chainhopper thangs

featherhopper had known it had been a stupid idea before they'd even tried. there was something that stuck in their head that pestered, asking, "what if it worked, though? what if you shut him up, though?" and the voice had gripped their paws around their crutch and try to bring it down on the head of worker bee. maybe they'd make a new one; one that didn't think like this - didn't /do/ things like this. maybe they'd call him too expensive to rebuild and they could have some quiet for good.

but of course his arm was out like a shot, their wrist caught in his iron grip and he squeezes until they're sure something will pop if he doesn't let up. featherhopper pretends he doesn't scare them when his hand is on their shoulder and he's pushing them to the floor, head colliding with the wood with a too-hard impact that they chose to ignore at the time. at least it's wood this time instead of solid tile. stupid idea stupid idea stupid idea and bee is hissing something they can't make out from the ringing - where did the ringing come from? - and they're grabbing their crutch and they scramble away. stupid idea.

there's a blissful ignorance that wears off as they get further away, an adrenaline powering them that peters off when it's clear they're not being followed - and then it sets in. the newfound ringing in their ear, a bruise blooming beneath the fur around their wrists in the sickening shape of his pointed hands, that broken leg aches something awful and each breath comes shallow and short as they double over with a wheeze. their vision swims beneath them, the carpet and wood melting together and swaying, refusing to stay still even when they furiously rub at their eyes. they need to sit down, lay down, whatever, it doesnt matter.

they slide themselves down the wall, a vague attempt at a sit with their legs sprawled out in front of them. featherhopper doesn't register when sitting up turns into laying on their side, head dipping as they close their eyes for a second before they snap back open. going to sleep with whatever this might be sounds like a death sentence, so they attempt to search it up - though after opening the wrong app and "covnusuicoson ssysymptnsn" returns zero results they give up, leaving their phone on the floor beside them. a minute. maybe two. it cant hurt, can it? just one moment to rest their eyes and stop the world from spinning, it's what they'd be told to do anyway - they can do this on their own.

"hey." there's a voice before there's a touch, but featherhopper knows either at this point. they manage to open one eye just a crack, looking up at bright, dancing lights making them recoil and grimace - too disorientated for proper words, settling for a discontented huff.

a chuckle, a thumb running down the underside of their ear, "yeah, thought as much. you look like death." and featherhopper can't make sense of that, leaning into his hand while making some vague noise of offence at his comment. that's right, though, because when did they ever make sense.

and the floor falls away and featherhopper thinks that was it, whatever bee had struck into them had broken their head and they'd just laid down and died - like featherhopper would. but that's not right, because he's still here and they can smell the pine and the sawdust as they lean against his chest, a pair of familiar arms keeping them close and away from the floor they were sure they were going to die on. of course, featherhopper only had a mild concussion and was fine the next day, but in the moment had decided that day would've been their last if it wasn't for him.

he gives a short hum, head tilted away, and walks. long yet casual strides that keep featherhopper from bumping against metal and rough edges, even when they bury themselves deeper - nose pressed against the fabric of his suit. good thing nobody's around at this time of day, knowing that the rumour that he was getting soft would spread like wildfire, especially given the usuals that hung around the office. none of them were here, though, so when featherhopper brings an arm around his neck he can trace patterns on their fur instead of pushing them aside.

featherhopper is laid out on a couch, because that'll help - keep their head down, let them rest. there's an offer of water that they huff and turn away from, and eventually their partner is resigned to sitting next to them, letting the comfortable silence sit as he glances at them through half-lidded eyes. he shouldn't sleep, he has work to do, after all.

by the morning they'll have lost all of this formality that they'd laid out. featherhopper throws their legs across his, is silent when he scruffs them and shifts them around to make room, when there's an arm around their back and a hand as big as their face running through their fur. their head will hurt if they open their eyes, as much as they want to look at him - not that it would be any different to the other thousand times. so they press a kiss against his neck and rest their head on his shoulder, giving a long sigh as their headache ebbs and lulls, letting them fall asleep with relative ease. they'll feel better in the morning; and he'll be there if they don't.