out and empty.
You’re worried he’s stifling but you’re the one doing all the stifling. Noah selling him out, even though Aiden was about to confess it all to Leo in his mindless desperation for forgiveness, still rings through him.
“I dunno…about a next time,” he admits in a whisper. Something heavy tugs at his heart.
“Did—”
“M’tired.”
Leo takes a breath. Either he’s going to push to say his piece or it takes effort to set it aside. Aiden feels exhausted by both and bites back the urge to apologize and ask what he was going to say, just for the balm of it. Even though he knows he’s reaching his capacity, knows that of all the remaining possibilities for discussion, each one requires more energy and care than the last.
All Leo does is release him, squeezing his shoulders before he steps back. “Yeah, me too. Let’s call it.”
He avoids Leo’s gaze as they shuffle past each other taking turns with the bathroom. It won’t be the first time he copped out of a conversation he didn’t want to have. Leo only lets him get away with it when it’s about Aiden’s past. If Leo wants to talk about anything else from tonight, he’ll bring it up at breakfast. Fastidious in his commitment to leave nothing unsaid between them after the way things started.
“Night,” he says when he passes Leo’s cracked door after brushing his teeth.
“Good night, hon.”
His door closes with a soft click and he lets out a long breath into the quiet darkness of his room.
Late (part 2 of the infamous ill-fated romangst arc)
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Aiden is fully prepared to suck. Hand-eye coordination is one of the slowest things to come back but he’s spent months coming to terms with it. In the grand scheme of things that could take a bite out of his pride at any given moment, the inability to aim a ball falls pretty low on the totem pole.
What’s unexpected is that Noah is almost as bad. A fact that he vehemently refutes even in the face of increasing evidence. By the time they run out of a twenty’s worth of quarters, Noah’s irate and Aiden’s barely holding back laughter.
“I’m having an off day,” Noah defends as they step onto the sidewalk. “I’ve slept like five hours in the last three days.”
“Next time…I’ll…stay out of, of…your way,” he says, unable to keep the grin off his face. He uses air quotes to repeat, “‘this’s mmm, between…me and me.’”
They stop at the crosswalk and Noah jams the button repeatedly as if he might recoup missed points. Digital numbers count down next to the red hand. “Look, I have certain high standards for myself.”
Aiden laughs, pulling up his hood. The sun dropped behind the buildings, leaving the shade chilly. His stomach flips. “Wait. What, what…time is it?” He fumbles for his phone but Noah beats him to the punch.
“Oh, shit.” He covers his watch with his hand like Aiden could even see it from this angle and Noah wants to save him just one more second of ignorant bliss. Aiden already knows they’re late. “It’s almost six.”
When the light changes, they both break into a jog.
It’s not until he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Noah’s car that he can pull his phone out of his pocket. A dozen missed calls and even more texts. All from Leo.
“We should be there in under thirty. I think we’re behind the worst of the traffic.” Noah glances over. “Aiden?”
He stares at his phone in his hands, letting his guilt swallow him whole.
“I’m sure you can just call and explain. It’s not like—”
“He would…have let…let me…go,” Aiden whispers, mostly to himself.
More than that, Leo would have offered to drive or pick him up. Reminded him to use his debit card and spend his paycheck on something fun for once. Leo would have been happy for him to go. Instead, he has no idea where Aiden has been for the last two hours, imagining the worst. For no fucking reason.
Hot tears prickle in his eyes as he forces his fingers through the motions to return the calls.
His hand shakes as he holds the phone to his ear.
Leo picks up on the first ring. “Aiden? Are you okay?” His voice is full of panic. “Where are you?”
“I-I—” Regret twists through him like a vice. It would have been so easy to send a quick text. He wants more than anything to just go back and take the three fucking seconds.
“Aiden?” Leo raises his voice like the connection might be bad. “Aiden, are you there?”
He nods but of course that’s fucking useless.
“Aiden? Are you…” Noah looks between him and the road. “Do you want me to talk to him?”
Leo’s still trying to get an answer out of him.
Aiden can’t seem to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. To admit that this was all his fault and start apologizing. He passes the phone to Noah and covers his face with his hands, hoping the sleeves of his sweatshirt will soak up any tears that escape.
“Hey, hi. It’s Noah…No, no, he’s fine…I’m driving him home, we should be there in half an hour. I’m sorry it’s— What? Hello?” He grimaces and hands the phone back. “He told me not to talk on the phone while driving and hung up.”
God, he must be so upset. Aiden clicks the ringer volume up as high as it will go and drops his head back into his hands.
“He knows you’re alright and that you’ll be home soon. I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”
Noah returns the stare as long as he can while driving, clearly offended by the question. Aiden looks away before Noah gets a chance to meet his eyes again. He can’t take any more guilt right now.
They ride in weighted silence for so long that Aiden has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from taking it back. He’s uncomfortably hot in his sweatshirt, adrenaline still coursing through his veins and making his hands feel shaky. But he’ll be damned if he breaches the space between them to close his side of the air vents.
Even if he wanted to answer Noah’s question, he’s not sure he could. It’s too hard to articulate how precious Leo’s trust is when trusting Leo should matter more to him. Or how this slip-up will mean weeks of hyper-vigilance on both sides. Or that he’s already spent too much of Leo’s fear and owes him a lifetime of perfect accountability. A life that—
His breath catches in his throat when Noah turns toward him.
Shoulders, neck and face, lips set in a tight line that stings like a papercut between Aiden’s ribs.
But Noah’s just checking the blind spot as he changes lanes. It only lasts a second and then he faces forward.
Aiden curls his hands into fists in his lap but Noah doesn’t look his way again. He’s not sure if it’s guilt alone gnawing at his chest. The feeling only deepens the closer they get to home. Aiden tells himself it’s anticipation, the dread of seeing Leo’s concern and broken trust in person.
Noah rolls to a slow stop at the last turn before Leo’s street.
A single streetlamp illuminates the intersection. In the bubble of light, everything else is obscured. The blue house on the corner, flanked by stonewall-skirted fields, the column of woods they drove through to get here. Aiden can’t even find the moon.
They sit there long enough that Aiden finds he’s holding his breath again. He wonders if he ever started breathing again at all.
Noah flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, grip so tight his knuckles are white.
“This was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” he says, so softly Aiden feels like it wasn’t meant for his ears. A secret surrendered to the stop sign to pay their passage. A confession creased by so many folds its paper no longer sits flat, wedged into the stonewall where no one will ever find it. He doesn’t know what to say.
Noah makes the turn.
Minutes later, they pull into the driveway. Aiden opens his mouth, not even certain what he’ll say but knowing it has to be something. He—
Leo’s already outside.
“Fuck.”
Noah clears his throat. “Are you going to be okay?” He reaches over, hand hovering like he wants to stop Aiden from getting out of the car.
Aiden finally earns his gaze and isn’t sure what he sees there. Whoever they were an hour ago, in the arcade and even in Delia’s apartment before, might as well be characters in a movie, slowly fading in the harsh light of reality. Aiden doesn’t know who that was, who Noah was trying to be to him, what version of himself he was trying to invent or resurrect to fit the fleeting fantasy. It doesn’t matter, it’s over.
“Thanks…for, for today.”
He cuts off Noah’s reply with the car door and turns away but his feet won’t carry him to meet Leo halfway.
Just like on the phone, he’s frozen. Aware of Noah watching him stand there immobilized while Leo rushes forward, fears no less soothed by this display of paralysis.
Fuck’s the matter with you today?
Noah steps in front of Aiden before Leo can reach him. “Wait, hold on,” he says, both palms raised. Aiden didn’t even realize he got out of the car.
Leo balks at Noah. “Are you fucking kidding me?” It’s the most Boston he’s ever sounded. And that’s the extent of reaction Aiden’s brain gives him.
“We’re just a little late so maybe take it down a notch.”
Leo looks like he wants to take Noah down a few notches. He’s only a few inches shorter than Aiden but Leo could break him in half on a bad day. With one hand behind his back.
Aiden puts a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “I—”
“What the hell?” Leo’s eyes lock onto the back of Aiden’s hand but it’s Noah’s wrist he grabs. Aiden flinches. “Did you take him to a fucking club?”
Noah doesn’t even try to pull his arm back. “No, of course not,” he grits. “It was just an arcade.”
“Why was he out with you at all?”
“He can make his own decisions.”
“Watch it.” The warning in Leo’s tone makes Aiden’s heart stutter behind his ribs.
“Chill out, man.” Noah steps closer, shouldering Aiden behind him and getting in Leo’s face. “You’re worried he’s stifling but you’re the one doing all the stifling.”
“Noah.” Aiden feels it like a blow, all the air rushing out of his chest.
“You’re way out of line,” Leo growls.
Aiden hasn’t seen this side of him since he took down three guys after they pulled him out of Leo’s van that first night. Watching Leo wipe his bloodied knuckles on a handkerchief as if that kind of thing happened all the time had been a raindrop of fear in an ocean of terror that day. Tonight, it’s the sea itself and the tide is coming in.
“Try me.”
Aiden holds his breath, blood rushing from his face, his head.
He doesn’t know who will take the first swing but this is all his fault.
If anyone deserves to be hit, it’s him.
He’s shaking like it will be.
He can’t remember the last time but he’s always known how to take a punch.
It must have been Harrison.
Open hand.
No weight behind it.
Another last strike unearths itself from somewhere deep and dark and Aiden tumbles right in.
Falling?
Did he fall down the stairs again?
Coach will—
“Aiden?” Noah presses two fingers under his jaw. He lifts his phone flashlight and Aiden shrinks away from the brightness. His back hits something solid and he flinches again.
“Easy.” It’s just Leo. Holding him. Everything comes screeching back. A tilted screen being righted, the focus shifting from fuzzy to sharp.
Fuck, he’s on his knees in the driveway.
Leo and Noah—
“Can you take a deep breath for me?” Noah asks. He lowers his voice to add, “into your lungs, like we talked about.”
Aiden stares at him.
Noah’s face falls and he opens his mouth to say something but Leo helps Aiden off the ground before he gets the chance.
“I think we’re done here.” Leo doesn’t give Noah a second glance. “Let’s get you inside.” Aiden doesn’t look back either.
Whump hot take : dollar store pet collar is lame, time to start using wildlife tracking collar on your whumpee
These stuff is more secure, more durable, waterproof, have long battery life, lockable AND if your whumpee get lost you can find them with GPS or radio receiver
Start treating your whumpee like endangered wildlife today by getting Exogenic Bioscience scientific hardware catalog-
No this is not real advertisement it just my shower thoughts
Whumpers going to “secondhand stores”, where they peruse the displays of “gently used” whumpees for sale. Bonus points if they drag their current whumpees along on the shopping trip with them.
“Aww, aren’t you a cutie,” they crooned, crouching down in front of the cage.
“What, no! You’ve already got two just like that one,” their friend said, looking up from her phone only long enough to disapprove.
“Not just like this one!”
“Look, look at this,” she gestured to the pet whose leash dangled loosely around their wrist. “Look at it. It looks just like that one. Get something different, if you’re gonna get something.”
They pouted. “Maybe I LIKE this breed, ever think of that?”
She huffed, loudly, but made a show of popping her bubble gum and whining, “Fine. It’s your coin, anyway.”
“It is!” they agreed cheerfully, holding out their hand and pspspspssing at the bruised little thing. “C’mere, sweetie. Let me get a good look at you.”
It dragged itself forward, its left leg giving it trouble, and pressed up against the bars. “Ohhh, aren’t you sweet. You’ll be very good if I bring you home, won’t you?”
It nodded, and they stood with a whirl. “I like it, I think this is my favorite of the ones we’ve seen so far.”
“You always get the same exact thing, I don’t see why you even bother collecting them anymore!”
The pet, ready to move when its owner did, tried to catch the other one’s eye, and gave it–him–a brief nod. They were alright, as far as owners went. Bossy and playful but not cruel. They liked their pets broken, eager for a kind and steady hand, grateful, which was why they bought from thrift stores and pawnshops like this one, but they weren’t mean. If they came back for this one–and they likely would–it would be okay.
He smiled up at it from behind the bars, relieved. He’d play along, behave himself as best he could and show he was worth buying, if the other pet could recommend it. He wanted to be bought by someone tolerable, so badly, he could play the part. He’d be a good pet.
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