Strangely He Feels at Home in this Place

by mar_im_o

Summary:

Doc would never have considered himself a relatively profound friend of Ren’s. They were friends, for certain, but in the same way Doc would consider himself a friend of Joe’s or a friend of Scar’s. They interact. They spend time together. They sometimes collaborate on builds.

And, on occasion, Doc supposes that friendship extends to pulling the man from lava and attempting to salvage what bits of him have been destroyed and mangled from a near disastrous end of a season.

But, really, he should know the man better. He should have some sense of who Ren is, of what he needs, what he does, yet the man sat before him… He’s not certain it’s Ren at all.

And Doc doesn’t know enough to explain why…

--

Also known as: Ren has DID, Doc has no clue, and they're both stuck on a ship together for two months

Notes:

Author (that's me) has DID. Depictions of the disorder may be exaggerated for narrative purposes.

Titles taken from Cavetown's "Home".

Parts of this fic are partially inspired by "Dog at the Door". Please consider supporting that one as well. Linked below.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/32669581/chapters/81043597

Chapter 1: Get a Load of this Monster

Notes:

CW: Panic attacks, sensory overloads, Doc being a bit judgmental about neurodivergence

The space between worlds is truly a depressing thing, and as Doc lets his gaze cast out into the hollow nothingness of the between-server-worlds, he can’t help but feel disgusted at the sight. His stomach turns as he watches a void encase them, and if he were a lesser man he’d argue he felt trapped. If he were a lesser man he’d admit the dull thrumming in his chest is an aching for the season left behind, regret at having abandoned it so soon.

Soon.

As if the season wasn’t long enough. As if they hadn’t lived through wars and disease and the rise and fall of great builds and tales and legends. As if, in the end, the players hadn’t fizzled out one by one. As if they hadn’t all gotten bored of it. 

But as they settle in the In Between and wait restlessly for a future world woven together by an admin’s fingers, Doc wants it back. He wishes, more than anything, for solid ground beneath his feet. A destination. Stability.

Or, at the least, he wishes he hadn’t chosen to ride with Ren to the new world.

Chosen. Doc laughs hollowly to himself as he fixates on a speck of the void floating by their window. Chosen is too kind of a word for it. Perhaps more appropriate is “bound by social standards he’s been told means he should look out for his friends even if it’s to his own disadvantage.”

Altruism. Bleh .

And Ren had been fine for the most part. Dizzy. Confused. Not quite sure where he was or what he was doing, panicked and injured and all around unwell. He asked what day it was. Doc told him the final day of the server. Asked if Ren had a ride. Ren sat for a long, long moment, gaze distant and fuzzy before announcing he would be driving himself.

And, well, Doc wasn't sure that was the best idea. 

And, truthfully, he may have left Ren to his own poor judgements if some semblance of a conscience hadn’t chosen that moment to consider how panicked the rest of the Hermits would be if Ren were lost to the infinite expanse of the void. So, reluctantly, Doc offered to cancel his plans and escort Ren into the new season. It would be a day at most, Doc assumed. A day turned to two. Two to five. Xisuma used what little signal they all had to send some apologies. It’d be a week at most. Maybe a week and a half.

And two weeks in, Doc’s certain he’s in purgatory.

“It’s just not the smartest plan, man,” Ren is saying, chin tilted back as he stares aimlessly at the roof of the ship, a familiar smile frozen there as he rambles on.

And on.

And on.

Doc tries his best to tune it out as much as he can, tries to let his mind wander and focus on the humming of space rather than the voice of his friend droning on and on, but it’s relatively difficult as small as the ship is and as close together as they often find themselves. It’s not that Doc couldn’t escape if he wanted to. The ship’s modeled a bit like an RV, a screen separating the driving pit from the living space, the living space from the bed and bathrooms, and if Doc truly wanted he’d shut the screen on Ren and grant himself some peace and quiet. But, well, his sole means of mental stimulation these last few weeks has been toying with robotics or compiling research on goats, and as much as Doc has enjoyed them both, there’s only so much he can do for either.

Fortunately, Doc’s co-passenger has some new cybernetics in desperate need of tune-ups.

Unfortunately, Ren is connected to them.

“I mean, tossing corn chips in chocolate syrup doesn’t make sense, and sure I know some people dig the salty-sweet vibes of it, but I definitely don’t. You’ve gotta warn a guy before mixing that stuff together, y’know what I’m talking about?”

Doc, in fact, does not know what he’s talking about. He hardly does anymore, just listening to the man drone on and on for his own sake about whatever comes to mind, taking comfort in the relief of busy hands keeping to the task in front of him. They’re across from one another in the table booth, Ren’s arm splayed palm-up on the table, framed rather angelically amongst tools and materials brought along as Doc works with his own cybernetic eye enhanced. He squints, leaning forward as he runs diagnostics on the wires connecting damaged nerve-endings to one another, hardly paying attention to the man whose nerves he’s toying with.

Until said man twitches, and Doc jolts up, nothing but quick reflexes to keep from jabbing an electrical device into biological nerves. He swallows a growl, looking up suddenly towards Ren who is, in a moment, silent. He swallows his words, averting his gaze with a mumbled “sorry”.

Doc sighs, setting the tool down. His vision readjusts as he tilts his head, considering him.

Doc never knew Ren too intimately (certainly not as intimately as spending two weeks in a ship may entail), but he had spent plenty of time with him before. It was at least enough to know when something was off with Ren.

Part of Doc is eager to shrug it off as not knowing Ren enough, but he finds strange patterns in his behavior now. Circles.

Like, now, for example, how the man's sitting with his knees to his chest, words suddenly swallowed as he avoids Doc’s gaze at all cost. It’s a look of fear. Uncertainty, like he’s waiting for some sort of scolding that Doc would never bring. He’s so used to the pushback to stuff like this, a Ren who would poke him back, tell Doc to be more careful rather than dare admit he had made a mistake in moving.

But Ren doesn’t do that anymore.

No, he just falls silent, makes himself small, excuses himself to the cockpit at the slightest hint of tension between the two. It’s so unlike him…

Or, for instance, his voice. He clears his throat across from Doc, eyes locked on the window as if it could be some escape from the situation, and when he asks, “Did I mess you up?” his tone is deeper than normal. It almost sounds forced the way he says it, like some part of him is actively choosing to lower it. Doc wouldn't question the lowered voice were it not for the breaks from it. Every so often he gets on a rant, rambling on and on about whatever he fancies and, as he does, his octave raises higher and higher, words smooshed together a bit more in the cadence of someone from decades ago, plucked right out of time.

He considers Ren deeply, in those moments, wondering if this isn’t how he prefers to speak. If he isn’t putting on a show for the Hermits.

Then it drops again, and Doc feels painstakingly like the show’s for him.

“It’s fine,” Doc manages, only after a moment of realizing he’s successfully halted the conversation. “We can be done for now. You can take a break.”

The energy shift is tangible as Ren perks back up, bringing himself back into the ship to flash a smile at Doc. He brings his wrist up from the table with a twirl of his hand, routinely ensuring flexibility in a way that’s become second-nature every time he starts to use it again. 

Beneath the table, Doc thinks he sees Ren’s tail wag. “Righteous, man! It’s still looking good, yeah? No broken bits or whatever? I had a broken bone once when I was twelve and lemme tell you, man, that was no joke I was totally out for so many days–”

Which is another point. In all the years they’ve been on server together, it’s always been relatively rare to hear Ren speak at all on his past.

They’ve all got baggage they’re uneager to disclose–-families they left behind, worlds they abandoned, people they miss–but you get a hint of the truth from at least some of them. Every so often Grian mentions Evo, Etho brings up Mindcrack, even Doc will share tidbits from his life as a farmer oh so long ago.

But not Ren.

No one’s ever been sure where Ren came from, and they all know better than to ask. Clearly, it’s personal, or at the least something he’d rather not discuss, and the Hermits can all respect that.

Yet here, the two of them alone on this ship, Ren has mentioned so much about his past that Doc’s been struggling to keep up.

He grew up on a mining settlement in a distant verse, moving with a colony from world to world to strip it of resources. He had two parents. He went to school purely to be trained for the mines. His favorite food was baked potatoes, which were a rare treat. He used to be sick a lot. He and his brother used to skip school together. Also he has a brother.

And for all this information haphazardly spilled between lines of rambles, Doc feels wrong holding it all. It feels illegal, like he’s been given knowledge he was never meant to have, and he wishes he could drop it all, but Ren gave it to him. He offered it. So why does it feel so wrong?

“Fell out of a tree,” Ren’s saying, and it takes Doc a moment to realize he’s gone back into a rant, talking still about the broken bone. “Mum called for dinner and I couldn’t get down on my own, Gox wasn’t any help, said it was my own fault. Ended up falling and bam–” he makes a sudden fist, eyes wide with the reenactment– “Broken! Dad had a cow–he normally does ‘bout that stuff–Gox thought it was hilarious.”

Doc hums as he begins to pack away his things, having since learned that leaving it out is asking for them to end up on the floor with some poorly-timed turbulence. He tries to tune out the story as it’s told, feeling like he’s overstepping by hearing it at all, but Ren rambles on, voice raising a few octaves, and Doc’s mind tries to find the patterns it so loves.

Gox, brother.

Dad–Dad’s always mad. Common thread.

Mum’s not talked about a lot…

Doc shakes his head, standing suddenly and abandoning the rest of his tools.

This is wrong. This is private information and, were Doc not here, would probably be nothing by deranged utterances to an empty ship. This isn’t knowledge for him to know. It’s not fair to be hearing it.

He turns his attention to the fridge, bending down to sort through it in search of something else to busy himself with. Dinner. Yes. That’s certainly something he should be eating daily (no matter if he is or not).

But as he moves away, Ren notices. He falls silent. “All good, my man?”

Doc winces, pushing back and forth a half-finished bottle of MooPOP™ as if something edible will magically appear behind it. “Yeah,” Doc mutters. “Just hungry.”

“OH I can help with that.” And, in an instant Ren is up behind him, bouncing on his toes as he pulls open every cabinet and drawer, digging through them all in search of food. “My cooking skills are outta sight, you won’t believe it. Used to cook for Goxxy when Mum and Dad were out late. Your taste buds aren’t gonna know what hit them, my dude.”

Doc stills as Ren begins to shuffle around the kitchen, frozen in the open fridge as he tries to pathway out of the room around a chaotically moving Ren, but there doesn’t seem to be any clear escape. The cockpit, a reasonable mind suggests, but he’s a moment too late for it. In a moment Ren’s up beside him, tugging on his shoulder and trying to nudge him out of the way.

The touch is lightning on Doc’s skin and he gasps, stumbling back and away away away from Ren’s touch.

That’s another thing. Ren knows how Doc is about touch. All of the Hermits know.

Yet still…

“I’m sorry!” Ren says quickly, freezing from his exploration as a hand slaps over his mouth, ears pinned back, tail tucked.

I’m sorry. That’s all it is now. Apologies over and over and over…

Ren whimpers a bit, and for as much space as he takes up, he looks so so small. “I forgot.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot,” Doc mutters.

The words feel harsh coming, and maybe otherwise Doc would have had sense enough to swallow them. But his mouth feels stubborn, words heavy, and he can feel the foggy weight of a nonverbal blanket draping itself over his vocal chords.

It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t say anything as he ducks out of the room, pulling the screen to the cockpit shut as if it might give him any privacy. With an exhausted sigh, Doc falls into the pilot’s seat, hunched over on himself.

He thought he was getting better at this.

People. He thought he was learning to work with them. Accept them. Cope in his own ways so he isn’t constantly forcing the ones he cares about to go easy on him.

Truly, he thought he liked Ren. He thought this would be easier. He thought, if anything, he himself would be the annoying one constantly droning on about interests and misreading cues. That’s always how it’s went anyways.

But maybe two weeks is too much. Numbly, Doc pulls out his communicator and checks for any new notifs, desperate for any interaction that isn’t with Ren.

There’s a message from Xisuma.

Doc opens it.

<XisumaVoid> issues with code. give me another week. sry guys

 

Another week. 

Another week.

Doc’s gaze rises absently to the ethereal subset of space, cold and hollow and empty. The sound of Ren in the kitchen has faded, nothing left but a distant hum rising in and out of Doc’s conscious thought. 

Another week of this…

It’s all too much. The nothing… It’s too much…

So Doc lets his head sink down, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to keep out the unending nothing of the universe.

Notes:

Find me on tumblr! @mar_im_o !

Chapter 2: He Doesn't Know How to Communicate

Notes:

Content Warnings:
-Panic Attacks
-Vague references to child abuse
-Mentions of disordered eating

Doc’s not sure when he fell asleep.

The void outside the windows is strangely bright in an unwelcomed way, flashes of color prodding the sleep out of him. Doc groans, back and neck screaming at him in some protest of the position he fell asleep in, and he’s become quite sure it’s deserved as he struggles to right himself.

He’s still in the cockpit, Doc realizes with a vague inkling of the night before, brain still thrumming with the after-effects of a sensory overload. He must have passed out, because of the two of them Ren’s far more likely to fall asleep in the cockpit while Doc takes the bed, or at the least Doc would’ve had the sense to recline the chair.

But, no, Doc despairingly wipes sleep from his eyes and unfolds himself from the seat, willing tense joins to ease as he tugs open the screen and begins a quest for coffee.

He takes a step, and something squishes beneath his hooves.

The sensation is enough to wake Doc up with a yelp, suddenly pulling back as he balances on one foot. He cringes at the sight of a plate on the ground, grilled cheese smashed against it.

Grilled cheese…

Doc frowns deeply, but he reaches down to pick it up anyways. It’s cold, likely having been sat out for a few hours, and his stomach groans regretfully at the idea that he could have had dinner last night if he’d just stayed awake.

If he hadn’t…

“Ren…”

Doc kicks himself as he sets the plate on the counter, bending down to clean off his hoof as he thinks regretfully of the night before. He’d been too hard on Ren, too cruel at what had been a simple mistake, and he considers apologizing. Considers it.

The idea twists his stomach worse than the hunger.

Doc trashes the sandwich and drops the plate in the sink, turning his attention to the coffee maker, sure to brew enough for him and Ren both. There are other ways to apologize, Doc thinks. Better ways. Ways with less words.

(Bit of a coward, isn’t he?)

He continues to argue his reasoning, though, as he pulls a pan down from the cabinet and clicks the stovetop on. The least he can do is a breakfast, he supposes, even if he doesn’t usually eat one himself. He knows enough about Ren’s appetite at this point and pulls a few eggs from the fridge, cracking them into an extra bowl with one hand as he greases the pan. He glances over his shoulder to the lounge as he works, but Ren’s nowhere to be seen. The area is tidy, tidier even than Doc had left it, and he realizes his tools have been put away. His mouth twitches, something between a warm smile at the gesture and a frown at the idea of someone touching his things, but he’s got enough spoons to convince himself it was a kind action, so he takes it.

Doc pours the eggs into the pan. Turns down the heat.

He’ll have to thank Ren for that and the dinner, and some competitive part of Doc’s mind suggests that Doc should make them even by doing an extra something nice for Ren too. (Or three nice things… Then he’d win…)

It’s a bit of a childish disposition, but one that’s in good enough fate, so Doc rolls with it. Back into the cockpit he goes, checking the ender-compartment for anything left in his enderchest. He’s not exactly sure what he’s looking for, but he comes across some pink tulips and settles for pulling those out.

Ren likes flowers, right? Who doesn’t like flowers?

He plops them into a glass and turns to pull open the screen blocking off the back of the ship. Water’s relatively limited on ship, so only the bathroom’s running, and since Doc’s sure it’d make a rather depressing week if these flowers just slowly dehydrated, he makes a beeline to the bathroom to fill them up.

He pauses, though, the removal of the screen welcoming sound Doc hadn’t noticed before.

Ren’s laid in the dark on the bed, curled up with his legs pulled tightly. He’s not under the cover, though, just sitting atop the still made bed.

And he’s muttering.

The sound catches Doc off guard, fully expecting Ren to have been asleep, but as he steps closer he can make out what he’s saying.

His voice is high. Tired. Eyes blank and staring at the wall.

“He hates me.”

Doc freezes at the words, and Ren does too, almost like he’s waiting for a response.

Ren’s voice breaks a little. A whimper.

“I keep messing up.”

A break.

“When’s it your turn? I’m tired.”

…

“I don’t want to anymore. I can’t. Please.”

“Just bring him back. You can do that, right? Just… Just make him front again.”

Doc struggles to follow the conversation, focused more on keeping himself silent than the words themselves, mostly because they’re nonsense to him. He considers, for a moment, if Ren’s on a call but, no, there’s no reception between servers and they’re still at least another week out. 

So he’s talking to himself. Really, Doc would be a hypocrite to call that weird given he’s the self-proclaimed king of having hour-long conversations with nothing but his reflection, but the way he’s speaking… He sounds small. Scared. Not at all like Ren, and that alone is a bit unnerving.

“He’s a real downer,” Ren mumbles. “It’s not a big deal. Why can’t he just–”

Doc takes a step back, hoping to make an easy slide out of the room and to giving Ren some privacy when the coffee pot dings.

The sound rips through the silence and, strangely, it’s that which shakes Ren from his stupor. His eyes glance up lazily, following the sound only to see Doc there in the doorway, and in an instant Ren’s in motion. He shoots upright, kicking against the bedsheets in an effort to scramble back against the wall, as if he can put more distance between the two of them.

A hand slams over his mouth, but it’s not enough to hide his expression.

Puffy eyes. Wet cheeks.

Has he been crying?

Doc’s not sure what to do frozen there in the doorway, tulips still in his hand, and the two stand in that stalemate for what must be a minute before Doc finally breaks the silence. He clears his throat, crossing into the bathroom as if his journey had never been interrupted.

Once he can’t see Ren’s face he says, “I, uh, made breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Doc can hear the hand muffling his words as Ren says it. “Like, for both of us?”

Doc snorts, because what sort of question is that? “I don’t normally eat myself, so–”

Ren is up immediately and Doc can see the excited brown blur pass by the door and into the kitchen. Doc allows himself a small smile as he fills the vase before returning to the kitchen as well.

Ren’s stood over the oven, tail wagging excitedly as he watches the eggs cook in the pan, nose twitching every few seconds at the smell. “Righteous,” he mumbles, only to still a bit as Doc comes near. Doc pretends he doesn’t notice (pretends it doesn’t tug at his heart) as he simply crosses the room and sets the glass on the table.

“Sit,” Doc says, more of an order than he intended. “They need a bit more time.”

But, ever the obedient, Ren takes his seat, sniffing, instead, at the flowers. Doc watches Ren from the corner of his eye as he stirs the eggs. “They are from season 7,” he supplies. “Had them in my chest. Forgot about them.”

He expects a bit of a bigger reaction from Ren, something akin to recollection or affection at the lonely reminders of their lost home. Instead, Ren pulls them from the water in a fistful, tail thumping excitedly. “Can I braid them?”

It takes Doc a moment to realize Ren’s asking for permission. Permission. And, well, Doc doesn’t care too much for them to be honest, so he offers Ren a shrug and turns back to cooking.

Behind him, the thumping gets louder. “Groovy, man! You’re the coolest.”

Doc’s grip on the spatula tightens as he tosses the eggs, lips pressed into a thin line at the words.

They don’t seem right.

Doc sighs, turning his attention to pouring two mugs of coffee, refusing to look over at Ren. “Who, uh… Who was that you were talking to this morning?”

The thumping stills. Doc tries not to wince.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Ren says, voice falling a few octaves in that forced way again. “Just talkin’ to myself. You get it.”

Doc just nods, clicking the stovetop off. He pulls a plate out for Ren, transferring the eggs onto it. “Just sounded a bit upset.”

There’s silence behind him. Doc chances a look to see Ren pointedly folded over the flowers, weaving two tulips together, brows furrowed. Ren shrugs. “Just tired. Nothing to get hung up about, man.”

“Right,” Doc says slowly. He grabs both mugs in one hand and the eggs in another, sinking down into the other side of the booth with a tight tug in his knee. He ignores the pull, pushing towards Ren the plate of eggs and one of the mugs.

Ren discards the tulips instantly, turning his full attention to the eggs as he grabs a fork and digs in. Doc considers making a teasing remark about not getting a thank you but, well, he’s not sure it’d be taken well. Not with Ren as clearly off as he is.

So he just takes a sip of his coffee, ignoring the way it burns his throat on the way down.

Swallowing, he stares into the black liquid. “About last night.”

Ren pauses for just a moment, not nearly enough to suggest he was done eating, but enough to know he was listening. He shoves another bite in his mouth, glancing up at Doc. “What about it?”

“Look,” he sighs, fingers gripped around the mug, “I didn’t mean any harm or anything. I was just a bit overwhelmed. It was nothing against you.”

Ren’s eyes drop in an instant, studying the food as he swallows. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Doc echoes, tapping his fingers as he watches Ren. He’s expecting something more—some long-winded ramble about his thoughts on last night, maybe a lecture on proper apologies–but he gets nothing. Ren just focuses on his eggs.

Which, well, someone has to fill the silence, and Doc curses the smart psychological reasoning Ren used there.

“You know I have got… problems…” Doc goes on. “Sensory jargon and all of that. I don’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just that when it is only you and me, it can get overwhelming.”

“Mhm,” Ren mumbles through a bite. Silence. Still no eye-contact.

Doc frowns. “So if anything’s bother you–”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Ren says a bit too quickly. The eye contact he makes is sudden, and Doc would think it’s a warning if it weren’t so clearly fearful. He stabs his eggs but makes no move to eat them. Just stabs. “Everything’s stellar, man! Far out and all. Don’t get all frantic on me.”

Doc sighs, setting down his mug in exchange for shifting his focus fully onto Ren. “Listen, we have got another week here, so if anything’s bothering you–”

Ren nearly chokes on a bite of eggs, silencing Doc in an instant. The look he throws Doc is utterly disbelieving, a small smile frozen like he’s waiting for the drop of a punchline.

None comes.

“You’re joking,” Ren says slowly, the fork clattering to the table. He drops his head into his hands, but Doc can still see the way tears swell in his eyes.

“You didn’t hear? X sent it through comms.”

“I don’t have the password,” he says miserably, and maybe Doc would have thought that weird if Ren weren’t suddenly gasping, a hand pressed against his mouth as if he could silence the noise, keep it from Doc.

And he looks scared. So, so scared.

Scared of Doc .

Doc’s frozen in his seat, not at all sure what to do in this situation because, well, people. He doesn’t do people he doesn’t know how to comfort he doesn’t know what to do when someone cries.

But Ren is crying, shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle sobs, muttering desperate apologies in every breath.

His eyes squeeze shut and he pulls his knees to his chest. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’ll stop I’ll stop I’ll stop–”

“Ren,” Doc says, desperate, but he’s not listening, not at all. “Ren, hey, it’s alright! It is only a week, right? I can give you space. You don’t even have to worry about me.”

“I’m trying–” Ren gasps, crumpled over, trying to hide himself between hiccups and gasps, and nothing makes sense. "I'm trying to stop I swear I'll stop--"

Doc doesn’t know what to do, and all he can think of is what Ren would do.

So he slips out of his seat and sits beside Ren, wrapping his arms around him.

If Ren notices Doc’s there, he doesn’t show it. The only sign of acknowledging him at all is the way he folds over into his chest, shaking, gasping.

How does he fix this?

The touch is electric across Doc’s skin, but it’s easy enough to work through. He closes his eyes and tangles his fingers in Ren’s hair, whispering soft comforts to the air as Ren fills it with gasps and cries.

And pleads.

Doc stops following along with them after a while. They’re too much, but he gathers enough of what they are.

They’re promises that he’ll stop crying.

They’re pleads not to lock him in his room.

Doc’s throat is tight, words heavy and trying to hide even as he forces them out in some desperate attempt to comfort.

Eventually the words leave him, and Ren runs dry of tears.

And they just sit there.

The room goes quiet. Coffee turns cold. Eggs uneaten.

The two sit there.

Until, finally, Ren sits up.

Doc doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop him. He just lets Ren untangle himself with a pathetic sniff, wiping away dried tears as he sits.

And his eyes don’t quite focus on Doc. They’re glassy, distant, and though they look at Doc, they don’t see him.

Ren blinks slowly. Licks his lips. “Excuse me.”

It takes Doc too long to realize what he’s asking for, but once he does he quickly scrambles out of the seat, giving Ren room to climb out himself.

And he says nothing. No ramble. No attempt to shrug off what just occurred.

Ren mumbles something about a migraine as he heads to the cockpit, and he pulls the screen closed behind him as he disappears into the room.

Notes:

DID Inaccuracies:

DID's a convoluted disorder, so I'll be using the notes at the ends of chapters to clear up anything that's not entirely accurate.

Communication - I show "Ren" here laying in bed and speaking out loud as communication with another alter. Really, DID communication isn't always like that. It varies per system, and some do find it easier to communicate out loud, but the hearing/responding to voices is more heavily associated with schizophrenia than it is DID.

Chapter 3: His Mind is in a Different Place

Notes:

CW:

Vague disordered eating mentions, reference to potential self-harm, brief blood description

Also I massively misuse middle english phonics in this chapter but in my defense Ren ALSO does it when he's roleplaying so I don't feel bad

It’s a bit unnerving to not see someone on such a small ship.

The first day Doc chalks it up to coincidence, firmly believing they’ve just missed one another. He spends the most of his day in bed, sketching out designs and writing up a paper on the functionality of goat horns for fun.

And definitely not at all avoiding Ren.

Definitely not.

The second day, Doc figures he owes it to the universe to suck it up and face his fears, so he moves his work out into the living space, working at the dining booth as the ship moves steadily through the void. Still, he doesn’t see Ren at all, and he considers it reasonable that Ren would need a few days to recoup. He’s probably sleeping in the cockpit, Doc decides. Rest would do him some good.

The partially braided tulips are still there, though, three woven together in the start of a crown. Doc spends a long few minutes considering them, wondering if he shouldn’t detangle the poor flowers and place them back into the water.

In the end, he decides against it. He leaves it there, hopeful that Ren will return to finish.

The third day Doc starts to pay far more attention. He can hear the screen to the cockpit sliding open and closed, but only ever when Doc’s not in the room. 

Ah. So Ren’s avoiding him.

Doc tries not to take it personally (afterall he was doing the same at first) but there’s this rock in his gut that almost feels like guilt. His sketch work becomes messier, more distracted as he chews through the ends of his pens in thought, trying to replay what triggered the break that happened days before.

Maybe it was something Doc said or did. Maybe it was the eggs. Maybe it was the news of how long they’d be stuck here.

Maybe it’d been building since they got on board.

Maybe Ren’s been balancing towers of concerns that all came tumbling down at once…

No matter, Doc finds it in himself not to worry over it. Ren will face him when he’s ready, and if he doesn’t is that such a bad thing? Some alone time could be good for them both…

Doc remembers to feed himself only as a secondary thought to feeding Ren, making what he can and leaving it out by the door (where it won’t get stepped on, of course).

The portions get smaller. More restrictive as time goes on, not out of want. Out of necessity.

Xisuma sends another announcement out.

Another week, if not more.

And Doc tries not to concern himself with how that will have made this two day trip into almost a month. How Ren, as much of an overpacker as he may be, most definitely did not bring enough food and water for this. Truthfully, Doc’s starting to worry, and he tries not to let that worry eat him up as he steels himself for another week at this.

He considers rapping on the door to the cockpit and letting Ren know, just in case he doesn’t see, but everytime he considers it he freezes at thought of the way Ren had cracked at the table.

Maybe ignorance is for the best…

By the fourth day, Doc’s gotten himself into a routine of not expecting Ren’s presence.

He drags himself out of bed with a yawn on his lips, half-lidded eyes leading his way towards the coffee pot. He grabs it.

Paper crinkles instead.

Doc’s awake enough to focus on the bright-green sticky note stuck to the pot’s handle, frowning as he brings it up to his cybernetic eye to read.

 

Hey big guy. Sorry about all this. Gonna have 

Ren back to you real soon. Til then I’m sticking you 

with the king. He’s sorta new. Try not to let him airlock the body 

while Ren’s MIA. Thanks

-Stein

 

Stein . He remembers that name, something about a doctor character from the Turf Wars. Doc elicits nothing but a low chuckle in response, shaking his head as he crumples the sticky. He’s pleased, at least, to see Ren joking around again. That’s a good sign.

Doc’s still smiling as he lifts the lid of the trash bin to toss the sticky. There, stuck to the lid, is another bright green sticky note. Doc quirks a brow,

 

P . S .

Not at all a joke. Keep the body safe. 

If it gets lost to the void I’m 

telling X it was your fault.

-Stein

 

Doc frowns, shaking his head again as he tosses both stickies in and shuts the lid. Arguably less funny, but hardly enough to care.

He sets the coffee to brew and pulls down his mug, only for yet another sticky to flutter down and land on the table top.

 

P . P . S .

Watch out for his axe.

-Stein

 

The frown Doc wears sets deeper, but he doesn’t even have time to be incredulous before there’s a defiant shout from the cockpit and a clatter. Doc jumps to attention, whipping around to see the screen to the cockpit absolutely torn to shreds and a panting, frantic Ren gasping in its ruins. There’s an axe gripped tightly in his hands, and seemingly satisfied with the destruction of the screen door, he turns his attention towards Doc.

“YOU!”

Doc yelps, taking a step backwards. “Me?!”

“YOU!” Ren repeats, and there’s no time for Doc to react before he’s charging.

In a moment he’s off his feet and pinned to the wall, Ren’s fist twisted around his shirt, an axe inches from his throat.

Doc isn’t breathing. He freezes, eyes bouncing across Ren’s features in search of some sign of what’s going on, but all he sees is fury and chaos and…

And fear…

That fear again…

“Are you the one who trapped me here?” 

The threat of an axe at his neck is nothing compared to the interest the voice raises. Doc forgets his fear entirely as he cocks his head, brows furrowed in careful consideration of Ren. “I know for a fact you have not always been Scottish.”

Ren only growls, pressing the axe closer into Doc’s skin and, right, he should be scared considering they’re off server. No respawns here.

“Easy, easy,” Doc tries, hands grabbing Ren’s wrists. “What’s happening, my guy? Is this about a few days ago? We should really talk it out. Words over hands, you know?”

Ren sneers, fanged teeth showing and wow Doc’s never thought to be scared of those before… “Have you locked me in this prison?”

Prison. Doc considers the space around them, the limitless void outside their windows, the fact that there’s no escape and thinks, yeah, prison is a fair enough descriptor. “No, no this was all you.”

“I would never fall prey to a trap. But you…” Ren squints, looking closely at Doc. “You… You’re trapped here too, aren’t you?”

Doc leaps at the out, nodding his head as he cranes away from the axe. “Yes! Definitely! You’ve got it.”

“I should have known.” The hand pinning him is gone too quickly and Doc falls, sliding to the ground with an oomph, his joints screaming at him for such dysfunctional use. He winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why lock yourself in here if you’re the guard,” Ren goes on, and Doc sighs in relief when he sees the axe set down on the counter. “You’re in the same state as me, aren’t ye? A prisoner to the Red Menace… I must have failed my mortal…”

Doc’s words are heavy again, stress weighing on him, and for a change he doesn’t fight it. Just lets Ren ramble on…

Ren… The King, the note had said. A character, maybe? A bit Ren’s rehearsing for the next season?

But his neck stings where the axe laid, a grim reminder of the fate which could have been, and Doc can’t find it in himself to believe Ren would ever threaten him like that.

“He separated me from my hand,” he continues. “And I’ll separate his head from his neck! I’ll dye the sands around his keep red with the blood of his allies, and then I’ll bury him in it.”

Ren presses a palm to the window and throws a glance back to Doc, gaze grim. “Where art we?”

The question is strange enough, and Doc pulls himself to his feet with a groan, leaning against the counter top to counteract the spinning in his head. “The void. On our way to season 8. Did–Did you bonk your head in there?”

Ren only growls, fingers curling into a fist that he knocks against the glass. “My head has never been bonked. Only I bonk the heads of mine enemies. Bonk them with mine axe.” His fingers twitch as he casts a glance back to it, but to Doc’s relief he makes no movement towards it. His attention returns to the window. To the void. “No better place to trap an old god, I suppose. I only hope he spared mine people in the end… That Dogwarts lived on…”

“I’m so confused.”

“Aye,” Ren nods with a solemn chuckle. “The affairs of old gods are far too much for mortals to take in. I don’t expect ye to understand.”

But he does. In some aspects, at least, he can see the lines being drawn, connections, the voice…

He doesn’t think he’s Ren, does he…?

Doc steadies himself, reaching over the axe to pour himself a cup of coffee he is very much in need of. He considers himself lucky Ren only issues a growl of warning as he nears the axe, not at all eager for another fight before this mug is finished.

He turns back to face him, taking a long sip, eyebrow raised.

And certainly enough, the figure before him is… different. It looks like Ren with his baggy clothes and mangy hair and ears perked and turning with every sound, but that’s where the similarities end. His posture is all wrong, far more upward drawn and larger than the Ren Doc knew, like he was a general. A commander.

At his side his hand opens and closes into a fist, and Doc thinks he sees red staining the knuckles. Had he cracked them in the cockpit when Doc wasn’t looking? Had he hurt himself?

With a sick drop of his stomach Doc remembers the note, and he has only a moment to reconsider the gravity of them all.

Whatever this is–whatever breakdown has been building these last few days–it’s accumulated into this, and Doc’s at a loss for what to do. He only has to consider the notes left behind.

Keep the body safe.

And if it means keeping Ren away from another panic-induced breakdown at the dining room table, Doc figures he may as well follow along.

“So,” Doc says, clearing his throat with a sound that makes Ren’s–this king’s–ears twitch. “Do you have a name or–?”

He chuckles lowly, head drooping downwards. “I have many. Some call me the God of Blood. Others call me the Crimson Stalker. The Harbinger. The Red King. Red Winter. But you–” he casts a glance over his shoulder, a single eye squinting towards Doc– “You may call me King.”

Doc tries not to laugh, but obviously such attempts are not enough as Ren– King– growls, turning around suddenly. “You think this a joke? You believe this is for your entertainment?”

“No, no–” Doc says quickly, one hand up and ready just in case he charges him again. “I’m just getting used to it. I don’t mean disrespect.”

“Good,” King growls, and despite the threat of his words, the way he casts warning glances Doc’s way, he just looks tired. 

The King sinks into the dining booth, eyes returning to watching the void slip by out their window.

Normally, Doc would join Ren at the table, drink his coffee as his friend rambles aimlessly about whatever’s on his mind, but silence nests between the two of them and Doc thinks better than to disturb it. He sips his coffee, eyes down as he focuses on the song of the void.

The King doesn’t say much the rest of the day. He sits in silence, watching the endless infinity outside their ship, occasionally rising to tend to his axe (Doc makes a note to ask where it came from once he’s in better spirits). 

Doc keeps expecting Ren to snap out of it. For the spell to fade away and for Ren to blink back to his normal self, providing some clarity to this all.

Or, strangely, he finds himself wanting Stein. What an odd thing to expect, for your friend to suddenly dawn a character from last season as normal as one might an old coat. Doc, at some point, fishes the notes from the bin and tapes them to the bedroom walls, considering them every so often while he sits and works on sketches or tries to get some sort of reception through his comms.

Doc would never consider himself an expert on anything Ren, but the handwriting doesn’t seem quite right. Ren’s a rushed man, perfection a backseat to efficiency (perhaps it’s why he and Doc get along so nicely). Doc can’t imagine perfect penmanship like this coming from the hound.

Stein.

Doc falls asleep that night thinking on it, thinking about the handwriting and language that so clearly isn’t Ren’s.

It’s ridiculous to think it could be anyone else’s, though. There’s no one else on the ship beside him and Ren. If it wasn’t Doc, it had to have been him…

But Doc’s confidence in that statement is waning by the days. “There’s no one else” , then how do you explain King? How do you explain the man sitting in their kitchen who’s not quite right? He who holds himself differently, who speaks differently, whose ears and tail don’t show expressions in the way Doc’s gotten used to.

Days pass by with this man aboard the ship, hardly moving from his spot watching the window, and with every passing second Doc’s less and less sure this is Ren.

Chapter 4: Would Everybody Please Give him a Little bit of Space

Notes:

CW:

Bodily negligence
Doc being dismissive of mental disorders again (he's working on it)
Descriptions of autistic burnout
-
This chapter was written to be sorta funny but get's emotional at the end

It’s a bit impressive, Doc thinks, how quickly he adapts to living with this new entity.

It’s hardly difficult, to be fair, considering its less like coping with a new roommate and more like coping with a new piece of furniture.

Days pass by with the King sat at their dining booth and Doc’s certain to keep track of them. Aside from day two when the axe was move from the counter to the table, not much changes. The King just sits. Watches. Waits.

Doc almost feels bad how welcomed the peace and quiet is after weeks of Ren talking his mouth off, but two days in it’s starting to drive even him crazy. He starts rambling himself just to fill the silence, and the King is respectful enough, at least feigning attention with nods and hums tossed his way.

When Doc wakes up the King is already up too, sitting at his place in the booth and watching the void slip by. They offer each other a respectful nod as Doc pours his coffee and checks for any updates from Xisuma. Then Doc busies himself with a project.

Lately, it’s been trying to repair the screen King ruined in his arrival. It’s a bit different a project than he’s used to, and while affixing the shattered wood is simple enough, sewing is outside of his expertise. So, he does what anyone else would when avoiding a task and plans it meticulously rather than acting.

He’s sat on the floor reading an article on stitching and sewing methods when he hears a grumble from the table. He looks up to see the King doubled over, forehead pressed onto the table.

Doc frowns. “You alright over there, buddy?”

“We’re not friends, ” the King growls, but he doesn’t quite get his head off the table to flash a glare at Doc. He just rolls his head to the side, expression unreadable from Doc’s perspective, and despite the warning Doc is to his feet and heading over.

Protect the body. Ren’s body. No matter what’s going on, that’s his priority.

“Fine,” Doc relents. “Not friends. What’s going on?”

The King is silent for a long moment, gaze distant as a fogginess washes over his eyes. At last he squeezes them shut, slumping more against the table. “I am… new to this…”

“This,” Doc echoes slowly. He doesn’t sit across the table from the King, but he does lean against the opposite bench, eyes studying him less like a person and more like a machine. “Care to elaborate?”

“Mortality.” The King forces himself up, eyes peeking open to cast a glance at Doc and fuck when was the last time Doc took a good look at him? He’s pale, sunken cheeks and bags under his eyes and when he raises a hand to brush hair from his brow it shakes. “Something’s wrong.”

No kidding. Hesitancy to get too close to the King is gone as Doc takes a step forward, nothing in his eyes but Ren’s body. The King growls as Doc presses a hand to his forehead, claws curling around the handle of his axe, but he makes no move against Doc. He lets the touch last for the second it does.

Doc pulls away with a deep frown. “No fever. When was the last you ate?”

The King is silent. He stares at Doc for a long moment, hazy eyes struggling to focus “What?”

It’s everything within Doc not to shatter into incredulous laughter. “Have you not eaten? ”

“Why would I eat outside of battle? I have no wounds to heal.”

“Because you–” Doc runs a hand over his face, exhaustion screaming at him to disengage and let this be the King’s own problem. But he did promise… “Water? Sleep?”

The King’s brows draw together. “Why would I do these things?”

Holy shit…

“Okay,” Doc says, hands clapping together as he turns his back on the King. He grabs a mug from the cabinet, checking to make sure it’s not one he was using to measure redstone before taking it to the bathroom. “Food. Now. See what we have in the fridge.”

“You dare order–”

Doc turns in an instant, eyes narrowed harshly towards the King who, for the first time, swallows his words obediently. Doc expects a fight, for the axe to raise but, no. The King bows his head as he shuffles out of his seat, pulling open the fridge with some displeased mumbles.

Doc has to force his breathing to calm as he fills the mug, hazy reflection in the mirror staring back at him. Gods, he looks miserable. He wants to blame it on the trip, on being off-world or, even, his own negligence at maintaining a proper sleep schedule or meal plan.

But, no. He’s tired because of Ren. Because of whatever’s going on with him.

Doc scowls at his reflection, not caring to focus on the mug now overflowing with water. How dare he make this about himself? Something is wrong, something Doc couldn’t even hope to understand, and rather than wanting to help he wants to run. Wants to feel pity for himself. Wants to shoot X a message begging him to put season 7 online again while they wait out the new start.

Anything to get off this RV. Anything to get away from Ren.

What an absolutely shitty sentiment to feel…

A sensor in Doc’s eye flashes a warning about water mixing with cybernetics, and it’s enough to snap Doc out of it. He shuts the water off and pulls his hand back, drying it with a towel before carrying the overfilled mug back out to his friend.

To his amazement the King truly did listen. He’s sitting, now, on the table with glazed over eyes, his hand working like the thing of cybernetics it’s become; a machine. Up and down. Food from bag to mouth.

A second longer than it should take the King recognizes that Doc’s walked in. He gives Doc a stiff nod, raising the bag of–-are those baby carrots? 

“Sustenance.”

“Sure,” Doc says with a sigh because, well, he doesn’t quite have the spoons available for explaining that an entire bag of baby carrots isn’t a proper meal. He just sets the mug beside the King, backing away to give him space. “Drink too. Then sleep. The body needs it.”

The King looks at the mug with something akin to suspicion, and Doc almost expects to be accused of poisoning it. But, no. The King raises the mug to his lips, suspicion thrown, now, at Doc.

“Why doth ye treat me so kindly?”

Doc can’t swallow the sputtering laugh that rips through his throat, even if the tightness in his chest doesn’t really reflect it. Why?

And Doc is tired. So, tired. He considers crossing the room and taking the King’s shoulders and shaking him until he remembers who he is.

But he doesn’t.

So he sits down on the floor amidst the partially-repaired screen door and just stares at the pieces. “No reason.”

“There’s a reason,” the King insists around a bite of carrots. “I’m weak and at your mercy. It’d be in your best interest to let me perish then harvest mine bones for meat.”

Doc snorts at that, shaking his head. “I do not want your meat.”

“Ye might.”

“King–”

“Why take care of me?”

Doc looks up slowly, so slowly, exhaustion pulling at ever muscle and begging him to end this conversation, to lock himself in his room and let this man drown himself in baby carrots.

But his eyes meet the King’s, and they don’t look like a King’s.

They look like Ren’s.

And maybe, in that moment, Doc can imagine he’s back. Really back. The Ren he knew from the server itself, the one he planned to track down goats with and build a mega shop with and break the server with. Doc looks into his eyes and he sees a friend he hasn’t seen in weeks.

But he’s right here… Isn’t he…?

“Doc?”

Something wraps itself around his throat, squeezes, and he wants to run into this man’s arms, hug him, tell Ren how much he missed him, how much he misses him.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Familiar eyes fade away into the furrowed brows of a tyrant and Doc lowers his head. “Just looking out for that body.”

A beat of silence. Doc lays two pieces of fabric together, willing himself to muster the spoons to at least try and fix it. At least then this entire day would have been worth it. At least then he could lock himself in his room without feeling like a failure.

Instead, the cloth is lifted away, and Doc follows as it’s pulled into the lap of a hound.

The King squints down at the two pieces, turning them this way and that before finding a position he seems satisfied with.

Doc blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Repaying a debt.”

“A–” Doc shakes his head, reaching across to grab the fabric. “A debt? What debt– ”

The King growls, keeping Doc away from the pieces with a protective arm. “You’ve saved my life by teaching me how to care for a mortal body. I must repay the favor.”

Doc chuckles hollowly, not even able to muster the full ability to laugh at how absolutely absurd this all is. Instead, he just watches the concentration on the King’s face. “You should be sleeping.”

“Afterwards.”

“ King–”

Another growl, and Doc’s mouth snaps shut, less out of fear and more out of confusion. He’s so insistent on this. Why?

No matter, Doc lets the man work. He’s learned his lesson.

The King mumbles a bit as he pins the pieces, laying them all out in a way that would be easiest to sew, first putting the biggest parts together, then explaining how they’d patch the smaller ones in. His tongue presses against his canines as he focuses, crouches over the fabric until they’re in line as he pleases.

And Doc studies him.

He watches the way he breathes. Thinks. The way his hands maneuver around the fabric.

The way he speaks.

“Can’t believe your mama didn’t teach you this, my dude.”

The way the Scottish accent fades away into a cadence far more familiar. The way his mannerisms seem… normal…

Not normal.

Just… Ren…

And Doc doesn’t speak at all, just holds his breath as he watches the sight before him, each sentence bouncing between accents, him pausing every few minutes or so to just… stop… stare…

Space out…

He’s there then he isn’t, Ren then the King then both then neither.

Doc only dares speak up when he sees him struggle to thread a needle. His brows are furrowed in a way that’s so clearly what Doc’s come to know as the King’s, frustration building as he tries to push the thread through. But his hands shake far too much for any precision, and Doc reaches out to press the tips of his fingers into his friend’s cybernetic hand.

The King’s eyes snap up, a growl at his mawl before… it melts…

Eyes that are clearly Ren’s.

Doc smiles. “Can I?”

He doesn’t say anything in response. Just nods and passes the needle and thread over.

It takes Doc a few tries as well, and eventually he gives in and just uses his tool to help. “Fine motor skills will need work,” Doc says as he hands it back. “You took a lot of nerve damage there.”

Another furrowed frown. Ren–the King–he averts his gaze, eyes moving down to focus on the fabric as he starts his stitch. “Where?”

Where? Doc frowns, head tilted. “In the lava. The end of the season.”

“Oh.” He still doesn’t look up, but his stitching falters as his attention shifts to his hand. To the cybernetics of it. “Is that what happened to our…?”

Doc tries to place the accent, tries to see which voice he’s speaking to right now, but they’re so jumbled together it feels pointless. So he just nods. “You don’t remember?”

A low chuckle and a shrug. “Things have been… weird…”

“I’ve noticed.”

The two fall into a steady silence as he works, Doc watching the fabric pieced together, his friend merely keeping himself busy. And it’s a comfortable silence, a familiar one, not the tense silence of him and an upset Ren before, or the awkward avoidance of Doc and the King.

The fabric comes together piece by piece, a full tapestry returning in front of them.

But it’s not whole. Not really. It’s a shattered thing patched together by someone with enough care and commitment to try and understand how the pieces all work. And they do work. They will work. When it’s slid back into the frame it’ll be a functional door.

But it’ll never be whole. The stitches will always be seen. The parts will always be there.

A droplet falls onto the sheet and, with a start, Doc realizes Ren’s shoulders are shaking. He nearly leaps up, worried the wiring has short-circuited, but Ren meets Doc’s eyes and he crumbles.

A sob rips from his throat, poorly muffled behind his hand. “Can–can I–”

Doc understands. He opens his arms in time for Ren to fall forward towards Doc, arms strewn over his shoulders, gripping onto his shirt, teary eyes pressing into his chest.

Doc’s frozen for a moment. The touch feel feels… familiar… Not at all like the odd stiffness of the hug from a few days ago. This is a hug he's had before, on server, a hug that's distinctly Ren's. Doc pulls him in closer, curling over him as he hugs his friend tightly, face buried in his hair.

And he doesn’t let go.

He won’t let go.

He can’t let go.

Ren sobs, coughing, gasping, and every few moments he sputters out an “ I’m sorry.”

Doc doesn’t want apologies, doesn’t need them, but his words are too heavy in his throat to deny them.

So he just sits there amongst broken apologies, and clings to the familiar closeness of his friend.

Notes:

DID tidbits

The scene where the King eats a bag of baby carrots is inspired by my friend who has an alter who like. Refuses to acknowledge that the body is mortal. And has, before, eaten an entire bag of JUST baby carrots rather than having an actual meal

Also there at the end Ren and the King start blurring together, which does tend to happen when alters switch places in DID!

Chapter 5: Get a Load of this Train Wreck

Notes:

This is one of the heavier chapters. Please heed the warnings, especially if you have DID or any other trauma disorders

CW: Dissociation, derealization, loss of time, self-harm, blood ment, death ment, trauma flashbacks, reference to DID as being "insane"

Doc doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He remembers being uncomfortable, muscles defiant of the position as seconds turn into minutes turn into hours. He remembers the warning from his cybernetics that he was putting too much strain on his spinal accommodations hunched over like that. 

But he doesn’t remember falling asleep atop Ren, exhaustion pulling him to the point of no disagreement. 

Sleep’s torn away from him suddenly, the stability of whatever he was leant on suddenly lost as he slumps forward. He gasps, blinking away tired as a hand pats his cheeks rather rudely. When his senses return he sees Ren in front of him, grinning.

“Aye, there you go big guy. Up and at’em.” Ren stands rather proudly, stretching out his back, limbs, all while Doc stares dumbfounded. “Horrid position to sleep in. Don’t you have bad joints? Is that an old man thing or a creeper thing?”

Doc blinks, grogginess leaving him rather quickly as he watches the man before him scatter about, a jovial energy to his stride as he crosses over and starts the coffee pot. “You like it black, right big guy? Edgy. I respect that.”

“Wha–”

“I said up and at’em!” He sings again, and Doc’s half-awake brain catches on the tone, the words, the movements.

All decidedly not Ren’s.

Doc pulls himself to his feet, groaning as his body contests. “What are you–”

“We need an early head-start before the King figures out how to take front again. And you,” he jabs Doc in the chest, “ You need a crash course on trauma.”

>>*<<

It’s such a decidedly cruel thing to decide which events are and are not “games”.

“Game,” as it means, tends to refer to how it’s viewed externally, not internally. For instance: a football game is fun to the onlookers, but stress and pain to those on the field. A game of tag amongst children may appear joyous until you’re suddenly in the mind of the six year old whose fight-or-flight reflexes are reacting as if there is real danger.

Ultimately, what is and isn’t a “game” is decided by the watchers. Not the Players.

They called this a game.

Ren didn’t agree.

If it were a game he’d have enjoyed it, he thinks. If it were a game he’d manage to find some semblance of fun within the chaos and bloodshed which surrounds them. Maybe in a game he’d be teamed with his friends rather than with a hand by chance. Maybe in a game he wouldn’t feel the calling of death’s bells which toll everytime a new life is taken.

The server sings now, bells echoing across the expanses of their prison. Of their game. 

The sound chases chills up Ren’s spine, fully aware of what it means, now, with two having already gone down. Still, there are three lives to spare. Scar and Skizz are hardly through with the game.

That should be a comfort, shouldn’t it? Ren reaches down to his wrist, fingers carefully brushing against the three hearts over his vein lines. The idea of respawning, shouldn’t that console him?

Maybe it is for some of the hardcore players who are used to death being permanant. But Ren isn’t…

Death hasn't been a certainty in such a long time… He can’t imagine…

The bell tolling stops and only then does he remember the person beside him. Martyn “huhs” as he checks his comms, all too comfortable in this deadly game. 

“Who is it?” Ren asks.

Martyn flashes the screen towards him. “BDubs. Fell. Better than getting creepered, that’s for sure. Or endermaned, I s’pose.”

Ren isn’t listening. He’s too focused on the relief, trying to let it wash over him, calm his nerves, at the sound of it being BDub’s dead. What a sick thing, to be glad your friend’s died? But it’s better than Scar and Skiss. The two of them only have two lives each, and when they drop down to their last life….

Ren tries not to think about it. He tries not to think of arrows and explosives. Of hostages and threats and blood and death.

Ren tries not to think about war.

But it’s on the air, taunting them, letting the server know what’s to come the moment the wind changes and someone’s to their red life. 

Ren tries not to think about it. He tries not to think of arrows and explosives. Of hostages and threats and blood and death.

Ren tries not to think about war.

But it’s on the air, taunting them, letting the server know what’s to come the moment the wind changes and someone reaches their last life.

And so, Ren finds relief in the idea of his friend having died, because at least it means they can sleep soundly when this night approaches.

“We should go,” Martyn says, and it’s those words paired with a light tugging on his sleeve that draws Ren out of his stupor. He blinks, steadying himself before clearing his throat.

“Yes! Let’s.”

He hadn’t intended for this game to go this way. He and Martyn—it would be such a simple venture. They would work together. They would sell enchantments: what could go wrong?

Then Scar had died and the hearts on his wrist turned yellow, and they all took a stale breath at the recognition that this game—this world—would not last. They would all befall an inevitable, permanent death.

Martyn doesn’t seem worried. He takes the lead as they make their way back to Dogwarts, muttering to himself about the aspects of his game. Ren follows behind, uncharacteristically quiet as his fingers clench onto his wrist, pressing worries down down down.

This is fine. They’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

They cross the gates into Dogwarts—Ren’s kingdom. He greets it with open arms and a proud sniff to the air, pleased to be back to safety. Pleased. Safe.

Or, at least, he can pretend he’s safe.

“My king,” Martyn drawls with the obnoxious, fake accent the two of them had been using. Despite his unease, Ren snorts, the voice a welcomed break from the solemness.

Ren offers an overly dramatic bow in response. “Yes, my Hand?”

Martyn bows as well, a mischoreographed dance of respect amongst royalty. The practices are improper, out of order, but neither of them mind. It brings a smile to their faces and makes the days a bit more bearable.

“Am I to mend our defenses?”

Ren stands from his bow, turning his attention towards the kingdom. He hums, one hand on his hip as the other scratches stubble, considering the protection of their rising lands. 

There’s a worry prickling deep inside, screaming that yes yes of course they should be more defended . How else are they to be safe after all? When the red lives come…

Red .

Ren’s hand falls to his wrist. He can feel his own pulse pounding beneath his skin. 

“Aye,” Ren says, not quite conscious of the way his voice lingers on that feigned accent. “We’ll start at dawn! I’ve got some cobble and spruce in the basement. Can get our perimeters secured, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Martyn says, distracted as he scrolls through his inventory. “Couldn’t hurt! Makes it harder for others to track us down. Or at the least keep them from our enchanting table. Those scoundrels.”

The emphasis on that word, the silliness of it all, makes Ren laugh. He shakes his head, looping an arm around Martyn and pulling him into a side hug. “What fiends,” he quips, and Martyn laughs too.

It’s with laughter that they move off to build. It’s with laughter that defenses rise, nothing but thin walls, as much aesthetic as they are functional. 

They laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And Ren begins to feed worries of war and blood off onto someone else…

>>*<<

Ren’s not sure when Scar stole the enchanter.

Time’s become weird for him. Weird in a familiar way, in a fuzzy way that makes him know someone’s pushing close just like they always are.

And on Hermitcraft, he’s prepared well enough. He can fight it if he tries–and boy does he try–always eager to carry something on his own rather than letting someone else pop up and potentially ruin things.

It just wasn’t safe. It wasn’t reasonable. If Ren lets someone else take front, who knows who might see? What if they make a fool of him in front of the others? Disrupt a build? Make him fall behind schedule?

No, Ren simply couldn’t afford any of that. As far as he was concerned, this was his body. His life.

He wouldn’t let the others take that from him…

But it’s getting harder to fight it here. In this game, the fuzzy fades in and out with the sounds of explosions and chimes of death. More fight, and more fall, and Ren clings helplessly to the marks on his wrists, praying they stay green.

Green. 

He’s still green.

He focuses on that as he attempts to ground, breathe a practiced and balanced inhale, hold, exhale over and over as he tries to find his piece of mind.

Slowly, Ren slips back into his body with all the comfort one might find laying to rest on a bed of nails. He comes into his arms, legs, chest, head, and holds onto the aches and pains of the last few weeks like they might keep him tied to the ground. He doesn’t float away. He won’t float away. Not again.

He looks to the clock on the wall, watching the arm tick closer and closer to dawn.

It was the evening last he remembered.

The whole night…

That’s how it happens, with larger and larger chunks of time slipping past him. He hates it. He hates losing it, having no clue what’s going on, feeling like a coward for running and hiding rather than facing the world.

Ren tucks himself forward, head between his knees as he focuses, still on his breathing. A familiar presence pokes at him, offering to take over.

Ren growls and shoves it away.

He doesn’t need any of them. He can do this. He can survive. He’s not scared. He’s not. Scared. 

“REN!”

Ren jolts at sound of Martyn’s voice, breathing at once pained and stressed before he realizes who stands in his doorway.

Martyn. Martyn. He’d always planned to stick with the Hermits, follow after BDubs and Cleo and Etho in some heinous attempt to survive this stupid game. But, no, something had pulled him towards Martyn, and he couldn’t help but to follow.

Ren can feel another part of him warm at sight of his hand. Ren wants to despise it, to tell this part to fuck off and leave Ren to his own life, but it’s rather comforting actually…

It brings Ren into himself. He lets it. He sits up straighter.

If Martyn noticed the way Ren flinched he says nothing. His eyes are wide, pointing down the hall, shaking, panting.

“The enchanter.”

Ren’s on his feet. 

He doesn’t remember when they lost the enchanter, but he knows it’s been gone long enough, coincidentally coinciding with Scar’s turning red.

Scar. Ren hates to despise a friend, especially when he knows this is whatever curse is on this server and not Scar himself, but he’s come to loathe him. Him and Grian. Ren growls again at mere thought of them, wondering if they realize what they’re doing? If they realize how truly temporary this life is?

Grian doesn’t seem to mind. They’ll wake up in Hermitcraft, he assures Ren. They’ll be okay.

But will they? There’s blood staining the green of this server’s fields. Ren finds it hard to believe there could ever be an okay after this.

Blood and death… Oh it follows him, doesn’t it? It sticks to his boots and fur and maw…

“Ren.”

Ren’s drawn back into the sound of Martyn’s gentle voice, a single hand on his arm, and Ren smiles at Martyn appreciatively. Only then does he realize they’re not alone, Jimmy and Skizz both there as well, walking circles around…

Around the enchanter. It’s back, truly it’s here. Could Grian and Scar have returned it?

They wouldn’t…

“There,” Martyn says, pointing towards a hill not far off. Scar’s quite the sight atop that hill, grayed skin, blood-stained hands, the rising sun a backdrop to his stature. He raises his chin at Ren, a silent challenge, and again Ren scowls.

“Don’t trust it,” Ren says, ears twitching at the distant sound of Grian’s laughter. “It’s trapped.”

“Figured as much,” Skizz sighs, squatting as he considers the thing.

Ren can’t quite recall if he’s allies with these two, but he hardly considers himself their enemies. They must be trustworthy. Why else would Martyn let them be here?

He trusts Martyn. Even if Ren knows it’s the fuzzy presence telling him that, Ren trusts him.

“There any hope of sparing it?” Jimmy asks.

Martyn shrugs, brushing the dirt aside with a careful hand. Ren holds his breath, a hesitant step forward all he needs to see the line of redstone he’s uncovered. The dust trickles down, slips past a few rocks and there, underground, is TNT.

The group goes silent, and with a drop in his stomach Ren realizes they’re all looking at him.

Him? What’s he done to earn their honor?

Jimmy crosses his arms. “Well?”

Desperate, Ren looks to Martyn.

“Water,” Martyn decides, the answer ready the moment Ren turned his way. “Best to waterlog it. Hopefully keeps the TNT from going off.”

“Excellent idea!” Ren says, mustering a rise in his chest as if he could take credit for it. “I can–”

“I’ll go,” Martyn says immediately, looking pointedly towards Ren.

And Ren looks back.

He wonders, then, what that exchange between stares might mean… The look is pointed, directed, conveys some understanding Ren can’t possibly understand.

He thinks of the time lost. He thinks of Martyn’s hand on his shoulder.

He thinks of the way someone who isn’t him excites at the look.

Ren clears his throat, averting his gaze quickly (and if he sees Martyn slump a bit in response, that’s hardly his concern). “Of course, my dude,” Ren says, a forced smile on his face. “We’ll keep watch. You go get the goods.”

And they do. Martyn leaves. Ren watches.

He watches the casual talk between Skizz and Jimmy, hardly paying attention to their words, to the way they’re getting a bit too close to the trapped enchanter.

He watches a mountain in the distance. He watches Scott Smajor join Grian and Scar ( “Traitor,” someone inside accuses, even if Ren ignores it).

He watches Grian fume. 

He watches Scar unclick the brakes of his wheelchair, inching closer.

He watches red eyes.

He watches a burning gaze from the distance. A smirk. A spark.

He doesn’t watch as Jimmy slips into the trap.

And the world is gone, and all is loud and white and burning and there’s no ground, and no air, and no sky, just burning and shrapnel and heat h eat heat heat–

(Ren screams at the door of his bedroom, fists slamming against it over and over and over, tears in his eyes as he pleads for someone to hear him, to unlock it, to let him out please let him out he’ll be good he won’t cry this time please please please. The house is warm. Tears evaporate on his cheeks. He screams for Dad. He screams for Mum. He screams for Gox. There’s too much heat heat hea t heat heat–)

And then Ren respawns.

>>*<<

Ren doesn’t sleep that night.

The world is his to observe, to drink in, to plant his feet on the ground of as he watches it distantly, breathlessly.

Coldly.

He’s never hated a world. For all they’ve done to him, for all the universe has put him through he’s always treated them with kindness, welcoming the seeds of each new server as he might an old friend, no harshness towards it for all it throws towards him.

He will not hate the worlds for what they enable.

But he hates this one.

Ren’s fingers grip tightly to his wrist, claws digging into flesh until blood beads from under them. It’s a harsh pain, one that makes his eyes sting with tears as the sensation reaches his groggy brain, but he doesn’t relieve it. He worsens it. He grounds himself there with that pain, with that repression, refusing to give in to the way his brain thrums for someone else.

He doesn’t look at his wrist and the yellow hearts now upon it. He doesn’t look at the burn scars covering his entire left side from the explosion. He will not acknowledge the death that’s been so permanently ingrained into him.

He does, however, acknowledge the chill in the air as a breeze kicks up, Ren sinking deeper into his coat as if he could hide from it. The trees along Dogwarts rustle and sway with a breeze that warns of winter.

Winter…

How long do they have until it arrives?

“Not long.”

The voice Ren hears is like a needle to his ears, cruel and unwelcomed and he growls and dips his head lower in response to it. His ears pin back. As if he could run from it.

As if he could run from any of it…

“Thou shalt go inside. Our body will be worsened by the cold. We needeth all the strength we shall accrue.”

Ren growls, teeth barred to the No One he speaks to. “Shut up, dude.”

“No,” the voice cruelly responds. “If thou shalt not care for the body, I will have no choice but to take it for mine self.”

“Don’t you dare. ”

“Then treat it with the kindness and respect it deserves. You dare injure it with our own claws?”

“ My claws. Mine.” Ren lifts his head to see where the moon lays overhead. It’s ridiculous to think that everyone in the server is asleep–many have taken to resource gathering and traveling in the nights as of late–but Martyn is at least. He tries not to worry about his volume. About the way he sort of wants Martyn to find him like this, mumbling to himself in the darkness.

Maybe, then, he’d realize what’s wrong. 

Gods wouldn’t that be something? For someone to finally realize how truly insane Ren is? To pluck him off this goddamn server and put him somewhere he could get help? Imagine that…

“I would also welcome comfort from our Hand.”

“My gods, dude, can’t you take a hint?” Ren growls. “I don’t want you around right now. Bug off.”

There’s silence in Ren’s mind, though he wishes that was all he could face. He can still feel this other there, breathing down his neck, emotions waves that run off of him and onto Ren. The longing for Martyn, this compassion Ren could never understand. What’s been happening when Ren’s been out? What has he been missing?

For the first time in maybe ever, Ren finds himself longing for Stein to reach towards the front. To take away Ren’s consciousness by force and put himself in place. At least Stein is better at this all. Stein would be able to reason with this new presence. Stein would know how to chase him off.

“I am not new,” the voice responds regardless of Ren’s discouragement at the idea. “I have been around long before you were aware.”

“Sure,” Ren says weakly. His head droops again, finally letting go of his own wrist.

His fingers are stained with blood. He doesn’t mind.

The pain subsides as the fogginess takes over, flooding his mind and body, and Ren can feel this new voice there beside him, two beings shoved inside one hollow body. Ren can feel the newcomer pressing against him, trying to urge him out of front.

Or maybe that’s himself wanting to run and hide?

What a coward he is…

“I have been around for quite some time, Pup, slumbering until thou needeth me to protect your mortal form.”

Ren doesn’t respond. Why should he? He knows this voice can hear him, can feel his every thought and want. He may as well know Ren better than he knows himself.

“I protected you when you were young, Pup. Let me protect thee again.”

Ren twists his eyes shut, an exhausted laugh ripped from his throat. His head is pounding in the way it always does when he fights it.

He’s so tired of fighting it…

“I don’t know you.”

A solemn feeling from inside, and Ren feels small. So small, small enough he might think it was Bobbie barging into the conversation were it not for the lack of the kid’s excitement. 

No, this is himself. And this is the Red King looking down on him.

The Red King…

“You were a story.”

“Legends leave imprints on those who perceive them. Some, deeper than others.”

“I didn’t ask for you.”

“Nor I for you. Yet we are here. Let me protect thee, Pup. Let the spirit of a King protect his ward.” 

A beat. Ren doesn’t respond. How could he? He’s far, so far from who he is, from where he should be. The world is gone from beneath him, gently tugged away while he was at his weakest.

He wills his hands to move. His claws to take his wrist and tear into it again, to keep himself grounded.

But his hands are not his own. They move against his accord, and gentle fingers press a rag to the parts which bleed.

Ren speaks, but it’s hardly his own tongue that moves. It’s thoughts screamed into an open mind as he watches the world from behind a screen, too far removed to have any say as his body stands. Begins to walk inside.

“This is my life,” Ren argues, fury on his tongue as he feels himself lose control. “This is my body. My mind. I don’t need you to protect it.”

And the words he hears aren’t his own, but ones spoken on a scottish tongue. His mouth moves, though Ren says nothing.

“Aye,” the King says aloud. “And yet thee cares for it not. We’re going inside, Pup. Winter is coming. Let’s get out of the cold.”

>>*<<

It’s such a decidedly cruel thing to decide which events are and are not “games”.

“Game,” as it means, tends to refer to how it’s viewed externally, not internally. (Ren.) For instance: a football game is fun to the onlookers, but stress and pain to those on the field. A game of tag amongst children may appear joyous until you’re suddenly in the mind of the six year old whose fight-or-flight reflexes are reacting as if there is real danger.

(Ren.)

Ultimately, what is and isn’t a “game” is decided by the watchers. Not the Players.

They called this a game.

(C’mon, Ren. You can hear me.)

Ren didn’t agree.

“Ren…”

There are tears in Ren’s eyes as he looks suddenly away from the splintered memories and in towards the expansive nothingness of his mind. He’s not alone here–he hardly ever is, as busy as his mind seems to be.

He’s not surprised at all to find Stein there, lab coat a splattered mess, glasses skewed on his face, crown atop his head.

It’s odd how comforting a presence that could be now, even as remorse bubbles up at the idea of Ren not being alone in his mind.

His mind. He turns back towards the screen, brows furrowed as he watches the start of the game play out again.

“Where’d ya go?”

Stein shrugs, appearing, at sudden, beside Ren. He’s silent for a moment, watching the screen with just as much distracted attendance as Ren. “Took front.”

Ren snorts, disbelieving. “You don’t do that.”

“Well if you won’t.”

Ren doesn’t bite back on that response. He just sets his jaw, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his hand twists at his wrist.

The life marks aren’t there anymore, nor are the burns, but it hardly feels right. He keeps thinking back to last night, to when he wandered too close to watching the King and found himself back in his own body. So much has changed… his hand…

“Explained some things to Doc.”

Ren looks to Stein suddenly, teeth bared. “I didn’t ask you to do it.”

Stein doesn’t spare Ren a glance. “Maybe not, but Bobbie and King are playing hot-potato with the body and Doc’s alone on the ship with them. He deserves to know.”

Ren averts his gaze, not bothering a response to that.

Doc knows…

All these years of keeping it from the Hermits, all this work and now Doc knows. It’s only a matter of time until the entire server knows, now. Until they figure out there’s something wrong with Ren and try to shove him away to somewhere that’d fix his brain.

Grimly, Ren thinks he might not hate that…

He doesn’t consider it for long, though. He watches the screen before him, memories played back to him in their broken and tangled pieces.

He watches his body play this stupid game. He watches a kingdom build and fall. He watches Martyn and Scar and Jimmy and Etho.

He watches.

And watches.

And watches.

“Ren,” Stein says gently. Ren’s not sure how long he waited. He doesn’t care.

He watches.

And watches.

And watches.

“The game’s over, Ren. We can move on.”

Ren watches.

“The game’s over.”

Ren’s not sure it is.

Notes:

DID bits:

I consider this to be one of the more accurate representations I've written about living with DID. Took from a lot of my own experiences here, especially with losing time and how it feels for someone else to be poking.
When Ren and King talk, though, it's most definitely dramatized for the narrative. Communication in DID tends to be more akin to feelings and thoughts popping into your head than it is actual verbal exchange, and even then most systems struggle to communicate. I know we (as in, my system) definitely does.
Also, if it needs to be said, please don't use pain as a grounding technique that's a horrible habit to get into. If that shock to your system helps go hold an ice cube or something PLEASE don't take after Ren

Follow me on tumblr! @mar-im-o

Chapter 6: His Hair's a Mess

Notes:

CW: Incorrect labelling of something as "delusional".

Doc doesn't think DID is real at first but he gets better

To meet the relatively stubborn man who is Doctor Minecraft 77 is to meet someone who utterly refuses to challenge his own viewpoints.

There are mantras said about men like him who, despite the regularity of opposing evidence and juxtaposition, refuse to disregard anything that doesn’t fit within their line of thinking. They’re a shallow bunch, fearful of anything which is new and changing and unwilling to accept that such change can, in fact, be beneficial.

So, for that reason it’s perhaps not unreasonable to imagine how long Doc went without accepting that the person before him was, in fact, not Ren.

He spoke on for quite some time, handing Doc a coffee that was made just as he liked it, rambling about all sorts of nonsense before, at last, deciding to introduce himself.

Dr. Stein Blackwood, PhD, licensed mycologist (whatever that might be).

Doc knew the name, of course. He had dabbled in the absurdities of the Turf Wars there amongst the shopping district in season seven, even choosing to help the Mycelium Resistance just a smidge for his own entertainment.

Ren had been there. He had always been there, in the meetings, in the battles.

And, sure, sometimes he’d worn a ruined lab coat and mumbled on about redstone machinery Doc was certain Ren wasn’t aware of, but it was Ren. It had always been Ren.

It was Ren.

Right?

But Stein had insisted Doc was wrong. That, no, he was not Ren, nor was King, nor was the character sporting the guise of Ren there at the beginning.

They were… themselves… different… separate…

Stein hadn’t lasted long. They talked for a while, Doc mostly listening, occasionally chiming in to ask questions which poked holes in the logic of there being multiple people within a singular body (no matter that Stein always had a relatively sound response ready). But, in time, Stein’s speech slowed. He stopped talking, began listening, glazed over eyes and a lack of awareness like there was no one behind the wheel.

Maybe there wasn’t…

Regardless, Doc had let him have his peace. He gave him a moment, stepped away to clean up the coffee pot.

Then the floors.

Then organize the bathroom cabinet.

And when, still, Ren seemed entirely unresponsive to anything other than the bare necessities of breathing and providing short answers to Doc’s questions, Doc sat on the floor alongside the half-finished screen.

The pieces are together for the most part, nothing but the small in-betweens left to fill and, really, they don’t even have enough of those to fill in. Perhaps it’d be fine with holes, but Doc doesn’t think fondly of that idea, so he opens his toolbox and pulls out the few scraps of fabric collected from years of shoving whatever inside that box.

He lays a browning swatch of white carpet against the hole and squints at it a moment, rotating it this way and that as if it would suddenly sink in and match the screen.

(No surprise it continues to stick out like a sore thumb).

Regardless, he wants the project done, so he takes the needle and thread and starts sewing.

He tries his best to emulate what he saw Ren (the King?) doing last night, but the movements are harder than he thought. He knows the motions, mapped them with every movement Ren took, but as he wills his cybernetic fingers to replicate them they’re clunky and uneasy, and the two swatches of fabric don’t come together quite as easily as he’d like. 

He grumbles a bit to himself as he works, pulling the thread back out from around the area for not the first time as he, once more, finds it’s not quite tight enough.

“It’s better to leave it be, man.”

Doc about jumps out of his skin at the sound, turning suddenly to see eyes watching him. He hadn’t heard Ren move, let alone shift to the other side of the dining room table so he can watch Doc work, chin resting on his hands, knees pulled up to his chest.

He freezes suddenly when he realizes Doc’s eyes are on him, averting his gaze with a mumbled: “Sorry.”

Doc frowns, squinting at the man.

He wants to believe it’s Ren, wants to argue that this whole “other people in my body” thing is utterly ridiculous.

But the way the man before him shrinks in… The way he averts his gaze…

That’s not Ren, is it…?

Doc huffs a bit, turning back to his work rather than addressing it. “Don’t be. This is harder than you made it look.”

“You’ve gotta stop tryna make it pretty, my dude. Just focus on tying it together.”

Doc nudges aside some of the discarded thread, looking down at the seams Ren had made the night before. “These look good.”

“Lotta things do when you’re not the one who made it.”

Doc is silent for a moment, sitting with the screen in his lap, needle pinched between his thumb and forefinger. And gods he doesn’t want to admit defeat. How dare Docm77 give up on something as simple and achievable as sewing?

But with every failed stitch Doc makes, he can see Ren twitch out of the corner of his eye. 

That, Doc argues, is the reason he sighs and offers the thread to his peer. Not at all because of his own inability. Definitely not.

Ren is up in an instant, nearly falling from the seat as he collapses cross-legged on the ground and eagerly takes the needle and thread.

“See, you’re tryna do what Ren was, but that totally won’t work. You’re not sewing, you’re patching. Gotta do it more like–”

He models for Doc, looping it up and around rather than trying to stitch two bits together.

Doc watches intently, cybernetic eye focused on the motions and, when Ren hands it over, Doc takes it willingly, eager to try. He does just as Ren showed, up and around, up and around, and it’s not at all fast, but it’s steadier than it was earlier, and Doc considers that a win.

Ren shifts over a bit, a little closer than Doc would like, but a reasonable enough distance away. He starts work on patching another section as he folds over the screen, tongue pressed between the gaps in his teeth.

And his work is… different… It’s slower than last time. Less neat, and he’s sitting like it’s the only thing in the room, hardly even acknowledging Doc as he rambles on about whatever.

It’s a welcomed pace, the two of them falling back into a familiar rhythm, but as much as Doc tries to roll with it, he can feel the reminder in the back of his mind.

This isn’t Ren. Is it?

The not-Ren picks up the scissors and begins cutting excess fabric away, smiling as he chatters on.

This isn’t Ren…

It takes Doc too long to realize he’s finished his section. He sets his needle and thread away, draping the screen over his lap in some effort not to meet Ren’s eyes. He clears his throat, the constant chattering pausing just a moment as it does. “What, uh–” 

Doc winces. This is ridiculous, isn’t it? Why ask? Why play along with what must be a delusion?

It must be a delusion.

Right?

But the doe-eyes looking to him curiously are so far from Ren’s, and Doc’s finding it harder and harder to deny what he knows must be true.

This isn’t Ren.

“Do you have a name?”

The question hangs there in the air for a moment, two sets of eyes staring back and forth across this endless space, letting the question ripen. It’s not-Ren who looks away first, eyes falling back to the screen. He picks at the frayed ends of the screen, pinching a loose string between his finger and thumb. 

“Stein really told you, then?”

Doc snorts, shrugging as he, too, forces his attention back to his work. “He said a few things, yes.”

“About us?”

Us.

Doc’s silent, throat dry. He nods.

And his visitor nods too. He turns to Doc suddenly, hand outstretched, chest puffed, chin up. The sight’s a bit funny, really, Ren trying to act bigger (he’s already a big man, as is), but Doc channels the laughter into a confused smile, taking the hand and shaking it.

“Bobbie. That’s–that’s my name. Bobbie.”

Bobbie.

Doc swallows again, the handshake lasting just a few moments too long until Ren– Bobbie– pulls away. He shrugs, focus moved back onto the screen, and Doc gets the feeling he’s waiting for something.

Speech–that’s it. A two sided conversation. But Doc’s throat is heavy again, filled with lead, and he can’t seem to force any words out as he just… watches the man in front of him.

Eventually, Bobbie sighs, dropping that sturdy exterior for something smaller as he looks over the damaged screen. “We’ve met loads before. I’m around a lot. Fill in when Ren’s not at his greatest. Normally just a few hours or a day or whatever. But–” he winces, chewing on the inside of his mouth as he considers his words. “I dunno, man. Ren’s been outta it. Copped out. And I thought I could handle it, just didn’t expect to be alone with you so long and it’s been a mad bummer. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And, for all his doubts and uncertainties, Doc can’t help but believe that. He looks at the man before him and sees someone who’s just so, so tired, tired like Doc is for having to hold up this mask at all hours of the day.

For having to keep pretending he’s someone he’s not.

Doc makes a strained noise in the back of his throat, prepared to rip words from where they’ve long since vanished but–no…

No. 

He points to Bobbie, then points to the bedroom. 

Bobbie just blinks, brows furrowed. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

Doc rolls his eyes, doing the motions again before detangling himself from the sewing supplies and crossing into the bathroom.

He stares for a moment, considering the mess of things laid out and, well, there’s not much. Doc’s always known how prideful of his hair Ren has been, taking great lengths to ensure it’s care, but it’s become messy. Undone. 

Really, Doc can’t remember the last time he heard Ren shower…

He tries not to think poorly of Bobbie for that and, instead, just grabs a few things from Ren’s bag. Comb. Detangler. Dry shampoo. 

When he steps out, Doc’s relieved enough to see that Bobbie had gotten what Doc meant, the man sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, bouncing a few times with his hands in his lap.

The action’s childish, and though it’s not out of turn for how Doc’s seen Ren these past few weeks, it does pique his interest.

He tucks the hair stuff under his arm, signing what age?

Bobbie just blinks at him, a slight laugh as he shakes his head. “Sorry, dude. That’s Ren’s territory. I dunno the hand stuff.”

It’s fair enough and rather than be frustrated Doc simply tucks it away as proof.

Proof that this is real. Proof that this really isn’t Ren.

He takes a detour to the kitchen and grabs the pink tulips off the counter top. They’ve wilted a bit in the time since Bobbie’s been away, but he figures it’s something to keep the guy busy, so he takes them into his hand and plops them onto Ren’s lap.

Doc winces. Bobbie’s lap. 

He’ll work on it.

He doesn’t say anything as he shifts to sit behind Bobbie, and neither does Bobbie, but he takes up the flowers with a content thumping of his tail, and Doc lets himself smile at that.

He waits until Bobbie’s started braiding the flowers before wetting his hair, focusing detangler on the knots first.

Bobbie’s quiet through it all, seemingly alright with his hair being combed through. Occasionally he whimpers when Doc struggles through a particularly tough knot, but Doc gives him a pat as an apology which seems welcomed enough.

And Doc’s pleased enough with his own mental distraction. He wouldn’t have dared try this on the King, no matter how much he recognized it being needed, but Bobbie is… welcoming…

Arguably, better at sitting through it than Ren would’ve been. Ren would be kicking up a fuss. Ren would be teasing Doc for being too rough.

(Though, to be fair, Doc wouldn’t be nearly as gentle with Ren).

And, in time, they fall into a rhythm that’s comfortably familiar to their start on this ship. Bobbie starts rambling about whatever, and at first Doc’s annoyed by it, having enjoyed the silence, but he can feel Bobbie relax as he chatters on, and, in Doc’s opinion, that’s a fair enough exchange.

He’s talking about his childhood again. His home. About Gox and his mum and dad working late and his hair always having been short because it was easier to take care of.

“Ren started to grow it out and, dude, it was mad groovy. I loved it. He did too. I sucked at taking care of it, though. We all did except Ren. Think that’s why he liked it so much. It was his, you feel? We couldn’t do his whole hair routine. That was for him.”

It’s odd hearing Ren’s voice talk about himself, but as Doc listens on he realizes more and more how many little quirks weren’t the strange mood of Ren’s but Bobbie’s. He doesn’t bother hiding the higher pitch of his voice anymore, let’s himself talk about his childhood openly.

Doc works through the hair relatively quickly for the mess that it is, occasionally chiming in a “mhm” or “oh” as he listens to Bobbie talk about the time Gox got into their dad’s clippers and shaved Ren’s head in their sleep.

Doc doesn’t realize his words are back to him until they’re coming naturally. “I’m going to braid it. It will be easier for you and King.”

Bobbie’s tail thumps on the bed a few times, smiling as he gives a “right on!”

They fall back into a comfortable silence again, Doc having to take a few tries on braiding before remembering how to do it neatly. Finally, Bobbie breaks it.

“Do you go silent like that all the time?”

Doc shrugs, even if Bobbie can’t see it. “Yes. When I’m stressed.”

“Do I stress you out?”

A beat. Doc tosses up his options before–no, why lie? What do either of them gain from that? “Yes.”

“Fair,” Bobbie snorts, a bit to Doc’s surprise. “You bug me a bit too.”

“Oh do I?” Doc can’t help but laugh a bit at that one, not in the slightest hurt. He’s been mostly silent the entire trip. Odd to think he could stress anyone out with his silent brooding.”

“Yeah. You remind me of dad.”

The laugh falls, as does Doc’s smile. His fingers pause in Bobbie’s hair, inches from securing a hair tie.

He doesn’t need clarification to know how bad that is. For all of these recounts Bobbie’s told, his parents aren’t often around, and when they are…

Doc grits his teeth, securing the braid with a tie.

To his surprise, Bobbie goes on.

“Or, well, you did. Thought you were like him. But never woulda made me breakfast. Wouldn’t do my hair. Wouldn’t–” Bobbie’s voice breaks a bit, head tilted downwards– “Wouldn’t hug me while I was crying.”

And, there again, Doc finds himself in this horribly awkward space of uncertainty. He doesn't know what to say, what to do, how to comfort someone he hardly even knows. 

But there’s a relief in his chest, all the same. A relief that he’s done something right. That this entire trip hasn’t been unbearable for Bobbie.

Doc twists around, facing Bobbie now. There’s a shadow over his face as he stares downwards, eyes glazed in that familiar way, and Doc frowns at the idea of him switching again. Of Doc having to transition to making amends with someone new.

But then he blinks and looks up to Doc with eyes that are clearly Bobbie’s.

And Bobbie smiles. “All good?”

“Not quite.”

Doc takes the tulips from Bobbie’s lap with careful hands, though, really, they aren’t needed. It’s a secure chain, woven together by fingers that have done this many times before. Doc sits the crown atop Bobbie’s head with the delicacy he might apply to redstone, careful not to pin back his ears.

And when he sits back and looks at the man before him, he doesn’t see Ren at all.

He sees Bobbie.

Bobbie is beaming, bouncing in his excitement with a rapidly thumping tail as he turns to catch himself in the mirror. The look on his face is unmatchable, bright and bubbly and comfortable.

It’s comfortable here, accepting it. Working with it.

And for the first time since this trip’s begun, Doc feels confident he can survive this.

“Far out…” Bobbie says breathlessly, tongue pressed through his teeth in his smile. “Thanks, dude!”

Doc smiles himself, head tilted before–

His comms buzz.

Doc’s stomach drops and Bobbie freezes, both of them looking to Doc’s hip where it’s attached.

Doc doesn’t want to open it. Why should he? It’s certain to be nothing but bad news and Doc’s not sure he can handle any more of that. But Bobbie’s looking at him expectantly, eyes tilted forward in his curiosity, so Doc relents and flips it open.

<XisumaVoid> need more time. 2 more weeks. im sorry gang. ill be making a supply run for u all

 

Doc’s heart drops, and again his throat feels heavy. He turns the comms towards Bobbie. Lets him read it himself.

Doc watches his face intently, checking for any signs of distress, of forming tears.

Yet, Bobbie only sighs and shrugs. “Guess you’ve gotta deal with me a bit longer, my dude.”

And maybe it’s relief, maybe it’s genuine amusement, but Doc smiles at that, a chuckle forming low in his throat.

And, suddenly two more weeks doesn’t seem unmanageable.

Notes:

I like the "behind the wheel" analogy for DID a lot. The idea is that the body is a vehicle and the alter who fronts is driving.

Also GLAD to finally drop Bobbie's name. Every scene with "Ren" outside of the last chapter has really been Bobbie. He's my boy and I'm glad Doc and yall finally get to recognize him

Questions about the work? Ask me on tumblr! @mar-im-o

Chapter 7: And He Doesn't Know Who He Is Yet

Notes:

CWs for childhood abuse talk

There’s guilt blooming in the pit of Doc’s stomach over the next few days.

Guilt, because he’s beginning to enjoy his time spent with Bobbie. It became increasingly clear as the two spent time together that it was him who Doc had originally pulled from the lava and that, for as much as Doc had assumed Ren was just having some off days, it had always been Bobbie.

Guilt, because Doc’s beginning to realize he didn’t even notice. It’s been a month now, past it, maybe (time can be hard to track in a sunless void), and Doc’s beginning to realize he hasn’t really seen Ren at all. All this time Ren’s been gone, a stranger in his place, and Doc didn’t notice.

He tries not to dwell on it. Afterall, multiplicity of the self isn’t exactly something the average person would assume, so why should Doc have noticed Ren was gone?

He tries not to think how horrible of a friend that makes him.

Instead, he focuses on Bobbie.

Doc’s a stubborn man, hard-set in his beliefs without much of a will to change them, but he forces himself to. He forces himself to listen to Bobbie, to shrug away the notion that Bobbie’s constant rambling is an annoyance.

In time, Doc finds the chatter endearing.

It’s a lot, sure, and Doc misses the silence at times, but it’s a comfort to hear the guy talk on and on. There’s a bit of pride in Doc’s chest at the realization that it means Bobbie’s happy. That he’s content here on this ship with Doc.

And maybe that’s worth some unending chatter.

Truthfully, there’s a fair deal of information to be gained from it as well. Bobbie talks a lot about memories, what he remembers, what Ren did as a child, and Doc takes note of these little pieces. It seems like such a significant part of who Bobbie is, and Doc begins to wonder if Ren himself remembers half of these. Maybe, he realizes, there’s a reason the King didn’t know who Doc was. Maybe there’s a reason Bobbie didn’t know about Doc’s aversion to touch. 

He imagines walls within that mind of Ren’s, each person within their own separate chamber with their own separate ideas and their own separate memories.

It makes sense, Doc supposes one morning as he makes breakfast for Bobbie (something he’s found himself doing quite often at the realization that Bobbie doesn’t often eat if he’s expected to make it on his own). Doc even makes himself a serving, something small, but still food to have alongside his coffee.

It makes sense, because maybe people are their memories. Of course Bobbie is someone different from Ren and Stein and the King. He has his own memories. His own beliefs.

He’s another person…

It’s that realization that makes Doc look at Ren’s body with a new light, watching as Bobbie folds his napkin into a hat. He’s not Ren with different memories, or Ren with a different voice. Bobbie’s someone entirely different.

Maybe they all are…

Doc slides a plate across the table towards Bobbie, and he can see his nose scrunch a bit at the plate of french toast.

“Do not give me such a glum look,” Doc scolds, arms crossed.

“Not a single egg?”

“Rations are low,” Doc says, turning back to prepare two mugs of coffee. “We’re cutting back until X can swing by.”

“When’s that?”

Doc shrugs, pausing from his pouring to check his comms. There’s been no word from their admin, and Doc chooses to believe that’s because he’s busy and not because something’s wrong. Afterall, X is coming. He has to be.

The idea excites Doc more than he’d care to admit, and not just because Doc’s been forced down to a single cup of coffee a day and it’s resulted in a wicked migraine. 

He’s excited for company. To talk to someone other than Bobbie.

He’s excited to see his friends.

Gods he didn’t think he’d miss Hermitcraft quite so much. The end of season seven was slow and lonesome, many Hermits moving away into other projects rather than sticking around a well-developed server. Etho, BDubs, Cleo–there’s so many people he hasn’t seen in quite some time, and gods he misses them.

Another week, Doc tells himself (even if he knows better than to get his hopes up). Another week, then back on solid ground with his family.

“Soon,” Doc reassures Bobbie pointlessly. “How much sugar?”

Bobbie’s nose wrinkles in that odd way again, disgust as he visibly sticks his tongue out. “Nah, no bean-juice for me. Feelin’ kinda young today.”

Doc frowns, but he leaves the extra mug there, pouring just one for himself before sliding into the booth with Bobbie.

As always, Bobbie refuses to touch his food until Doc’s sitting with his own, but once Doc dips his spoon into his cereal Bobbie eagerly grabs for the french toast.

With his hands…

Doc nudges the fork and knife towards him, but Bobbie pays them no mind.

Odd…

“‘Feelin young’,” Doc echoes. “What does that mean?”

Bobbie shrugs, talking around a bite rather than finishing swallowing. “Yunno! Young. Sometimes it goes down.”

“It?”

“My age. Depends on my mood, Ren’s mood, what the body needs. You dig it?”

No, frankly, Doc does not dig it. He stares at Bobbie incredulously, squinting as he brings a spoonful of Scar-Os™ to his mouth for a bite. He does seem… childish… But it’s nothing out of the ordinary for the guy. Doc’s gotten used to the behavior he’d call “puppy-like” as the man gets more and more comfortable, and some days Bobbie’s just got a bit more energy than others.

Doc’s assumed it was something instinctive or, even, just Bobbie being locked up in a small space.

But age?

Doc puts his spoon down, cybernetic eye enhancing to look Bobbie over entirely. “Explain it to me like I am dumb.”

Bobbie snorts, licking syrup from his fingers before turning to attend to Doc. “Okay, my dude, how old do you think I am? Like, normally?”

Doc’s brows furrow, unsure. “This is a trap. I know this trap. I've used it on Grian.”

“Just guess, dog!”

“Fine,” Doc sighs, leaning forward on his elbows. “Thirties?”

Bobbie barks a laugh, nearly doubling over in his laughter. “You think I’m old?”

Doc considers biting back at that because thirties is not old, but he’s too focused on trying to follow along with whatever game Bobbie’s playing. “Ren’s in his thirties.”

“And the Diggity Dog is old. That’d blow.” He shoves another bite in his mouth, not caring at all for the way crumbs fall into his lap. “I’m, like, fourteen most days. Can get younger though.”

Fourteen...?

It’s Doc’s turn to laugh in his incredulity, slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the chuckles because there is absolutely no way that’s true. “You are joking.”

“Totally not, dog! You didn’t realize?”

“In what world would I have assumed you were a child?”

Bobbie puffs his cheeks out and pouts at that. “Am not a child! Fourteen’s a pretty big age, yunno.”

This has to be a joke.

Doc actually stands up, the energy of that twist vibrating from his bones. He paces the kitchen as Bobbie finishes his meal, hands on his head, cybernetic fingers rubbing against his horns. Fourteen….

Bobbie swallows, looking up hesitantly. “You mad?”

And that, alone, stops Doc in his tracks. He recognizes that waver in voice enough to know it means tears, and sure enough Bobbie’s eyes are a bit red.

He’s not sure why, but at that moment Bobbie looks so small.

Like a child.

And, suddenly, Doc’s crouched down in front of him, all the gentleness he’d give to any kid he met.

“No! Absolutely not. Just a bit surprised, is all. Wish you had told me sooner.”

Bobbie shrugs, but the red in his eyes does recede a bit. He brushes crumbs off his lap and onto the floor (Doc tries not to wince). “Didn’t seem important. I do adult stuff all the time. Always have.”

“Always?”

Bobbie taps his claws on his knees a bit, leg bouncing with some eager energy to move. Doc’s familiar enough with it, but he knows movement will cause the conversation to end and Doc’s not sure he’s ready for that…

“Always,” he repeats. “Mum and dad weren’t around a lot. Someone had to take care of Goxxy.”

Gox again… “He’s Ren’s little brother?”

“All of ours,” Bobbie clarifies. “We all sorta started as one big blob before we became Ren and me and Stein. I started watchin’ him when mum had to start workin’ too. Couldn’t get a babysitter.”

Doc frowns, head tilted. “How old were you?”

“Seven.”

Seven.

Doc leans back, mostly in surprise, but Bobbie willingly takes the exit, bouncing up from the table to stand in the middle of the room. Doc expects him to move, to rummage through the fridge or head to the bedroom, but he just sort of hovers there, bouncing on his toes as he shakes his hands out.

“Mum and dad didn’t like me,” he says, and the lightness, the tone of it all…

Bobbie says it with his eyes tracing the tiles of the ceiling, all the airiness a child may give to heavy statements.

And Doc wants to ignore it. It feels wrong, as it usually does, to hear about something from Ren’s past that Ren himself may not even know.

But this is Bobbie’s past too. And Bobbie wants to talk about it…

So Doc lets him, pulling himself into the seat as he listens.

“They liked Goxxy though. Said I had to keep him safe. So I did! Or I tried. I was bad at first. They yelled at me a lot. Then if I cried they’d yell for crying! And I cried some more! And then I had to sit in my room.”

Bobbie’s still looking up, eyes on the ceiling. But they’re red again. Puffy.

More tears…

But Doc knows well enough how to deal with them at this point. He opens his arms, and the movement gets Bobbie’s attention. He sniffs, scrubbing his eye with his sleeve. He smiles despite the tears (forces a smile, Doc can tell).

“No! I’m all good, man! No tears or anything.”

“Bobbie…”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Got carried away.”

“ Bobbie…”

And Bobbie’s smile drops. He stares awkwardly at Doc’s open arms before sniffling and falling in for a hug.

The touch isn’t electrifying anymore. It’s familiar. Doc doesn’t hesitate to pull Bobbie inwards and onto his lap. Bobbie gasps a bit, immediately moving to push away, but Doc’s got a cybernetic arm that’s not at all willing to cut the hug short.

Eventually, Bobbie stops fighting. He slumps against Doc, eyes looking downwards. “I can do adult stuff,” he mumbles. “Fourteen is big. I’m not a kid.”

Doc hesitates on his words, some rational part of his brain trying to recognize that this is Ren, and Ren’s an adult and should be treated as such.

But Doc knows this isn’t Ren.

“But are you fourteen right now?”

And Bobbie’s silent. He whines a bit, fingers pinching and twisting at the buttons on Doc’s lab coat. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Bobbie.”

“I’ve always done adult things. I can be big.”

“But you do not have to,” Doc says softly, holding Bobbie tighter. He rocks back and forth as he speaks, careful, steady. “I can do the big stuff. You can relax. Is that okay?”

Bobbie is silent for a long, long moment. If it weren’t for the feeling of claws toying with his coat he might have thought the boy had fallen asleep. But eventually Bobbie shifts, squirming as he sits up, looking at Doc.

And gods he looks like a child. That guilt is back again, Doc kicking himself for not noticing. Here he’s been treating a fourteen-year-old like an adult, judging him like an adult, reacting to him like an adult.

But he’s just a kid, isn’t he? A kid who’s been doing so, so much.

Bobbie’s mouth opens and closes awkwardly, like he’s struggling to find his words. Finally, he huffs, forcing them out slowly, like they hurt. “Are… you sure…?”

Doc nearly laughs at the sentiment. Bobbie’s worried about him ? Doc smiles, genuine, and gives Bobbie a firm nod. “Of course! I like kids. Smart little devils.”

“Not…a kid…”

“Sure,” Doc teases, tucking a strand of hair back into Bobbie’s flower crown. “But you can be, right? Are you not always supposed to be fourteen?”

“I try,” Bobbie mumbles, tracing circles in his jeans with his fingertips. “For Ren. Makes it eas’er.”

Right. Bobbie’s mentioned before that he tends to be the one who shows up when Ren’s not around. Of course being older would be easier…

But usually Bobbie’s alone, or at least playing the role of Ren.

Now…

“How old should you be now?”

Again, silence for a moment, Bobbie feeling around for words before giving up and just raising his hand. Doc almost assumes it’s a high-five before realizing, no, it’s an age. Five.

Five…

Doc smiles again, giving Bobbie a gentle high five. “Then let’s do it, okay? Just for today! I can be the adult, and you can be a kid. How about that?”

Doc can see the conflict in Bobbie’s eyes, some hesitancy to accept those terms. But he swallows. And he nods.

When he collapses back into Doc’s arms, cheek pressed against Doc’s shirt, Doc holds him tightly again. 

They sit like that for a long   time, reminiscent of when Ren had fallen into Doc’s arms on the floor just a week before. Eventually Bobbie goes silent, a rhythmic rising and falling of his chest that Doc knows means sleep, and Doc can feel it pulling at his own eyes as well, warmth and pressure a welcomed comfort.

Before his poor joints can complain he leans back into the booth, laying his head down against the wall.

Bobbie squirms a bit and Doc holds his breath, not at all eager to wake the poor kid. But he settles, twisting so he’s laying on Doc’s chest. Doc smiles, moving to rub circles on the small of Bobbie’s back.

And this is okay, Doc thinks.

For all the fear of what oddness Ren’s mixed mind would bring, this is nice.

He’s okay with this.

And, in time, he lets his own eyes flutter shut, sleep welcoming him just as it had Bobbie.

~~*~~

(Doc isn’t awake when Bobbie slips out of front and someone else takes his place. And maybe Ren should feel guilty for this, for slipping in for this comfort that wasn’t meant for him, but Bobbie offered and, well…

He misses Doc…

He twists to wrap his arms around Doc tighter, head pressed against his chest so he can hear the steady thumping of his heart. 

Ren imagines, for a moment, there, back in his own body, that this was normal. That this could stay. That Doc could take care of him and Bobbie and them all. That, for the first time in his life, Ren didn’t have to hide the oddities of his own mind.

But he knows better than to fall prey to hopeless dreams, so for now Ren rests on Doc’s chest.

And when Doc wakes, Ren will be gone again, hiding from the life the world has given him.)

Notes:

Oftentimes in systems, there are alters which hold onto the mindsets of a younger self. We call those littles or middles. And agesliders are those who may jump between ages.

"Juno where have you been" drowning in school work THAT'S where. Hopefully I can wrap this story up for you guys. Thank you so much for the support, even while I've been gone <3

Chapter 8: Little Do We Know the Stars

Notes:

Mild CW for talk of grief and mourning

There’s another life Doc never got to live.

He thinks distantly of his life on his home server, the very world he swore to spend an eternity in. He thinks of farming, of tomatoes, of a wife and child and a life full of the mundane and phenomenal.

And it’s not often that he lets himself think back to those things. Truly, that world is gone, as is everything tied with it, and he’s not alone. The Hermits are Hermits for a reason: each one of them without a home for some tragedy.

But Doc, on occasion, lets his mind wander to what could have been, and more than anything he longs for a family he’s been too scared to search for.

So, yes. He quite likes Bobbie.

He likes when Bobbie lets the act drop, letting Doc take care of him like the kid he is. Sure, fourteen isn’t particularly young, but after years of being an adult for the sake of upholding normalcy, Doc’s eager to give Bobbie a rest.

After all, he knows how it feels to grow up fast.

It gives him a new means of distracting himself, too. He spends some time working on Bobbie’s cybernetics when he’s old enough to stand it, works out other stuff for him to do when he’s not. 

Particularly, he’s become quite fond of Doc tearing pages from his sketchbook for Bobbie’s sake, taking to them with Doc’s pens and drawing.

Quickly, the ship’s insides become lively.

Bobbie’s an artist, Doc realizes rather quickly, no matter the age. At first, the drawings hung up are done by a smaller hand, messy scribbles posted on the fridge and, when they’ve run out of room there, the walls. They’re trees and sunflowers and bases and mushrooms and mobs and monsters of all sorts.

Then they change. Improve.

Doc looks among the pages left behind and sees sketches of faces, people, places that are so far from familiar.

Bobbie sees Doc looking one day and nods to a picture of a smaller houndlin, bright eyes and a messy head of hair, ears perked forward eagerly, near photographic in its realism. Doc would have assumed it were a younger Ren had Bobbie not nodded towards it and said, simply, “Gox.”

Doc lifts up the sketch, staring at it with a furrowed brow. The kid looks happy, crinkled eyes and a full set of fanged teeth as he beams. “Looks like you.”

“Yeah,” Bobbie says fondly, not looking up from his current piece. Scar can tell Bobbie’s at his full age by the way he holds his pen, each stroke focused, careful. Still, his eyes look sad, and Doc knows how sensitive a topic this must be.

Doc wouldn’t have pressed, but Bobbie, as always, offers answers to unspoken questions. 

“He’s dead.” The words hang coldly between them both, frozen in the air, and Doc wants to leave them there. What else could he possibly say? “Was about 10 when it happened. Fire in the house. Smoke got to him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bobbie says. He traces the bark on a tree up and down, up and down. “Gotta think about him. Talk about him. Then he’s not really gone.”

Doc’s eyes drop down to the table, focused on his own cybernetics.

“Good sentiment.”

“Ren hates it,” Bobbie says, a tired chuckle to his voice. “Says we should move on.”

Doc considers it grimly, thinking to Ren’s silence, his refusal to acknowledge any of this. And for all Doc had assumed Ren just didn’t remember, it seems more and more like he was trying to forget.

But Ren’s not here. He hasn’t been, and as the days turn to weeks, Doc wonders if he’ll ever be again. So he takes the sketch of Gox and pins it to the wall above their table, left in the perfect place to be.

Bobbie considers it for a long moment before nodding, a sad smile on his face. 

And Doc mirrors it back. “To not moving on.”

“To not moving on.”

>>*<<

Things get odd after that.

Doc tries to convince himself it’s just Bobbie’s age slipping, or him being a bit more distracted, but, no, he knows it isn’t. He thinks back to his talk with Stein, the man patiently explaining dissociation and the fact that Bobbie’s never stuck around for more than a day or two.

Doc can tell. The kid looks tired, miserable, each day he wakes up spent ambling around and distracting himself. He gets quieter. Antsier.

And offered comforts can only go so far.

Doc speaks to him the best he can, offers comforts or questions the motives behind this sudden drop in mood, but no answers return. He gets shrugs, excuses that he’s tired, bored, any of the sorts.

So Doc leaves it. He lets it be, trusting, hoping, that Bobbie will come to him when he’s ready.

He doesn’t.

Someone else does.

There’s a knock on the door one morning when Doc’s making breakfast. Bobbie’s asleep still, not an uncommon occurrence with this shift in mood, but it’s a fair bit later than Doc had seen as of late and, perhaps in the hopes of waking him, Doc's started on his own day. There’s eggs frying in the pan, the last of their supply, when there’s a rapping against the outside of the ship.

And for a long moment Doc sees nothing wrong with that. He dries his hands and moves towards the door like he might were he in his base. But only once he’s there does he freeze, rigid, realizing the oddity of that.

They’re in the void. Deepspace. The infinite nothingness between servers.

And there’s a knock at his door.

Despite himself, Doc flips the lever to open it, a vacuum enchantment sparkling to life as the door cracks open to reveal the everything and nothing outside the walls of their ship.

And there, in his doorway, is Xisuma.

The sound that Doc makes is beside himself, so far outside the stoic and charming image of a doctor he tries to maintain. Still, his hand is over his mouth as he backs up and gives Xisuma room to land and step inside the ship, the door shutting behind him with a hiss.

He pulls his helmet off at once, shaking out his hair with a bit of a grin. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore-eyes?”

Despite himself, Doc is lunging forward, pulling Xisuma into a hug out of relief and excitement. Xisuma. He’s here.

He only realizes how odd that was of him when Xisuma laughs awkwardly, a gentle hand clapping Doc’s back. “I, uh, I missed you too, buddy.”

Doc pulls away, righting himself with a cleared throat. Too much time spent around Bobbie. It’s made him… well, it’s made him a bit more eager for physical connection than he’d usually offer.

He attempts to save face with a raised chin, gathering himself. “It is good to see you, X.”

Kind as he is, Xisuma spends no time lingering on the hug. “It’s good to see you, Doc.”

>>*<<

“Right, the problem is…?”

“Mycelium,” Xisuma says with a sigh. He’s sitting across from Doc at the booth, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee a bit fuller than Doc’s.

It’s fresh coffee, not the stale stuff Doc has been drinking for the last week, and Doc can’t keep from sipping it every few seconds.

Frankly, the cabin has quickly become a mess with various supplies and rations scattered along the counters, not yet tucked away into their proper places. It’s food, good food, and Doc can’t help but consider all that he could make for Bobbie using it all. He might even be able to try pancakes, maybe as something they could both do together…

He shakes the thoughts away with another sip of coffee, focusing on his friend at the table.

“Mycelium?”

Xisuma chuckles a bit, though it’s humorless. “I don’t want a repeat of last season. I was trying to code out the mind-altering parts of it, but ran into so many other problems. The world’s small, hardly any chunks, mostly one big continent, and the void is active there it’s–it’s a lot.”

“There’s no other servers?”

“Not really,” Xisuma says. “Not without applying for one with Mojang which would take another month at least, and season seven is already off-line…”

Doc looks at Xisuma for a long moment, considering the man. The weariness in his eyes, the sunkenness of his cheeks, the way he’s slumped over a mug he’s hardly touched, clearly exhausted.

“Another week at most. I promise.”

“Sure,” Doc says, though he hardly believes it.

Xisuma nods towards the back of the ship as he finally takes a sip of his coffee, looking over Doc’s shoulder to where Bobbie’s sleeping.

“How’s Ren been?”

It’s almost strange the way it takes his brain a moment to catch up and realize that, to Xisuma, that body is Ren’s. Not Bobbie, a child, sleeping his day away.

It only then does it really occur to Doc that Xisuma probably doesn’t know.

Xisuma, their admin, probably has no clue about all these other people inside Ren’s mind. And if Xisuma doesn’t know…

Is he alone? Has he spent this much time hiding it, asking the others to wear his name? Has he forced Bobbie not to take control simply to save face?

How long has this been a secret? How long has Bobbie been without comfort? How long has Ren spent hiding all of this…

Not for the first time, Doc misses Ren. Desperately, Doc misses Ren.

“He’s okay.”

Xisuma snorts. “Sounds like something you say when someone’s not okay.”

“Well–”

Xisuma sobers quickly, frowning as his eyes land back onto Doc. He sits up a bit more. “Is something wrong?”

And in that moment Doc considers spilling it. He wants to tell Xisuma, to let him know what’s been going on, what Ren’s been hiding. Maybe he could look at his code, figure out if there’s an error there, see why this is happening.

Error. The word doesn’t quite sit right with Doc anymore. For all that time spent considering that there was something wrong with Ren, now he feels almost guilty to have used the word. Is this an error? Is this an error if Bobbie is happy drawing? If Stein is able to manage things? 

Still, it feels wrong. Ren is gone, has been for almost two months at this point, and Doc wishes he could beg Xisuma to look through his code and pluck Ren back out and into his body.

He wants Ren fixed.

(But isn’t he already?)

“Doc?”

Doc swallows, shrugging as he hides behind a sip of his coffee. “Oh, you know him. He’s an antsy fellow. Has not enjoyed being locked up.”

To his relief, Xisuma seems to buy it, sitting back in the chair with another sad chuckle. “I’m sorry. I really am trying my best. It’s just–it’s complicated.”

“Take your time,” Doc says. And he smiles, reassuring, protective, as he sits his mug down. “You find us a home. I’ll take care of Ren.”

>>*<<

Xisuma leaves and the ship is quiet.

Quiet in the way of a ship creaking back through the void.

Quiet in the way of rustling papers and a humming fridge, once more filled.

Quiet in the way of snores long-since gone from the backroom.

Doc knows he’s awake, assumes he may have been since Xisuma first entered, but he says nothing. He simply leaves a plate of eggs---cold, unfortunately–and a glass of water sitting on the counter as he turns back to his work.

He kneels on the ground alongside the screen, humming softly to himself as he fills in the remaining holes.

And it’s odd to find himself in this place, doing a horrible job at sewing without much of a care for the outcome. It’s functional. It’s saved. It’s restored.

Even if it doesn’t quite look the way it did before.

The last of the holes are filled in as heavy footsteps make their way into the kitchen.

Neither say a word as he walks in, silent, pausing only to take up the plate and glass and bring it to the table.

Doc finally looks up when he hears the clink of a fork against the plate. “Morning.”

But the person who looks back at him isn’t Bobbie.

There’s no flower crown on his head, no bright, childishness in his eyes. 

The gaze he receives is stern. Calculating.

And the poor mimicry of a Scottish voice says back “Doctor…”

Notes:

This chapter includes talk of fronting burn-out which, while not documented as a direct symptom of DID, is something many communities can agree is experienced. When too long is spent fronting without a switch, it can be taxing on the system as a whole.

-

ALRIGHT thank you for your patience gang. I have so so many mental disorders and it can make a regular schedule difficult to follow. But this work is officially finished on my end!! All that's left to do is revise and upload. Expect an update every day this week until the fic is finished :)

Chapter 9: Welcome him with Open Arms

Notes:

CW depersonalization, memory repression, child abuse/neglect, death, assisted suicide (in terms of the events of Third Life)

The King is summoned.

To awaken after so long, he finds dreariness clouding his vision, sensations of the more normal caliber strange enough to be disorienting. He struggles with things he thinks a King should never been seen to struggle with. He struggles to stand, to hold an axe, to coordinate arms and legs in some elegant motion.

And his mind is… odd… He grasps for straws he can’t quite find, strands fading through his fingers whenever he tries to grab at them.

He is lost. Unsure.

But he is not alone.

There is a man alongside him at every moment as he watches this world he’s been welcomed into, his motions and words none of his own. He has no wills but that his body decides for him, speaking and acting in ways he would not of his own volition.

And yet, at all times, there stands a man beside him. 

A man called Martyn.

This Martyn calls him king, and he feels pride.

This Martyn kneels before him, and he feels respect.

This Martyn serves with him, loyal and strong, and the King cannot deny the swelling admiration he feels at sight of the man.

He tries to remember more. There are histories lost to him, stories he should know but doesn’t quite.

So he makes his own decisions.

There’s another man here with him. “Here”, as if consciousness could be a place. As if a mind or a soul could be a location. It’s someone who he knows, who he loves, who he wants to take care of and protect.

The pup. Ren. 

He can hear him when he thinks aloud, but the rest of it is but a feeling.

Feelings, as they are, don’t tell much. He feels Ren’s fear, he feels his anxiety, he feels his desires to run and hide and leave this… this…

This game.

It is a game. They call it a game. They play it as if it were a game.

But there is blood and death on the ground, and the King quite thinks it is not.

For every wave of fear Ren feels, things feel clearer for the King. His hands look a bit more familiar, his grip on these threads a bit tighter, and he does not fight it as the current of something tugs him closer to the surface.

He does not fight it when Ren’s feelings become his own. When his motions become something of a shared decision between the two of them.

It is not Ren and the King, but the two of them together. One being. One thing.

He hardly notices the first time Ren leaves.

His emotions are strong, and the King finds himself bleeding through in his usual ways. The body’s words become warped with his accent, his smiles and mannerisms bolder, more commanding.

But then the fear eases. It moves to the background, peripherally, and as the King builds a wall around him and his Hand’s base, he pauses only at the recognition that he’s in control of the motions on his own. That every thought and feeling is his own.

So long spent trudging through the muddy waters with nothing but splashes to reveal himself, and yet now he has suddenly breached the surface. And the river is nowhere to be seen.

His fingers curl into a fist, then out. He summons a pickaxe, then disposes of it.

He is… here. And Ren is but a distant echo in the back of his mind.

“Tired?”

It takes the King a long moment to realize he’s being spoken to. Sure enough, Martyn is beside him, smiling as he leans against their wall.

“Nay,” the King says before he has a moment to realize the mouth is his own to speak through. He’s defensive in his words, immediately pressing another piece of cobblestone into the structure. “We shall continue.”

“We shall not,” Martyn says with a snort, and the defiance makes the King pause again. “I’m tired. We should rest for the rest of the night.”

“Our defenses–”

“Our defenses aren’t much if we’re tired,” Martyn points out.

And the King considers that. This body feels… weak… and unsteady... arms shaking as he lifts another stone. Perhaps this form needs the rest his Hand speaks of…

“C’mon,” Martyn says, almost whining a bit as he offers his hand out to the King. 

The King stares at it, then looks up at Martyn. 

He takes the hand.

>>*<<

The pup comes and goes, but so too does the King.

He begins to learn Ren’s mannerisms, realizes when he’s the most susceptible to losing his place, and no longer does the King simply wait to accidentally take the forefront of their shared body. He presses closer when he feels that fear bubbling, urging the pup to rest as he takes his place.

Sometimes Ren fights him. Other times he’s gone without a word, and the King spends his time in the body.

It’s one particularly quiet evening like this where the King finds himself back in a body purely by chance of his counterpart’s anxiety. The sun has long since set, nothing but thin cobblestone walls separating their kingdom from the mobs spawning outside.

And Scar is red.

Perhaps that is why the pup cowers, willing to hide the moment the King pushes. He slips away, away from consciousness and memory, away from the looming reminders of the day’s events.

Away from Scar.

The King growls at thought of that fiend, recalling that he watched, backseat, as the man rolled into their kingdom and demanded the enchanter. The enchanter for a life.

And not just any life.

Scar had sworn death to both the pup and Martyn, and while at the time the King could do nothing but watch the events unfold, now a protective anger flares in his chest, burning fury that curls his hands into fists and makes his teeth bare.

The next time he sees that Scar…

“You alright?”

The King nearly misses the words, but his eyes catch on who speaks them, and that anger subsides just a bit.

He’s outside, he quickly realizes, sitting on a felled log overturned beside a fire. It crackles, embers dancing amongst smoke like their own subset of the night sky.

And Martyn sits across from him.

There’s a plate balanced on his lap, a sorry meal of steak partially eaten before him and the King realizes at once that there’s one on his own as well. He unfolds his hands, steadying the plate as he clears his throat.

“Sorry, my hand. Just… recounting today’s events.”

Martyn gives a sorry sigh, almost a chuckle were it not for the circles below his eyes. “Long day.”

“Aye.”

“You’re doing that again.”

The King frowns, stabbing the meat with his claw experimentally. “Doing what?”

“The voice.”

And the King hums softly as he realizes it. It’s true that there’s no cadence to the pup’s voice quite like the King’s, and perhaps he should have known sooner that Martyn, of all players on this server, would recognize such a change.

The King considers his words carefully, trying to grasp how best to explain a circumstance he, himself, hardly understands. There, again, are the wisps of understanding fluttering in and out of his fingertips, each time tugged away like the King isn’t meant at all to grab them. How frustrating is this fog over his mind, this barrier that keeps him from remembering who he is, how he’s gotten here, why he’s playing this game at all.

Lost without an explanation, the King says nothing.

And neither does Martyn. At first, at least. Then he’s cutting a piece of steak and shoving it in his mouth with a keen look at the King.

Martyn quirks a brow. “Does it help?”

The King, again, says nothing, frowning in an attempt to parse the question.

Martyn swallows, chuckling a bit as he leans forward. “The voice, calling this your kingdom, being king. Does it help?”

The question is so simple, and yet in the back of his mind he can feel Ren poking, the pup intrigued by it.

So the King answers honestly. “Yes. I feel at work here. I feel at home.”

“That’s good,” Martyn says with a smile. “That’s, like, all that really matters then. If it’s helping, not hurting, I don’t really care.”

“Art thou meant to?”

“Maybe,” Martyn shrugs. “I’m sure some people would find it, I dunno, silly? Weird? But that doesn’t make sense to me. If it’s helping you cope with all this then, by all means, lead the way.”

The King is unmoving, claw stuck in his steak still. He feels Ren fade at those words, avoiding the conversation at talk of what may be strange, but the King listens.

He swallows the nothing in his throat. “You are a worthy ally.”

Martyn snorts, every bit of the reaction the King doesn’t expect. He sits his steak aside with an amused grin. “Is that so? Thought I was just your employee?”

“Maybe before.” Maybe for Ren. “But thou art much more.”

Martyn smiles, all the gentleness and compassion which is so unbelievably unfamiliar to the King.

He remembers what he can about wars and fighting. About facing down conflict and hatred and despair so that his pup need not see it at all. His life, what he can remember, is one where he’s been nothing but hated and unwanted and unloved.

Unloved.

“More?” Martyn says, a quirk to his eyebrows.

And the King, despite himself, smiles. “Much more. My hand.”

“My King.”

Their kingdom…

>>*<<

Their game is changing.

And the King curses it through parsed lips and exchanges on the battlefield. Traps and deceit and death death death.

The King hardly minds it. He’s no stranger to death, no stranger to blood, to pain. He takes it all in stride, chin raised as their enemies strike them down.

And that plan works. He protects the pup, siezing front whenever he waivers and standing in his place against those who seek to harm them.

Until Ren fights him.

He can feel the pup grow agitated as the King steals away more and more time. Some part of him feels sorry for the lad who knows not that the King means well, but more of him knows the pup would never give in if he knew what was really happening.

So, still, the King steals from Ren when Ren isn’t aware, taking time and moments when Ren’s at his weakest.

And then they die.

One life lost which, as far as the King is concerned, is decent. Far more have fallen sooner, have lost more, so to still be yellow this late in the game is hardly a loss.

The pup, however, takes it in despair. He feels for death and inevitability, screams in memories of burning that the King doesn’t quite understand himself. He mourns the life lost, blames himself, Scar, others for it’s coming.

And in that moment, the King realizes his pup is not fit to play this game…

His pup, so fragile, tormented by stories of their past as they rise. He needs to be protected. To be concealed. To be comforted.

And the King quite feels he cannot risk Ren fighting him any longer…

Those sentiments keep the King awake that evening, watching the skies until a rising sun chases off the stars. He, a king, a ruler , stands amongst fields of wheat which moves in unison with the breeze. He chuckles to himself as he watches them from where he kneels on a platform. A king amongst the crops begging for death. What a sight this is.

His mind is loud, violent in the protests of a pup somewhere nearby. He ignores the pangs of fear which Ren sends. He focuses on the axe in his hand. Traces the words etched into its hilt.

Red Winter is Coming.

No sooner than the sun joins them does Martyn too, wandering out amongst the fields with a gaze set on harvesting. He pauses, though, when he sees the King there, and steps towards him with a curious chuckle. “Who we got today?”

The King offers but a curt nod, a fond smile as he says, “my hand.”

“My king,” Martyn supplies back, recognition in his eyes. “You’re up early.”

“Didn’t sleep.”

“Makes sense.” Martyn joins the King on the platform, eyeing him over suspiciously.

Truly, that suspicious gaze isn’t unwarranted. The King feels naked as he is, nothing on him but the crown on his head. Armor, weapons, tools all set aside save the axe he holds. It’s unfamiliar to him being so unprotected. So vulnerable.

But his hand is here. It is alright.

“I have a favor to ask, me lad.”

Martyn’s eyes trail up from the axe, looking the King over as if he could read his mind. “Shoot.”

“We are not safe here,” The King says simply. “Our kingdom be under siege, and with those of red name growing…”

The axe in his palm is heavy, and for all he wishes to use it, to send it forward against the red menace that is Scar…

This game has rules.

“We need protection.”

“Alright.” Martyn says slowly. “We’ll build up the walls, then. We can go on a tour of our allies, make sure we’re still good.”

The King says nothing as he looks up at Martyn. There’s nothing but a curt nod towards the axe. “Laddie…”

And perhaps he understands. Perhaps in ways the King can’t read, Martyn knows what’s being asked of him. He knows what that axe means, what ask is being held between them.

Perhaps that’s why he sets his jaw. Turns away. “The defensive is working.”

“That menace swore vengeance. Scar will return.”

“And we will run.”

“We are not safe.”

We.

Ren is not safe. For all that the King is, that is his focus. Ren. His pup needs to be safe, secure, unaware of the pain and hardship which this game tortures them with.

And though he swears it, his pup is far in his mind, pushed further and further as the King holds onto this front.

It is not only the pup he seeks to protect…

The King’s hand looks to the sword with a grimace. “What do you want from me?”

“Death,” The King says, and he feels both the pup and Martyn wince at the word. It’s enough to make him want to hide, to return the axe to the ground its diamonds were born from and abandon the plan altogether.

But this game has rules…

“We shall not be safe until Scar is dead. And so long as my life is yellow–”

“No.”

“My hand–”

“ No,” Martyn says, and the King feels a part of himself shrivel at the desperation in his voice. A subject never says no to their king, but this is not defiance. This is a plea. This is begging. “I won’t. I won’t do it.”

“I trust no one but you, my hand.”

“I won’t,” Martyn says again. His face is contorted and angry, angry at the game, angry at the King. “We’ll find another way.”

“There is none.”

“I’m not taking your life.”

“So I must watch Scar take thee’s?”

The words hang between the two of them, thick as the tension they brought with. Weak, vulnerable, a king is not meant to be these things. He is not meant to be pleading for death, he is not meant to be asking to be made fragile.

But he is. He wants to be. He wants to be brought closer to death if only so he may protect his hand.

And how cruel is that. He’s meant to be a servant of the pup’s, he’s meant to protect Ren. 

He’s become selfish in this game, hasn’t he? Turned away from his purpose and towards something else. Someone else…

How dare he care for someone outside of the pup…?

But he does. He cares for his hand, for this Martyn, the first being to have ever shown him kindness. He cares, and he will defend his life alongside the pup’s.

“This game moves onward,” The King says aloud, and he’s unsure whether he speaks to the hand or his pup. “This game advances. I cannot protect thee as a coward hiding amongst walls. I need to fight. I must.”

There is no answer from his pup which recedes inside, shying away from the reality which exists on and on and on.

But from his hand?

Martyn steps forward and takes the axe in his hands. They’re shaky, uncertain, unfamiliar for all the confidence his hand usually holds.

“You’re sure?”

“I trust you,” The King says.

He waits not for Martyn’s reaction. He bows at his hand’s feet, kneeling, head low, and closes his eyes as he simply waits for death.

>>*<<

Red Winter is Coming.

Ren hugs the book to his chest as his eyes screw shut, focus on his breathing, on his thinking.

The sound of the gate opening and shutting shouldn’t send panic running through him, but it does. Because he knows the sound of his father coming home. He knows it in the way the gate creaks. The grunts as the door opens. The jangling of keys as they’re hung on a hook.

And he’s silent in his room, hugging his book tightly as he hears the sounds of his father move through the house. He tries to recall what he’s forgotten to do, if anything, or what he may have done wrong. Were the dishes set out to dry? Was the food made correctly? Did he remember to scrub the counters?

It’s not to much avail, though. Whatever he’s done, his father will find something wrong about it. Something to blame Ren for. Something to punish him for.

I’m not here…

He’s not here, in his room, on his bed. He’s not here, in this house, listening to the sounds of his father’s footsteps.

He’s in the kingdom of Dogwarts, commanding an army with an iron fist. He stands alongside his hand and looks upon his kingdom with admiration. He’s powerful. He’s adored. He’s protected.

He’s safe.

The door to his bedroom opens, and the pup isn’t there.

He’s somewhere else, and the King stands guard.

Notes:

It's difficult to explain what it's like to be co-con (that is, fronting with someone else), so I tried my best. Understand, as always, that this is an exaggeration/simplification for the sake of the story.

Experiences vary per system. Some are able to directly communicate with other alters while others, like in my system, tend to only share emotions or vague concepts.

Also since it isn't clear, the King is meant to be a dormant part from long ago reawakened during Third Life. He's an introject (that is, a "copy" of a pre-existing person or character) of the stories read during their childhood.

-

TWO uploads??? Can you BELIEVE it? Once again thanks for your patience and hopefully this makes up for the literal months that I left yall hanging

Chapter 10: Time is Slowly

Notes:

No CWs :)

The King is different this time.

When Doc first heard the unmistakable cadence of the King he knew something was different. The panic was gone, along with that constant insistence that he’s something greater than mortal. He returns with heavy feet and a hung head, grumbling occasionally to himself as he moves from room to room of their ship.

He settles, for the most part, at the table, seemingly waiting for the rotation of food as Doc brings it out to him. Doc attempts to start conversation, to remedy the coldness he gave to him last time in exchange for a friendlier greeting, but the King doesn’t take to it. He offers nothing but grumbles and low sounds as his responses, and in time Doc stops trying.

A day turns to two, two to three, and with a heavy heart Doc realizes that Bobbie may have finally taken his leave. There is no youthful energy to the ship, no additions to pictures on the walls. Just a grumpy old king, and a tired doctor to go with.

Three to four, and Doc settles, one morning, at the table with the King, nudging a plate of eggs towards him.

The King hasn’t slept, not at least that Doc’s seen. He doesn’t return to the room Bobbie regularly habited, simply sticks to the kitchen or the cabin at any chance he gets.

So Doc joins him one morning after making breakfast, biting into a slice of toast for himself. “Good morning.”

The King says nothing. He’s silent, as is usual, gaze distant and somewhere else, but rather than the empty nothingness of the void which he so usually stares into, he’s looking at the pictures on the wall.

Looking at Gox.

The King nods towards it. “Who art this?”

The question strikes Doc as odd for a moment (why wouldn’t the King know?) but he answers regardless. “Your–Ren’s brother. Gox, I believe.”

The King makes some sound of recognition, nodding. “Ah. My other pup.”

Doc’s not sure what to make of that. He sips his coffee, fingers drumming against the table in an attempt to release the agitation building inside of him. He’s silent. Watching.

At last, the King meets his eyes. “Something is wrong, Doctor.”

Doc resists the urge to snort at that. Something, as if in all these weeks, only one thing has been out of place. A singular thing amongst this mess of a trip that is wrong. 

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything. Simply looks towards the King with a solemn glance.

The King, instead, looks to his arm. He opens and closes his fist, watching the array of cybernetics that move and pull his limbs. It’s impressive work, not that the King would necessarily understand. But Doc does.

Ren would.

“You… rescued us, did you not?”

Rescued. Again, Doc chuckles inappropriately, looking into his mug. “That is one word for it, I suppose.”

“Thank you.”

Doc looks up at the King with a furrowed brow, mouth dry. He nods. “Of course.”

“You are a friend? An ally of Ren’s?”

Is he?

All this time spent on this ship, and none of it with Ren. He’d never have considered himself a relatively close friend of Ren’s, but he’s something. Something that made him step outside of his comfort zone and bring him on board when he didn’t have to. Something that made him stay this entire time, to keep watch, to miss him while the others have been out.

Is that what all that means? Are they friends?

Some part of Doc–a part he’s usually so quick to ignore–wants to say yes. They are.

Or, he wants to be.

So Doc nods, and the King, despite himself, smiles.

“I had a friend like ye, once. My Hand in war and battle. That is where we felled. That is why thee found us in the condition we were in.”

Doc frowns, setting aside his mug as he sits back. “That was the end of the season. It was a volcano–”

“No,” The King says grimly. It seems like such a silly thing to argue, it seems so blatantly wrong that Doc wants to contest it. But he doesn’t. He swallows his words and listens.

“We played a game, Doctor. A game of blood and death. The pup–Ren, that is–took not to it well… Death,” he looks back to the picture of Gox, and Doc follows his gaze. The youthful smile of a child, bright and unworried. “Death is a heavy weight for our pup to bear. I believe it became too much.”

Doc looks back to the King, brows furrowed. “What are you saying?”

“The universe has been cruel to him. I believe he fears further cruelties. He hid from the game of war, but the war has ceased, and still he hides.”

“Why?” Doc says, a strangled sound as he realizes what exactly the King is speaking on. It’s the most he’s gotten in the way of answer in the near-two months they’ve been on board, and he’s eager, desperate to know where Ren’s gone. “What is he hiding from?”

“He fears rejection. He fears… vulnerability. To make oneself vulnerable is a task most painful. He fears thine judgment. He fears thine hesitation. He hides from thee, Doctor. He hides from thine scorn.”

Something in Doc’s chest shatters. Something he hasn’t thought of in painfully long.

For all he had considered, for every reason he assumed Ren was missing, he never assumed it was due to himself…

He thinks back to what Bobbie said about how no one on server knew. Did anyone know? Has Ren ever made himself vulnerable to another? Has anyone ever known that Ren wasn’t the only one there?

Doc has focused inexplicably on himself these last few months, dealing with his own discomforts and growths and thoughts as he’s dealt with this all, but what about Ren? 

“Is–,” Doc swallows, unfamiliar in the uncertainty that strains his voice. “Is he still in there?”

The King looks up at him, perplexed. “Of course. He merely refuses to show himself.”

“Can he hear us? What we’re saying? What we’re doing?”

The King frowns, thinking for a moment. “I am not sure. Much of this is quite new to me. But… I know he saw over my shoulder whence the game was played. I know he was aware. I suspect he must, in some sense, hear us.”

All this time… Two months onboard this ship and all the while Ren was watching Doc extend compassion and sympathy to these others but not him. His stomach twists at the idea of that. Does Ren know how much Doc’s missed him? How he’s awoken everyday wondering if Ren would be the one to speak? Does he know how wanted he is?

But with a tightness in his chest, Doc must assume he doesn’t. Because he’s never said it out loud. He’s never said anything about this at all.

So how would Ren know?

There is no warm conclusion to their talk. The conversation simply tapers off, the two men distracted by their own swirling thoughts.

And Doc stares out the window and into the void, watching as the nothingness creeps slowly by as, silently, the two wander into the void.

Notes:

Last few chapters are sorta short bc SOMEONE wanted to name the chapters after song lyrics but didn't space them out enough.

Ending coming soon. Hope yall are excited. Hope this fic means as much to you guys as it does me

Chapter 11: Tracing his Face

Notes:

"you said an update everyday" well is it my fault for forgetting or YOUR fault for trusting me /j

No CWs apply :) enjoy!

The ship is quiet as night passes through this liminal space.

A hound sleeps, slouched, in the passenger’s seat of the front cabin.

A creeper does not.

Docm77 lets out a sigh and, at last, speaks.

“Hello.

“I suppose you may say it has been some time. It does not feel quite that way to me. But, then again, I spent much of the beginning believing Bobbie was you. So it has only been about a month from my perspective.

“But it is much more than that for you, isn’t it? The King–interesting fellow, he does not talk a lot. But when he does, there’s substance to it. I can appreciate that.

“He spoke of a game. Of death.

“You’re familiar with that, aren’t you? You’ve seen your fair share of it.

“I have too. That is what makes us Hermits, isn’t it? At our core, we are utterly, truly alone.

“I thought so, at least.

“I am… beginning to rethink those sentiments. The more I heard Bobbie talk about your past, the more familiar it felt.

“I know those things weren’t mine to hear. You should have been given the choice whether or not to share them.

“But… I am glad I heard them.

“You are such a light on the server, you know that? You are beloved, adored, a breath of fresh air to every room you step into. I’ve always envied that about you. Your ability to be happy. 

“But you are not, are you?

“There is much to you, man. So so much I never could have imagined. And you never told anyone, did you? You kept it inside, pretended it was not there.

“You were… afraid of what we would think, weren’t you?

“I understand.

“Vulnerability is a difficult thing to share. To be completely honest, I never wanted you on-board with me. I felt… confined. There is a hood I am always wearing when around the other player’s on Hermitcraft, some disguise meant to suggest normalcy. I never want them to see the way I cringe at touch, or how I hyperfocus on projects to the point of self-neglect, or how horrifying it can be just to have a conversation.

“I swore to take those things to the grave with me. I never wanted anyone to see it.

“It is like that for you… isn’t it?

“I know how it feels to have that choice ripped from you. To have no say in the people who see the ugly parts of you.

“But… I am beginning to think they’re not ugly. Or if they are, that it doesn’t matter.

“Hermits… Alone… I don’t think we are. Not really.

“We are together in our grief. We are together in our oddities. We are together in our insanities and mishaps and strangeness.

“We are together in our being monsters. In our being trainwrecks. In our being broken.

“You are not alone, Ren.

“I know that you want to be. I know you would like to hide away or run or–whatever else because you were forced to be vulnerable. I understand.

“Because vulnerability is uncomfortable.

“So why not be uncomfortable together?

“I’m sorry, Ren. I’m sorry for my assumptions and my shrugging off. I am sorry for my eagerness to hide from you, myself.

“I am sorry for the shortness. The distrust. The reluctance to accept that what is happening to you is real.

“I am sorry for your childhood. I am sorry for Gox. I am sorry for Bobbie and the King and Stein.

“I am sorry I’ve let you be alone.

“But we are together. 

“Or, I’d like to be.

“My brother. My friend. I love you, including every part of you you want to hide.

“Is that alright?

“I love you.”

>>*<<

Morning nudges Doc awake with gentle hands. He lets it tug away sleep from his shoulders, lets himself blink the tired from his eyes.

Doc wakes up.

And someone is sitting beside him.

He’s leant forward, watching the way the void passes by through the windshield of their ship, eyes wide and glossed over.

Glossed.

They’re glassy with tears, Doc realizes, as he sits up and the other starts. He sniffs, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand before it can fall too far down his cheek. He smiles, and it’s a familiar smile, timid yet toothy, as he looks Doc over.

And Doc looks back. Slowly. Up and down, watching the twitch of his tail, the slouched position, the nervous tapping of claws against the armrest.

It’s…

Familiar…

Ren– Ren– looks at Doc and smiles.

“I love you too, brother.”

Notes:

If the body is asleep all alters would also be unconscious so realistically Ren shouldn't have heard any of that but dw about it :)

Chapter 12: And Strangely, He Feels at Home in this Place

Notes:

No CWs apply

Doc grunts as he lifts the screen door into place, trying his best to keep it steady against the hinges. 

It’s complete, truly it is, even if its completion is patchwork and spotty in places. Still, it stands well enough in its frame, and all that’s left to do is secure it in place.

“Easy. Easy–”

Doc winces as the hammer misses the hinge entirely and knocks into the wall, leaving a small dent where it’s impacted.

Ren laughs awkwardly, running his cybernetic hand over the wall as if that would repair it. “Woah there! Sorry, still getting used to the, ah, upgrades. ”

Doc takes a slow breath, exhaling through his teeth as he convinces himself that this is completely and utterly fine. That it can be fixed .

It’s just a wall, after all.

What matters is Ren as he focuses on the hinge, knocking it much gentler now with the hammer, the previous strength of the cybernetic arms decreased. It’ll need some fine-tuning, and some practice that Ren hasn’t gotten yet, but they’ve got time.

They’ve got an entire season…

He finishes one hinge then moves up to the top, hammering it into place neatly. And when he’s done he steps back, hands on his hips as he whistles.

Doc steps back too, considering the screen door with a pleased nod. “Looking good.”

Ren snorts, shaking his head. “It looks like crap, Doc. I’ll get you a new one once we get settled.”

“You had better not,” Doc hisses, squinting at Ren. “I like it exactly as it is.”

Ren says… Nothing… He just stares at the screen door in all its mismatched glory, eyes trailing up and down it. Doc watches him think, watches those little motions that are so distinctly Ren’s. Not Bobbie’s. Not the King’s. Not Stein’s. Ren’s.

And he smiles.

 The hollow nothingness of the between-server-worlds fades outside their windows, replaced with colors the likes of which Doc had nearly forgotten. The blue’s of the sky, the grass, the ocean and sands and mountains and cliffs…

It all rises into view from beneath them, and Doc can’t help the eager flick of his hands he gives at the sight.

An entirely new world.

“We will have so many goats.”

“ Goats?”

“Xisuma mentioned they are native to this server. I don’t believe we’ve ever had one with them.”

“Don’t they scream?”

“Annoyingly so, yes," Doc says. Ren feigns a dramatic groan, scratching the back of his head, and Doc can only chuckle. He shakes his head, nudging Ren in the side. “Hey, you do not have to base with me. This was your choice after all.”

“Hardly my decision,” Ren counters. “You’ve got a couple of fans up here.”

He points to his head, but even as he does the motion is… tense… He’s nervous, awkward with it, even as Doc has encouraged him to talk about it the last few days.

This will not revert back into a secret. Doc won’t let it.

But the joking is new, and Doc quite enjoys it, chuckling at some thought of King and Bobbie and Stein pestering Ren to stick around.

He’s glad they have, though.

Not that he’d admit it out loud.

The ship lurches, and with a creak Doc hears the ship settle onto ground, planting itself among an island somewhere near spawn.

Season eight...

The door opens with a hiss and stairs roll out into the grounds of the new server.

Neither of them make a move for it, though. Neither rush to leave.

They simply stand there in the doorway, looking at the expansive everything that now surrounds their ship. It seems overwhelming in a way Doc never thought it would, and part of him doesn’t want to leave the ship. After everything that’s happened…

He swallows.

Ren does too.

“It’ll be alright, right?”

Doc considers the question, not at all certain of the answer. They aren’t the same people they were when they climbed on board, so what would alright even look like here? Will things be alright? Or will they be changed? Different? New?

He looks at Ren beside him who is waiting patiently for an answer, and Doc realizes he already knows.

“It will,” Doc says. “We will be alright.”

He offers a hand to Ren, and Ren takes it, a tangle of cybernetic fingers braided together, and with the warmth of one another at their sides, the two step out and onto the new world.

Notes:

It feels so weird to be posting this.

This fic has been nothing but a story in my head for so long, and a draft in my docs for even longer. And even when I began to post it on AO3 I never imagined anyone would actually read it.

It was a story for me. It was comfort and security and reassurances that DID and autism are okay, and I never thought it could be that for other people too.

DID is a difficult thing to live with, and for all the comfort this brought me in writing, I hope it brought you in reading.

So thank you guys. Thank you for every kudos and comment. Every kind word and encouragement that kept me working even when I lost motivation. Thank you.

AND I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, but I do have ideas for sequels set in both s8 and s9, so that may just pop up at some point in the distant future.

If you want to chat about the story or your OWN experiences with DID pleaseee hit me up on tumblr @mar-im-o I would love to get dms and asks about this little story of mine

Love, Juno <3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Strangely He Feels at Home in this Place