this is the meanest thing anybody has ever said about dean
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Tired
704
CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU, fainting, lack of appetite, probably chronic illness, sickfic (with caretaking), implied death and euthanasia.
You must keep your room clean, and participate in the rotating roster of chores.
You can get food from the kitchen anytime. But meals are three times a day, and an opportunity to practice social skills.
Group therapy session is once a week.
Nothing is required, but still he’s aware he’s failing at freedom.
He can’t sleep in the bed in his room. It’s too soft, and not meant for him. The room is always too bright. He takes an extra pillow and a blanket, and sleeps in the closet, the door shutting out most light.
He sleeps a lot. He laid down in his closet and lost three days. After a few hours of activity, he needs to lay down and rest. He is always tired, he has always been tired, but now he can’t perform the routine functions he’s done all his life.
When he can make it to meal times, he can barely eat. He tries, he is hungry. But after a few bites, he can’t eat anymore.
It’s soothing and familiar, moving the vacuum back and forth over the hallway carpet. The vacuum gives him something to hold onto, something to focus on.
He hangs on tight when his vision grays out.
He wakes up in a bed. His bed? Micah is there, the concern on his face quickly erased by a reassuring smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be. You’re not well. Can you sit up?” Micah helps me, plumping up pillows and putting them behind his back with practiced hands. Then he puts a tall cool glass filled with something thick and purple with a straw in his hand. “Can you try drinking this?”
He can, and his mouth fills with the taste of bananas and berries. It coats his throat and settles cool in his stomach. He’s full by the the tie he finishes the glass, but he did finish the glass.
“Wonderful.” Micah plucks the glass from his hands and put it on a side table. “My miss liked those smoothies. Pete is talking about calling a doctor.”
“A doctor?” He tries to scramble out of bed, panicked. “No, I can work, I can be useful!”
Micah stops him, with firm but gentle hands. His expression remains reassuring, calming, but there’s pity and a little horror in his eyes. “That’s what a doctor means to you?”
704 nods, because he’s crying now, his throat closing on the tears and making it hard to breathe. The doctor visited worn out Domestics, then later they were replaced by someone new.
“That won’t happen here. This is a safehouse. You’re safe here, even if you’re tired and sick.”
He wants to believe it.
Forgive and Forget taglist: @autophagay @simplygrimly @justplainwhump @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @bluetheautisticrat @i-eat-worlds @whumpsday
704 taglist: @kim-poce @fishtale88 @i-eat-worlds @roblingoblin285
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