Work Text:
You sat, drifting off at your kitchen table, when something banged on your door.
It'd been an awfully quiet morning in Home. You'd opened the windows, letting in a cool breeze scented with flowers trace over your cheeks. You sat with your hands around your mug of something nice and hot, your eyes falling closed…
Bang, bang, bang.
You almost fell out of your chair. Your gaze jerked in the direction of your front door.
Bang, bang, bang.
Eddie called your name from outside. Sally did, too.
Something about their tones chilled your blood.
When you threw open the door, you found, as you'd heard, Eddie and Sally. Eddie gripped his hat in both hands, eyes wider than you'd ever seen. Sally shook from head to toe, her fists clenched and held close to her chest.
"What happened?" You asked.
They spoke at the same time, out of sync.
"It's Wally!"
Your stomach dropped. You grabbed your shoes.
"Take me to him!"
They raced ahead of you, faster than you'd ever seen them run. You almost tripped over your own feet trying to keep up. You were the only human in Home, and definitely not anything like an authority figure in your eyes. But the residents came to you when they needed help.
Wally must need help.
At the edge of the woods all the residents gathered. Sally and Barnaby sat on the ground. Frank stood, one arm wrapped around himself, the other mimicking the motion of biting his nails. Howdy cried into his hands.
They all looked at you as you stopped, and you looked back. You looked between them, confusion pushed back in your panic.
It wasn't until you saw the white fluffy stuffing on the ground you understood.
He's dead, you thought, irrationally. He's dead and there's nothing I can do to save him. We're going to have to bury him outside his Home… have a little funeral… I'll have to be the reverend…
You took a breath. Snap out of it, you told yourself. They all need you. Wally needs you.
You forced yourself to walk forward to look at your little friend.
It was worse than you could've thought.
He was still alive, the trembling gave that away. Curled up as best he could into a ball, it was hard to tell what injuries he had. But the cuts - lacerations - went deep, deep into his body. On his face in particular, you could see the edge of what could've been wood inside him. His ear stayed on thanks to three little strings. Blue hair tumbled down over his shoulders, fallen from his fancy hairstyle in a way you'd never seen before.
You called his name. His eyes opened. Without moving an inch, he looked at you through his hair. He didn’t stop trembling. You reached down, brushed the hair from his face. Wally closed his eyes as your fingers skimmed over his fuzzy skin. The trembling eased.
Julie called your name. You looked up at your friends, all collected together, all pressed tight together.
“What do we do ?” Frank cried.
You looked back down at Wally, your dear, dear friend Wally. He looked so small like this, so fragile. Your friends weren’t children, not really, but they weren’t teenagers and they weren’t really adults either. They were their own things. And that meant they could be hurt in their own special ways.
“All of you go to the post office,” you said. “I’m gonna take Wally back to my house and fix him up, best I can. And then.” You surprised yourself with what came out of your mouth. “I’m gonna find what hurt him, and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Your friends gaped. Wally squirmed, mumbling something you couldn’t understand.
“What if it hurts you too?!” Howdy said.
Your gaze went down to Wally again, into his open, frightened eyes. He shook his head. You set your jaw.
“I’m more afraid of my friends being hurt,” you said, “Than I am of that.”
Ignoring the way the others stared at you, you spoke directly to Wally.
“I gotta pick you up,” you whispered. “I’m gonna take you to my home, and I’ll patch you up there.”
Wally whimpered. He nodded his head. Something inside you broke, and your hands began to shake.
If there was one thing you remembered after everything finished, it was how brave he was. Shaking in your arms, his fingers clutching your shirt, face hidden in your neck. He felt so much smaller than he acted, so much smaller than his proud statement of being twelve apples tall. You led the group back into town, one hand supporting your friend, the other holding a tree branch you’d found on the ground. No one said anything. Especially not Wally.
And every step of the way, you watched Wally’s Home. The windows were closed and drawn. The whole place seemed asleep. You would’ve thought… if anyone would’ve been worried about Wally, if anyone knew something was wrong, his Home would’ve been the first one.
You weren’t sure you were ready to think of the implications of that.
Once everyone was safe inside the post office, you turned towards your house.
“Wally,” you mumbled. “I know you probably wanna go Home, but I got a sewing kit at my place and I can fix you up. I have five fingers, remember? I’m good at that stuff.”
Normally that would get a laugh out of Wally. This time, he just rubbed his face in your neck and shivered.
You looked at the house in the center of town again, and frowned.
In your house, you laid Wally down on the kitchen table. Now you could see it better, how his face stretched with pain. Now you could see it better, all the awful, awful places he’d been hurt. It wasn’t just his ear that was hanging on by a few threads. His right arm, too. You swallowed hard. Much as you wanted to cry, you wouldn’t. Not yet. Wally needed you.
Your sewing kit was on the shelf where you left it. You’d learned a lot about sewing after coming here. No big stores to buy new clothes, so you patched up what you had, and made your own, until you were as colorful as everyone else.
You hoped it’d be enough.
As you set things up, you talked to Wally, explaining what you were doing, and why. You would have wanted to know, too, if you’d been so hurt. (If you’d been so hurt, your brain whispered, you’d be dead right now.) You threaded the needle in his favorite color, promising that no one will see the stitching when you’re done. You pulled away the damaged fabric of his jacket, pushed aside the strings of his hair. He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word, just watched.
“I don’t know if you’ll be able to feel this,” you said, forcing your hands not to tremble as you hovered over his arm. “I hope it doesn’t hurt.”
Wally said nothing. You took a breath, did the first stitch.
Five stitches in, he said your name. You looked up at his face. He looked back at you, into your eyes.
He said your name again, and asked, “What’s ‘hurt’?”
Your throat tightened up. You took a shaking breath, wiped the wet in your eyes off on your sleeve. Opening your mouth to answer him, you found the words weren’t coming. And in the way he closed his eyes and laid his head to the side, you knew he understood why.
Stitch, stitch, stitch. You reattached his arm. Stitch, stitch, stitch. You reattached his ear. Stitch, stitch, stitch, you sewed up his face. Stitch and stitch and stitch again, you found the cuts and fixed them up, best you could, best you knew. Even his little fingers had been shredded, the tips of them, the knuckles, as if he’d fought back against whatever had attacked him. The thought of that filled you with pained pride.
Oh Wally, whatever happened to you?
With a final snip of your scissors and a teeny knot, you finished up your sewing. Good as new? No. No one would ever be ‘good as new’ after whatever happened to him. But at least, you hoped the pain was gone.
“Can you move?” You asked.
Wally blinked. A second later, he pushed himself up off the table. He moved his arm, touched his ear, swung his legs, and stretched out his hands. He closed his eyes again.
Before he could speak, you said, “Here, I’ll fix your jacket. Seems like it shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll have you back with everyone when you’re ready to see them. I know they’d all like to see you’re okay.”
He opened his eyes. Swung his legs. Shrugged his shoulders and pulled off his jacket, handing it over to you. You took it, examined it closely. Yes, that wouldn’t take long at all.
But it’d be just long enough.
As you sewed, you thought your words over carefully.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Wally stopped moving.
You didn’t look up from your task.
“I’m not going to make you,” you said. “I just want you to know that I’m somewhere safe to go to, if you ever need help.”
Wally didn’t answer.
“I’m not gonna judge you for whatever happened,” you said. “I know it wasn’t your fault."
Wally said nothing.
“Nothing like that could’ve been your fault.”
Wally said nothing.
“But I meant it when I said that I’m more scared of you guys getting hurt than anything that could happen to me.”
Wally sobbed.
You looked up from his jacket. Wally’s hands covered his face, he rocked back and forth. Between his fingers, he looked at you. Little drops of liquid dripped between his fuzzy fingers. Your stomach dropped.
You didn’t know Wally could cry.
“I’m sorry-” Wally said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare all of you. I was trying to protect - protect you-”
“Wally-” you started.
He reached for you, and you reached back. You wrapped your arms around your friend and held him close, held him tight, held him safe as he cried. And you cried too, quietly, into his long blue hair.
You didn’t push him for any more answers. You would let him cry until he didn’t need to anymore. Wasn’t a big surprise to you, when he fell asleep, his arms locked around your neck. You held him close and wiped your eyes.
Alright, you told yourself. Sleepover time. The whole neighborhood would be invited. Everyone would get to hang out with Wally. You’d make pizza together and drink soda and play games and everything would be okay.
And you. You were going to get to the bottom of this. Even if it killed you.