rain on brick - a disruption of routine
mr. crawling x reader ch 2. wrote this instead of sleeping. once again crossposted on my ao3 if you are so inclined to read it there instead. things are getting ever so slightly tense.
You're not sure what unnerves you more: the tightness around Mr. Silvair's smile, or the fact that he has to pause to think.
"Not know," he answers you after what feels like an eternity beneath buzzing fluorescents. "Sorry."
You sigh, sinking into the couch. You feel Mr. Crawling do the same beside you. You'd abandoned your search to find Ms. Nurse in favor of getting back to your shared rooms to attempt an answer for what you saw, but it seems nobody among your number has an idea. Worse, still, there was an earthquake just as you crossed the threshold, meaning it's very unlikely that you'd be able to go back and find the body to investigate further.
You reach up to itch at your face, stop halfway there, and forcibly lower your hand. Maybe now that the layout has changed, you'll have a good chance of getting to Ms. Nurse without running into it again. But why was it here in the first place?
You remember the one time you met another human down here. He looked terrified and completely lost. Just like you were when you first woke up. He wasn't at all prepared to meet the challenges of the Otherworld, seemingly plucked from the street and dropped in its depths without warning. You wonder if he's still alive; if he is, it's likely as something completely different from what you'd seen him as last. More likely, though, he's probably dead.
Just like the yellow thing you had come across. If that human was so prepared, then why did they die alone? You heard more voices through its head when you'd broken through its... face. Mask? You still don't know what that was.
You wave a hand through the air dismissively. "Not angry. Me worry other resident. Them gone, no worry."
At least, you hope they're gone, whatever they are. Mr. Silvair nods, smoothly rising with his unnatural grace.
"Maybe you seek again, you take here."
"Alright."
At least his thoughts are mostly in line with yours. Without a way to investigate your new "neighbors" further, you won't get many answers. He heads back to his research room just as Mr. Chopped wakes up, realizing that you're back. Instantly the head starts to bob back and forth on his cushion, peppering you with all manner of questions about where you were and what you saw. You happily take up the more jovial change in tone, but you don't miss how Mr. Crawling stays just a little tense beside you.
You swing, letting the crowbar's teeth bite into wood. The crate's top pops off with little effort when you lean in on your leverage, letting you get a glimpse of what goodies it holds. A new earthquake means new things to discover.
This time it comes in the form of some sea-bitten cargo. You're not sure where they were going, or who it was going to, but your bag is already full of some choice canned foods. You huff, motioning for Mr. Crawling to come over so he can help you transfer the less corroded cans. With what you've gathered so far, you won't have to go on another food run for at least another week or two. Honestly, you're glad that your friend can carry as much as he can - you don't think you could haul your heavily laden bag on your own. Just look at it! The blue fabric's bulging on the sides already!
"Ohohoh, looks like we're coming along nicely today. Our luck's turning up, Crawling."
"Happy?"
You nod, passing him a few more cans. "Happy. Just a few more and we'll get going."
"Happy! Many useful objects!"
"Uh huh." You motion for him to make some distance again. "Get away. Me hit object."
You wind up, crowbar held up and to the side. Swing, impact. The tool's sharp end bites in greedily once again and you start to push down, wood splintering as you wrench it up.
"Friend?"
"Hm?" You turn back, looking at Mr. Crawling. He's pointing at the crate, no longer smiling. "Eh?"
You look to the crate.
A familiar pair of beady eyes stare out at you from the gap.
You jump, letting a few choice words slip as you startle. No matter how many times it happens, Mr. Gap manages to get the jump on you when you least expect it. Mr. Crawling giggles a little; despite his apparent attempt to warn you, it still amuses him to see you get scared in a harmless way. Mr. Gap is the same, though he did it on purpose so he's really the villain in this scenario. You move to slam the crate lid shut on him before his hand reaches out in the slim space.
"Wait. You angry. Me sorry. Me able help you."
Help you? And he apologized at that. Your face screws up, but you stop long enough to hear him out. Mr. Gap doesn't waste any time, pulling out what appears to be a pamphlet and waggling it in front of your face. As quick as you reach out to take it, though, he yanks it back into the void. His smile widens, knowing he's caught your interest. Of course.
"Want your finger," he coyly snickers.
Mr. Crawling comes forward, shaking his head. "Not need object."
You're inclined to agree. You both know what happened the last time Mr. Gap demanded such a price, and you still bear the scars from right index to right pinky. More than just one finger like you had thought. Better yet, you don't know what the pamphlet contains. It could be a bad deal for you and a lot of fun for him.
"Not give finger."
Mr. Gap huffs out a quiet "disappointed" before he lets the crate lid shut. Mr. Crawling shuffles over to pat your back and you shrug. Again, you don't know if it would have been something helpful or not, but now you are curious what the pamphlet could've contained. Maybe he'll offer it again at a later date. For now, you've got work to do and a heavy bag awaiting sorting upon return.
You found a radio during your most recent trash heap expedition. It doesn't work, of course, and it looks about thirty years older than what you'd expect off a modern shelf. It's boxy, it has a ridiculously long antenna, and it still has a backlit tuning dial. On the whole, it's something you'd expect to see in some grandparent's house collecting dust. A relic of a bygone era.
However, since it's so old, there's a genuine chance of it working if you fix it. Take the telephone, for example, and the television that only shows a blue screen when you come across it. You just so happened to have found a similar operator manual for a sister model of such a radio not too long ago. It takes a bit of digging between you and Mr. Crawling, but you find it in one of your horde's many stacks.
Though you lack a power source to fuel the device, you sit down at the low coffee table and get to work. Screwdrivers and careful disassembly have you leaning and bending and contorting into all sorts of shapes. You're looking into one of the deeper, more delicate components when you feel a cold, large hand on your back. Only then do you feel the creak in your spine. Mr. Crawling is right there behind you, what little space between you two feeling like a mere hair's breadth.
"Hurt?" he asks far too softly. "Sit here?"
You're already sitting on a floor cushion, where else could you sit? "How?"
Mr. Crawling pauses, mouth pursing in hesitation. Your head tilts to the side. Then he smiles wider than ever, lunging after you and grabbing you with speed and strength that surprises you. It's a quick movement, your limbs flailing for a moment in shock as you are dragged backwards and against him. Your back hits his chest. Your head props up his chin. Your body sits atop his legs, folded neatly on the cushion you had occupied before.
It takes a moment for you to calm before you relax. Despite his lean nature, it's not an uncomfortable way to sit; in fact, you can lean back on him and he stays relatively still. Your back thanks you for the support he provides, your legs splayed out before you underneath the table. This is the first time he's done something like this. Where'd he even get the idea?
"This good?"
His voice vibrates through your spine. His fingers are splayed against your sides, each tendon flexing as they dig in with testing, rolling touches. They walk further inward with each creeping, tentative "step" until his palms finally settle against your stomach. Mr. Crawling squeezes you close, a noise hummed straight from his chest and into your head from where he relaxes atop your skull.
"Good," you murmur in reply.
"Happy."
It's no different from sleeping next to each other. He continues to be the big spoon - and cold, that will likely never change - but with his hands on you like this you're brought to a new-old realization: if he splayed his fingers out on you, he could touch one of your hips with his thumb and the other with his pinky. It's not like you're ignorant of his size, but the way he folds in on himself so often makes you forget.
You try to concentrate. Flip the radio on its axis, carefully catch what falls out, and lay the pieces on the table as neatly as you can. The hands on you absently squeeze and travel. Like this is the first time he's ever come this close. Like he hasn't gotten his fill of you despite spending all your time together. You know his fidgeting against your stomach doesn't come from watching you work, otherwise he'd be asking you questions about it. This is all about you.
You want to ask so bad, but you can't figure out how to phrase it. What is he thinking about? Does he ever-?
The radio gives a plaintive hiss and whine in your hands, the final panel snapping shut. It makes you jump and surprises Mr. Crawling in turn. Your mind was so split that you didn't even notice you'd been following repairs to the last step. You let out a half-laugh, set the radio on the table, and turn the dial.
It fizzles and crackles, spits out some nasty static too, before it somehow picks up someone's broadcast frequency. The quality is bad and you can barely make it out even as you turn up the volume, but you can hear the soft, lilting melody of a waltz beneath the shoddy reception. Mr. Crawling's chin rests on your shoulder as you hum with satisfaction, momentarily distracted from his previous curiosity by the noise.
"Object sound?"
"Yeah! Um..." You're not sure how to explain music. "Fun sound. For listening."
He nods and laughs, but you're not entirely sure if he gets it. You manage to get out of his lap, his arms lax for the moment, and stand up. Though he can't stand, you feel victorious enough to try something new. Especially when so emboldened by how he treats being close to you as a novel experience every time.
You motion towards yourself. "Give hand."
"Understood!"
A large, cold palm is thrust towards you. You take it, then pull. He makes a startled noise as he gets yanked to his knees; he's nearly at eye level with you - good god! you don't think you could do this if he was standing up all the way! - when you take his other hand too. You watch him fall silent, mouth opening slightly before he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing.
You are suddenly hyperaware of every movement you make. Your mouth's hanging open too. Is this the first time you've initiated contact like this? It's usually him pulling you around and out of danger. You clear your throat.
"Move slow," you instruct. "Together with me."
"Under... stood."
And you dance. It's a slow, awkward sort of shuffle. You have to mind his feet where they jut out behind him, make sure he can't hit the table. He leans on you too, used to supporting his weight on all four limbs, but you manage his weight just fine as you complete the steps of a half-remembered waltz. One, two, three. You start to smile. One, two, three. He does too, giggling as he gets the rhythm.
Clumsy as you are, you're having fun. You step in, one hand slipping to his back as you dip him backwards ever so slightly. His hair falls back, exposing the scabbed, red skin where his eyes should be. His giggling gets even more intense, chirping a happy "Fun! Fun!" as you bring him back up.
His hand snakes around to your back in a flash and you yelp as he does the same to you. He doesn't struggle with you at all, smiling even wider. You don't think he gets it, he probably just sees it as fun to reciprocate. But you? Poor you. Your heart's going a mile a minute and your noses nearly touch.
"Happy move?"
You manage to stutter out an agreement as he brings you back up effortlessly. You feel dizzy. You manage to clear your head before you stumble over to turn the radio off again. Mr. Crawling is disappointed, but you shrug.
"Rest now. Me tired."
"Rest? Me go together with you!"
He's going to kill you and he doesn't even realize it.
Mr. Chopped got lost again. You don't know how he manages it, considering he's just a head, but you assume that he can probably roll away and just chooses to make you carry him around when you're present. You've split from Mr. Silvair for the moment in your joint search, going off with Mr. Crawling to search some of the more far-flung hallways while the researcher stays close to home. He can't have gone far, but you and yours are more equipped for trouble should it find you.
At the moment, you're in a semi-unfamiliar area. It's similar to a huge parking garage with windows that drop out into a massive void, multi-layered levels allowing you to see up and down the ramps and stairs easily.
"Mr. Chopped!" you call, voice echoing. "Mr. Chopped! You here?!"
Mr. Crawling calls out words in the Otherworld's language that you haven't learned yet. You assume he's asking for your friend to shout back if he's here. At this point, you're not even sure if you'll find anyone down here. You'd usually get one or two residents scurrying around just to see what the fuss is all about or, worse, Mr. Machete coming to try and ruin your day.
You round the bend of a downward ramp and find a parking attendant booth. A warm yellow light buzzes from inside, its interior perfectly clean. Even the paper slips are all in order. You've never quite seen something so human in this place, but it still retains the dated look of all the other "modern" appliances that the Otherworld copies. You approach carefully with Mr. Crawling, peering inside the booth just to make sure Mr. Chopped didn't get trapped inside.
You jump when the attendant's black phone rings, its bell making the transceiver buzz on its hook. The door is unlocked, so you both go inside, and you answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello," answers a voice you haven't heard for a very long time. "You found trouble."
"Wha-?"
"Give them blood. Not give them blood. You choose."
"Hold on-!" This is a strange hint, even for the telephone. "Why?"
"Goodbye."
The line cuts. Unhelpful as ever. You sigh, putting the phone back in its proper place. You make to leave but are stopped by Mr. Crawling's hand catching your sleeve. He's staring intently at the "exit" to the structure, the smile chased away from his face.
"Hide," he mutters, an urgency akin to the threat Mr. Scarletella posed when he was still around. "Must hide!"
Where? There's no good space outside! You look around in the small booth but he decides for you, pulling you under the attendant's desk and squashing you against the wall. He folds in behind you, arms barring you in; you can feel his cool skin against yours, only cooling further as shadows coalesce and deepen around your hiding spot.
Then you hear two heavy sets of boots and the clattering of plastic against metal. Beams of light shine erratically against the booth's windows and what little concrete wall on the outside you can see. You strain your ears against the heavy silence. Though muffled, you make out voices.
Human voices.
"...yeah, and it doesn't help that something chopped up Toya. SRT only found him a few hours ago," one voice rasps. Feminine, but rough with complaint. "Apparently it was sword-guy."
"Damn," goes her partner. Masculine, but younger. "Too bad. I liked 'em. That makes fifteen now."
"You'll learn to get over it. Turnover rate is high for a reason at the company."
"Don't say that like you want me to quit!"
"Ehhh..."
There's a heavy thud and some jostling, accompanied by laughter. The booth rattles as one body strikes the side. Mr. Crawling curls around you more, his hair tickling against your face. You can't help but grip at his robes in a bid to pull him into the dark space further.
It's the woman that speaks up next, crass and biting. "Jackass! Careful with the radio!"
"Sorry, sorry- but hey, at least we have ones that work now, so if shit hits the fan..."
"Yeah, and QRF's always minutes away when seconds count. Don't rely on them. Another thing you have to get used to is thinking on your feet. Though..."
"Though?"
"Apparently they've got a way to put down sword-guy next time we see him. He's too fast for anyone to shoot him, so it's the ol' shock n' awe tactics."
"Like mothman."
"Like mothman, yup."
"It'll be fun to watch that helmet cam footage. Light the motherfucker up."
"They're not killing him. Capture's more important than satisfying a grudge."
Your heart drops. Capture? Capture?
The man scoffs. "Well, sure. As soon as he's handed off to the bigwigs in the lab, he might get what's coming to him then. Those freaks sure know how to turn 'em."
"Uh huh, and you should think about turning the next page before we get lost or miss a survey spot. The area manual's sectioned for a reason."
"Sheesh! Alright!" The voices are fading, traveling upward. "At least act like you like me sometimes...!"
"Ehhhhh..."
Another thud and more laughing. You only allow yourself to breathe when the noises fade entirely. Mr. Crawling exits first, looks around through the glass, then helps you out from where you'd been stuffed away. What was any of that? The way they were talking makes it sound like they're used to places like the Otherworld. It only adds more evidence to your hypothesis and more weight to your stomach. You don't like the look of it.
It's not like you can warn Mr. Machete, though. He'd sooner slice your gut open like "Toya" than listen to reason. What can you do? Prepare for the worst? Get your friends to uproot and find a new hiding spot? Get ready to fight back?
"Help! Me lost!"
Your head jerks around at the sound of Mr. Chopped's voice. There he is, rolling out of a pile of trash from the corner. Thank god! Those two surveyors missed him entirely!
"You!" Mr. Crawling calls, and you shuffle over to pluck your friend out of the garbage. A few pieces of strange muck are stuck in his orange hair, but that can be fixed with a quick dunk in your precious clean water supply.
"Thank you, thank you..."
"We go now." You pat Mr. Chopped's head, looking around. Only one way out that won't run the risk of bumping into the surveyors. "You hurt?"
"Not hurt! Grateful!"
For now, it's back to your safe spot. You all have to come up with some sort of plan before they find you.