At some point during the night, long after the sun had dipped below the distant horizon, W.M. felt a shifting beside them, the unfurling of a lengthy and muscular body and the casting off of heavy limbs as the only other individual capable of moving themselves around here wriggled free of their protective huddle and dragged himself away. He pulled himself up the slope — would have limped, were he capable — to gaze out at the vast great empty from the mouth of the pseudo-valley in which they were camped. Blinking groggily, W.M. raised their head to follow his movement, watching intently but making no move to stop him as he shuffled out into the cold, away from the warm hum of the pile and particularly the computer who was doing one hell of a fine job heating it even in sleep.
They gave him his time, only watching him up there in between tired stretches of half-sleep, long as they didn’t last, but when he began to fiddle idly with his bandages and pick at his already-damaged worse third arm W.M. slowly rose to their feet as quietly and as calmly as they could with a soft rumble before making their own way up.
“I know you’re there, just so you know,” he said, as they grew close.
“That was the intent, yeah,” they replied. “So. I would hope so.”
They strode up beside him, before taking a seat next to him; taking in the cool night air, which itself felt more alien than they could ever remember it. This all felt unreal, every bit of it; they couldn’t even imagine how much worse the feeling was for him, who’d been kept down far longer, gone through much more.
“Feels weird,” they offered, glancing over at him.
“No shit.” He didn’t look back.
They looked away quickly, awkwardly. They’d be lying if they said they were prepared to deal with just how awkward and weird everything would be outside the Blacksite, when things were less… well, the way they were. Deciding not to open their trap again they instead chose to return to silence, absentmindedly digging their claws into the dry earth beneath them. It was quiet for a long time.
“…Thanks.” He offered back, finally.
They opened and closed their mouth, clicking their beak. “Mhm,” W.M. replied. “Just doing my job.”
It wasn’t untrue. They cared about their friends, for sure (and hoped they were considered the same way, though to tell the truth they could never really tell), but at the end of the day even if they didn’t, even if they weren’t friends — they were given a task and a role to play, and by God, they would see it through if it killed them.
More quiet; less awkward, more sad.
“I’m, uh.” He seemed oddly sheepish. “I’m sorry about what I said back there. Earlier.” Reeking of a strange amount of sincerity; reminiscent of an older, younger Sebastian.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I still mean it, though. You shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
“Not a waste of time.”
“You put the entire mission in danger—"
“—The mission,” they growled, “was to get all three of us out. Not one, not two. Three.”
“Still—”
“I’m not arguing with you about this, Sebastian. I made my choice. It’s over and done with, anyway.”
…
“I appreciate it either way, then.”
“Great.”
…
“…It doesn’t feel the way I thought it would.” He finally said, resolutely. W.M. considered throwing his earlier jab back at him, given he was restating their earlier statement, in some sort of semi-bitter pettiness, but decided against it. That wasn’t them, and anyway they weren’t quite sure what it was, but he sounded strangely genuine. Contemplative, even, not wholly unlike the him they’d known way back when — and they made the observation that they’d rather not further set back any genuine attempt to get closer to him (even if they hadn’t known the situation at first, working for Urbanshade was a poor enough re-introduction).
“I don’t think it ever will.” They replied, and meant it.
A sigh. “I don’t—I thought it would feel better.”
“Me too.” Before the conversation could drop into another uncomfortable lull, W.M. jolted, as if recalling something important. Which, of course, they very much were. “I’ll be back.” With that they stood suddenly, to the other’s confusion, and went galumphing back down the way, hoofing it over to the Painter’s crate which, mind you, also contained extra supplies (what, did you think they’d come or go unprepared?) and tone very important thing, for which they now fished around its confines for.
It wasn’t all too difficult to find; even under the moon glow, the light gleamed off the golden bangle something fierce. Looping it around the sharp harpoon-claw of one of their auxiliary arms and tucking it away close to their underbelly they were set to return and resume their post, as it were.
Their companion spoke up as they settled back into their spot. “Was there any reason for that, or are you just being strange?”
“Oh, a reason,” they replied, unfurling their limbs to pluck the bracelet from their talon, turning it over in their palm, and then holding it out towards him. “Here.”
Something flashed behind his gaze as he reached out and took it from them, looking it over carefully as if it were a mirage or some sort of trick, as if it might disappear from his grasp at any moment. “Oh.” He looked down — away — and wiped at his face with one clawed hand. “Uh. Thank you.” His voice was laced with a distant, longing sadness, bit back by a learned scathing instinct.
“No problem,” came the answer. “…You alright?” they added, as they watched him examine the piece of jewelry intently.
“I’m good,” he coughed, slipping it back onto a finger.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
…
“Anything you wanna talk about?”
He didn’t reply. That was fair enough; they figured they’d offer, but they hadn’t expected much different. They were content to just sit, anyw—
“I miss her,” he spoke up suddenly.
W.M. really wasn’t quite sure how to respond at first, caught off guard by the suddenness of his speech let alone the incredibly uncharacteristic openness. They tilted their head to the side, curious.
He must have noticed their questioning look. “…My mom,” he said. “She gave me this. A long time ago. It’s all I have left of her. Of… who I was.”
“Oh.” Oh indeed, genius.
“I thought it was gone.”
“No worries,” W.M. replied. “I figured it was important to you.”
“Mmm.” He sighed. “…I’m sure she died hating me, anyway.” The way he said it seemed more of an aside than anything else, a musing, but they couldn’t quite bite their tongue fast enough.
“What?”
Sebastian looked over at them; though it was always a little difficult to read his emotions from those strange eyes alone, it wasn’t impossible — and a sudden tide of second-hand sadness washed over them as their gazes met (and, they noted, a twinge of angry upset; not at them, necessarily, but likely exacerbated by their sudden interjection).
He scoffed. “The look on her face when she came to visit me? You know, on death row? Fuck, I mean, I’m sure some part of her really wanted to believe I was innocent, but my mama, maybe she was a bleeding heart — and with all the ‘evidence’ pointed towards me, she couldn’t even stand to look at me. Do you understand how that feels? What that does? The one person in this godforsaken world you think you can really trust to love you and believe in you, and she won’t even hug you, won’t even touch you or—or come near you, because she thinks you’ve just killed nine. Fucking. People.” His teeth, sharp and inhuman, were bared in a snarl, his angry stare with nowhere to go but towards W.M., eyes wild as tears pricked at their edges.
W.M. felt oddly small.
“And she won’t even say goodbye. They’re carting you back to your cage, she knows full well they’ll be carting you off to the slaughter soon enough, and she won’t even say goodbye, because she thinks you’re a fucking monster. So much so you’re making her cry. She thinks you’re capable of that. And you don’t even know why. Why any of this is happening to you.” He kept going, the look on his face manic, almost frightening, even as tears fell. “And you know, then you don’t even get to die, oh no, because by God’s ever-loving fucking mercy some merry band of assholes swoops in and then gets to spend months and months and months fucking tearing you apart and putting you back together again in all sorts of new and fun and inventive ways and sticking tubes and needles and every other sort of random shit in you just to see what it does, you know, until you’re some kind of, chimeric freak they can stick in a slightly bigger tube and gawk at!”
He was growing increasingly upset, with little W.M. could — or knew how — to do about it, other than sit and take it, not unlike they’d done a hundred times before.
“And now you’re definitely, in the flesh, the kind of monster your mother saw when she looked at you, however long ago that was. And you know the best — the absolute best part of the whole thing? You don’t even exist anymore. You’re dead. Dead to everyone you’ve ever known in your entire life. You just have to lie down and take this shit because nobody doing any of this, cutting you up and playing around with your guts or what have you, gives a single flying fuck about anything that happens to you, and nobody else in the entire world does either, because for all intents and purposes you've already died a lowlife murderer but — oh! Surprise, Sebastian! We fucked up, you didn’t actually do the thing we just spent ages surgically rearranging your insides for, oops. Just a little mistake. But we’re not gonna tell you, because it doesn’t matter anyway! You don’t deserve to know, it’s too late for you! You’re not a person anymore, you’re not anything! You’re some sort of… thing! An animal! Our science experiment!” He paused to cough, but before there was any chance to react, he continued — “And somehow, people still get all surprised when you have the audacity to be angry about it! Still think you’re fucking demented because you don’t want their grubby paws all over you!”
A sickly pall now hung in the air, nausea and worry tugging at the belly of the great beast. They couldn’t really think to say anything, only stare back at him with a face fostering concern as he gasped for air, breathing furiously from the exertion of his sudden, scathing tirade. “…I’m sorry.” That was all they could offer, almost sheepishly.
It seemed as if he moved to argue at that, maybe for un-want of pity, or maybe because he expected them to say something else entirely — but he stopped himself short, paused, and then threw his head into his hands with a violent smack. “I can’t do this,” he lamented. “I can’t be this kind of... thing, anymore.”
W.M.’s tails swept nervously across the ground, heart twisting in their monstrous chest. More than anything else they wished they were better at this, that they could be better at providing any sort of semblance of comfort in a volatile time such as this — but they weren’t, couldn't in the way they wanted to, and so they didn’t. Instead, they sat awkwardly for a few minutes, listening as heavy breathing turned to muffled crying. “I wish I knew what to tell you,” they said, “…but I don’t. I wish you didn’t have to hurt like this.”
No reply; that was alright. They didn’t really need one.
Eventually though, sniffling, Sebastian sat up straight again, rubbing at his face. “This is stupid,” he growled. “I’m just being crazy, I’m telling you all this like you didn’t work there. Fuck, I shouldn’t have done this. Sorry.”
W.M. sighed. “…Look, Seb. You don’t need to apologize to me. Shit’s rough, I get it. I’d think it was crazier if you just… never snapped about it. It’s not your fault. None of it is.”
He looked over at them; in this light, he seemed so… exhausted, beat down. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m so tired.”
“Of course you are. It’s hard.”
“Nobody gets it.”
“Sure, but they can try,” they said, “if you’ll let them. As long as you need me to, I’ll listen to you. I owe you that much.”
“You might never hear the end of it.”
“That’s okay. It’s better than the silence, after all.”
“Hm.”
Sebastian looked about awkwardly, trembling slightly — part from the cold island air, part because of his outburst — and staring back out at the open water through the gaps in the leaves, bright clear moon casting off its calm ripples.
W.M. fidgeted about anxiously; every so often, their companion glanced over, though they couldn’t quite tell if he was annoyed with their behaviour or not. “…Can I admit something?” W.M. pressed, nervously. Embarrassed, even.
“…Okay?”
“Eh, I— well, you, when you mentioned it before… I’m just saying, I wish I could hug you right now.”
He snorted, biting riposte following suit. “What, are you physically incapable of it or something? Forgot how?”
“I mean, no, it’s not that. I just know you don’t do the whole… you know, touching… thing.”
“Ah. Well, I appreciate the consideration. Don’t get it often.”
“…”
“I’m not going to break your arms if you do, though. Not this time, anyway.”
“You’re sure? Sure sure?”
“Once won’t kill me.”
W.M. shifted closer. Sitting like this — normally, as normal as normal got anyway, not propping himself up on his tail, W.M. was indeed a bit taller than him, and so in addition to the hurdle of their strange physiology needed to inelegantly try and maneuver themselves around him in such a way that they could draw him into a tentative embrace. They couldn’t help but notice the way he flinched every time their claws got too close, every time their palms made contact with tender flesh. When they finally got comfortable themselves, and wrapped their head around him, across his back, they could still feel the cold and anxious edge that radiated from his body. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, warily burrowing his face into their shoulder. “Yeah, I know.”
The strange and ungainly way he himself put his own arms around them — already a difficult enough task as it was, perhaps more difficult than them getting a hold of someone else — was hesitant and foreign. Alien. Did he even know how to do this anymore? “I can stop,” they suggested.
“It’s fine,” Sebastian replied, voice low and uneasy. “but I’m not doing this again, just so we’re clear.”
“That’s fair.”
A few quiet moments passed, no sound but the wind. “...This isn’t awful,” he tendered, after awhile. “Once you get used to it.”
“That’s good.” W.M. responded, punctuating their sentence with a heavy sigh. “…I care about you, you know that.”
“I know.”
“And you know that I’m here for you, yeah?”
His reply was more hesitant this time, muffled, but he nodded into the crook of their neck either way.
“Then you know why I couldn’t leave you behind, Seb. It’s not about efficiency and it’s not about following orders and it’s not about — it’s not about wasting my time. It’s… we’re all we’ve got, and we’ve got to look out for each other. Nobody else will. We’re the only family we have. At least to me. And you deserve just as much of a chance as either of us, whether you’re convinced you do or not. Got it?” And because you deserve to feel safe, too. And I really love you. …Maybe it was the lack of good sleep that was making them more and more open in terms of things they’d otherwise be too nervous to say that even allowed them to say all that, but even that last bit they could not bring themselves to reveal aloud — not because they didn’t mean it but because of just how much they did; and anyway, right now wasn't the time for it, if ever. Not after all this, anyway. “And I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry for what I didn’t know and I’m sorry for my part in it anyway. I’m sorry I can’t make it up to you but I hope to God you’ll let me try.”
W.M. could feel him steady his own breathing against their neck before he even deigned to give them a reply. “I get the memo,” he croaked as he pulled his head back, though his face remained cast down to the ground still, “now stop it, before you set off the waterworks again and we never get anywhere.”
W.M. pulled back from the hug now too, going back to a regular seated position and gently letting their companion go, mindful of their grip on him. He slumped back down on the ground with a mild sigh. “We have plenty of time, okay?” they said.
“I hope so.”
W.M. breathed a breathy sound, almost amused, as they moved to stand, stretching out their great form like a big cat before they turned to leave back down the incline up which they’d came, this time for good — that being, for the night. “Don’t stay up too long, okay? You need the rest.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Good enough for me. Goodnight, Seb.”
“…Night.”
With that W.M. was gone, lumbering down to the cozy divot in the earth in which they’d been sleeping before and curling right back up around the computer, almost counting themselves lucky he couldn’t feel their presence coming and going. At least, when they didn’t start thinking too long about how that was kind of sad. Leaving a space open for their last compatriot they laid down their head a final time and closed their eyes, content now that they knew that things would be alright tonight; and in the end if not now, then maybe some day — and drifted off to sleep.
…Some time later, though how long they did not know, they could feel the body of their wayward friend drag itself back into the warmth of the pile as it stirred them from sleep again — but their eyes did not open, they said nothing, and let sleep claim them once more.