#d stan

D knew he was a hindrance when it came to games that involved acting. It always made him feel terribly self-conscious to be the center of attention (stared at; that was the part that felt really awful) while he moved in ways that always came out as stiff and unnatural. That, or he froze up entirely while he was trying to think of what he should do or say. He supposed it was fair, then, that he be on H’s team when it came to games that involved the skill. The man was a natural thespian. Well, he was a conditioned one, but either way, he was very good.

Scalene, who was standing in the middle of a half-circle of couches and cushioned chairs, had the same talents. She had already won her team of herself and H’s Stanley several points in their current game of charades; the 08 version, as H's Stanley had won that argument with D's own brother. Every time they played such games during family game night, she always acted her little heart out (despite her half-eucluydian origin, she did, in fact, have a heart. D had seen scans of it!) This round, though, he had no idea what he was supposed to be guessing. Scalene, banned from using her shapeshifting abilities, poked her forefingers up on either side of her “head.”

“Horns?” D’s Stanley guessed.

“Ears,” Jean-Paul said. Scalene gave the polymorph a thumbs up before moving on. She stood straight, one foot slightly out, and gesticulated as if she was speaking animatedly.

“Mmm… eloquence?” D guessed. Scalene half-raised her eyebrow and gave him a shrug. A few more incorrect guesses were made before the scarlet half-alien slouched in a defeated gesture and moved on. She trotted over to D’s leg and hugged it.

“Oh!” D’s quiet exclamation had scarcely left his lips before Scalene pulled away and, with as stately of an expression as her limited face could manage, patted his knee.

“A parent?” H’s Stanley said to himself, even though he really wasn't meant to be guessing.

“Pity sex?” D’s Stanley mumbled. D could only just hear him from his position on the nearby chair.

Scalene rolled her eye and stomped a small foot, the sound muffled by a large, soft rug that D had found at an estate sale on 78’\\ Earth. H had decided it belonged in this room, rather than in D's undersized kitchenette, where he kept spilling things on it and tripping on the folded-over corners. Scalene jabbed a finger at Jean-Paul, who was sitting on the couch between D and H.

“Jean-Paul?” D guessed at the same time H and Oleander said “raccoon.” Scalene gave an excited little hop.

“Yeah, yeah, raccoon! Ding, point!!” She spun in an excited pirouette. Jean-Paul gave a good-humored snort.

“That's not what actual raccoons act like,” he said.

“You're the only raccoon I know,” she said.

“It's your turn, Dr. Pines,” Oleander said. D dug his fingers into his sweater vest.

“Um… does it have to be?” He studied the interlocking vine pattern that rimmed the rug. “I, ah, don't mind if you skip me.”

“Hey, no sweat,” D’s Stanley said. The words had barely left his mouth when Oleander spoke up.

“I'd like you to participate if you feel up to it,” she said. “I know it can be uncomfortable, but do try to remember that there are no consequences for anything you do here. Performing well isn't material to the experience.” Her lips curved in a small smile. “Besides, I'm sure your loved ones would enjoy having you play.” D's Stanley leaned forward, patterned shirt bunching at his shoulders.

“He doesn't have to take his turn if he doesn't want to,” he said, voice firmer. D found his necklace in his hands, thumb and forefinger tracing the engraved pendant. Jean-Paul touched his leg.

“It’s your decision, Phospho,” he said. “Not your anxiety’s.”

D’s frown deepened. Jean-Paul’s voice was softer than usual, and his ears were angled slightly back.

“J-Jean-Paul, are you… ah!” Twelve small fingers had wrapped around his hand, and were attempting to pull him out of his seat.

“You have to play, Uncle D!” Scalene demanded. Her tap shoes scrabbled against the rug. She wasn’t very strong.

“I… I don’t know…” D mumbled. Scalene hopped up onto his lap and balled her hands together.

“Pleeeeeeeease?” She whined sweetly, blinking at him. Her eye actually grew larger, its brown iris literally sparkling.

“Stop with that,” H snapped. He paused for a moment, fingers curling in his lap, narrow chest expanding as he took in a long, slow breath. “He’ll play if he wants to. Stop being manipulative.”

“That’s rich,” D’s Stanley snorted. H’s shoulders stiffened.

“I wouldn’t say a low-rent con man has room to speak on the matter.” Stan’s jaw flexed.

“At least-“

“Ah, I, um, I’ll take my turn!!” D scooped Scalene into his arms as he stood. She giggled. He felt a bit lightheaded. The old man strode to the “stage.” Was he breathing too fast? He held Scalene out to the disused plastic bin from Oleander’s office (it had been thoroughly disinfected,) which was filled with thin slips of paper. “P-please pick one out for me.” Scalene gave a smart little salute and shuffled the disorganized pile of papers with broad swipes of her hands. Kids liked feeling involved in things.

Scalene tugged a slip free from the box with a flourish and held it out for D. He thanked her and set her down. She trotted back to H’s Stanley and hopped into his lap, hands drumming her knees. A flash of something between sadness, annoyance, and envy crossed H’s face before it was suppressed. D’s brow furrowed, free hand clawing at his top as he read his fate.

Ford Cipher.

D closed his eyes and took in several long, slow breaths. This was good. He knew H very, very well. D’s furrowed brow smoothed as he pictured H. His mannerisms. He didn’t have to think about himself. Just think about H. Replicate him.

On an exhale, D’s posture relaxed. The pose he settled into wasn’t sloppy, though; it was confident and loose. He opened one eye. Leaning slightly, D propped his hand against an end table, supporting his weight (H had a tendency to lean against furniture when standing for too long without his cane.) The other hand went to his hip, fingers crooked delicately. He put on a self-superior smile.

With a barely-perceptible grin, H rolled his eye. He must have already guessed what D was doing. The pair had a knack for picking up on each other's intentions. It was part of why they weren’t allowed to guess for each other in games like charades.

“Haughty waiter?” H’s Stanley asked.

“Bisexual,” D’s own guessed.

“Haughty, bisexual waiter!” The former said with a grin.

“Hot,” the latter agreed.

“Please try to make actual guesses, Mr. Pines,” Oleander sighed. “Who would put that in as a…” she paused to look between the two Stans. “… Never mind.”

A snap of the fingers brought their attention back to D. He looked down his nose at them as if they were dim-witted, impulsive children who didn’t know how to stay on topic. He crossed his arms, shoulders square, and cocked his hip (which was a bit uncomfortable,) looking away as if he couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge their presence further. D mimed checking a pocket watch.

“Train conductor!” Scalene cried, throwing her arms up.

“Fruity train conductor,” D’s Stanley said.

“Fruity bisexual train conductor,” H’s Stan added.

“Not everyone is bisexual,” Oleander observed.

“You only say that ‘cause you’re the one straight person on this compound,” D’s Stan said. Oleander’s expression tightened minimally.

“I’m going to be on my own team next time.”

D’s confident stride took him back to the couch where H and Jean-Paul were waiting. D made a small shooing gesture with his hand, which Jean-Paul picked up on and scooted over. With an audible thump, D plopped down beside H. He pulled his leg up to cross at the knee and threw an arm around H’s shoulders. A quick tug and the frail old man was pressed against his side. H's nose wrinkled, and his smile showed more teeth.

“Very cute,” H said. He looked at the other teams. “You can speak up now.”

“We have been, but I guess we're not getting it,” H's Stan said.

“Act harder, Uncle D!” Scalene demanded, kicking out her feet. D's hand slid from H's shoulder to his waist. 

“You have to know what he's doing,” H argued. “He's-”

A quick pull, and H was sitting on D's lap. The emperor's mouth snapped shut. D ran his fingers through H's fine, pale hair.

“Oh, you're being Dr. Cipher,” Oleander said.

“Yes!” D wrapped his arms around H in earnest, finished with the act. He pressed his cheek against H's from behind. He'd actually managed to act something out without becoming too embarrassed or overwhelmed and giving up! Jean-Paul bared his teeth in an exaggerated grin (he'd learned to modify his expressions in his raccoon form to be more easily readable to humans.)

“Good for you, Phospho!”

“Yeah, Bro, great job!” D’s Stan cheered. Scalene clapped and whooped. D giggled quietly and nuzzled his face against H's. He squeezed his eyes shut, his cheeks heating. Ah, this felt wonderful! He'd done so well. Everyone was so proud of him!

“Let me up, please, D,” H said quietly. “I just remembered something I need to do rather urgently.” H pushed forward, and D released him.

“Ah… what…?” D began. H always cleared his schedule for family game night. Spending time with Scalene was so important to him, especially in calm, controlled environments like this.

“Nothing. Just work,” H said. His voice and posture were stiff. H leaned heavily on his cane as he walked the short distance to where his wheelchair was parked. D watched him as he left, wheeling out into the bright, sterile compound hall. Scalene waved at his back with a “bye, Daddy!”

“D-do you think he's… um… is he okay?” D asked. He picked at the couch's arm. There were patches of exposed material between the leather from where he'd done so before.

“He hasn't been okay since I've known him,” Jean-Paul said.

“I'm sure it's just one of his moods,” H's Stanley said with a shrug. A thin, soft scrap of leather fluttered to the floor.

“I, um… I'm gonna go after him…” D looked back to the others in the circle of chairs. “I-is that okay?” D’s brother inhaled, but Oleander cut him off.

“You can leave whenever you'd like.” D nodded with a throaty little hum.

The door to H’s suite was locked. That wasn't concerning on its own. H had a habit of locking his doors. It wasn't one D shared, but he understood it. At least, he thought he did. D rapped his knuckles against the entrance. H could always tell when it was him knocking. Something about the way he did it.

“I'm busy.” H's voice sounded strained. D felt a painful tightness in his chest. It was rare for H to refuse his company; doubly so without a proper explanation. He clearly needed some time alone. D understood that.

… But he couldn't help but worry.

H didn't come out for dinner. D wanted to drag him out… he knew how to pick the lock… but, no, he couldn't do that. H would be unhappy. More so than he already was. Besides, H wasn't always in the mood to eat at the proper time. D waited a couple hours before returning to H’s door with a bowl in hand. It was a late-night snack; the kind D brought H when he didn't have dinner for one reason or another. D bent his knee to tap his toes absently against the ground as he knocked.

“I'm still busy,” came H's reply. “Go to bed.” D stepped back and gave a small, involuntary whine. H's voice sounded hard. He didn't sound like he felt any better at all.

D leaned his back against the wall, drumming his fingers against the bowl. He waited. He didn't know how long he stood there, but it seemed to be quite some time. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. Stared at the far wall. Some time ago, D had painted a large tangle of unusual plants on it; something pleasant for H to look at when he woke up. D had initially wanted to incorporate a clock into the design before realizing that H probably wouldn't like looking at a clock face that never moved.

D heaved a worried sigh. He didn't want to leave, and H didn't want to be disturbed. Back still against the wall, he lowered himself to the floor, lips pressing flat at the ache in his joints. He continued to wait, legs splayed out in front of him, still drumming the bowl. D only realized he was sleepy when he blinked awake at the feeling of falling. He looked up at the door. Still closed. A worried sigh puffed through his nose. With a small klunk, he set the bowl on the ground and laid down, curling on his side. It was an uncomfortably familiar position. There wasn't any sort of bed or couch here, though, and D could handle sleeping on the floor. He wanted to be here when H decided to come out.

D was wrenched into wakefulness by a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“What the hell are you doing down there?!” H demanded. D blinked bleary eyes. Something prickly and uncomfortable settled in his head, but he was too groggy to name it.

“Worried,” D croaked. H hissed out a breath and tugged his double into a sitting position.

“I'm fine,” H said.

“You're not,” D whined. He plopped his head onto H’s arm. The emperor's mouth twitched. He reached over from where he was squatting (D envied how flexible he still was) and picked up the bowl.

“What's this?” He asked.

“Brought it last night,” D explained. “You didn't eat dinner.” H's brow pinched, his eye wide.

“You've been out here all night?”

D nodded.

“All right, up you get,” H said brusquely. He grabbed D’s arms and pulled. It wasn’t like things used to be, when H could lift him easily. Or at all. He provided a helpful support, though, and D heaved himself to his feet.

“Are you feeling any better?” D asked. H huffed and hooked a finger around D’s necklace, leading him into his suite by it. He guided D to his kitchenette and pulled out the single chair that had a permanent place beside a narrow, gray table. A thin finger tapped it, the blackened mark atop the knuckle distorting. D sat and stared up at H. His mind was beginning to clear.

“I told you not to sleep on the floor,” H scolded. He lowered himself into his wheelchair, which he’d left by the door, and moved back into the kitchenette. The low rolling sound was barely audible, even in such a small, quiet space, but D had grown quite fond of it. “It’s bad for your back. We’ve been over this.” H popped the meal D had brought for him last night in the microwave; it was flush with a set of cabinets, rather than set further back on the countertop, so that H could reach it easily while in his chair. D fidgeted with his hands while a gentle hum filled the room. He wondered what note that was. He was out of practice when it came to music, but H would certainly be able to identify it.

“Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if your shoulder and hip are paying the price for you waiting outside my door all night like a lost little kitten,” H grumbled. D hummed without realizing it. H was right. D looked down and scratched his nails lightly against the table. H retrieved D’s offering and rolled to the other side of the table, across from D.

“… Say something,” he said at length. His voice had softened. It was almost pleading. D looked up at him.

“What happened last night?” D asked. “Um, why were you upset?” H stiffened. He was suddenly very interested in the food D had brought him. Noodles (they would be soggy by now) with plenty of vegetables, in a peanut sauce. H took a bite, then screwed up his face.

“Who made this?” H asked.

“Dr. Oleander,” D replied with a smile. She didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was terribly healthy. D liked all food that wasn’t raw meat or fish, but he really was a fan of her cooking. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed vegetables until he regained access to them. H clearly had a different opinion.

“I figured,” he sniffed. “You would never prepare something so sub-par for me.”

“Dr. Oleander is a wonderful cook!” D protested, glaring at his friend.

“You are an endless font of kindness and poor judgement,” H cooed.

“No, she-!”

D closed his mouth. H was trying to distract him, wasn’t he? D scratched the back of his hand.

“P-please talk to me about last night,” he said, looking H in the eye. Its brown hue somehow looked so much richer than his own. “I was worried.” H looked down at his noodles and poked at them with his fork.

“You know how I am,” he muttered. “Moody. I’m sure Stan said something along those lines after I left.” D pressed the side of an index finger against his lower lip as he observed H.

“I’m prone to uncontrolled bouts of rage,” he said. “You, and the others, help me figure out why they happen, so we can try to avoid triggering them in the future.” He lightly bit his skin. “Um, it doesn’t always work, but I think it helps. I-it might not be the same emotions, but I’d like to do the same for you.”

H stared back at D. His eye was wide, jaw tense. He was very still. D bit his finger harder, though it barely registered. "I wasn't angry..." H mumbled, taking another bite of peanut-coated broccoli. He tapped his fork lightly against his bowl while he chewed, refusing eye contact. "I'm just not used to you..." He looked back at D and gestured vaguely to him with his fork. "You aren't usually so… forward."

D tilted his head. He wasn’t really sure what H was trying to say.

“My acting? Um, d-did I offend you?” H flushed slightly and looked away.

"N-no, no, that’s not it. It’s… I know you weren't trying to- I, this is on me.” He dropped his fork and scrubbed a hand over his face, skewing his glasses. “I was... it would have been inappropriate for me to stay."

“I… I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” D said quietly. His shoulders drooped, hands clasped over his chest. He really, really wanted to understand. He wanted to help. H’s blush deepened. His hand clasped over his mouth, fingers deforming his thin, aged skin. “I… you were attractive. In a way I wasn’t used to. I was… reacting.”

D blinked. Him? Attractive? That felt… incorrect. But H had complimented D’s appearance before (he really was very nice,) so D didn’t see why this was any…

His cheeks heated as he realized what H was really saying.

“Oh,” he said. “That… I… um.” D really, really didn’t know what to say. No one had ever found him attractive before; certainly not like that. It felt incongruous with reality. H hunched like he was melting into his shoulders. He was looking anywhere but at D.

“I’m sorry,” H rasped. He winced, as if the words themselves were painful. “I didn’t want to let you know. Let anyone know. It’s not your fault that I’m disgusting.”

“Y-you’re not disgusting!” D insisted. H shook his head, fast and tight. The red star on his necklace jostled.

“Stop,” he said. “You don't have to tolerate this. I know it repulses you, you can say it. The last thing I would ever want is for you to feel like you-” H balled his fists atop the table. His knuckles were white around the black ink of his tattoos. “You didn’t mean to- you didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I took something perfectly normal and pleasant and ruined it.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck. It was around our family. Around my fucking daughter. I’m disgusting.”

“Don’t say that,” D snapped. H let out a hollow laugh.

“It’s true.” D grimaced.

“People have seen me as disgusting for years.”

H’s head snapped up.

“You’re not,” the former god said, his voice strained. D tilted his head.

“Really? I was constantly dirty and smelled terrible. I never changed my clothes and ate rotten food out of the trash. I carried dead animals in my pockets and gave them to people because I thought that’s what you did when you liked someone.”

“You aren’t like that anymore,” H insisted. “You got better.” D frowned, his brow pinching.

“Not really. I only wash and groom myself when there’s someone around to make sure I do. I still take food out of the trash if I think it looks good. If it weren’t for Jean-Paul, I would still be wearing the same clothes I was a week ago. I didn’t just… get over those things.”

“I don’t judge you for that,” H said. “I never have.” He had the same tone of voice he did when he was trying to refute a negative remark D made about himself. D supposed he was, but this wasn’t a simple exercise in self-flagellation on his own part.

“I know,” D said. “All you’ve ever done is help me. Even when I was, I think it’s fair to say, objectively disgusting, you never saw it as a mark against my character. Please understand that I feel the same way about you.” D leaned back in his seat. “Not that you actually are gross. You experienced a biological impulse that you didn’t even act on. That says nothing about your moral character. But I know you’re going to convince yourself that you are again, even if I can reassure you in the moment.” D clasped his hands atop the table, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. “Um, you care for me, so please remember to use this comparison when your thoughts get away from you. Hopefully, it will help you remember that there is no reasonable basis for such a poor self-evaluation.”

H was silent. He stared at D. D's chest tightened as the seconds slipped by.

“Um… did I, ah… did I say something wrong…?” H opened his mouth, then closed it again. He worked his jaw, eye boring into D with an intense expression. D fidgeted.

“I… I’m sorry if I…” H waved a hand jerkily, twitching his fingers.

“I need my arm for a moment, Kitten.”

D hesitated before releasing his grip on H's limb. The emperor closed the obnoxiously thick report he'd been combing through and shuffled a few objects on the table. He opened a much thinner folder, tugging out a few sheets of paper and setting them on the desk before him. With everything in place, he returned his arm to his side, where D could wrap around it once more.

D hadn't been feeling well recently. He’d been trapped in the sort of all-encompassing grief that felt like a physical injury. Learning, finally letting himself learn that his god had been nothing more that a demon who had stolen half his life was. Difficult. It sapped him of his will to speak, move, live… D didn't know how long he'd been stuck in the thick of that malaise. No one seemed keen on telling him, and he wasn't particularly interested in learning, himself.

He was making an effort to pull himself out of it. It was hard to know why, exactly. The fact that other people seemed to want that for him was the clearest argument he could muster. H and Stan, in particular, had both seemed elated that D was leaving his room again. They both hovered about him, as if they were scared he would disappear again, or perhaps shatter entirely. That was good. D didn’t want to be alone anymore.

D didn’t realize he’d been dozing until a thin finger poked his nose.

“You’re drooling on my arm, Kitten,” H said, his voice sweetly teasing. D responded with a pained frown.

“... M’sorry,” he murmured.

“No- … no, you’re fine,” H reassured him. “You’re just tired. Please, go to bed.” D squeezed his friend’s arm tighter.

“I don’t wanna be alone,” he confessed after a pause. H twisted awkwardly to pet D’s thick, gray curls with his free hand.

“I don’t want that, either,” H said. “You can sleep with me in my room tonight. I’d like it if you did.” D hummed, unconvinced. He knew how late into the night H worked. He didn’t want to be alone for that long. In H’s bleak, sterile room, with nothing to look at, to distract him… D usually didn’t mind the other man’s taste in decoration. In fact, its understated elegance suited him well. It was just too bare for him right then.

A gentle kiss brushed D’s cheek.

“Please,” H said, his voice a soft rumble. “I won’t be much longer. I promise.” With a long, deep sigh, D unwound himself from his friend and stood. He trudged to the door, pausing to look over his shoulder at H. His companion smiled and made a shooing gesture. With another loud sigh, D exited into the main hall of H’s suite. He stared at the floor as he made his way to H’s bedroom. A mane of gray hair hung around his shoulders; he hadn’t bothered to tie it back. He didn’t really like touching it, or thinking about it at all. Bill was dead, and Pyronica was in prison, so there was no reason to keep it at its current length, but…

It was another change.

An unexpected scent met D as he opened the door to H’s bedroom. It was fresh, light and floral. It smelled nice. The second thing D noticed was the twin blue flames dancing in the dark.

They were so familiar.

Heart hammering, D flicked on the light. Fear and revulsion burned up his spine, through his veins, scorching him. There, on a table across from H’s bed, was an altar. Blue-flamed candles burned on either side of a terracotta axolotl. Sweet, verdant smoke flowed from its mouth like a waterfall, curling around the other pink-brown figures, depicting the aquatic god in various poses. Cool candlelight flickered off a small, shallow offering plate filled with clear water, pearls and lotus petals.

It was a fucking god. There was a god in H’s room; it had been let in. It was going to eat his life, spit him out, use him-

A scream ripped from D’s throat. He charged across the room, to the table. A line of choking smoke cut the air, and the axolotl was on the floor, smashed. The smaller ones were next. D chucked them against the floors, the walls, or simply crushed them with his fists. The offering plate was upended, soaking the woven mat. *The fucking god was on that, too.* D tried to tear it in two, but it was too sturdy. With a furious growl, he dashed it to the floor and stomped on it.

D was panting, shaking, staring wide-eyed at the mess on the floor. A small, strangled noise sounded behind him. He whipped around to see H in the doorway.

“What- what did you…” H’s voice was choked, his face a mess of lines that scrunched into something, something-

D was too furious to say what it was. He gestured wildly at the sundered altar.

”What the fuck was this doing here?!” he screamed, panic turning his voice keening and grating. “Did- did someone put it here? Did you notice before now??” H was silent for several long moments, his face going blank. He stared at the shattered terracotta. D’s frantic heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“It’s mine,” H said at length. “I’m sorry it upset you.” His voice was small and toneless. D grabbed wads of his own hair and tugged it. He hardly registered the pain in his scalp.

”WHAT?! No… no, it wasn’t here before! I remember! I-I would remember that!”

H made for the closet, his movements stiff. He pulled out a broom and dustpan.

”I would remember that!!” D insisted as H moved back to the mess. His face remained blank as he swept the broken expressions of faith into the dustpan.

“I set it up recently,” H explained as he headed for the trash can. The sound of clay falling against metal joined D’s labored, rasping breaths.

”WHY?!?” D shrieked, storming to H’s side. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

H gripped the dustpan’s handle a bit harder. He took in a long, slow breath that D could scarcely hear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it would help you.”

”WHY?!?” D screamed again. He was hunched, clawing at his shirt. He needed to grab something. ”WHY DID YOU THINK A FUCKING CULT WOULD HELP ME?!?”

H flinched. He was staring at the floor, his face twisted.

… He was scared…?

No. No, no, no. D stumbled back, his heel crunching bits of shattered clay. H couldn’t be scared. Not right now. D needed him, he needed someone, and H was so strong, and so loving, and he had called out to a fucking god in his bedroom, where it was supposed to be safe.

D’s head spun. He felt like he was going to throw up. H stood still, like he was dead, like he was never going to talk to D again, staring at the floor-

D choked out a strangled, incoherent sound and bolted into the hall. He clawed at the handle of the door that separated H’s suite from the rest of the compound, tried to open it, but it was locked. D slammed bodily against the door, which didn’t budge, before he remembered that he could simply unlock it from this side. He did so with shaky fingers and exploded onto the stark, bright hall of the compound. He slammed into Stan, his Stan, who staggered back, a lungful of air forced from him.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in there, Ford?!” he barked, grabbing D by the shoulders and looking him up and down. “The door was locked. We couldn’t get in! Are you okay?!” D shook in his brother’s arms. Was he okay? Was he okay? Was H okay?

He wasn’t.

And he wasn’t.

D’s knees went weak, and he slumped. Stan moved to hold him up.

“Phospho!” Jean-Paul cried. D hadn’t noticed him.

Phospho, Phospho, D, Ford…

He didn’t want to be him.

D pushed out of Stan’s arms and pelted away from his brother, down the hall, back to his room. He slammed the door shut; didn’t turn on the lights. He crumpled to the floor, clawing at his face. People outside were shouting for him. He shakily locked the door and crawled down the hall, to his bedroom. He curled up on the floor and tried not to think.

—------------------

D sat on the floor, with his back against his bed, poking morosely at the lunch Jean-Paul brought him. He couldn’t tell if he was hungry, and he really didn’t feel like eating. Jean-Paul was perched on the edge of the bed, his tail brushing against D’s shoulder. D rolled a cherry tomato across his plate with a fork. The room’s dull lamplight cast a warm sheen on its smooth surface.

“There are a lot of people out there who want to see you, y’know,” Jean-Paul said. D hummed noncommittally. He hadn’t left his room since he ran from H. He thought it had been a few days, but without a natural light cycle, it was hard to tell. Jean-Paul lapsed into silence for several long moments, his tail twitching. “This isn’t the best way of handling stress,” he said. “Or guilt.” D’s frown deepened and he tightened the ball he was curled into. “It’s okay if you can’t help it,” Jean-Paul added quickly. “But I think you should try.”

The tomato rolled off the plate and bounced to the floor. D stared at it.

“It can be… hurtful. To other people.” Jean-paul continued. “They’re left ruminating on what happened. They don’t know how bad you feel; if you feel bad at all.”

“I do,” D mumbled into his knees.

“It might help H to hear that,” Jean-Paul said. “To know that you didn’t mean to hurt him.” D gripped the rumpled fabric of his pant leg (he hadn’t changed since the other day.)

“I didn’t,” he murmured. “D-didn’t mean to. I… I didn’t…”

He still didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. The altar, the blue flames… in his bedroom…

“I know,” Jean-Paul said, shifting his tail to brush D’s cheek. “I’m sure H knows, really. This is just… difficult for him. Because of his past.”

D finally looked up, staring with curious concern at his polymorph friend. Jean-Paul’s ears flicked.

“It’s… not the first time something of his has been broken by someone he cares about,” the raccoon said, hesitating a bit at first. “He probably, um, associates it with being in trouble. Doubly so if it’s followed by being left alone. I know you didn’t mean to, but…”

Oh. Oh, no. D’s stomach dropped and his eyes widened in horror. That was what Bill had done. That was what Bill had done to H. D scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking Jean-Paul back onto the mattress. He had to fix this. He couldn’t be like that. Couldn’t be like the god. The demon. He flung the door open and strode through the hall. He had to fix this. He had to get to H.

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H ford belongs to @alexthebordercollie