[Fic] Dog Days
For Andrew-mun who wanted: Anything with mutant Kevin.
He offers her one of his arms and tries not to wince when her fingers dart too close to his sensory quills. She carefully snips a burr out of his orange fur, then trims around the surrounding area so he doesn't look like he has a bald spot. She's always doing things like that without him having to ask. Not that he would ask. Or even think to. Why would something that looks like him care if he has a patch of fur missing? Still, he wouldn't dream of asking her to stop.
He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself, of course. It just...it's nice to be taken care of. She pulls his long black hair away from his face with her hair ties; even braids it sometimes. She clips his claws when they get too long or jagged. She let out the seam of his shorts to accommodate his thickening tail. He's put on weight. They keep him well fed, and there just isn't anywhere something like him can get all the exercise he needs. Not on this planet anyway.
Mostly he spends his days curled up in the storage unit they keep him in behind Grandpa Max's RV, where there's only enough room for him, and a small television set. He can't even turn around inside.
But when it's dark enough out, his Tennysons (and they are his Tennysons by now. He doesn't even try to fool himself into thinking they aren't) make sure he gets out, at least for a few hours. Far enough outside of town that they won't be bothered. Bellwood is surrounded by a good chunk of desert, and there Kevin can stretch his wings. He can race Ben across the sand. They go to the lake sometimes too; Grandpa Max's secret fishing spot and Kevin ignores the discomfort of his Pyronite arm and spends hours in the water. It feels cool and soothing against his rough skin and takes the pressure of thousands of pounds of muscle off his joints. He splashes Ben with his tail and laughs; actually laughs. It sounds like someone dropping a crate full of wine glasses. He suns himself on the pier beside Gwen. She leans back against him so she can do her summer reading, and use his bulk to shade her. As a redhead, she burns easily. His red skin never gets any redder.
He doesn't regret for a moment asking Tennyson for help that day on the Golden Gate Bridge; begging really. It's not much of a life, what he's ended up with, but they've done the best they could. He can't hold any of it against them, somehow. Not anymore. The place inside him that used to burn with rage has gone mysteriously still; empty. Now he only feels...something else. He can't quite put his finger on it. A little bit of sadness. A little bit of regret. Kevin supposes he might call it "sorry". Sorry for himself. Sorry about himself. Mostly he doesn't feel very much at all, other than big, and heavy, and stiff, and uncomfortable. And older than sixteen should feel. And afraid of what the future holds for him. His knees already creak like an old man's, and he's tempted more and more often to go around on all six. Gwen tells him, sometimes, what she's doing at school and he can't relate at all; can't even imagine himself interacting that way.
Can't remember having been anything else.
Because wasn't he always this thing? It seems silly to think he could have been like them, once. Silly to try and mimic their behavior. Why not use all of his limbs to walk? They work better that way. Why continue to speak when his voice sounds so unsuited to it? He doesn't have all that much to say.
Or doesn't know how to say it, anyway. How can he put into words what it is to have become what he has become?
Sorry. Tired. Hopeless.
He isn't changing back. He will carry this mistake, this punishment around with him forever. He will drag it through life until the day he dies. He'd call it a prison, but he isn't inside the thing: he is the thing.
But Gwen still helps him struggle his way into a t-shirt, on those occasions when he wants to wear one. And he does, sometimes. He wants to wear clothes; shoes. He wants to be able to sit in a chair and eat with utensils. He wants to drive a car. He wants to tell a girl he thinks she's pretty. He has a specific girl in mind.
"Kevin," she tells him softly, sometimes, "please don't leave us."
He knows she doesn't mean physically.
She knows he would follow her anywhere. He isn't sure if that makes him more, or less human, but it's true.
He offers her one of his arms and tries not to wince when her fingers dart too close to his sensory quills. She carefully snips a burr out of his orange fur, then trims around the surrounding area so he doesn't look like he has a bald spot. She's always doing things like that without him having to ask. Not that he would ask. Or even think to. Why would something that looks like him care if he has a patch of fur missing? Still, he wouldn't dream of asking her to stop.
He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself, of course. It just...it's nice to be taken care of. She pulls his long black hair away from his face with her hair ties; even braids it sometimes. She clips his claws when they get too long or jagged. She let out the seam of his shorts to accommodate his thickening tail. He's put on weight. They keep him well fed, and there just isn't anywhere something like him can get all the exercise he needs. Not on this planet anyway.
Mostly he spends his days curled up in the storage unit they keep him in behind Grandpa Max's RV, where there's only enough room for him, and a small television set. He can't even turn around inside.
But when it's dark enough out, his Tennysons (and they are his Tennysons by now. He doesn't even try to fool himself into thinking they aren't) make sure he gets out, at least for a few hours. Far enough outside of town that they won't be bothered. Bellwood is surrounded by a good chunk of desert, and there Kevin can stretch his wings. He can race Ben across the sand. They go to the lake sometimes too; Grandpa Max's secret fishing spot and Kevin ignores the discomfort of his Pyronite arm and spends hours in the water. It feels cool and soothing against his rough skin and takes the pressure of thousands of pounds of muscle off his joints. He splashes Ben with his tail and laughs; actually laughs. It sounds like someone dropping a crate full of wine glasses. He suns himself on the pier beside Gwen. She leans back against him so she can do her summer reading, and use his bulk to shade her. As a redhead, she burns easily. His red skin never gets any redder.
He doesn't regret for a moment asking Tennyson for help that day on the Golden Gate Bridge; begging really. It's not much of a life, what he's ended up with, but they've done the best they could. He can't hold any of it against them, somehow. Not anymore. The place inside him that used to burn with rage has gone mysteriously still; empty. Now he only feels...something else. He can't quite put his finger on it. A little bit of sadness. A little bit of regret. Kevin supposes he might call it "sorry". Sorry for himself. Sorry about himself. Mostly he doesn't feel very much at all, other than big, and heavy, and stiff, and uncomfortable. And older than sixteen should feel. And afraid of what the future holds for him. His knees already creak like an old man's, and he's tempted more and more often to go around on all six. Gwen tells him, sometimes, what she's doing at school and he can't relate at all; can't even imagine himself interacting that way.
Can't remember having been anything else.
Because wasn't he always this thing? It seems silly to think he could have been like them, once. Silly to try and mimic their behavior. Why not use all of his limbs to walk? They work better that way. Why continue to speak when his voice sounds so unsuited to it? He doesn't have all that much to say.
Or doesn't know how to say it, anyway. How can he put into words what it is to have become what he has become?
Sorry. Tired. Hopeless.
He isn't changing back. He will carry this mistake, this punishment around with him forever. He will drag it through life until the day he dies. He'd call it a prison, but he isn't inside the thing: he is the thing.
But Gwen still helps him struggle his way into a t-shirt, on those occasions when he wants to wear one. And he does, sometimes. He wants to wear clothes; shoes. He wants to be able to sit in a chair and eat with utensils. He wants to drive a car. He wants to tell a girl he thinks she's pretty. He has a specific girl in mind.
"Kevin," she tells him softly, sometimes, "please don't leave us."
He knows she doesn't mean physically.
She knows he would follow her anywhere. He isn't sure if that makes him more, or less human, but it's true.