Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A lone (but not lonely) child sat under a tree, subtly bobbing their head to a sweet little ditty.

Only handfuls of handfuls of trees blessed the grey landscape of their home state. It so happened that one of them occupied the soil at the playground of the "Nondescript Orphanage of Nevada." The orphanage’s honorary "problem child," Hank J. Wimbleton, took full advantage of the tree’s boughs, despising how the sun beat down upon their bare head. They would like playtime better if only it happened at night.

Several other orphans, all in similar moods to brood as Hank did, sought the lonely tree’s shade as well but thought better of it. That Wimbleton, the quiet and withdrawn Wimbleton, could flare up in a frenzy whenever they saw fit. As it so happened, "when they saw fit" oft equated to whenever they didn’t get their way.

Hank found the resulting presence (or lack thereof) around their little spot perfectly fine. All the other kids had hair to shield them from the sun’s rays, anyway. They didn’t, and so under the tree they hid.

But as mentioned before, they weren’t lonely; they were just alone.

...The loneliness— pardon, the alone-ness, if you will, got to him a little bit.
Not that he didn’t like being alone: it had its perks. A few times, he found himself immensely enjoying the way his fellow orphans would avoid him, the way their voices would tremble when they spoke to him.

But a change of tone could be nice.
Not that Hank would know, of course; he never got to see it.

He was not getting his way, and that irritated him.
His irritation fed their fear of him; their fear of him fed his irritation. Rinse and repeat.

Their life at the orphanage—

‘No, it’s only for today. Only for today.’
The strange little feeling pestering them now was only for today.
(They could not have counted the times they have told themselves that, not even with all the hands in the world.)

Their day at the playground had them wishing the stupid sun would set faster. Only that funky little tune blasting from some kid’s radio (where the heck did they get that?) amused them now. Another kid danced off to the side, a ways away from Hank’s tree. Two of the three children danced their little hearts out. Though a distance apart, they enjoyed the music together.

Hank wanted the music to themselves.

Call them “introverted” (and they were very much so) all you wish. But no amount of Hank’s introversion would change the fact that they held a fondness for music, a fondness so strong that they would boldly run to the other kid and nonverbally demand the music player, like so—

"Hay! Back off!"
A fist square under their chin sent them reeling, had them landing square onto the ground.

So that was how it was. Hank was pretty acquainted with schoolyard brawls, and they were no stranger to giving into anger, either. The laughter surrounding them filled their ears only for a second; a moment’s witness to cruel childish laughter from their onlookers was all it took to set Hank’s minuscule temper off. The radio fell to the ground as fists went flying, the object of their quarrel went momentarily forgotten.

A punch swung high, and Hank ducked down low, reeling his fist back for a retaliatory—

"Children!"
They jolted from the rough-housing, startled by the rough voice above them. Who was this?! Hank turned to the offending intrusion, only to stand stock still in awe at what they saw.

'Jesus Christ.'

An old geezer towered over the two raggedy children. Dressed in a lighter grey smock, satin black hair reaching his shoulders and the promise of a beard soon-to-come framing the lower half of his face, the very image of Jesus Christ looked sternly down at the squabbling orphans. Hank retracted from the scuffle, their fists trembling at their sides. They cared to look at the strange man no longer, tossing their gaze away and focusing on the radio they had fought over. Worn hands carefully take the prized radio from the dirt, dusting the device free of debris. The older man promptly shut off the music that would have ill-befitted the scolding soon to come. Then he took their treasure hostage, keeping it to his chest as he knelt in front of them.

"They were fighting over the radio!" Without prompt, the dancing kid tattled on them both, pointing at the guilty children. The nerve this kid possessed infuriated them greatly.
"Them both. She had it first, but Hank tried to take it from ‘er," the third kid continued.
As the elder paid his attention elsewhere, nodding along, the second child reached for her possession. Keenly, the older man gave her a glance, which had her retreating immediately. Hank scoffed.

"Ask, and it will be given to you," the elder recited, his voice similar to a preacher's. Hank felt their face scrunch up upon hearing it, abhorred. They sensed a scolding coming on, and they despised it.

"C-Can I have it back?" The smaller grunt piped up, voice wavering fearfully. For added measure, she tacked on a "please" post haste.

"I will, kid. But first, come and tell me what’s gotten you two so angry with each other. I want to hear it from you two."

The two glaring opponents, now reduced to two guilty orphans, exchanged glances that softened. Hank merely pursed their lips silently, breaking their shared gaze first.
"I punched him first, Mr. Christoff," the other mumbled meekly, taking it upon herself to speak.

Mr. Christoff. Christ-off. An off-brand Christ, if you will. They weren’t wrong in thinking the Son of God had come to claim them both, after all.

Hank looked curiously at the strange man, never minding how the adult seemed to pull away slightly at the gesture. The new guy at the Nondescript Orphanage, perhaps? They clung to their favorite caretaker's side like a tick, so they barely knew any of the other adults—

"He— Hank, t-they asked, I punched 'im, I’m sorry…."
—but they supposed they could get used to this one! At the sight of Mr. Christoff turning his gaze to the other kid, Hank’s face lit up incredulously. He could get behind old man-scoldings if only they were in his favor.

"B-but..."

'OMFG.'

'But'? Shut up, right there! That was enough! Hank’s piercing stare sent the kid’s way shut her up nicely.
"N-Nevermind," she mumbled. Hank looked back at Mr. Christoff, wondering if their face betrayed their panic.

"Tell the whole of the truth, kid," their elder reminded her, not unkindly, as he returned her radio. "I was watching you three from over there." A thumb pointed over his shoulder took the children’s attention to another spot in the playground where ex-onlookers of the scuffle had meandered off back to their own devices. "'Running to you and trying to take what is yours' isn't very nice. I doubt that constitutes 'asking,' as well."

Never mind, the old man-scoldings could go die along with the sun. Oh, and buzz off with that: despite herself, the other grunt giggled quietly into her free hand. Another scathing glare from Hank had her burst of laughter going stillborn, though the icy gaze seemed to have lost its effect somewhat.

A gentle hand touched their shoulder. Hank flinched and turned, finding Mr. Christoff’s attention focused solely on them.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," the older man murmured. "I won’t hurt you. Did you ask her nicely after all?"

The older man's patience irritated them to no end. They've heard such things— lilting words that they wouldn't have taken from anybody else —from their favorite Mr. Sheriff, but not from a stranger. It made them feel nervous and small. The fact that Mr. Christoff's job bound him to the unspoken rule that he “had to be kind to children” did him no favors to wary Wimbleton.

Still, Hank replied, "not really."

"Alright, child… Hank, was it?"

Only a mumble that Christoff could vaguely chalk up to as a "yes." Wimbleton spoke as little as necessary. Thankfully, Christoff gladly carried the conversation on his shoulders, understanding that the child was not apt to talk, and that was that. But his duty of encouraging good value among the little ones must be seen through.

"Did it feel good fighting your fellow over a radio? That you could have shared with her instead?"

'Yeah. A little.' "N-No."

A raised brow made them feel like he was reading their mind. Whether he could or couldn't, Mr. Christoff made no mention of it. Hank merely chewed on their lip under his scrutinizing gaze, clutching at their grey smock and balling fists into the fabric. Immediately, the man’s gaze softened, and the hand on their shoulder squeezed gently.

"Alright, here. Deep breaths," Mr. Christoff instructed. "You too, child. Do you have a name?"
Tuning out the conversation Christoff had with the other orphan, Hank found themselves following, their shoulders rising with every intake of air. The reassuring grip on Hank's shoulder gentled, and the kid found themselves unsure as to whether or not that felt better.

"Now that we're all settled: do you two feel good that you fought each other instead of talking about it?" Mr. Christoff asked them, having one hand on each child’s shoulder.

In Hank's mind, an immediate yes; in unison with the other kid, a hesitant "no."

Soon, though, they find themselves taking that mental yes back. Their post-battle adrenaline wearing off, something foreign gnawed at them to imagine what the other kid must have felt. Hank supposed a big kid prone to temper tantrums running towards you with their hands outstretched for your things wasn't such a calming sight. They would have punched someone if they were approached like that, too.

A smile crept across the adult’s tired face, an unspoken sign that he took pride in the progress they made. "Let’s make a promise, the three of us. Okay?"
Jebediah held out a pinky finger, which the radio grunt gladly latched onto with their own. Hank was not so quick to join in. They always thought “pinky promises” held as much meaning as swearing on someone's mother (granted, they had no mother to speak of).

But whatever. It would be wise to get this over with. Hank reached out with their own pinky.

"Let’s promise that… if ever we feel something, like anger, we won't act in a way that hurts anyone. Not others, not ourselves. Let us all be quick to hear and slow to anger. Alright?"
Quick to hear, slow to anger. Hank chewed on their lip thoughtfully. They could definitely do the opposite, but that? They wondered what Mr. Christoff had to say about breaking promises.

But for the sake of having this man stop scolding them any longer, Hank played along with this stupid "pinky promise". Their fingers intertwined and then unlaced, two of three parties feeling satisfied with the exchange.

Hank only felt even more confused.

The older man picked himself up, dusting the sand off his knees with his hands. "Now, I'll be back in a bit. I doubt you two haven’t gotten a bit hurt after that fight of yours…"

Hank stared up at the older man in awe for the nth time that day. They expected the man to close his little sermon with the grand act of forcing them to reconcile, but no! Not even Mr. Sheriff tried to avoid the action, something they always found greatly aggravating. They could not help but look up at Christoff expectantly, confusion written all over their face. Hank couldn’t turn away even as Christoff caught their gaze.

It was all the man could do not to laugh at the sweet sight: Wimbleton possessed many, possibly countless walls built around their heart just as he expected, but it seemed like he had broken through one of them today.

"Forgive each other whenever you want," Christoff told them both. He predicted what the children were expecting of him, and he hit the bullseye—no apologies needed to be forced today. "I won't ask you two to do it now or tomorrow. But I hope that someday, it'll happen."

"Maybe," the other kid mumbled, hugging her radio close to her chest. "Maybe, i-if they're nicer."

Hank simply made a slight noise in their throat, looking away stiffly. 'If they were nicer?' The radio was as good as lost now. They would have to content themselves with listening to it from a distance.

"'m sorry," came Hank's soft apology before they stalked back to their spot under the tree.

They truly felt sorry…
…that the radio would never be theirs.

They just wished that the kid would just turn the radio back on and continue her stupid dance by herself, or whatever. Instead, the telltale signs of another kid telling on them (again) floated towards their hearing:

"They're not really nice, Mr. Christoff. They get mad a lot, at us other kids, and…"

Hank winced and pulled their knees close to their chest, their hands gripping at their feet. Their nails dug into the scuffed toes of their shoes, finding small solace in the way they left crescent marks in the rubber. The tiny joys they annexed while leaving some sort of mark into something material did little against the intangible shame they felt. Once again, they felt small, even though they were the biggest kid there.

Ah, that nagging, strange feeling in their chest again. Maybe Hank was sorry for something else, after all.

As they fidgeted with their hands and feet, they tensed upon hearing the all-too-familiar sound of chiming boot spurs. The sound (and the man that carried it with him wherever he went) was their bosom friend, and they couldn't wait for it to come closer. Maybe he could help the feeling in their chest go away...

They lifted their face glumly only to be met with a horrible sight: the kid they had just fought, hand-in-hand with Mr. Sheriff! Hank felt a pang of betrayal in their chest as they listened to the jingling fade away, their heart sinking. How could he have left them alone? Why, he barely even played with them at all nowadays!

Was he mad at them?

Hank curled up into a little ball once more, not wanting to gaze up the wretched sight any longer. The lovely noise faded, leaving them in horrible silence. There, they’d lost their favorite caretaker to some kid with a radio.

They would chase after Mr. Sheriff someday soon, they decided. But not today. Today they felt like becoming quite like the pebbles under the tree, unmoving and unnoticed—

"Hank?"
Oh, God. Mr. Christoff. Their new caregiver, they could only guess. Hank looked up to face him, their breathing hitched.

"I'm only here to check on your wounds, Hank. Are you hurt anywhere?"
"'m fine," Wimbleton mumbled quietly. They attempted curling their fists to hide the wounds on their knuckles and palms. Alas, the scratches stung, and their hands betrayed them, their fingers twitching against the little burns littering their skin. Christoff took sharp notice of how their hands moved and carefully took the child’s hands in his own.

"I'm going to bandage them now, alright?"
Hank only hid their face into his knees, wordlessly allowing him to methodically clean their wounds before placing bandages where their skin opened.

"Hank," Christoff began, turning to see if the child would meet their gaze. They didn’t. He carried on anyways, finding this necessary:
"Sh— Mr. Sheriff isn't mad at you, child."

Hank did not respond, for they had no idea how to. Then why? If he wasn't mad at them,— not just for the radio, but for their countless tantrums that he might have gotten fed up with —then why?

"I wanted to go patch you both up, give you both bandages. But Mr. Sheriff came along and wanted to help, so we split up," the man explained practically. The sound of plastic peeling off of what could have been a band-aid sounded like unmelodic music to Hank's ears. Wrapping the final bandage around Hank's pinky finger, the elder gentled their grip on the child's hand.

"I told him that I'd like to get to know you better." Christoff finished.
When the ministrations stopped and their hands were released, Hank gazed at what Christoff had done. Band-aids fashioned with prints of little kitty cats hid their wounds from the world.

"There," Christoff murmured gently. He simply looked on as Hank lifted their palms close to their face, the child eagerly soaking up the sight of cute cartoon cat patterns plastered all over their hands. The older grunt tensed as he watched their hands tremble, only to realize that this tremor was a happy one.

"Do you like cats?" The adult asked the child, already knowing the answer thanks to a certain other caregiver at the orphanage. The latter stiffened, their hands coming to rest on their knees. They didn't know if they were ready to embarrass themselves in front of this man just yet.

Christoff frowned, trying a different approach.
"If you want me to leave you alone, all you need to do is say so," he supplied.
As much as they felt like snubbing the strange man, Hank simply rested their cheek on one knee, curiosity written all over their face. They were interested in what kind of man Christoff was if Mr. Sheriff let him handle Hank. If they were going to be stuck with this man as their primary caregiver, they might as well.

Plus, he'd given them the best band-aids ever.

The older of the two chuckled softly, mimicking the younger's posture.
"Do you like it under this tree? I usually see you here."
"Yes," Hank bit out. That was a question they could answer without embarrassing themselves. To them, the question made no room for further conversation. Hank watched as Christoff quietly picked himself up, pulling a towel from his pocket and smoothing it over their head. While they tensed at first, the towel felt cooler compared to the air around them, and they hummed happily under its touch. Still, Hank found it odd that Mr. Christoff would query something that would lead to nothing until—

"How about I'll find something for your head," the older grunt offered. "You might like playtime a lot better."
—as if putting together pieces of a puzzle, he had somehow found one of Hank's problems out. Hank struggled to suppress themselves from visibly lighting up at the promise, burying their face further into their knees. Christoff only took that as a sign that they appreciated the idea.

He smiled, giving the child a gentle wave when they finally lifted their head to look at him. "I’ll be going for now, Hank."
They nodded, letting out a frail "okay."
"Call me if you need anything, alright?"

Once more, "okay." Then, "Mr. Christoff." Their voice sounded weak in their ears. Hank hated it, but it seemed like the name's owner quite liked it.
The older man's face crinkled warmly as he let out a soft laugh. "You and your friends can call me Jeb, child. Mr. Christoff's way too polite."
Ignoring how he called their fellow orphans "friends," Hank couldn't help themselves.

“Then you can call me Hank, instead of child.”
A small smile danced at the corner of their lip, though they tried to hide it. It became difficult when pride swelled in their chest as Jeb laughed. Hank tried to hide the lower half of their face into their knees, attempting to drown the quiet little giggles leaving their lips.

When the laughter subsided, the caregiver and orphan finally parted, the former leaving a pat on the latter's head.
"Enjoy the rest of playtime," Jeb told them before leaving.

A lone (but not lonely) child sat under a tree, quietly swaying their head to the sound of silence.

Only handfuls of handfuls of moments were ones that Hank J. Wimbleton found themselves at peace. Most of these moments took place in the comfort of Mr. Sheriff's embrace, though for this instance, they had no other company except themselves.

"Hay, um…"
Hank found themselves face-to-face with an outstretched hand, palm upwards. Tiny scratches patched with small bandages littered her hand from their brawl earlier. But the crosshair on her face told only of a kind gaze now. Beside her was the other dancing kid, hesitant but buzzing with eagerness.

"Wanna dance?"

Their actions henceforth still surprised Hank, even as they mulled over it in the comfort of their bed that night.

They eventually admitted to themselves that they had a good time doing it.

Chapter Text

The fun they had yesterday was… well, fun, but they disliked how everything wasn't perfect.

Hank had planned to wake up extra early today to get a headstart on finding Mr. Sheriff. Alas, an afternoon's worth of dancing to music and socializing with strangers had left the usually-withdrawn Wimbleton sinking into their bedsheets deeper than usual that night. For once, they regretted being the sleeping dragon everyone refused to wake up in the morning. This regret seeped into their already growing frustration, which they took out on a resentfully fixed bed.

They expected their plans to be foiled in one way or another but anticipating the worst did not ease their short temper in any way. The ornery child stalked silently throughout the shelter's hallways, keeping their (admittedly still sleepy) sight peeled for the telltale signs of Mr. Sheriff. The slightest glimpse of a hat, the soothing jingle of spurs,  anything. Hank resolved to find him today, and that was final.

Darn, still no sign of Mr. Sheriff anywhere. They only saw other orphans lining up for the morning toiletries. With the orphanage's oldest foundlings becoming more capable as they grew, the adults eventually found it acceptable to leave the kids to take care of themselves in the morning. Most were rinsing suds off their faces, changing into fresh smocks, or brushing each others' newly washed hair. A few stragglers still brushed their teeth.

As the oldest child in the orphanage, Hank most of all had the undeclared obligation to help the young Nevadeans with their morning routine. He never really followed through with it, and he didn't plan on starting today. The other children could move their hands of their own volition, however clumsy. He wasn't their keeper.

Still, they ought to have the courtesy for swallowing down their anger. It must be said that Hank could be commended for at least putting effort into that.

He kept his vision peeled for familiar body language. Hank settled his sights on a child beginning to clean their face. He acknowledged the other youth as Walter, the "dancing kid" they had mingled with yesterday. Wimbleton thought to clap his hands over his fellow orphan's shoulders but thought better of it. That would be too rude, so he chose to poke them hard between the shoulder blades instead. 

An undignified shriek woke our protagonist well up for the rest of the day. The smaller grunt spun round to face their attacker, soap suds running down their flustered face. Knowing that it was Hank, despite their ever-so-brief merrymaking the day past, did little to calm their nerves. Unbeknownst to Hank, a certain steeliness flitted about his features. Walt didn't know if that spelled aggression towards them particularly. Biting back their fear, they pouted up at their senior.

"Hank! You scared me!"

A curt "sorry." Then Hank asked— well, stated —plainly, "Mr. Sheriff."

Despite not having much to go by, they looked to have understood what he wanted. The child relaxed somewhat. "I dunno where he is," his junior admitted, shaking their head hastily. "I-I just woke up, like you…."

Disappointed, Hank turned elsewhere. They spotted a fellow "big kid" with familiar body language out of the corner of their vision who, unlike Hank, took on her  responsibility. She busied herself with helping a younger grunt pop their head through the hole of their smock. Taking notice of Hank in the same way he noticed her, the grunt lifted her gaze.

"Oh, morning, Hank!"

Hank shuffled over to them. He skipped formalities and got straight to the point, ignoring how the grunt within her care scampered off upon his approach.

Now that they were acquainted somewhat, he knew that the radio kid from yesterday was a relatively new addition to the orphanage named Emmie, and she agreed to tip him off when demanded. She dutifully reported that Mr. Sheriff was oft-caught with a select group of two new kids nowadays. In fact, she'd met them briefly yesterday, just shortly after her and Hank's little "argument" during playtime! Their names were S—

Ever so slightly, Hank's facial muscles gave an annoyed little twitch.

'WHAT.'

They did  notice Mr. Sheriff with the two same kids over and over again. They remembered two boys, to be exact, the same two boys always with the sheriff. But Hank didn't quite make the connection that Mr. Sheriff fussed over them specifically  until now. They only assumed that the two  just so happened to be there, never really paying mind to the other kids and preferring not to stare. But now that they put more thought into it, Hank found the whole thing ridiculous and took it upon themselves to right the situation accordingly. What could this preferential treatment be all about?! Mr. Sheriff could very well pay attention to them in between taking care of the new kids as he always has, and Hank would make sure to let him know.

Simply lifting their hand as a response to the confused "bye, Hank," thrown their way, Wimbleton sped through the morning regimen with a speed that would have made Mr. Sheriff order Hank to do it all over again. Wash up, change their smock, brush their teeth, and clean their face: done, done, done, and done. Painstakingly, they had to remove the stylish cat band-aids from their fingers as they groomed themselves. But the tiny nicks on their digits had already begun closing on their own. Hank allotted the orphanage's stock of kitty bandages to future injuries instead.

Heading out of the bathroom swifter than the others, the child found a couple of staff members going through every door in the hallway. Wimbleton could only guess that the two came to hustle the orphans straggling behind the morning schedule. He watched as they beckoned lagging children out of the rooms. The adults bid the younglings gentle "good morning "'s and ever-so-slightly sterner "come on "'s. When that  did not have them tripping out of the bedrooms quicker, the promise of a delicious breakfast did. The meal was cooked by Mr. Christoff himself, who came straight from the kitchen to next take on the task of calling everyone down.

Hank felt a strange little thrill at the sight of Mr. Christoff. So alike was it to the feeling they had whenever they saw Mr. Sheriff, though not as robust and certainly not as welcome. With Jeb stood Rich, a "veteran" at the shelter. He made himself known as the youngest but also the hardest worker in the orphanage: distinctions that did not pique Hank's interest in the slightest. The child's ever-constant cold shoulder did not stop the young man from trying— and struggling —to converse with them. 

"Time for breakfast, guys! C'mon now. C'mon, Hank," Rich beamed. "Mr. Christoff's cooked a mean—"

Hank regarded him without so much as a glance. "Go away." 

"Fish," Mr. Rich continued deflatedly, the pep in his voice swiftly fading. "And there's… some bread." He had expected from his friendly chat with Christoff that Wimbleton could "actually be a nice child, just help them out of their shell a little." Dejectedly, he glanced at his coworker in confusion, who could only give an apologetic look in exchange.

Hank had to wince at the ire in their voice, stopping in their tracks to try and recover the situation. They offered a quick "I mean, excuse me."

Fully pushing their way past the adults, they walked a ways away before their steps slowed to a halt. Something had caught their ear (not that grunts had any visible ears to speak of).

The sound of spurred boots traveling languidly down the shelter's staircase made Hank perk up, then deflate. Judging by how far away he sounded, Mr. Sheriff must  have heard them by now. Why wasn't he noticing them?

A careful hand grasping their shoulder startled them from their trance. Upon recognizing who it belonged to, Hank recalled what Jeb told them yesterday: that Mr. Sheriff supposedly harbored no anger towards them. It only became more difficult to believe him as time passed. The reassuring words, now sounding more like a falsehood the more they thought about it, nagged at Hank. So when they turned around to fix their gaze onto Jebediah, the older man found himself face to face with a glaring child. The sight shocked Jeb into gentling his grasp on the shorter grunt.

His concern pervaded his consternation. "Hank, is something wrong?"

"No." The word came out in a hiss, something that even they didn't expect. Swallowing down their guilt, Hank attempted to pry his hand off of their shoulder very politely.

Jeb retracted his grip accordingly but carried on. "I'm… my apologies… but child, are you certain? You don't look—"

Oh, for God's—! They wanted to tune in solely on the chiming sound, but this man kept on talking, stupidly fancy words and all! (lol hypocrite) 

Hank backed away, annoyance written all over their face. "Just—!"

Now truly overcome by shock, Jeb looked at him with a flash of hurt in his features. "Hank…"

A pang in their heart told them that they could not take any of this any longer.

"Just wait!" Hank pleaded. "Go away!"

Nothing Jeb could have done would have stopped the child from what happened next. The distressed Wimbleton made a desperate dash for the staircase, leaving panicked adults in their wake. Grabbing onto the handrail and vaulting over it—

"Oh, my God!" Rich shrieked.

—Hank jumped from the top of the stairway to the bottom, landing on both feet. After their explosive entrance, they whirled round to face Mr. Sheriff and the two kids that had whisked him away from them. For some reason, Mr. Sheriff was already facing the stairs' ascent, confused as to what the fuss was about upstairs, and so had a front-row seat to Hank's little stunt.

"Hank!" The sheriff yelped. But his cry went unnoticed against the louder sounds surrounding them. Hank's shenanigans had the entire orphanage erupting into hysterics over their breakfast plates. Some children cackled, some shrieked, while the adults either hurried to calm everyone down or scurried over to peruse the scene. The youngsters unfortunate enough to be upstairs at the time of the feat all stood clustered at the top floor's banister, their little heads peeping over the railing to see what brought about all the ruckus.

Hank only focused on the children that had taken up so much of Mr. Sheriff's time.

At Wimbleton's arrival, the smaller kid screamed and then laughed, their shriek of initial horror tapering into peals of delight. Their joyful howls revealed a mouth lined with sharp teeth unbefitting such a round, soft face. The bigger grunt between the two (the smaller one's sibling?) barely made a noise of surprise, leaning forward and peering curiously at the strange child that had jumped a whole flight of stairs. Their plump mouth twisted inquisitively, their brow raising in a manner almost comical.

Our protagonist tore their glare away from the two prime suspects, focusing on their mission. Pointing at Mr. Sheriff, Wimbleton stared fiercely at their former primary caregiver. 

"You!"  Came Hank's cry, defiant and— did their voice crack? 

Bit by bit, the noise Hank caused died down. All felt eager (or anxious) to see what he would be up to next. The sight of the never-feeble Wimbleton faltering stunned some into silence.

"Me!" Mr. Sheriff sputtered, utterly confused. Flustered tinges of red tinted the Texan's otherwise grey face. "Hank, what was that? A-Are you okay— God, you could'a gotten hurt!"

"I'm not!" Hank exclaimed. They refused to pay any mind to the slight numbness in their foot. Did the static lie in their left or right foot? Darn, did they both hurt? Hank gritted their teeth despite it all.

"Are you sure?"  The hapless sheriff implored, stepping closer. "Are you… Oh, Hank, why'd you  do  that? And I thought..."

"Shem," Mr. Christoff called apologetically, rushing to meet his superior at the bottom of the stairs. Thankfully, he descended the staircase in the correct manner. "I mean, sir;  I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry, sir," Rich seconded faintly, sounding disheartened as he followed Christoff.

"You boys, I heard… Did they really…?" Mr. Sheriff mouthed not-so-quietly, looking between his employees. The way Mr. Rich avoided their senior's gaze and how Mr. Christoff pressed his lips into a thin line answered the sheriff's unfinished question plenty.

"Can you— can y' hold 'em for me, Rich? Aw, no, 'Ford, dear, I'll be back in a jiffy. C'mon now, Mr. Rich is nice…."

When the grownups had finally extracted the children from Mr. Sheriff's hands, the latter turned to the orphan responsible for setting the shelter's mood ablaze. As the adult knelt in front of the child, the younger bit their lip, dreading what would come.

"Hank," the sheriff called quietly. "Follow me, okay?"

Hank could thank him for at least sounding the death knell after most of the other children lost interest in the conflict. Such a wound to the ego that could have been. The smaller audience did little to console them, however; their stomach still sank at the tone in the adult's voice. 

The silent march to the sheriff's office marked one of the few times Hank would ever dread coming to this room. Hank dragged their feet as they walked but then decided against it. Best to get this over with as soon as possible.

The orphanage office was also the sheriff's quarters. The usual desk and chairs sat to the upper left of the room. As a courtesy to those who came here simply to discuss business, filing cabinets and drawers obstructed the view of the bed in the lower right corner. A small space left unobstructed acted as a passageway to Mr. Sheriff's "bedroom." An old rocking chair occupied whatever little space left, placed near a window overlooking the shelter's entrance. Here, Hank would wait until Mr. Sheriff finished attending to a knocking at the door.

"Sit here, for now, alright? Careful, now—"

As Hank wordlessly clambered into the rocking chair, they made to grip the furniture's arms while it swayed under their weight. Mr. Sheriff patted their head before moving for the door.

The other familiar voice outside revealed to Wimbleton that Jeb had been trailing behind them meekly, seemingly finding himself culpable for the morning fiasco.

Trying to focus on the shotgun propped up against the wall near the bed, Hank couldn't help but let their attention wander towards the conversation at the door.

"I have to apologize, Shem. The kid, he… Hank only became more distressed when I—"

"Up-up-up," the sheriff interrupted sharply. "No, Jeb. Somethin's up, and I'll handle it, don't you worry your head. You did what y' could."

Sucking in air through gritted teeth, Hank moved to curl up in a ball on the rocking chair. Once more, the thing lurched gently in response to their movement. To little result, they tried to find comfort in how it rocked them in the same comforting manner Mr. Sheriff would.

The newer caregiver gave in to his superior. "If you say so, Shem. But..."

"Good morning, Mr. Sheriff. Good morning, Mr. Jeb. What's goin' on over here? It was noisy." Ah, the orphanage's resident busybody.

"Good mornin', dear. Oh, it's alright, go on and eat break— actually, Walter, dear? Could you tell me if you caught what made Hank so mad this morning?"

"N-No, Mr. Sheriff," came the small voice. "When I saw them, they were already… um, yeah…."

Dang it, Walt! Hank bit down on his lower lip furiously, despising the loose grasp Walter had on their words. Always ready to get him into trouble, it seemed. That little remark would certainly worm its way into the scolding to come.

"Sorry, dear. You go on and have a nice meal. Eat up, now."

"Oka-ay." They elongated the word happily before their tone fell. "You gonna join, Mr. Sheriff?"

Hank could hear the pout in their voice. He scowled, burying his face further into his knees and putting his hands around himself. He was the reason Mr. Sheriff would be busier than usual that morning, and he knew it.

"Will in a bit. I'll get back to y'all soon as I can."

Sounds of agreement from young and old marked an end to the conversation. Hank tensed, their breath bated.

Mr. Christoff parted with a few more words, something Hank couldn't quite discern. The words slipped out in such a hushed manner. In an attempt at divine intervention, Jeb tried to play the peacemaker, going by his voice. Unfortunately, it did not affect the eavesdropping Wimbleton, who, in juxtaposition, felt quite the opposite of peace.

They could hear Mr. Sheriff, who only said:

"I could never, Jeb."

Never? Never what?

The spurs strapped to the sheriff's boots rang gently, heralding the arrival of the answer to the many questions in Hank's head. As the man knelt in front of the rocking chair, the sounds quieted. An unfamiliar unease blanketed the room that should have been one of the places Hank would only feel comfort and nothing else.

"Hank, dear, what's all this I've been hearin' about you snappin' at Mr. Rich and Mr. Christoff?"

The small grunt shrank in on themselves, their shoulders hunched as they felt that strange something in their chest again. Here it was. Their caregiver's voice rang gently yet still sternly in his ears. But his tenderness only cushioned words that weighed like bricks on their mind.

"You and Jeb were gettin' along so nice yesterday," Mr. Sheriff mourned, unable to fend the frown off his face. "And the other kids, have you been scarin' em, too? Can we talk about that, dear?"

"I'm not mad. I wasn't mad." Hank drawled out the words out helplessly, lost as to where they had done wrong. 

"Then what happened?" Sheriff asked patiently, trying to meet their gaze to no avail. He felt a momentary hope when Hank lifted their head, only for it to flit back into nonexistence when they insisted on turning the other way. "Did you get mad at Walter this morning?"

"No," Hank vowed, finding the wall next to them quite interesting. "I was askin'... askin' them and Emmie, I wanted to ask where you... 'c-cause I woke up late..."

At 'you,' the sheriff tensed. Hank carried on. "I-I tried to, but I wanted to hurry, hurry and… you..."

'You're supposed to be taking care of me.' They shook that thought out of their head, hating how demanding it sounded. Hank took to holding themselves once more. If only the way they curled in on themselves could crush the growing, unidentifiable feeling in their heart. They would collapse in on themselves if need be!

'You're supposed to be taking care of me too.' A bit better, but Hank's pride was disproportionate to his age. He would not, for the life of him—

"It's okay, Hank," Mr. Sheriff reassured, his voice exquisitely gentle. "Take your time."

Breathing, for whatever reason, became rather tricky. Hank heeded not the gentle reminder to 'take their time,' opting to do the opposite.

'I want… want….'

Every thought in their head sounded wrong. They chose to say the words that sounded right.

"I… missed you," Hank choked out. They struggled around the lump forming in their throat, their body moving with the effort it took to swallow it down. "That's all."

Indeed, that was not 'all,' but it was all they wanted to offer. Hank shrank further back into the rocking chair, jolting at how it tipped back in response to their weight. Pulling their knees closer to their chest, they hid their face from the adult. Hank soundlessly pleaded with their tear ducts to save the waterworks for another day.

The Sheriff's stern composure, already fragile, broke completely. His gaze softened at the sight of his kid, his shoulders slumping.

Mr. Sheriff had his own realization, as well; unfortunately, Hank's drive looked remarkably similar to their anger. Or was it that only a hair's breadth of a line separated them both? Either way, Hank stood oblivious to this fact, as did most of the world.

"Ah, shoot," he despaired. "I-I'm sorry, now, Hank. We… I  misunderstood you."

Wimbleton did not withdraw from the comfort of their little ball. He could hear how they breathed hard through their mouth, and his heart ached for them.

"I'm going to pick you up, okay? That okay, dear?"

Without looking up from the little shelter they'd made for themselves, they responded with a hurried nod. The sheriff wasted no time lifting the kid from the rocking chair, one hand under their folded legs, the other supporting their back and head. 

"My poor kid, bless your heart," the adult sighed, shifting to rest in his chair. "I'm sorry. I getcha now, what you wanted."

Settling heavily into the rocking chair, Mr. Sheriff cradled the child to his chest. "And God, I swear, I meant to tell you, I have. Been meanin' to explain what it is I was doin', really, I did. I'm so sorry, dear."

Where any other kid would offer a frail "it's okay" or anything of the like, Hank sniffled, "Whatever." 

This response rang familiar to the sheriff, yet it also stung. But however tempting it was to press for forgiveness as he oft did whenever mediating a fight between two children, being in a similar situation himself humbled him somewhat. Mr. Sheriff felt it fine if Hank did not forgive him yet. He would absolve himself in due time, earn their forgiveness naturally.

Yet something nagged at the sheriff: Hank's vexation did not come unwarranted. But the means through which they expressed said frustration...

"But… could I ask you something, Hank?"

The child remained curled up, speaking into their smock. "Yeah?"

"Walter came by 'n it seemed like you scared 'em this morning," the grownup began. As he chastised them, he did so as kindly as he could.

"I said sorry," Hank tried to explain themselves, their frown hidden by their knees. "I just wanted to find you faster."

Mr. Sheriff hummed as he listened. He pressed his heel to the floor, letting the chair gently rock them both. "Even with you saying sorry, you're still a little scary to them, you know?"

Hank chewed on their lips thoughtfully, silent. Uncurling a little, they took to nodding against the sheriff's chest.

"You're near and dear to me, Hank. Really, you are. But you kind of scare the others sometimes, and I have to take care of  all  of y'all. I care for all you kids."

Hank listened quietly, though their mind did not hold the same sort of silence.  'Not just me.'  The thought elicited a peculiar feeling in their chest that they didn't quite understand. 

Peculiar, because they were fine with that somehow. Mr. Sheriff caring for all of them.

"You gotta take care of 'em too, hm? Like they're your little siblings. We're all one big family."

He omitted the harmful "like I told you" from his words. They were no strangers to this type of conversation (albeit the added melancholy was something they had to get acquainted with), but he figured that Hank didn't need to hear words such as those.

The unspoken latter half of that sentence— the implication that their patchwork family could easily be frayed by adoption or whatever else could happen to their ragtag bunch —would stay unspoken, too. Hank only needed comfort, first and foremost. That, he would give them. Thankfully, Wimbleton calmed, relaxing fully in the sheriff's embrace with a sigh.

"Can you try doin' that for me?" Mr. Sheriff drawled tenderly, gazing down at Hank. "Try… try takin' care of them. Like, try bein' a bit nicer to them. Kind of like how..."

By the higher powers, inspiration fell upon him, and he thanked them heartily. He completed his request with an analogy Hank would surely understand.

"...how you like me  takin' care of you. Hm?"

They couldn't blame anyone for wanting to feel this way: the way Mr. Sheriff could ease and soothe the thrumming in their heart, call to silence the noise in their head.

"If you don't want to love them yet, well, that's fine," he reassured. "Just try bein' nicer to everyone."

Hank grumbled. "Do I have to wash them, too?" With their head rested on Mr. Sheriff's chest, they peered up at him curiously. "Feed them an' all that?"

The grownup let out a quiet laugh that they felt more than heard. "Only if you can and only if you want to."

The child made a little noise in their throat. "Okay. But if they make me mad…!"

"'Course I won't ask you to never get mad!" The sheriff insisted. "That's awful hard, Hank. But if you do feel mad, all I ask is that you don't bring it out on the others."

The acts of feeling and acting seemed to go hand-in-hand in Hank's mind; as a result, thinking on this request quieted them for a while. A similar request (a promise,  in fact!) had been made the day past, and they had failed it in record-breaking speeds. To be asked of it twice, by the caregiver they loved most? One might as well have asked them to sprout a limb out of their right shoulder. Hank frowned, grumbling. "Hard…"

"It is," Mr. Sheriff agreed, "that's the truth of it. But I promise it'll feel a lot better bein' with the other ones if you're nicer with them. Dunno how, but it does."

He knew that Hank thought this over seriously, what with the way they stilled in his lap, focused on the wall. As Wimbleton mulled over this request, the sheriff still found himself distressed over one thing.

"You know, I'm still sorry, Hank." Mr. Sheriff whispered weakly.

Hank's mouth curled, vision still trained on the wall.  "I did somethin' bad."

"So did I," came the bittersweet reply. "Made you feel alone, now, didn't I…?"

Their silence spoke volumes. Hank's form rose and fell as Mr. Sheriff's did while he took a deep breath. 

"Still shouldn't have left you like that with no explanation or nothin'..."

The sheriff's voice trembled upon the last word. He cared for Hank deeply, but he also acknowledged the child's imperfections. As it stood, two new, anxious and confused orphan children could hardly be appropriately introduced to the orphanage by one easily agitated orphan child.

But oh, the sheriff had still been unfair to Hank. Whisked away by the two-handed task, he'd left them without so much as a word, let them sit in their own emotions he knew  could brew into a confused little tempest. What a sight it must've been for the child: Mr. Sheriff accompanying every other orphan  except Wimbleton, and on the flimsy grounds of "their undeveloped emotions," nonetheless! Hank naturally withdrew from the crowd but could not help getting hurt by what seemed to be outright avoidance from the sheriff, as evidenced by how tightly they clung to him now.

All of this motivated Sheriff to try a different approach, one where Hank didn't have to go through their tempest alone. He prayed he would not give into the same cowardice that had led him to abandon Hank— however momentarily —in the first place.

"I'm sorry, Hank." The adult repeated. "I got too caught up, and I wasn't fair to you, and I hurt you real bad."

A gentle hand cupped the top of their head. Hank reached up to pet it with their own small hand in silent reassurance. At the gesture, Mr. Sheriff's lips curled into a grateful smile. 

"I'll still have to get them used to the place 'n all, but…."

Hank leaned in. 'But'...? They could adjust to this new arrangement, but what did Mr. Sheriff mean?

"I'll do it better from now on," the latter finished. "Way better."

Looking gratefully at their caregiver, Hank swallowed the lump in their throat, resting their chin on the grownup's chest. The sheriff could practically sense how puzzled Hank felt at the time, feeling it in their gaze.

"Why'd you have to take care of them so much?" Hank asked, their voice void of jealousy. Nothing of the sort, no; only curiosity occupied their words. "Are they sick?"

Mr. Sheriff shook his head, chuckling softly. "Nothing like that. They're, uh… One's about your age, other one's still a toddler. He looks like a baby! But he's three, four? Years old."

The promise of a story hung from Mr. Sheriff's tone. Hank snuggled in, wordlessly urging him to continue.

"So, you know how kids your age can be, y'know, introduced to the place by the other fellas. Other staff."

"Like Mr. Abram." They didn't appreciate the other workers as much as he did Mr. Sheriff, but they had been around the orphanage long enough to know theirnames,  at least. "Or Miss Erimentha... Miss Maia and Mr. Sloane, sometimes, Mr. Rich... Doctor..."

"Yep." Mr. Sheriff would have ruffled Hank's hair if they had any. "Actually, I pro'lly would'a let Jeb try and handle Sanford instead, but, ah…"

The foundling tilted their head slightly, watching the sheriff's expression falter before he continued. "Well. Anyways, who do babies and toddlers go to…?"

"You," Hank finished. Briefly, they cuddled into his chest once more to hide the smile that crept onto their lips. "Like I  went to you."

"Exactly," Mr. Sheriff chuckled. "But oh, we couldn't just take them apart from each other! Even if we wanted  to, we couldn't. Big brother Sanford wanted to stay with his friend as much as he could."

The child retracted their head, almost in disgust. "Ew. Why?" One would assume the younger would fear separation, but the  older?  Hank scoffed, unimpressed.

"Naw, Hank." The man petted Hank's head, using the ultimate weapon that was his gentle and reprimanding tone. "Don't say 'ew.' It's awful scary to be in a place you don't know all of a sudden, with a buncha kids you don't know yet. I let them stay together 'cause I wanted them to feel safe here first."

"Oh."

"Sanford's a good kid," Mr. Sheriff promised, "just a bit nervous. I've seen where he's lived, Hank. Oh, our home's an entirely new place for them both, him most of all. It's big, with so many new people around, and he pro'lly don't know if he can trust us or not."

Hank gave in to this explanation, nodding. They understood that the grownups needed to earn the new small fry's trust. Why, they had experienced the same sort of thing yesterday.

"He wants to protect the baby," Hank mumbled absentmindedly. Their caregiver confirmed this with a hum.

"The other one, Deimos… a toddler, not a baby. Still the youngest one here." The sheriff explained, pursing his lips. "Real small too. Might get lost with the other kids."

'Oh' was, once again, all Hank could say at the moment. They later quietly admitted that he "kinda thought he was a baby" at first. "Like, a really small baby."

"Let's help him grow, then." Sheriff decided, resting his head against the rocking chair. "Grow up big 'n strong."

"Do I have to teach him how to be big?" Hank huffed. "I'm  big. Dunno how to teach him, though."

"We-e-ell," Mr. Sheriff drew out the word, sinking his teeth into his lower lip to suppress the desire to laugh. "You might could, uh…."

They both deliberated it on their own together, each quietly trying to figure out how Hank had shot up to their height at the young age of seven. After a brief moment of thought, Mr. Sheriff piped up. "Oh! You could teach him to eat his veggies like you do."

Mr. Sheriff might have raised Hank for all their seven years, yet could not at all get acquainted with the side of Hank that nurtured since it rarely reared its undeveloped head. He would eventually rue saying this on the day he would find Wimbleton piloting a rather aggressive "airplane" of peas Deimos-bound. As it stood, though, the sheriff figured he should give Hank a lovely morsel of thought for them to chew on.

Wimbleton did chew on this idea for a while, the little cogs in their little head turning. They hummed thoughtfully, then nodded. "Okay."

"You really okay with it?" The adult really tried masking the disbelief in his voice, truly he did. "I-I mean, you…"

"I wanna try," Hank mumbled. "He needs to become bigger. 'S too small."

After a moment of stunned silence, the man laughed. It was so like Hank to say that, although he wished that perhaps, wayward in Hank's heart, they secretly sought Deimos' growth for a reason deeper than that. If they did, there was a high chance he would never hear of it; his kid acted out rather than spoke their beliefs, only using their words for the odd little quip now and then. He would just have to see where Hank's intentions lay as time passed.

Wherever it was that Hank's heart rested, their promise of an attempt at new behavior was an improvement of sorts. An improvement that he took pride in.

In quiet thanks, he laid one hand over their head, patting them affectionately. The shift from an exchange of apologies to a story about the shelter's newest had lulled the office into its former, familiar easiness. Mr. Sheriff's other hand rubbed comforting circles into their back, humming lowly.

"Isn't this nice, bein' calm like this? Nice' n calm."

"Mmhmm," Hank mumbled in content.

The older grunt tipped his head back against the rocking chair, fighting the same ease that Hank felt creeping into his own bones as well. Even if the day had barely begun, Hank could all too easily fall asleep right then and there, and so could Mr. Sheriff. The room's atmosphere teemed with comfort, reminding the Sheriff of when only he ran the shelter. It reminded him of when the orphan named "Hank" referred to the first and only infant at the orphanage that often spent their time dozing peacefully in his embrace.

Now, the orphanage had long since earned its hard-won esteem as a fully-fledged shelter, with more children who needed a place to call home and other adults who wanted to build and safeguard that home. Now his Hank was bigger than they'd ever been, though they still yearned for the warmth he gave them when they were small. The sheriff would claw through Hell and back before ever admitting that while he despised the concept of having a "favorite" among the orphans under his care, Hank would definitely claim that position as their own in a heartbeat.

Mr. Sheriff saw it as them just needing a little more love. A "problem child" (oh, he would erase that term from existence, if he could) such as Hank only wanted a little more love, consideration, and...

The growl of a small, empty stomach startled the two from their comfort-induced reverie.

...food, evidently.

A somewhat amused Mr. Sheriff and an immensely embarrassed Hank walked hand-in-hand downstairs for breakfast, stomachs empty but hearts full.

True to Mr. Rich's testimony, Jeb's breakfast of fish and bread was nothing short of a feast to the foundlings' tastebuds. The remaining fat fillets of delicate Mackinaw trout sat at the table, seasoned just right for young Hank. The younger children still at the table eagerly partook in sticks of buttered bread lightly topped with garlic. Hank enjoyed popping breadsticks into their mouth, so much that Mr. Sheriff reminded them to share. It became evident to the shelter's own Mr. Abram that he would need to work hard to win back the kids' hearts with his cooking, so a friendly little rivalry between old employee and new sparked that day. Other than that and Hank's earlier stunt, the orphanage went about the daily routine peacefully, if not livelier than usual. 

Our protagonist still stayed a ways away from the rest of the children, leftover traces of what might have been shame still in their heart. The sheriff understood. Hank needed time to cool off on their own, and he would allow them to do so. Wimbleton carried on about their day as normal, if not with a little more interest for a particular pair of orphans. They listened to the Sunday readings quietly, occasionally casting a glance over to the kid with the inquisitive mouth. They sat under their usual tree during playtime, watching the tiny kid gleefully run laps across the shelter's property. Every once in a while, Hank retreated to Mr. Sheriff for some well-needed affection, silently taking a spot parallel to one of the newbies and cuddling into their caregiver despite the two other kids' presence.

But by the following day, Mr. Sheriff would see that Hank spoke to everyone they might have upset the day prior. No need to "force," as Jeb had put it in a conversation they had during a break, an apology; a little encouragement could be all they needed to apologize after a day of cooling off. The sheriff thought that Christoff's method was worth a shot.

Hank J. Wimbleton woke up that morning to a wondrous sound. The spurs strapped to the sheriff's boots rang gently, heralding the arrival of their most favorite person in the world. As the man knelt in front of the sleeping child, the sounds quieted. 

They shouldn't get their hopes up. Maybe they were dreaming.

"Hank… wake up, darlin'..."

But oh, how tempting it was to check. Roused from their sleep, Hank waited for their vision to clear and saw

'MR. SHERIFF'

His kindly face! The gentle sound fooled them not! Absolute joy overwhelmed them, their hands trembling as they moved to clutch at their sheets to rip them off of themselves. Scrambling off the bed—

"HANK!"

—fell face-down into the carpet.

Hank had to walk around the orphanage that day with a bandage around their head.

They supposed they could  learn a good moral from the ordeal: not to try and leap out of bed without any proper footing.

Oh, and they learned how to speak with their fellow orphans a little better, as well; that was worth mentioning too. Mr. Sheriff greatly appreciated the second moral learned eighty times more than he appreciated the first.

Chapter Text

"Alright, thank you kindly, Jeb, for… naaaaw, God, my poor kid! Just look at 'em, head all wrapped up like that! Hank, you be careful from now on, okay?"

Still somewhat subdued from consuming a slice of humble pie, Hank merely nodded. 

"I did promise I'd acquire something for your head," Jebediah told Hank. They had just finished apologizing to a handful of grunts that morning after breakfast, capping off the series of sorry's with one directed to Jeb after he left the kitchen. Truthfully, he had forgiven the kid hours past. Christoff would instead redirect his attention to the injury afflicting them at present. 

"Next time, you won't need to bump your head to get it covered anymore. Are you feeling any better, Hank?"

Wimbleton hunched their shoulders, nodding. "...mm. 'm sorry."

"I'm glad. But… your head, I mean."

Their demeanor changing, the child tipped their gaze up and shook said injured head insistently. "Don't hurt anymore."

"You sure about that, Hank?" Mr. Sheriff frowned. Hank nodded with a bit more enthusiasm to assert that they indeed felt fine.

Of all those they spoke to that morning, Hank himself seemed the least perturbed by his accident. In fact, the bandages made them feel cool.

No, not that sort of cool. Hank supposed that even without the cold pack they used to ice the bump on their head earlier, they felt the desert heat a little less. But it also made them stand out in the way they felt was only theirs. The other children had hair, but he had a sweet crown of bandages! Why hadn't the thought of a head covering dawned on Hank before? They felt brilliant, they looked…  average, but that could change with what they chose to wear next. Kicking their legs joyfully as they sat on one of the dining room chairs, Hank idly ran their fingers along the bandages and imagined what sort of accessory would look best.

The sheriff chuckled and shook his head with a smile. "If you say so… oh, hold on a minute."

Mr. Sheriff pulled away after Wimbleton's brief apology session, attending to one of the walkie-talkies strapped to his belt. Hank's peripheral caught how Christoff perked up at the sound of the call… or rather, the mention of who the sheriff spoke to.

"Doc! Yello. Come in, over. Oh…?"

The hesitance in their employer's voice pulled the adults in his vicinity into a brief wave of tension. A slightly groggy Mr. Abram searching for coffee woke at the sheriff's voice, stopping in his tracks to eavesdrop. Jebediah searched Mr. Sheriff's face fearfully, and his lips parted as though he wanted to say something. The latter raised a reassuring hand before returning to the handheld.

"...Okay, you're already on the— God, you know, you scared everyone here! 'Course you can stay. Over."

Without a thumb on the PTT, the sheriff muttered to himself. "You're stayin' here for a…." He paused, listening intently to the chatter over the line. When he wanted to make his voice heard, he pushed the button to talk.

"Copy. Doc, somethin' happen over at work? Over." 

Hank watched Christoff tense further. They disliked how different he looked then, so uneasy and not as serene as he should be, so they put a small hand on the adult's and gave it a quick pat before retreating. Realizing that the child picked up on what he felt, Jeb gave Hank an equally transient smile, appreciating the minuscule but heartfelt act of comfort.

Mr. Sheriff shifted from where he stood, a hand on his hip. "Look, if you say so, alright? Take care, o— Calm down, no— heck, I'm  glad  you're— I'm not kickin' you  out,  I could never—!"

Christoff relaxed a bit more while Hank wondered what this all meant. They were familiar with the 'over's; often, the sheriff had pulled away from speaking gently with the orphans to bark a command into his handhelds. How "Doc" spoke to Mr. Sheriff puzzled Hank; the former sounded even more energetic than usual. "Doc" didn't need any "kickin' out," either; he barely stayed at the orphanage long enough anyways.

"...Pff, they missed you too, Doc. You take care now. Over."

The sheriff strapped the transceiver back onto his belt and turned round to an approaching Abram. "Abe! Up already?"

"Extra help makes the day go a bit quicker," Abram shrugged. "What happened, sir?"

"Well, good mornin'. And you'll have a better morning when you hear this!"

Jebediah also approached Mr. Sheriff. Unabashedly, he asked what purpose their call had.

"Well, then, dear old Doc's comin' to stay longer than we thought! I thought I'd never see the day. How's about it, Abe? A day off or two." The sheriff taunted his employee lightheartedly, nudging at his side with the back of his hand. "Catch yourself some good fish over at Lake Tahoe—"

The adults' banter faded as Hank lost interest. Mr. Sheriff taunting Mr. Abram for a day off, Abram trying to pass it onto Mr. Christoff, and Jeb countering as if he and Mr. Abram had been comrades for years. All Hank needed to know was that "Doc" was coming to the orphanage "longer than Mr. Sheriff thought," and to be quite frank, they couldn't care any less. Not out of any particular disdain for him, of course; Hank saw all the other caregivers as just that: "the others." Today would be an average day, and the week would go just as expected, only with the addition of another adult.

Mr. Sheriff's approach, parting from his two employees with a few words about "keeping it in the kitchen," put a stop to Hank's train of thought. They stopped kicking their legs mindlessly as the sheriff crouched down in front of them.

"Hank, dear, I gotta go fetch Doc. Mind stayin' with S' n D for a bit?"

On second thought, perhaps today wouldn't be so normal, after all. Hank's mute little nod would be betrayed by how their hands gave a happy little quake.

Mr. Christoff accompanied the sheriff in welcoming this "Doc" to the orphanage. Jeb served as his backup in case the arriving employee's trip to the shelter went awry in any way. One could call the sheriff "paranoid" or "cowardly" all they wished, but they also had to acknowledge how the possibilities ran for miles. Employees carrying contraband, stowaways hidden in the car, stowaways hidden in the car carrying contraband— he could never be too careful with a house of foundlings in his care. The goings-on in Nevada, "normal" or not, had to be handled with extreme prejudice. Say, the sound of screeching tires fast approaching the orphanage.

"What in Sam Hill...?" Tense, the sheriff strained his hearing. By his side, Jebediah assumed the same alertness.

True enough, a car sped down the city streets and towards the shelter the children called home. Alarmed at the dizzying speeds it went, the sheriff let out a piercing whistle. He raised his shotgun for his employees to see before readying himself to fire when necessary. The adults drew their firearms at his signal: Mr. Christoff primed his Desert Eagle while Miss Maia came running round with her shotgun. Amid children leaving their breakfast plates to hurry for a hiding place— Hank dragging the two boys under his wing into a hiding spot with him —Mr. Abram wielded his own Deagle in case the oncoming intruder broke past the front lines. Everyone kept their mouths closed to save energy for the oncoming scuffle.

After a careful look at the car, Mr. Sheriff barked out a false alarm, calling his employees to lower their weapons. Upon closer inspection, this was not a strange vehicle that promised a fight nor a new adoptive parent or two or three or more, but rather the car of—

"Hofnarr, what in the heavens!" Jebediah cried out after a moment spent gawking at the sight. 

Like a drop of sucrose for a swarm of ants, this name pulled the orphans away from their hiding places, scrambling to peer out the shelter's windows. Perhaps it would also be worth it to mention the stop sign embedded into the car's front end. Smoke spilled from the lip underneath the car's bonnet, dissipating into the wind as the vehicle sped along.

Mr. Sheriff furrowed a brow, unable to hide his untimely amusement. "Oh, for cryin'— Jeb?"

Still stupefied, Jeb went to open the gates. But the car did not enter the orphanage property immediately, no! Putting on a show for the crowd of children looking eagerly on from the shelter's windows, the driver had the nerve to perform a few donuts in the open streets, noisily kicking up dust and leaving circular trails into the asphalt.

Finally, the car settled. Jeb manned the gates closed with an air of relief, metal clanging against metal with finality as if they too were glad the car driver's antics had finally stopped. Said driver eventually parked the offending vehicle in one of the orphanage's empty parking spaces. Out stepped a stout bespectacled man they all knew as Dr. Hofnarr, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Did I scare you all?"

"Yes."  Storming out of the shelter, Abram let his weapon hand fall to his side almost sulkily. "What the hell?!  I mean, 'heck.' What the heck?!"

The scientist smiled slyly at his fellow caregiver. "Sorry, Abey! Got excited."

"What have you done," Christoff asked calmly, giving the vehicle a cursory glance before fixing his gaze back onto Hofnarr. He wondered what excuse Hofnarr had for this.

Unfortunately, he would only receive the lamest response he could ever expect to hear. "I told you, I got excited." The shorter grunt turned to the taller, his grin becoming slyer. "Guess I'll be staying for a while longer, huh?"

Christoff could only gape further in absolute awe at the gall this man possessed. For the adults, Hofnarr's little antic could spell the things grownups should fear the most: angry employers and unemployment, the horrors! But what it would spell for the children was something they would love to hear. As the adults stared on at the vehicle with varying shades of bewilderment, those who loved Hofnarr the most came pouring out of the orphanage to greet him. The children's arrival only snapped the grownups out of their astonishment by a margin. Hofnarr beamed at the sight of them all. "Hi, everyone!"

"So when you said you were havin' a break off'a work…." Mr. Sheriff drawled, staring dumbly at the stop sign. Jebediah took great comfort in knowing he wasn't the only one feeling perturbed.

"Your car, Dr. Hofnarr!" Walter pointed at the beaten-up vehicle. "It's gonna explode!" 

"It won't, kiddo, don't worry! It's just really broken!" The doctor informed them cheerfully.

"Oh. How are you gonna get back to work?"

"I could fix it," Dr. Hofnarr pronounced slowly, tapping his chin with his index. "But oh, it would be so mean if I just… ignored all of you while fixing my car, so I'll work on it in the evening. Oh, but it would take so long. I might be here for, what, four, five days…."

At this, the crowd of children stirred with excitement. The doctor staying at the orphanage for almost a week has never happened before!

"Oh, it'll take so long." The scientist threw his head back in mock-agony, lying against the hood of his banged-up car. The foundlings closest to him giggled amongst themselves at his theatrics. "Oh, it's so sad. I can't go to work for so long. The horror! The horror..."

The children's joy was contagious. Despite himself, Jebediah smiled as he watched on.

Emmie giggled, clapping gleefully. "Doctor misses us."

"Wh— of  course,  I do!" Dr. Hofnarr straightened immediately, indignance ringing in his tone. "I've missed so much here, I need to catch up." He pointed to the kid that spoke to him last, his voice brimming with excitement. "Emmie! How's that radio goin' for you?"

"Just awesome! I hang out with so many other kids every day. Last time, I danced with Walter and Hank!"

He let his attention ping-pong to wherever the conversation directed it, nodding to those mentioned. "Ooh, Walter, and…" Dr. Hofnarr searched the sea of children, only to find Hank nowhere. His gaze then landed on our hero, who watched on from the window, not too interested in the doctor. "Hank! What's happened to them?" He cried, noticing the bandages they sported.

"A little accident." Christoff shook his head with an amused smile, folding his hands behind his back. "They got a little excited waking up this morning, last I heard."

Mr. Sheriff looked towards the child, giving them a wave that they returned before they ducked back down. "Oh, they said they're fine, so they'll be fine. Hank's a tough nut to crack, worried as I am for 'em. Trusted 'em to look over the new ones."

The sheriff might as well have told him that the rest of the world was coming to Nevada's level of normality.  "Hank?"  Hofnarr repeated incredulously. 

On cue, the smallest child Hofnarr would ever see peeked out of the window, giving a wave of his own, albeit with a lot more enthusiasm. The scientist cooed at the sight, mirroring the gesture so quickly it almost seemed a blur. "Is that Deimos?" He pronounced it differently: "Deh-mos." "Oh, he's so—! See! So much has happened while I was gone…."

The scientist's gaze passed over the front of the car— as he said, he would deal with that in the evening, thank you very much —and landed on the trunk. 

"Ah, right… Hold on, before anything else—"

At the passenger's side of the car, Hofnarr opened the door and retrieved a medium-sized plastic pouch filled with an assortment of bright candies. The orphans knew this as one of two Hofnarr's welcome gifts to newcomers at the shelter, and they all hoped that the pair would be kind enough to share.

Quickly closing the door shut, Hofnarr tossed the bag in the sheriff's direction. "Give this to the boys!"

His boss quickly caught it with a hand. "Gotcha." Mr. Sheriff caught Hofnarr's glance, a look he knew too well. "Come on now, everyone! Let's head back inside."

"What about Doctor?" Emmie pouted, yet to learn how Dr. Hofnarr's arrivals worked around the orphanage.

Dr. Hofnarr waved at the children, giving them a sheepish smile. Exactly as the sheriff told him, they missed him just as much as he missed them. "Don't worry. I'll catch up with you all in a bit!" He promised. "Gotta unpack the rest of my stuff."

The sheriff corralled the excited orphans back into the building. Jebediah stayed behind, interested as to what his friend brought to the orphanage. He watched as Hofnarr opened the passenger seat door once more. 

Fortunately for him, the children had focused solely on the bag of candy he passed onto the sheriff earlier and not the Colt M-16 riding shotgun with him. Dr. Hofnarr took up the gun and kicked the door closed. "There's one. Was in a hurry picking this," the shorter grunt complained. "Got other ones, though, in the back. Could'ja help carry them for me?"

"Of course—" Christoff's breath hitched at the sight of the M203 attached to the smaller. A grenade launcher in a building full of orphans? "What! Doctor, whatever for?"

Hofnarr whistled merrily, walking over to the trunk. "Y'know! Just in case."

The doctor could not exactly be considered as someone "armed to the teeth." The lack of knives hidden on his person kept him an inch away from that descriptor. But if the other employees at the Nondescript Orphanage had to visit the shelter's gun closet before going on a supply run or going on guard duty, all Hofnarr had to do was look through his own things.

Christoff whistled lowly at the impressive weapon cases sitting in the trunk. One of them had a familiar appearance, guaranteeing that it carried one of Hofnarr's "babies." Possibly the M60, if Jeb knew Hofnarr as well as he thought he did. He helped his friend keep the M16 in its proper gun case, then, upon Hofnarr's request, piled the containers in a stack that the other clutched close to his chest. Jebediah knew better and safer ways to carry the cases, but Hofnarr always did what he wanted.

"Are you certain you'll stay here for a week?" Jeb fussed as he watched the precarious stack of gun cases. "I  am  glad you're staying for a while, but… the lab won't get mad at you?"

Hofnarr only laughed, walking merrily to the orphanage. "Oh, please, Jeb. They're fucked without me."

The scientist could only work at the orphanage on the freest of his days. One had to wonder why he kept visiting the orphanage if he only worked there cumulatively for one week in a month, each one-day shift spread sparsely across the week. The word among the grownups was that Dr. Hofnarr earned less than everyone else did, if not nothing at all.

The folks at the shelter found his presence strange but not unwelcome. Eventually, everyone agreed that Dr. Hofnarr simply liked volunteering to work there. No complaints were made: the adults appreciated the extra help, practically free-of-charge, while most children loved the eccentric grunt's company. If he were a stoic, no-nonsense scientist outside the orphanage, no one would have ever known, for Hofnarr only kept up the happiest airs for the little ones. The man's extended stay at the orphanage felt like a blessing for almost everyone.

This "everyone" did not include our hero, Wimbleton, who would rather focus on the current intense battle they fought. Their enemy hid in the darkness like a coward, too lazy to leave the cubbyhole's safety. He seemed to be reading their mind like a book, knowing which moves to make. They would throw rocks at him, and he would catch them with paper. If they tried using the same paper, he would simply cut at it with scissors. Each downfall seemed to be written in Nevada's code, the very flow of fate prescribing a terrible rock-paper-scissors losing streak to one unfortunate Hank J. Wimbleton. The other orphans flooding back into the shelter did not distract them from their little war.

What did have Hank snapping out of it was Mr. Sheriff's worried voice. "Where's Sanford?"

"In here." Still seated, Sanford scooted out of the cubbyhole, sitting on the floor in front of Hank.

The sheriff finally found the missing twenty-first child out of the previous twenty he had counted earlier, and so let out a grateful sigh. "Gosh, Sanford, you scared me... please don't hide like that again?"

"Sorry."

Giving his hair a light tousle with his free hand, the adult crouched down to offer Sanford and Deimos the candy bag. "Dr. Hofnarr's got you two something..." 

Hank could faintly hear their caregiver trail off and presumably watch what they were doing. The solemnity with which Hank and Sanford threw signs paired with the whippersnapper grins they bore upon victory, two mismatched puzzle pieces forming an awkward picture that melted the sheriff's heart nonetheless. In the middle of the scene sat an amused Deimos, holding up his own two hands. The toddler would tick up a finger on one of his hands after each "round" of signs unless the two made the same gesture. Mr. Sheriff realized what the sight implied, his spirits soaring higher. Hank was playing with them! 

"Ooh, are you winnin', Hank?" The sheriff eyed how Hank's score held up four fingers compared to Sanford's one. When Deimos ran out of fingers to represent Hank's five points, he held up one finger. The adult took a lot of joy seeing how Hank happily bounced in their seat whenever they won. 

"Nah," Deimos grinned proudly. Hank stopped bouncing, grumbling at Deimos' tone. "Hank five. 'Ford nine. Heh, i's so funny, Mr. Sheriff, watch." The tot gestured to the two boys' game with one hand.

Still engaged in battle, Hank furrowed their brow. "What's so funny?" 

They held out all four fingers— paper. Sanford held out two— scissors. "Ten! I win," the latter declared.

Hank huffed. "One more. One more point. Eleven."

He was given a second chance, another attempt at victory. They would need a streak of victories to even dream of winning! But unfortunately, Wimbleton's efforts only informed Mr. Sheriff of what Deimos found "so funny" about the whole game. Hank tried vainly to cut through Sanford's winning streak with the same make-believe scissors from earlier. Sanford dashed through their hopes and dreams with his fist.

So far, Sanford took his successes in stride, holding off his celebrations. Now sure of his victory, the six-year-old leaned back, jutting out his bottom lip smugly. "'Leven. I win. Again."

"Again!" An annoyed Hank asserted. "To fifteen. Hay, are you cheatin'?"

Sanford mirrored Hank's furrowed brow. "How am I s'posed to cheat at rock-paper-scissors? Doesn't make sense." Next to him, his cheeky little friend tittered.

At Hank's insistent  "I  dunno, but you probably do," Mr. Sheriff endeavored to cool the boys down as quickly as possible. "Now, now, don't fight!"

"We're not fighting, Mr. Sheriff," the victor reassured, keeping his gaze on Hank. To his credit, Sanford dropped his smug pout, his mouth gentling to wear a smile instead. Hank relaxed visibly at the sight. "It's okay. But I'm really not cheating. Don't wanna believe me? Fine."

"How do you keep winnin' then?" Sanford had the honor of being one of the few orphans to make Hank sound as sulky as they do now. "Teach me."

The credit Sanford was given earlier had to be retracted; his mouth twisted smugly once more. "Nah, I wanna keep winning." 

"Now, I'm sure you'll win one of these days, Hank," Mr. Sheriff wheezed, trying not to laugh for the flustered Wimbleton's sake. "Come on, now. Let's all finish breakfast."

After breakfast would be a day of rest and recreation since the shelter's de facto "teacher" had her day off. Hank envisioned a better sort of playtime now that they would feel cooler (literally, not figuratively) this time, as well as two potential playmates. But at present, his companions were surrounded by many other orphans, bonding over a bag of sweets. 

In place of joining the others, Hank got some candy for themselves and left. They did not need to listen to know that Mr. Sheriff was getting Sanford and Deimos acquainted with everyone else. Hank accepted this fact and kept their distance, letting their caregiver do his job.

They also doubted they could familiarize themselves with the two around so many other people. Consequently, they chose to do so another time. Mr. Christoff was available to play with instead, after all. 

Walking away from the table, Hank caught Mr. Sheriff's gaze from the corner of their vision. They turned and only gave the man a small wave.

A flash of something— something that made his lips part, caused the delight in his fond gaze to disappear —across the adult's face before he quickly replaced it with a knowing look, waving back at Wimbleton.

Someone else waved at them, too. The smallest kid at the orphanage, Deimos, sat close by Mr. Sheriff's side with the stick of a lollipop between his sharp fangs. Hank found themselves stumbling on how to respond before eventually waving back at him. The kid looked pleased, flashing them a toothy grin. Then he tossed them another candy, which Hank caught and pocketed before departing.

They found no sight of Mr. Christoff on the first floor. If their memory served them well, Dr. Hofnarr would be taking inventory up in one of the staff rooms sandwiched between the children's rooms. Maybe Jeb was helping him, Hank assumed. With the way the taller one seemed less formal around the shorter (Mr. Christoff sounded so funny, yelling as he did earlier), they appeared like acquaintances at least. Wimbleton snickered to themselves as they climbed the stairs they had vaulted the day past.

They selected the room that made the most noise and stood outside. Hank didn't quite care about what they talked about. If he was in trouble, perhaps he would. For now, our hero waited mutely at the door, just out of sight.

"How's it been here so far? Gosh, I didn't think you'd  take  it!" Hofnarr beamed. 

"Well, by Providence, I did. It's going quite well, Doctor. I have to thank you. Where do I put this?"

"Hm. Behind the door, thanks. Don't 'Doctor' me like you didn't go 'Hofnarr!' earlier." The two adults laughed, Christoff quieter than Hofnarr.

After a while, his voice turned hushed. "It's amazing, you know?" The shorter grunt praised. Momentarily, he turned from his weapon cases to face his colleague. "You, studying right after your Masters? Helping around here, too... Don't you feel tired, Jeb? This week and next week, you're lucky, but..."

The strange word caught Hank's interest. 'Masters'? Their face scrunched up as they tried to work out what that meant. Was Mr. Christoff training for something? A fight, maybe?

Jebediah only hummed in response for the meantime. Hank couldn't get a glimpse of his face. If they did, they would have seen how the older man seemed both tired and happy at once. His voice they could hear, and he sounded years beyond his actual age. "I'll work it out. Just feels right."

"You feel it too, huh?" The joy on Hofnarr's face eased, looking content. Humming, he posited a Glock 18C under one of his bed's pillows, then slid a falchion under the bed frame. "Just comes natural."

"You don't think you'll be able to…." Hofnarr's face twisted, a bit of his joy lost to whatever plagued his mind. "You know. You'll get busier when you get the job. Like how  I  am."

Jebediah shook his head. "I don't think so. Besides, Hofnarr, you're—" Another short burst of laughter left the typically calm man, amusement warming Christoff's face. "You're one of the highest-ranking scientists there! I'll have the free time; I'm not as important as you." That last part made Hofnarr snort; if grunts possessed visible eyes, he would have rolled them. 

"'Not as important….' Please," the doctor scoffed. "Don't do that to yourself. And don't tell me you won't be up at my level with how fuckin' hard you work."

Fuckin'. Fuckin'... that sounded cool. Hank would append it to whichever words they pleased should they ever be in the mood to speak. Maybe they should listen in more, add more fuckin' words to their vocabulary.

"Tee..." Jebediah scolded. "We have to set a good example for the children." He used a different tone than when he reprimanded the orphans, almost playful. Hank made a confused noise at "Tee," wondering if that was the scientist's first name. What a weird name. 

"Sor-ry!" The shorter of the two grit out through a smile, unable to help his laughter. "Look, whatever— just don't work yourself to death, now, you!" Hofnarr couldn't quite keep his voice down anymore, a look of gleaming pride for his friend breaking over his face. "Almost there, Jeb."

Almost where? Hank crept closer, curious. They settled on sitting down, holding onto their shoes while they waited.

The bearded man merely scoffed, a brow raised. "Says you."

"C'mon, can you blame me? So much to do in this world." Hofnarr let out a sigh, his features relaxed. "Never gets boring."

After a moment of silence blissful for the adults and awkward for the child, the scientist broke it cheerfully. "Well, better head back." Hofnarr clapped a hand onto Christoff's shoulder. "Still got stuff to get. Stuff to do! God— ah, sorry."

"None taken."

"Shit, all this stuff about hard work, and we've left the big man on his own with the little ones." As always, the stouter grunt was in good spirits, if not a little embarrassed with himself.

"It's probably fine," the taller reassured, feeling stern with how he subconsciously searched for excuses to shave time off of work. "'The sheriff' told me he's been meaning to spend a little more time with the kids, so." The sentence he punctuated with a hearty pat on his associate's shoulder. "Nothing wrong with catching up a little. But we  do  have to hurry." Quieter, he murmured, "I feel like..."

Hofnarr kicked something shut, hastened by Jeb's urgency. A drawer, perhaps. "Aw, shit, your intuitive ass comes back! Sorry. What is it?"

"Pfft. Well, Tee. I've noticed some children prefer being on their own. Like Hank, for example, bless the child."

"Oh, yeah. Never got 'em to warm up to me."

Knowing he yielded significantly better results than his friend, Jebediah held his tongue. "That will change today. But let us hurry so we can help Shem out. Make the day easier."

"Divide and conquer," Hofnarr jested. "Divide and caregiver—"

Their quickened pace would be cut short by the sight of Wimbleton at their door.

"Ah, speak of the d— er, child! Hank!" Dr. Hofnarr appeared somewhat flustered, wondering how much of their conversation he heard. "Always so quiet, you! You'd be really good at hide-and-seek."

"Hank," Christoff reprimanded gently, "we're here for you now, but I have to tell you that it isn't polite to eavesdrop."

"Eavesdrop," Hank parroted numbly. If they had any clue what that meant, they could have responded a little better.

"Eavesdrop," Christoff repeated, laying a kind hand on their crown of bandages. "Listening in on others when they talk."

Of course, they did not say anything that needed secrecy. (Maybe Hofnarr's swearing earned him a sterner scolding.) But it was still good courtesy, and he made sure to try disciplining Hank in that aspect. The child pursed their lips and nodded, wanting to avoid an argument.

"Alright, kiddo. Is anything wrong?" Hofnarr tilted his head.

"Alone," Hank said simply. Remembering how the adults wanted to hurry and care for the rest of the children, he eased their nerves by adding, "everyone else is there. Don't wanna join."

The doctor nodded in understanding. "Well, alright. Wanna come with us?"

Curiosity urged them  'yes,'  and they obliged it.



This would be how Hank found themselves in front of Hofnarr's car. The grownups did grownup things over at the trunk while Hank idled at the front, eyeing something of great interest.

Hank batted at the stop sign with a fist, then held onto it. "What happened?"

The shorter grownup lifted his head for a moment to look at what Hank asked about. "Oh, that? Uh. Made a wrong move, heh. Hank, come here; I wanna ask you something."

Wimbleton doubted whatever Hofnarr showed him would be more interesting than the stop sign. The sight of a medium-sized teddy bear plush proved them correct, somewhat. Its "paws" were attached to its shoulders by strings, creating the illusion of the floating forelimbs all creatures had in this world. Hank felt unimpressed, thinking that the toy would break easily.

"A teddy for Sanford. Do you think he'll like it?"

The child thought about how the boy hugged him after dragging the two children into the cubbyhole with him. "I think so."

"Thank goodness! Okay, so, a teddy for Sanford, and…" 

Hofnarr drew out the "and" as he procured a music box, raising it proudly overhead with his other hand. "A music box! For baby Deh-mos."

"Dee-mos," Hank supplied, then repeated the name straight. "Deimos."

"Deimos! Hm. That's the name of a moon, you know," Dr. Hofnarr hummed, cradling the item to his chest. "One of the moons of Mars. So I chose a nice astronaut song. I hope he likes the song I picked for him."

The orphan thought about pointing out to the scientist that only one moon existed but decided against it, running back to the front of the car to marvel at the stop sign once more. A piece of the city torn and brought to the orphanage; it struck them as a foreign novelty alien to their familiar, small world. So, waiting for the grownups to be distracted, they pried the sign from where it nestled among the metal. The adults stayed unaware, still busy with boring grownup things. Hank, meanwhile, had something fun to play with.

They marveled at their prize; in a sense, Hofnarr had brought a gift for them too! The pole, which sat baking in the sun for a few minutes, let off heat that Hank merely ignored. They paused to let their hands tremble for a bit, shaking off their excitement and breathing deep. Between breaths, they poised the sign upright as if it were still stuck in the car whenever the adults glanced in their direction.  'I'm so smart.'

When the two finally seemed like they wouldn't be lifting their heads for quite some time, poring over a stack of paperwork Hofnarr brought over, Hank took up their prize. They tried to flourish it in one hand as a cool person would, but their childish fingers could not do anything to satiate their childlike imagination. They could twirl it with both hands, but that was not nearly as impressive.

"Dang it," Hank muttered. Ah, well. When they grew up, perhaps they could have another go at it.

Now that he looked at it, the sign seemed quite like a weapon. It looked hefty, and Hank could imagine swinging it down on an opponent as Miss Maia would do with her shotgun. Hank wouldn't hold any weapons until they reached their eighth year spent in this mortal coil, but they found no harm in starting early. An opportunity was in their hands, and they brandished it with vigor.

In mere moments, Hank amused themselves with swinging the sign through the air. The weight of it had him putting his back into every swing, but the exertion only made his smile grow wider. Hank found joy in carving whistling sounds from the wind. They lifted their gaze and tried attacking the smiling face in the sky with their weapon. The sun was 93 million miles away and had no intention of battling a child, both wildly different but equally justified reasons that led to no real fight with Wimbleton, who drew mindless catharsis from swinging towards it nonetheless.

Mr. Christoff, occupied with thumbing through Hofnarr's work papers to account for all of them, finally glanced towards Hank and let out a yelp at what he saw. "H-Hank! Wait!"

Springing into action, Hofnarr shoved the plush toy and the music box against Jebediah's chest, running towards the child.

"Hay! Hank, put that down—"

'OMFG'

"Ah, stuff like this is natural, Hank! Sh— er, bad things in life happen."

Two things that didn't seem so apparent now seemed more likely at the moment.

The first revelation lay in Dr. Hofnarr's godly tolerance for pain: despite looking a tad more like a soft marshmallow than everyone else at the orphanage, he seemed not to mind the ordeal he had gone through. He also laughed during the treatment of his wounds, saying stuff about being a "tough cookie."

The second revelation made itself apparent in how high-strung Wimbleton acted: the ether had claimed their aloof demeanor, exchanging it for something more panicked. While perhaps this wasn't so much of a surprise, what with Hank's numerous tantrums, the tension they felt in waves spawned from something other than anger. Hank would give Dr. Hofnarr worried glances now and then, envisioning the terrible sight of the man parting in two starting from the wound they had inflicted on him.

"There, there, Hank! It isn't much, honest," the scientist reassured him kindly. He gave them an affectionate little pat on their newly-bandaged head. Hank unraveled their bandages in a hurry in the panic prior, desperate to stuff the linen onto the adult's wound. Their shoddy attempt at first aid would only be met by pained laughter, which provoked the child further.

They felt taken aback by how strange they felt looking at the injured man. Were they scared, they wondered? If so, why would they be? Dr. Hofnarr would be okay (or so they were told). Plus, no one scolded them in ways that made them feel humiliated or small. That should have been something they appreciated, and yet they found themselves finding the lack of it unnerving, too. And the tragedy that had befallen Hofnarr looked like it hurt deeply. How could this man brush it off so quickly?

Or at least pretend to, that is. The doctor's casual, devil-may-care act about his injuries seemed more like… well, an act the more they watched. Hank saw him clench a fist in the sheets, digging his nails into it under the touch of antiseptic. He dug his nails into his palm next, to the point that he required bandages on his hand as well. Hofnarr's efforts to keep this on the down-low did not escape Wimbleton. The tremor in the scientist's hand reminded them of how they dealt with their own feelings, and they were confident these feelings were not positive in any way. Hank swallowed thickly, waiting for Christoff to finish patching Hofnarr up.

The hassled Jebediah felt torn between helping his friend (who seemed stuck on how to pacify Hank) and checking on the sheriff (whose hands must be full at this point). A confident "I got this" had Christoff reluctantly pulling away from his side to assist the sheriff instead.

"You take care, Tee. Hank, it's going to be alright," the other adult had told them before he left. Unfortunately, he knew something that Hank did not, and this comforted Hank little. 

"Thanks again, Jeb... Whoa, what are you doing?" The doctor chuckled, tilting his chin up when prompted by a very agitated child. Hank ensnared him in a particularly frustrated embrace of sorts, careful not to disturb his injury. "I told you, I'm fine."

"How are you not mad at me? Look a' this…." They grimaced, looking at Dr. Hofnarr. The adult hastily pulled down his clothes to hide how crimson blossomed from the dressings on their midsection. Hank still focused on where the bandages would have been nonetheless, getting enough of an eyeful to stay pressed about the ordeal. 

The wounded Hofnarr seemed surprised. "Why would I— I  promise  I'm not mad at you, okay?"

"Why not?" Hank demanded. "I hurt you! You're supposed to be mad at me!"

"I know you didn't mean it," Hofnarr laughed, pulling the child closer into the embrace. "Honest. I'm super fine."

"Why are you laughin'— Don't that hurt?!" Yelping, Hank felt determined to pull away. Here they were trying to avoid applying pressure on Hofnarr's wounds, and he was doing just that! Alas, wriggling too much could spell more disaster for the already injured grunt. "Wait, wait!"

To their relief, the latter let them stand on their own. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll let you down. But Hank, I'm fine. Really!"

"Ugh," Hank groaned. They bit their lip and stepped away from the confusing man, balling their fists at their sides. "This again…! I don't get it. I don't understand you."

Hofnarr went silent for a bit, fiddling with his hands. He had to figure something out now; he couldn't let Hank stay disturbed like this anymore. Combatting the child's confusion felt eerily similar to educating his subordinates at work, putting into simpler words the concepts borne from his overactive mind… 

He lit up at the realization. Voilà, he found his solution! He simply had to put this in a way Hank could understand.

"...How about this. Does your head hurt? After you fell earlier?"

Hank sounded almost offended. "No!"

Hofnarr found an opening and gladly took advantage of it. "Okay, then! What's happening to me is kind of like how you say your face doesn't hurt. Even though it must have been so bad, it needed a bandage."

He thought that was a fair enough comparison. As mentioned earlier, pain did not get to him as much as the average grunt. The unknowing Hank, on the other hand, found this comparison ridiculous! They admonished the adult for such a "stupid" (their word exactly) comparison: a bump on the head versus a flesh injury! If he were a "tough cookie," like he said, that fact did little to console Hank. The child (who lived sheltered from the more unforgiving sides of primal Nevada) saw it as the worst thing they could have done to Hofnarr (who brushed it off as he would a paper cut).

"I still did something bad," Wimbleton finished. "Why aren't you mad at me. And why were you  laughin'?"

Recovering from Hank's outburst, the scientist nodded. Ah, so the way he acted seemed illogical to Hank. That wouldn't be the first time, and it would not be the last, Hofnarr mused. He smiled fondly at the face that looked up with him so woven with concern, then sighed before he spoke. 

"Alright. Okay. Maybe I  am  a little mad you did something so… dangerous." With a level tone, the scientist finally admonished the child. "You did injure me, and… and you could have hurt anyone else. You could have hurt yourself too, Hank! Swing it too far back, and you could have hit yourself, back of the head. Or your back." He demonstrated this with his hand; his fingers curled as if he held the stop sign in question, then he made a motion of "swinging too far back." 

Hank filled in the blanks and grumbled, seeing that they could have certainly whacked themselves behind the head or between the shoulders if their play continued. The scolding they searched for had arrived: welcomed, but not enjoyed. "I guess."

Hofnarr let out another sigh. He wished he didn't have to ruin the shelter's mood with a scolding. Talking down to someone like this was something Hofnarr wanted staying within laboratory walls. 

"That kind of thing, let's save it for when you're eight, alright?" After all that practical drivel, the scientist tried to lighten the conversation, smiling. "We'll teach you how to do stuff like that. It won't be too long now, isn't it?"

"Still so far away,"  Hank waved their hands in annoyance. "I want to practice."

"Oh, certainly, you can! But not with something like that." He motioned to the injury with the same hand. "As you can see. Maybe a stick..."

"Sorry." Hank frowned. "I knew it hurt. Why'd you laugh? I never heard anyone laugh when they got hurt. What the heck?"

Now that he gave it some thought, maybe laughing about what seemed to be a grave injury in front of the worried child who had caused the said injury was in poor taste. Hofnarr silently respected what appeared to be Hank's more empathetic side. Nurturing this facet of Hank clearly did not lie in hurting himself purposefully so that he could act appropriately afterward.

"Sorry if I scared you. I guess you're right. It is sort of strange." The adult scratched his face, finding this the appropriate time to let out a chuckle. 

"You did scare me," the child huffed. "You were s'posed to get mad, and you're only s'posed to laugh when you're happy. Were you happy, huh?"

Hofnarr told Hank that no, at the time, he was not; he derived no pleasure from pain and only laughed to mitigate it. "I guess I do that when I don't want to be... stressed or scared. And I don't like yelling at you kids," he admitted quietly. "That makes me sad because it probably makes you kids sad, too. But I see now that it's scared you."

"Whatever" was Hank's way of conceding. They eventually added, "but don't pretend to laugh anymore," their small request edging close to a plea.

"I… I'll try not to," Hofnarr promised quietly. Then he smiled in a way that seemed more sincere than anything Hank had ever seen on his face. "Thank you for worrying about me."

The orphanage came to life with cheers for joy as Hofnarr reunited with the group of orphans, only to become awash with whispers as the foundlings saw something fearsome. Next to Wimbleton, Dr. Hofnarr sported bandages, too: a single strip of white around the crown of his head. In between chuckles, he explained to the worried children that no, he did not hurt his head; he simply wanted to amuse Hank a little.

"We match now," he had told the smaller grunt earlier when they were alone, laughing. With bated breath, he wondered if he had done the right thing, then took immense joy in the ever-so-small sound of amusement Hank made.

The other orphans felt more relieved than amused at the scientist's hijinks, however. 

"So you're okay!" One of the foundlings cheered. Hofnarr caught Wimbleton's glance, a look he would come to know too well. 

"Well, I am a bit hurt on my tummy and my chest… and my hand. But not my head," Hofnarr told them truthfully. "And that can't stop me. I'll be fine, everyone! Now, come on—"

The two distanced themselves from each other but did not entirely separate. As Hofnarr played with the more numerous part of the orphanage, his mind formulated activities that even Wimbleton could enjoy, as well. Hank beckoned Sanford and Deimos to draw nearer, then whispered something into their hearing that had the two boys look towards Dr. Hofnarr and bounce in place excitedly. The whispers of gifts to be expected just barely held up against the heavier sounds of cheer around them, obscure but still present.

The day was far from over, though Jeb thought it safe to assume it would carry on well. Mr. Sheriff seemed to share the same sentiments, although he voiced them when Jebediah did not.

"They got along. Or, well, they're gettin' along, and thank God in heaven still for that," the sheriff smiled, clapping a hand on Mr. Christoff's shoulder. "I'm countin' on that, Jeb. Got somethin' important I need to do tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Nigh at the gluteal cleft of dawn, Hofnarr blessed the new day with an acoustic version of his favorite song. The chords to the Chicken Dance played at a practiced volume that reached only his hearing, acting as background music to his morning stretches. 

Careful but brisk steps outside his quarters caught his attention. The doctor poked his head out of the door to greet the accompaniment to his music… 

"Mornin', Doc. Hold the fort, y'all, will you?"

...Oh! Hofnarr had almost forgotten what would happen today. 

More out of habit than anything, Shemuel often kitted himself out with spur rowels as small and as blunt as you could get them, along with pretty-sounding jingle bobs. The sheriff walked bereft of them now, replacing them with a calmer pair of rock grinder spurs. A shame, for the shelter would have been lit softly alight with Dr. Hofnarr's music and Mr. Sheriff's, but he knew exactly what the sheriff walked quieter for.

Noting the weariness in his employer's face, Hofnarr ducked back into his room and fetched for him his partially diminished coffee. "You sure you don't need any more help, friend?" 

Sheriff and scientist each took a sip from the mug, the former checking over his list of supplies after he had his share. "Thank you. Oh, no, no, no, doc, you are stayin' right here, with the kids."

"Gotcha," the latter singsonged, gesturing with the finished cup towards the sheriff. "Take care, you two."

"You too. God, Rich, bless you, my good man, you are gettin' the rest of the day off—"

From the window, Dr. Hofnarr watched the sheriff and his right-hand man leave orphanage premises quickly and quietly on a truck. He silently wished them luck before returning to his morning routine. Eventually, time compelled the sun to lift its vibrant face higher above the horizon: a beautiful sight to rouse the orphans from their sleep. The resulting daylight enticed Hofnarr to turn up the music a pinch louder: another little pleasant something for the children to wake up to and a curious thing for Christoff to inspect.

The strange sound so early in the day had Jebediah peeking in their shared room to find a sight that wasn't so surprising in hindsight. Hofnarr happily bade his old friend good morning, and the two set out to start it right.

🙝

"How'm I not supposed to be scared?!"

Patting their head, Dr. Hofnarr told Hank not to worry; the sheriff was a lot stronger than they believed

🙝

🙝

The children woke to a morning filled with promises: a spoken promise of delicious breakfast (Christoff's trademark) and an unspoken promise of music (Hofnarr's). Half-drowsy orphan heads swayed happily to calming music as they broke their fast, and some little ones even stood from their seats to sit in front of Dr. Hofnarr's portable turntable after polishing their plates of food.

On the other hand, one young grunt could not find much solace in the tunes Hofnarr played. Hank's mind zeroed in on Mr. Sheriff's bi-monthly absence, and there it stayed, requiring them great amounts of effort to avoid acting up as they often did. Although most around the orphanage would subconsciously appreciate what seemed to be a "new and better" Hank, few (such as Hofnarr) recognized their distress, and even fewer (still including Hofnarr) tried to help.

"Oh, Hank, what's wrong? Come here if you like. You like music, don'tcha?"

Wimbleton indulged the adult by sitting near the turntable, numbly nodding to the second question. They seemed to dislike engaging in more intimate conversation around the other orphans, so the scientist waited for the right moment to engage with Hank. But oh, he had something to tell them!

The early morning passed; delicious food filled small stomachs and the orphans were raring to go for the day. Jebediah left the kitchen with Mr. Abram to call on the older kids up for classes. Abram left with the children more inclined to punctuality, while Jeb hung around long enough to hear what Dr. Hofnarr had to tell Hank. With their shared love for music, Hofnarr had a tidbit for the child to chew on: if they felt stressed, they can dance it away! 

Though just as quickly, Jebediah took it upon himself to nip the strange coping mechanism in the bud: perhaps it would be wiser to confront their stressor first, as calmly as possible. If that was an effort too Herculean, they should distance themselves from the matter until they could engage it the best they could. Then they could dance afterward all they pleased.

Thankfully, Hofnarr liked the revised version of his lesson for Hank and would have ended it with a lovely tune they could all enjoy if only he did not remember Jebediah's revision. Pulling away from the portable turntable, he sat down with Hank and asked them what exactly had gotten them so nervous.`

"...Heck, what else… Mr. Sheriff's gone." Hank replied with a mumble, looking at the scientist as if this were one of the most absurd questions they'd ever heard.

There, his suspicion was correct. Dr. Hofnarr often spent the sheriff's "away-days" consoling the children Hank had upset, not Hank himself. And oh, Wimbleton's worries bled into Sanford, who seemed determined not only to cling to a familiar face but also to share in whatever emotion said face felt.

"He's gone?" Sanford wrung his hands, looking up at Mr. Christoff. "I thought he was just… why? Where is he?"

"He's outside, remember?" An approaching Deimos tugged on the older boy's smock. "Buying food, he told us before..."

Dr. Hofnarr was glad to reinforce Deimos' comfort that, yes, Mr. Sheriff was going out "for a little bit" until the afternoon. "And he's going to come back with a lot of food and supplies for all of us! Doesn't that sound nice?"

"It's nice, but…" Sanford sighed. "Isn't it dangerous outside?"

Sanford seemed to have forgotten something: Mr. Sheriff was a 'cowboy,' as Deimos so happily reminded him. "Cool cowboy! He can protect himself, right, doc?"

"That's what you're worried about?" Walter briefly joined in from afar as they passed, waving to them all. "He's gonna come back. Right, Hank? He always comes back!"

Both educated men recognized the hot hand fallacy. But what was sound reasoning to the comfort of a child? Mr. Christoff smiled and petted Hank's head to soothe them and did the same to Sanford. "Indeed he will. I have no doubt Mr. Sheriff will come back. He still has to help take care of you children, after all."

Sanford still seemed the very picture of unconvinced: pursed lips, furrowed brow. "But… tell me the truth… if he doesn't..."

Christoff kept his mouth in a thin, almost grim line, unsure of how to respond. Hofnarr shifted in his seat, taking a moment to think. Then after a while, he piped up, and the moment's pause had captured the three children's attention perfectly.

"You know who would quit their job just to take care of all of you?"

Interested, Hank leaned in while Sanford asked, "who?" 

"What was the first word of the sentence I said earlier?" Hofnarr grinned, awaiting Sanford's reply.

Deimos butted in. "Hmm… 'you.' So, Sanford?"

Hank's hands flew to their mouth to muffle their gasp. The mentioned Nevadean perked up at this, mouth hanging open. "M-Me?!"

Dr. Hofnarr sprung up as well, alarmed. His face all but literally blossomed red with how embarrassed he became. "Wh— N-No, I mean… Sanford was supposed to say 'you,' so… I meant 'me'... a-ah… it didn't land… Jeb—" He looked to his colleague for help.

Deimos' face broke out into a merry grin, giggling at how shocked everyone seemed. "I'm just kiddin'!! Haha! I gotcha! You meant you!"

"Ah, you little…! Well played, well played…." Hofnarr shook his head, clapping his hands slowly. "I meant—  I'd  be glad to take care of you kids! There, that's what I mean. Gah, Deimos, I was trying to comfort Sanford over here—"

"Dei-mos!" Sanford whined. Hank gave the boy love taps on the head with their palm, annoyance written all over their facial cross. Deimos only laughed harder upon contact, letting loose a mock-hurt "Hay!" 

"Ah, Hank, don't worry," Jeb quickly reassured, carefully taking Hank's hand away from Deimos. "If anything, I'd say Dr. Hofnarr's found his match."

The earlier mentioned, still-flustered scientist wagged a finger at Deimos, who flung himself onto the scholar and stuck his tongue out at him in response. "Oh, have I. Little rascal." 

Sanford broke the chaos with a quiet mumble. "I think I understand," the child said, giving the doctor a small smile. "Thank you… but… I'm still kind of scared."

"Me too," murmured Hank. The scientist didn't seem fazed at all, still looking kindly at them both while wrangling a playful Deimos. 

"Of course, you are, and that's okay," Dr. Hofnarr consoled. "That means you kids like Mr. Sheriff a whole lot, don'tcha?"

With vigor, Hank nodded. Sanford, not so much, but the sincerity was there.

"Well, all we can do is wait for Mr. Sheriff to come home. By the end of the day, you kids will be in good hands, mark my words."

"Come on now, children," Mr. Christoff beckoned, gesturing for the door. "Time for class."

"And as for you!" Hofnarr turned to Deimos, who looked at him expectantly from his perch on his shoulder. "You have catching up to do, I believe? Well, ol' Dr. Hofnarr's here to help."

🙝

"You kids head along with Mr. Jeb, now," Dr. Hofnarr waved, offering them a parting smile. 

Hank and Sanford prayed fervently for the sheriff's return as they walked upstairs, wishing that any higher power up there tailored fate to the beloved man's favor.

While they carefully climbed the shelter staircase, the younger boy tugged at Mr. Christoff's dress, calling for his attention. "Hay, uh, Mr. Jeb… what did you mean by Dr. Hofnarr… 'found his match'? Is that good?"

"Oh, you'll see," Jebediah chuckled softly. "But what I meant by that is, well… they'd make excellent friends."

The man expected to see a friendship blossoming between the two playful grunts after a few hours. What he  didn't  expect was to bump into Miss Erimentha on the way, a few children in tow.

"Miss…?" Even Jebediah seemed surprised.

"Emergency," the woman chirped curtly, tilting her head. "Gotta go, uh… um, Sanford, are you… er..." 

Poor Miss Eri seemed frazzled, unsure of how to ask the young child about their religion. Fortunately, Sanford hastily answered that he wanted to stay with Hank, whatever it was that she wanted to ask, and so stay with Hank he did. If only he had known that the woman was taking orphans who weren't Christian to Dr. Hofnarr's care, he would've chosen a bit differently. But all was said and done at this point: Sanford was to go with Hank, and Miss Erimentha… was to do whatever it was that had the woman bolting out the shelter in a similar manner the sheriff and Rich had: quickly, soundlessly, armed to the teeth.

Christoff felt Hank slip their hand into his own, and even he had to take a breath. "Goodness, whatever is happening? Let us make haste, children." 

Sanford mimed Hank's act of holding their elder's hand, and the three of them entered one of the orphanage's 'classrooms'. Here, they met with Mr. Abram, who seemed ready to bolt out the door.

 "Mr. Christoff! There you are," the caregiver exclaimed, shoving a list into Jeb's hands. 

A quick exchange of words, and Abram left the orphanage as well. He left Christoff with a haphazardly put-together agenda for the day: 

"...Okay," Mr. Christoff looked at the paper, adjusting his glasses as he read. "I'm to answer any question you children might have about Christ, and then... teach you the easiest songs I know… for the Sunday readings. Are we all clear on that?"

"Songs!" The radio kid, Emmie, interrupted with an excited cheer. "I like songs."

Jebediah pocketed the paper and faced the orphans. "So do I. We'll have a song as a prayer by the end, then, to cap off our practice."

From the back of the group, Hank made a confused noise. "How are we gonna sing while prayin'?"

Mr. Christoff leaned against the desk, his hands folded. "Well… singing a song for God is a prayer in itself, child. Anything done in God's name can have a prayer, actually. If you have Them in your head while you do it."

"In my head?" Sanford repeated, placing a hand on his own head.

"In your thoughts, I mean," Jeb clarified. "For example, while I take care of you children, I think of God, and I think of ways in caring for all of you that would not also help you but would also follow what They would want for you. And They want the best for you kids, of course."

He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, continuing, "And when I feel lost, I pause for a while and pray. Asking Them, 'How do I go about this?' Or… sometimes I seek comfort in Them when I need to calm down."

"Oh, that's why you're never mad!" A child exclaimed. This was met with gentle laughter from the "never-mad" Christoff.

"Hm… This is a nice start, actually." He remarked thoughtfully, perking up. "Ask away, children. I am eager to hear what questions you have."

And ask away they did! But they did not ask about factual things that warranted the utmost memorization of the Bible. They asked practical things. As practical as a child could be, anyways. Could God, for example, hear the bad things the kids thought? "Would They be mad at me?" Did the sky shine when God felt happy, "and does it rain when They feel sad?" Can there be more gods, "like four? Or, ooh, can I become a god?" All questions came from innocent minds who knew little of tact or etiquette, and as such, bombarded Christoff in a manner that would have made any other pious person recoil in horror. 

But Jebediah, ever-pious yet also ever-loving, handled them expertly, with such care that the children found themselves believing in God through him. In fact, one might argue that they loved Christoff more than God by the end of class hours, thanks to his tone of voice, which held the underlying promise that none of their childlike wonder would be expunged during their little QNA, as well as his words which saw this promise through. 

All fell deeper in love, all but one...

(And mind you, it isn't our hero Hank, who I've singled out so much in past chapters.)

🙝

Sanford will one day boldly ask of Christoff his grounds in believing in God,

And Christoff will one day tell Sanford of an angel he met during his first days in Nevada, a gentle-faced, bespectacled angel of small stature

🙝

As the questions carried on throughout the early afternoon, Sanford and Hank oft found opportune moments to pass a piece of tattered paper between themselves. Below is their conversation, shown to you precisely as the children inscribed. These will be written in italics, while words spoken to save effort in writing will be recorded as per usual. (It should be noted that the way dear Wimbleton pens their capital T sometimes appears similar to their capital S, but it is hard to tell at some points, so I implore the reader to make do with what we have…)

why are we praying to god?

JUSS SOMETHING WE DO ALWAYS

EVEN WHEN MISSER JEB WASNT HERE YET

SO WE HAVE SO BELIV IN GOD

is it ok if i beliv in some one els

Hank's face scrunched up at this.

"...What? What d'you mean?"

Timidly, Sanford wrote back,

like mister sherif

mister christoff may be

(Here, Sanford enclosed the first caregiver's name in a heart.)

i beliv in them

Sanford watched as Wimbleton read what he wrote, whispering, "Is that okay?"

will mister christoff get mad

Hank merely shrugged. "Who cares?" was all they said for the moment, not sparing Sanford a glance as they passed the sheet back.

Words written on paper glared boldly back up at Sanford: BELIV WHAT U WANT 

The boy shrank in his seat at the sight, and he only mumbled out a reserved "Sorry."

For a time, the note laid miserably at Sanford's desk, for its owner thought the conversation over. Hank realized how quiet the other was and nudged at the boy's foot with their own. "Gimme the paper," they hissed out. They quickly scrawled onto the paper,

DONS BE SORY I THINK THE SAME.

Scanning the paper, Sanford then glanced up at Mr. Christoff to see if their conversation had any eavesdroppers. (The adult did hear, but he feigned ignorance.) "What?" He murmured, turning to Hank.

"I like Mr. Sheriff a lot. And I kinda like Mr. Jeb, but only a little. But I like him more than God."

"Why? I thought you believed in God..."

Hank motioned again for the paper.

LIKE YOU SAID

HES HERE

Then, writing a little away from their past conversation, as if to spark a new one:

DID I SCARE YOU

Kinda

IM SORY

Its ok 

Their conversation ended with Sanford drawing a happy face and Hank doing the same.

🙝

Late afternoon hours pulled the orphanage into its darker grey embrace. Hymns were learned and sung (and Hank also learned that Sanford had quite the deep singing voice), and curiosities were acknowledged and quenched (Hank had a few choice questions, while Sanford saved his own for another day). Classes ended when Deimos and another grunt came bursting through the classroom door, hollering—

"Mr. Sheriff's back! Mr. Sheriff's back!"

The sheriff had left for the denser part of the city in one truck and came back with two, both vehicles packed with all sorts of supplies. At the orphanage entrance, he stood, clad in shining, dull bootspurs and his signature hat.

At the sight of all his kids, his heart melted: every face watched him move, waiting for him to approach. He appreciated them knowing that he still had "grownup stuff" to do. 

"Alright, boys! Girls! Get your behinds over here, unless you're in kitchen duty! All hands needed for this one. Supplies accounted for and back in base, pronto!" He ordered his staff.

Every employee at the shelter moved upon his command, some checking the supplies off a list and carrying them back to base when all were, in the sheriff's words, "accounted for." Mr. Sheriff, meanwhile, would be tasked with taking each and every child under his watch…

...as well as in his embrace.

"Y'all missed me?" The sheriff had laughed, knowing full well the answer. He gave each orphan that ran into his hands a loving hug, spinning them 'round if they were small enough for him to carry and laughing with them merrily. His bond with Hank, just shy of a decade, rang true with how he hugged them a tad tighter and a tad longer than most.

"Now, now," he would laugh, giving the younglings hearty pats on the back. "I'm here, Mr. Sheriff's here."

"Where'd you get so much, Mr. Sheriff?" A child's voice asked after they got their hug, a hand pointing at the trucks. "So many!"

"Nothin' but the absolute best for you kids," the sheriff grinned, clasping that hand and patting it. "Ol' Mr. Sheriff has his ways."

As much as he would have loved to be with the kids a little more, he still had to settle in. This would be why as soon as they all got settled nice and comfy in the shelter, the sheriff handed Hank a big case about the size they were, which caught some kids' attention with how strange this container seemed to be.

"Mind if you hold 'em off for a bit while I go get washed up, Hank?" The sheriff nudged his kid, gesturing to the guitar case in his hands. Hank took a sharp breath at the sight, looked up at their caregiver, and nodded.

They would not let him down.

In moments, Wimbleton captured the entire orphanage's attention with their playing. Small fingers full-heartedly playing the strings, soliciting from the guitar a melody they seemed to have known for so long. When Hank finished, even they felt flustered with all the praise that poured forth from their little audience, bowing in response to cheers and applause.

"How do you do that?" Deimos craned his head to watch how Hank played. "That's so cool; how'd you do that? How's it making music?"

Curious small fry floated above Hank, who would give the guitar strings a cursory strum whenever prompted. They watched with hawklike focus as the strings danced like worms in a puddle after rain, each wondering why one string sounded higher or lower than the other. Afterwards, the orphans eventually gleaned that the different pitches in sound came from each string's diameter and how Hank pressed onto the string with their fingers. None other than Deimos himself spearheaded this discovery.

"How do you think so quickly? What sound to make," an orphan asked quaintly. 

To their relief, Wimbleton did not bite their head off. But they answered quite lamely: "Practice."

"You know all the sounds it can make with your hands," Deimos observed. "How?"

Hank smirked. "Told you, practice. And Mr. Sheriff taught me. Dunno about 'all the sounds,' though."

Mr. Sheriff chose that moment to show the children exactly where Hank had gotten their skills from, bounding down the staircase with more pep in his step.

"I'm back, y'all! Now, what song do you kids want me to play?"

The rest of the sun's hours in the sky were spent with the sheriff playing music of all kinds. The children held Mr. Christoff's memory true with how they requested that the hymns be played first. Then they paid the esteemed scientist homage as well, asking Mr. Sheriff to play "the song that always plays when Dr. Hofnarr's here in the morning."

Finally, the sheriff lulled them all into moods to sleep with songs of his own. Hank, most of all, felt the brunt of the lullabies they've listened to since childhood and almost fell asleep with Sanford and Deimos leaning next to them.

🙝

"Mr. Sheriff, I don't think Mr. Jeb likes my music box… why?"

"Oh, he doesn't not like it, just a lil' inside joke between him and the doc, I bet. But I reckon he likes how happy it makes you."

🙝

🙝

Night fell upon the sheriff, and so did the obligation of checking each of the children's bedrooms before beginning to hit the hay himself. He gazed fondly upon each sleeping, content face nestled in beds, unable to simply pull out of the bedroom before completing the headcount. 

Worry seized him when Hank's bed lay before him completely empty, no sign of it being disturbed anywhere. He well and truly tried to stay calm, yet it did not seem like it with the way he gripped Hofnarr's shoulders for comfort.

"Hank," he demanded, his figure trembling before Hofnarr. "Hank's gone. Where—"

The scientist fixed onto him a calm gaze, too calm for his liking. He grasped the hands on his shoulders and clasped them, snickering. "Shem, my friend, relax. They're in Sanford and Deimos' room, helping them get ready for bed."

"... Hank? " Mr. Sheriff repeated, to which the scientist nodded with a grin upon his lips.

Playfully, the latter asked, "surprised you too, didn't it?" 

"Oh, hush up," the sheriff groaned, continuing with the headcount. He finally arrived at the room the pair slept in, and found Hank helping Sanford put on a nightcap while Deimos told them all about their afternoon spent with Dr. Hofnarr, his music box in his lap.

"Well, I'll be," he murmured, feeling helplessly soft at the sight. He ought not to disturb them; he knew the look on Hank's face when they wanted to sleep. Mr. Sheriff counted nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and closed the door behind him, sighing in deep content.

Around this hour, Mr. Christoff would be fresh from an early evening spent asleep, and he would have the privilege of waking up to the melody of Dr. Hofnarr's music box. The man walked out of one of the staff rooms, looking ready to take on the world's evening—

"Good evening, old friend," Hofnarr singsonged, grinning obnoxiously at how Christoff's face fell upon hearing the music box.

"Awful nice, ain't it, Jeb," Mr. Sheriff chuckled lowly. "C'mon, you can barely tell it's that Bandana Wolf thing. 'Sides, I think Deimos likes it a lot, can't you tell?"

"I digress," Christoff relented, holding both hands up. "It does make him happy. That's reason enough to like it, I suppose.

But the three adults unanimously agreed that the best music that day was the sound of a timid Hank gently bidding Sanford and Deimos goodnight.

Chapter Text

THE PROTAGONIST

It seemed that Hank missed a rather important notice from Sheriff two days past. Mr. Sheriff had an important "business meeting" outside their block and would be, once again, away from the shelter all day. Instead of leaving the kids at the orphanage, he decided to let everyone on a play date on the emptier side of the city. Outings shone as a rare treat within shelter walls, and the little ones of the sheriff's patchwork family trembled eagerly and got ready fervently. On the day of the outing itself, they spoke excitedly of what-can-we-do's over breakfast plates, while Hank...

"Oh, we didn't hear tha' one yet, I think. Gotcha! But wha' 'bout you, Hank?" Deimos asked through his mouthful of food.
"I don't need an outside buddy, Dee." Hank pronounced the phrase like it soured their mouth tremendously. "I'm a big kid. But you two always stay together, 'kay?"
Stifling his curiosity as to who Hank's "outside buddy" was before they became a big kid, Sanford nodded. "Got it," he affirmed, finishing his last spoonful of food.
"You gotta promise."
"Promise." After a while, Sanford lifted his head. "...But I'm six, and you're seven—"
"Aaaand," Hank interrupted while tapping on their chin, pausing. "Oh. And share your water with each other if you need to."
Deimos interjected, exclaiming, "Of course!"
"What else... ah, and tell Mr. Jeb… or Mr. Abram, or Dr. Hofnarr if you feel dizzy or sick, or if you got hurt." Hank ticked each name off on their fingers.

The younger boy whispered to the older, though the volume of his voice made his intent clear. "Is this what having a ma feels like, 'Ford?"
Before Sanford could shake his head, Wimbleton let out a rather cross huff. "I'm just tellin' you guys all the things Mr. Sheriff always tells us," the oldest of the trio grumbled, moving to stand from their seat. "Fine, I won't tell you anymore. And I betcha Mr. Sheriff's too busy to tell y'all! You guys are fu—"
Sanford hurriedly reached over the table to grab their hand. "No! Hank, I wanna see if we missed anything! C'mon, Dee, we gotta know everything to do outside, stop teasing."
"I was just kidding!" Deimos wailed. "I'll quit it, promise! I'm sorry, Hank, please! Tell us more. Is Mr. Sheriff really not gonna tell us?"

"Well, now, maybe, but he's busy. So I dunno." Hank shrugged. They truly stood from their seat now, turning up an invisible nose. "And now I won't, either. Hmph."
After a few minutes of pleading, the boys were fortunately given most, if not all, of the what-for and do's and don'ts of going outside. (The "what-for" in Hank refusing to tell them, neither of the two knew, but you will: Hank thought they had been "too nice" to the boys these past few days and wanted to offset it by doing this.) As a supplement to the various tips he'd given them, Hank secretly resolved to keep both a literal and figurative unseen eye on both of them. Not that he cared; that was stupid. 'For good measure, whatever that means' is what he tells himself.

THE ORPHANS

As soon as Hank gave them the rundown, Jeb and Abram came from upstairs to corral everyone into one of the shelter's trucks.

While the sun did not burn harshly in spring, as in summer, the kids would have to don headwear and sunglasses to be safe. Sanford and Deimos had their hair protected by the usual silk, capped off with their own matching snapbacks. For the occasion, Hank pulled at Jeb's coat and motioned with a black swatch of cloth they had found in one of the storage rooms. The older grunt obliged the younger and dutifully tied the hard-won bandana around the latter's head, completing the look by neatly tucking the cloth's excess into a bun. A small face peering up at him with sheer gratitude would be Jebediah's reward.

"If I remove my hat..."
Sanford did such, leaving him only in the dark silk that wrapped his curls. Deimos snickered, recalling how Hank had so coldly snubbed them of their similarity the night past while brushing their hair and putting on their nightcaps. "There, now 'Ford really looks like you!"
"No, you don't," grumbled Hank. "Only a little bit."

Those prone to dust allergies and anything analogous— Hank included —had to have a bandana wrapped around their mouth area. Each child also brought with them their own bottle and another towel. Sanford and Deimos, remembering how Hank reminded them to share if the other ever ran out, both resolved to save as much water as possible for his friend. So really, Sanford carried Deimos' bottle, and Deimos carried Sanford's. They laughed at this silly little mix-up at bedtime. 

Finally, everyone under the age of twenty would have to wear earplugs or noise-reducing earmuffs, depending on whether the orphan was a toddler or older. These were handed out while every youngling piled into the truck and onto the trailer hitched to the back. The equipment was worn, and the children settled into their seats, the tight squeeze they made enjoyable by nestling with their favorite people. Hank felt slightly peeved that his usual seat up front was purloined once again, but when Sanford and Deimos cuddled up to him, he decided to focus on the present instead. 

Dr. Hofnarr went to guard the truck up front, hanging onto it while it drove. Mr. Christoff and Mr. Abram took charge of the trailer, meanwhile: Jeb inside, Abram hanging onto the outside of the trailer similarly to Hofnarr. With this arrangement, truck and trailer set off for a day of fun for children and grownups alike.

The truck drove throughout the city, taking several bends and turns that Christoff had to take mental note of before it eventually pulled up to a clearing where no other faction seemed to be about. The staff helped the orphans out of the vehicles, and the sheriff promptly drove off on the truck, leaving the orphanage body out in this open but secluded part of Nevada.

A blessing in the form of wind made the breeziest smocks the orphanage had on hand float quite prettily, letting the children enjoy the open air. Even these little grunts could withstand far more direct sunlight than you or I could ever hope to, so do not worry too much about them playing in the desert. Besides, the clouds billowing slowly above promised a relatively cool afternoon, and most of the soil they'd feel that day would mostly be of their actions.

"Wow!" Deimos yelled into the desert, spreading his hands out. Sanford saw Deimos' mouth move and tapped on his shoulder.
"I can't hear you," Sanford mouthed. Hank would do the same if not for the cloth covering their mouth.
"What?" asked Deimos before he wore his earmuffs around his neck. "I can't hear you."
"What did you say?" Sanford asked. Mr. Christoff approached and plucked out the earplugs from his ears. (Before you ask, dear reader, grunts' ears are not external, but they work no better nor worse than our own human ears.)
Deimos shouted back, "I said 'wow!'"
"Oh. Okay." Sanford pocketed the earplugs, furrowing his brow at the younger grunt. "Why are you still shouting?"
 Deimos shrugged. "Sorry." He padded over to Hank, tapping their shoulder. "Hay, take off your thingies."
"What?" Hank asked.

"Alright, kids," Abram clapped his hands, making every head turn towards him. Some kids still had their ear coverings on and had to be helped by the older ones. "What do you want to do today? We gotta know, so we know how to split up."
"What?" heckled Hofnarr, who received a love tap from Jebediah. "Ouch! Et tu, Jeb?"
"It's only endearing when the children do it," Mr. Christoff informed him. "I second this. What are you children going to do?"

They gently shot down a group of orphans' plans to go into the buildings: they didn't know what or who could be in them and it separated the group too much. They agreed to let them look at the buildings from afar, though, and use it as a landmark of sorts to several of their games. But, as mentioned earlier, they were prohibited from actually entering the buildings, and there was no wandering off into the city, either. No wandering far into the desert, too, lest they be touched by the Ḙ̶̜͇̼͍̗͕͇̪̥̞̦͙̽́̏͒̍́̅̒̈́̑̂͠͠͝͝R̷̢̬̠͕͍͚̰̩̰̭̻̜͂̉̏̍̅̽̒̅̓͘͠ͅR̷̟̠̂̾̎̑̀̽͑̒͆̊̔̅͒̕͜Ö̵̧̱̣̲͚̗̖̩͕̗́͊̐̑R̵̨͔̀͊̿͛͐͗͑̌̀̌̕͝͝Ę̶̫͔͙̱̬̟͕̥̼̤̰͛̏̐̈́͛̅̾̌͊̐̃́̚͝R̷͙̒̀̆R̶̛̮̉̈́̐͂̎̏͋̾̚̕̚Ô̸̟̖̰̥͕͍͙̪̦̝̗͇̈̈́̃̓̀̏͒̂́̊̾̐̅̚ͅŔ̸̰͇̳͖͎̳̂̆̔ͅĘ̴̻̱͍͓͙̹̭̼͙͔̦̠̌͐̓͆͛̽̅ͅR̸͖̹̜͓̤̪̮̙̈́͜R̷̢̜̟̟̖̙͔̥̱͚̠̠̖̹͛̾̒̄̐̔̒̆̕͘͠Ơ̸̹̈́̂͌̀͆̂̀͆͐̆̍̕E̵̱̣͇̥̜̬͕̠̭̯̘̟̯̊̿̾̔̄́̓̀͘͜͝͠ͅR̷̛͕̹̿̄̋͊̔̾͋̇̔̓͛̚̕Ṛ̶̫̗̩͔̯̜̼̱̏̍͂̔̍̓̊̀̎͊̋̓͠ͅO̷̡̨̰͍̯̹̰̤̒̈́̿̀͌̓̾̒̋͑̉́͜͝R̵̢̡̀͂̀̀̅͋͊̉͝Ȇ̵̢̠͇͚̺̮̼̫̬̦̹̜̟͍͒͋̈́͋̿́̌͊͘͠Ṟ̵̛̻̱̭̮̿͛͑̈́̀̐́R̵̡̢̻̦̻̲͓̹̤͓͆̂̔̂̐̈̒̕͜Ó̶̧̡̟̪̱̫̗̠̭̬͔̑́̾̈́͑̔̑̅ͅR̸̡͓͎̍̂̐̒͠

The smaller subunits of orphans played on their own before they all eventually banded together to play a game of tag to be divided into two teams. Everyone got arranged by age order, and the odds and evens were placed into opposing groups. Somehow, one team ended up with Hank, Sanford, and Deimos, to their collective delight. And to Hank's singular delight, Christoff and Hofnarr were on the other team, too. 

They would be lying if they said they didn't want it to come to this.

THE SAVIOR

With a shout from Dr. Hofnarr, the game was on. The number of players dwindled quickly. A grace period forgotten, the children began tagging each other at once. Some even began to debate on who tagged whom first. Mr. Abram himself seemed to stand stock still amongst the fray, appearing dazed before and after being caught by one of the kids. When he came to, he held his face in his hands before moving back to stand as a vigil for the game and as an arbiter for the debates.

'He must have done that on purpose, surely. Oh, Abram, my friend,' Jebediah mused to himself, shaking his head and laughing quietly while he tagged one of the older children gently on the shoulder. 'I can't believe we've almost missed that necessity. Well, no matter. He's done what he must, and now I should, too. This counts as keeping watch over the children, does it not?'

He hastily scanned the area for another target or an upcoming challenger. He only saw ones to avoid, and not because he feared getting tagged by them. Christoff loved the children dearly, but he must be frank: few of them proved to be a challenge to him. He thought it unfair to end the game for the little ones so quickly, and with that, he limited himself to a quite biased "best of the bunch."

Sanford and Deimos. They moved as a unit, back-to-back, indeed a force to be reckoned with. If you tagged one, the other would tag you, and you wouldn't want that, would you? With that logic in the other players' minds, Sanford and Deimos kept tagging everyone lagging behind the fray that ran away from them. Christoff very well kept away, knowing damn well how fast Deimos could run. 

And Hank…

Alone, with neither friend nor foe near them. Jebediah crept closer, steadily, the only sound sand shifting beneath his shoes. 

'Oh, Hank. It saddens me to tag you.'

Other orphans on Jebediah's team, emboldened by their leader's approach, closed in on Hank with him. The little ones rushed forward, alarming Wimbleton of their presence with a mistimed battle cry. Our protagonist whirled round and danced dangerously close to their eager hands, touching them with his own and yelling out, "tag!"

As Hank caught his breath while the disheartened children made their way to Mr. Abram, Christoff's hand darted forward to grasp Wimbleton's shoulder. Hank ducked under his outstretched hand and made a grab for it with their own.

In an instant, he knew that Hank played their intense game of tag safely: weaving around eager hands and tapping them quickly for a counterattack. The point would go to Hank and not them; thus he racked up quite the count of orphans he tagged. But Christoff was too fast for them (at that moment, anyway). He retracted his hand quickly, locking the best players of the game in a hard stalemate.

"Impressive," he called. Hank's face moved, going by how their bandana shifted, and he wondered if they were smiling. Jolting forwards to make Christoff jolt back, they changed reins and scampered away.

"Hay! We're going too far, Hank!" Christoff reminded as he ran after them, short breaths intercepting his words.
"'Kay," Hank called back, panting between pauses. "Chase me back, then!"

But Hank listened to him even if only a little bit, with how they made a hard swerve back to the main fray. Unfortunately, they found themselves cornered by the other team, led by none other than Christoff himself. Hank pressed his back to the trailer cart, finding nowhere else to run.

All the while, his opponents choked the space left around him, closing in on Wimbleton slowly. Carefully in their own eyes, tauntingly in Hank's. He gritted his teeth, his hands scrabbling for any sort of purchase on the cart behind them.

Christoff stepped forward, his hands raised as if he was the one surrendering. "It's alright, kid. You can forfeit, and— Hank!"

Their hands latched onto the edge of one of the cart's windows, hoisting themselves up. All grunts stood in awe at the sight of Hank escaping over the trailer, the child practically vaulting over the damned thing. Christoff was the first to move after Hank, taking the safer route of running around the vehicle after him.

The game fell into a brief moment of pause when he saw Hank. They had hopped off from the top of the cart and now ran toward the horizon.

Jebediah watched them slowly stopping in their tracks as they, for once, marveled at the sun. Its eyes were closed in slumber, its wide smile now peaceful and mild. The burning ball of light sank slowly behind the horizon, allowing the night's greys and onyxes to spill over Nevada, truly rendering it the Silver State. He let Hank bathe in the midst of dusk on their own before he eventually raised his voice.

"Beautiful, isn't it, Hank?"
Christoff stayed a distance behind but called after them nonetheless. He would have given chase had he not noticed how Hank stood absolutely stock still at the lovely sight. If any of the other children tried tagging Hank then, he would not know, for Jeb would have held up a hand to stop them from tagging him unawares.

Hank turned around to regard their caregiver, pulling down their bandana to speak.
"It's pretty," they called in a small voice. "Pretty stupid."

'Oh, Hank,' Jebediah thought.
Hank was saved from the alarming sight of the sun opening its eyes in shocked anger. It promptly went back to sleep, having no more energy to deal with the child's bullshit. And anyhow, karma would fall upon this insolent little grunt in a few moments.

Christoff repeated in askance, "Stupid? How?"
The bandana over their mouth shifted again. "Because it reminds me of you. Haha, gotcha—" 

At the last word, Hank tried to run away only for their face to be planted nice and firm into the Nevadan desert. With a yelp, Mr. Christoff ran over to help them up. If the thrill of the chase didn't frazzle our protagonist's mind, they would have noticed how the other orphans no longer laughed when they fell.

"Dang it!" Hank cried. Their voice wavered under an emotion Jeb hadn't registered, yet it made him chuckle.
"No," Jebediah laughed, shaking his head. "That didn't count— a-are you okay?"

To his delight, Hank laughed as well. He loved the sound of their laughter: so loud and happy, so unlike Hank and yet so like them at the same time. 
The child dusted off their knees in the manner the sheriff did, sighing, "serves me right."

"That didn't count, Hank. Are you ready?" Christoff challenged. 
Seemingly on cue, the other children came around as well, all raring to tag Wimbleton. The latter replied only with their actions, darting forward. Their fellows were quick, but he wasn't feared in the orphanage for nothing; he had his enemies down within moments.

"Tag, tag, tag!" Hank cried, running from the fray backward and splaying their hands out. "Win! Right?"

"Well played, Hank," Jebediah congratulated. He almost turned and walked away with the laughing children before Hank leaped forward to grasp his hand, looking up at him.
"Wait, Mr. Jeb. You were good to me," Hank told him. "You get another chance. Just one, 'kay?."
"Another chance, you say?" Christoff raised a brow, standing back and already changing his posture. He held up two hands, crouched as if to pounce.
"Yes," replied Wimbleton impatiently, bouncing on their heels before assuming the same stance as him. "C'mon, c'mon!"
"You 'come on!'" Jeb laughed. "Well? Are you ready?"

"Three, two—!" Hank feigned a jolt forwards, attempting to psych Jeb out once more. The older grunt fell for the dirty feint, tensing before knitting their brows together crossly. He crept forward, and Hank did the same, the two seeming less in a game of tag and more like a sparring match. To backdrop their final battle was Nevada's dusk, the dark grey foreshadowing what was to come.

And then

THE CLOWN

They did not expect the arrival of Hofnarr, who seemed all but seized by the Ḙ̶̜͇̼͍̗͕͇̪̥̞̦͙̽́̏͒̍́̅̒̈́̑̂͠͠͝͝R̷̢̬̠͕͍͚̰̩̰̭̻̜͂̉̏̍̅̽̒̅̓͘͠ͅR̷̟̠̂̾̎̑̀̽͑̒͆̊̔̅͒̕͜Ö̵̧̱̣̲͚̗̖̩͕̗́͊̐̑R̵̨͔̀͊̿͛͐͗͑̌̀̌̕͝͝Ę̶̫͔͙̱̬̟͕̥̼̤̰͛̏̐̈́͛̅̾̌͊̐̃́̚͝R̷͙̒̀̆R̶̛̮̉̈́̐͂̎̏͋̾̚̕̚Ô̸̟̖̰̥͕͍͙̪̦̝̗͇̈̈́̃̓̀̏͒̂́̊̾̐̅̚ͅŔ̸̰͇̳͖͎̳̂̆̔ͅĘ̴̻̱͍͓͙̹̭̼͙͔̦̠̌͐̓͆͛̽̅ͅR̸͖̹̜͓̤̪̮̙̈́͜R̷̢̜̟̟̖̙͔̥̱͚̠̠̖̹͛̾̒̄̐̔̒̆̕͘͠Ơ̸̹̈́̂͌̀͆̂̀͆͐̆̍̕E̵̱̣͇̥̜̬͕̠̭̯̘̟̯̊̿̾̔̄́̓̀͘͜͝͠ͅR̷̛͕̹̿̄̋͊̔̾͋̇̔̓͛̚̕Ṛ̶̫̗̩͔̯̜̼̱̏̍͂̔̍̓̊̀̎͊̋̓͠ͅO̷̡̨̰͍̯̹̰̤̒̈́̿̀͌̓̾̒̋͑̉́͜͝R̵̢̡̀͂̀̀̅͋͊̉͝Ȇ̵̢̠͇͚̺̮̼̫̬̦̹̜̟͍͒͋̈́͋̿́̌͊͘͠Ṟ̵̛̻̱̭̮̿͛͑̈́̀̐́R̵̡̢̻̦̻̲͓̹̤͓͆̂̔̂̐̈̒̕͜Ó̶̧̡̟̪̱̫̗̠̭̬͔̑́̾̈́͑̔̑̅ͅR̸̡͓͎̍̂̐̒͠ with how he tagged everyone in his way, including his teammates! He even tagged those already tagged, exclaiming such an excited "Gotcha!" that the kids had no choice but to agree that Hofnarr had caught them.

"Gotcha!" He yelled, grabbing Christoff and Hank both. "Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!"

Chapter Text

Sanford watched as the three tumbled beautifully onto the desert, their lovely scuffle leaving them covered in fine, itchy layers of sand. Both adults seeming possessed by strings tuned to Hank's favor, Christoff and Hofnarr both moved their hands under little Wimbleton's head to brace them from the fall. Now that they all laid almost completely still on the ground, Sanford sat faithfully next to them all, waiting for them to stir.

In a soft bed of fine sand laid an exhausted Christoff, panting tiredly underneath the two smaller grunts. Their day of play had finally gotten to him (mind you, it was high time for him to be asleep), and he was too tired to move. "Ooof."

"Ouchie," Hank agreed, rubbing their head as they sat up. They reached over to hold one of Mr. Jeb's hands in both of their own, patting the back of his hand to get him to move. Complying, Christoff sat up next to Hank, giving him a pat on the head as wordless thanks.

"Gotcha," Hofnarr repeated obstinately when all three regained footing.

By his side, Jebediah nodded. "You got us," he relented, sounding annoyed. He began dusting himself off to the best of his abilities. "Now, Doctor, that wasn't very fair."

"Lol."

An exasperated Jeb trudged forwards and shook the doctor by his smock. The grin that threatened to break his stony gaze at the scientist gave his true emotion away. "Tee, in what world do you tag your own teammate?!" He demanded. 

"My world," replied sly Dr. Hofnarr, who took to grinning shyly at Mr. Christoff. "That's where. Are you alright, Hank? Can I pick you up? I want to look at your head." 

"Are you guys okay?" Sanford also asked, only now taking the chance to pipe up. Deimos approached just in time to watch Hank be plucked up like a puppy.

"I'm fine," Hank pouted, who let themselves be picked up nonetheless. "Y'all protected me."

"And did that hurt?" The scientist asked. He turned them around in his hands fretfully, lifting their head covering with a finger. The linen underneath stood out to him a dirty white. The bandages needed changing, but otherwise, Hank was as fine as they claimed.

"No. It felt nice." Hank felt Hofnarr's hand slip out from under their bandana.

"Good. You two head back now, yeah? Now, Jeb, hold Hank for me."

With Jebediah holding Hank under an invisible arm, Dr. Hofnarr turned to the pair. "Now, to answer your question, Sanford, I am perfectly fine…."

Something told Sanford to take a few steps back. Perhaps it was how Hofnarr reared up, his hands moving from his sides to in front of his chest.

"In fact, so fine…." Hofnarr pronounced slowly, stepping forward.

"Deimos, run," Sanford hissed, taking more steps backward. The other only giggled in response, jutting his head as if to challenge the doctor. "Deimos!"

"Wait!" Deimos giggled, staring at Dr. Hofnarr. "I wanna see…."

"...as to end this game once and for all!" Hofnarr declared, causing the two boys to giggle and scamper away, Sanford making it farther than Deimos. The adult ran after the two, targeting them now that their little "two-man unit" arrangement was left forgotten. Alas, Deimos ran fast, but he was not wont to take extreme measures to win as Hofnarr was. Hofnarr leaped forward and let his hand brush Deimos' back, once again barrelling face-first into the desert. The small grunt gasped aloud, and his footsteps slowed, prompting Sanford to turn.

"D-Deimos…?" Sanford whispered. Whipping around to watch the scene, Sanford looked on in horror as Deimos dropped to his knees. He reached out a desperate hand, yelling, "Noooo! Deimos!"

"Go on without me, Sanfoooord!" Deimos despaired, flopping onto his stomach and rolling all over the sand. "Waaaah!"

"Oh, no, Deimos, please don't do that!" Hofnarr wailed helplessly, crawling forwards on his belly. 

Sanford panted hard through his mouth, watching as Deimos began burying himself in the sand for some reason. "I'll win for you, Dee," he whispered, realizing what his friend was doing.

Using Deimos' theatrics as a distraction, Sanford took to sprinting faster away from the mad scientist. Noticing, Hofnarr gasped and turned away from Deimos' little self-burial to chase after the older boy. For a moment, the doctor even ran on all fours before eventually picking himself up and sprinting as well.

"Don't you dare tag Sanford!" Deimos warned as if that would do anything, shaking off the remains of his funeral and running closely behind Hofnarr.

"Oh, I'm gonna!" Hofnarr hollered back. He turned to watch where Sanford ran; the smile on his face wiped well clean. "Ah, wh— Hay! Wait! Sanford, go back to everyone else!"

The boy stared ahead at the vast expanse of desert before him, realizing his mistake. "I'm going back," Sanford shouted, "but don't tag me!" 

"I won't," the doctor vowed, "but then I will! Haha!"

Unlike Hank, Sanford could not make a sharp turn back to the rest of the orphanage body. He made a huge curve towards the main fray and soon found himself bolting past the other orphans, Mr. Abram, the trailer, and the truck next to it. He ran from the scientist…

~

... only to be caught by different hands, smaller but equally rough. 

"....Huh?"

Sanford stilled in this person's grasp, his blood running cold. The grunt in front of them was tall, a grownup. Dr. Hofnarr was  definitely  behind him, unless he had crazy teleportation up his smock, too. Mr. Christoff hadn't really moved the last time he saw him and Hank. He had passed Mr. Abram earlier, he remembered. So who…?

His mind wandered to horrible places, to images of this stranger taking him there. 

'Maybe it's Dr. Hofnarr,'  he pleaded with his mind.  'I gotta check, I gotta… who, who…'

The sun had set moments ago, and he had to remove his sunglasses to tell. Sweat beading his brow fell into his vision, misting it, and the resulting fogginess in his internal eyes only prompted tears to well up and out of his facial cross. He breathed harder as his vision blurred further, his chest rising and falling per second.

'Who…? Who?!'

Sanford screamed, this time in pure terror, howling and wriggling from the strange hold. He took a turn tumbling back into the desert, sobbing and panting while sprawled onto the sand. The stranger followed suit, crawling forward on their knees.

"Sanford, Sanford! It's me! Oh, my God, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… please, please be okay…."

Only then did he think to fully regard the stranger before him, lifting his vision to glare back at…

~

"Miss Eri!" Sanford wondered aloud, picking himself up. "H-How… How'd you  get  here?"

The staff member had been knelt down next to him and now stood as well, relieved little breaths fogging her glasses. She regarded the scared child carefully through her mismatched lenses, reaching out with a hand.

"Sanford... I'm sorry I scared you…." 

Her rough hand gently brushed a lock of hair that had escaped his silk, tucking it back into his head covering. "Are you okay?"

His voice trembled still, recovering slowly from his little shock. "Yeah. I'm sorry... f-for yelling..."

"No need to apologize for that," she chirruped softly, still stroking his head. "Did you have fun? When… when I wasn't here?"

"Mmhmm," hummed Sanford, his voice still weak. He gratefully took in a sharp, shaky breath before he flung his hands around the engineer, sniffling. 

"Oh, Sanford," she cooed, hugging him back. As she did, she dusted the wilderness from his smock, then held him tighter. "I'm so, so sorry for scaring you…."

"It's okay," the boy croaked, nuzzling into the embrace. "I'm so glad it's you… I thought you were a… I-I thought you were a bad gu-u-uy..."

He took comfort even in the layers of armor the woman wore, crying into the smock that surmounted them all. From behind them approached a fuming Deimos and an equally-concerned Dr. Hofnarr.

"What happened?!" Deimos demanded. "Why'd he shout? Did he fall?"

"Sanford," Dr. Hofnarr breathed, wondering if he himself had gone too far in their little game. "Miss? What happened?"

"Just a little scare, is all," chirped Erimentha sadly, bowing her head. "Sanford came running, and I spooked our dear badly. I'm sorry, Doctor… please..."

"Now, now, I'm sure you didn't mean it, Miss," Dr. Hofnarr reassured. He knelt down next to the shivering boy. "Are you feeling alright, 'Ford?"

"Miss Eri is here," was all Sanford could muster, his face still buried in the woman's smock.

"Oh," Deimos said softly. He reached out to pat the older boy on the back, sighing. "You got scared… it's dark... it's okay, San… C'moooon, 'Ford..."

Miss Eri lifted her gaze from the scared little fledgling to regard the other two. "I think it's best for all of you to get back. You can take the truck back home."

"You unload everything already, Miss?" Dr. Hofnarr questioned, laying a hand on Sanford's shoulder. "Also, tagged ya."

Giggling through his sniffles, Sanford couldn't help but lift his face and peer behind the teacher. Mystery bags of several sizes lay strewn about behind her, damp at their bases. The sand turned a rusty brown where the bags lay. His laughter turned hushed until it didn't make itself heard at all, his mouth hanging slightly ajar at the sight.

"Yes, Doctor. I'll come back home on the bike, no problem." The sound of Miss Erimentha's kindly voice snapped Sanford out of his reverie.

"Aww. C'mon, 'Ford," Deimos called, holding out his hand. "We're gonna go home. Wow, it's been a whole day…"

"Come on now, Sanford," coaxed a gentle-voiced Hofnarr before he raised it to call out to the engineer. "Take care, Miss!"

"Bye, Miss," Sanford called frailly, taking Deimos' extended hand and pulling away from the embrace.

As they moved to get ready for the trip home, the engineer whispered something to the doctor that Sanford didn't quite catch, something about a dumpster. The orphans were asked to line up double-file into the trailer and the newly arrived truck, and he could not eavesdrop anymore.

"What happened to you back there, 'Ford?" Hank asked dismissively as they piled into the truck.

"I just got scared," he replied numbly, too tired to speak. And so Hank left it at that, but Sanford swore Hank let him cuddle in a little more than usual.

Finally, everyone was ready to go home. Mr. Abram kept himself posted as a guard for the trailer while Dr. Hofnarr stood vigil for the truck that Mr. Christoff drove. As Sanford gazed upon Miss Erimentha, watching the truck pull away, he had to wonder how she kept that shovel strapped onto her back.

The trip back home was similar to the trip outside. Earmuffs and earplugs made it nigh impossible to hold conversations, but the orphans were content to wordlessly and tiredly snuggle up to each other. Friends wiped each other's heads with their towels and shared water between themselves when needed. Then one by one, the orphan's consciousnesses went out like lights in a village soon to sleep. Almost all of the children snoozed soundly in the truck and the trailer for the rest of the ride, Mr. Christoff making the careful drive home all the while.

All but one Sanford, who didn't think he could sleep after the ordeal earlier. He simply let Hank and Deimos rest on his shoulders. For the rest of the ride, he watched from behind his glasses as Dr. Hofnarr kept an eye outside. He thought he was watching a different man, then, with the way his glasses glinted as the truck passed under a streetlight.

The doctor's head perked up at the sight of something Sanford couldn't quite catch. He could just barely make out the faintest traces of a lively little "pop" sounding from the gun he held as it fired a brightly colored egg. It traveled a whole block before landing expertly behind one of the big dumpsters by one of the buildings. Just barely able to turn his head with Hank resting on his shoulder, Sanford made out the sight of grunts scattering in a hurry away from a dumpster and away from the truck's journey. His mouth fell open at the sight, how the doctor could cause such cacophony with such a little thing.

"Got it that time," Hofnarr hissed. 

"Wow." This caught the scientist's attention, who whirled round to face him.

Hofnarr mouthed a careful "You saw that?"

Sanford nodded quickly, clamping his mouth shut. He waited for the adult to reprimand him, only to stare in awe at the wicked smile that now occupied their lips.

"Pretty cool, huh? Now lower your head"— and he motioned with his hands for Sanford to duck down — "juuuust in case..."

Tensing, Sanford ducked down, much to a grumbling Deimos' chagrin. Unbeknownst to Sanford, a handful of the frightened grunts returned to the supposed blast zone, wondering what had just happened. One of the braver ones picked up the projectile and examined it, then began yelling to their companions. The group proceeded to fall back, away from the truck. Meanwhile, the boy thought he would be hearing something akin to the destruction of metal and bodies by now and so regarded the scientist with a raised brow.

"I thought it was supposed to explode." Sanford looked as confused as the grunts Hofnarr had frightened.

"Oh, no! It's not real. Here, look."

The scientist produced another similar egg from his weapon case and held it up in front of the boy. Sanford took the capsule and examined it, twisting it around in his hands. Of course, he could not know that the grenade was not a grenade at all, or perhaps one not made not to explode. Wrapped around the cylinder were cheerfully written words of caution, cast in a bold print that stood out even in the evening:

KIDS XING!!

THIS IS A

WARNING

A grunt motif was between the two sentence fragments, right in the middle of its facial cross, a big red nose.

"They really won't come for us?" Sanford sounded doubtful, lifting his gaze from cylinder to scientist.

Hofnarr grinned, shaking his head. Then, he mouthed something to Sanford, something that made him want to feign falling asleep after all:

"They know who I am."

Sanford "woke" to the sound of a yell from the orphanage. So they had arrived home. He moved to rouse Hank first, resting a hand on their shoulder and shaking it gently.

"They're back! Kids are back! Rich, get a move on, boy!"

"Almost done, sir!" Another voice shouted back.

Hofnarr snickered lowly, hopping out of the slow-moving truck and running up to the driver's seat. "Drive slower, old friend."

A small plume of smoke from the back of the orphanage spoke of a campfire. Sanford's mind would dwell on this (as it did many other things) for the rest of the night, especially when he would catch sight of what fueled the inferno; meanwhile, Hofnarr recognized what it was for and trusted that his coworkers would control the flame well enough. Chalk it up to experience.

The scientist met with the sheriff at the gates, and the two ushered in the truck and trailer safely within the orphanage premises. The truck and trailer were closely examined in case of any unwanted stowaways, while Mr. Sheriff, Mr. Rich, Mr. Christoff, and Mr. Abram helped out each and every orphan head back inside.

"We're cooking dinner outside tonight," Rich informed Jeb, helping one yawning child hop out of the trailer. "Saves gas. Is that okay with you, sir?"

Christoff stiffened, staring at the smoke plume before speaking slowly. "Well, ah… Perhaps  Abram  can handle cooking dinner for tonight... "

As the children were herded back upstairs into their rooms, some of them noted how each and every room in the shelter smelled fresh, the sterile smell of a stronger cleaning agent only mildly irritating their senses. On each orphan's bed laid their sleeping smocks, ready for wear, to their delight. The children imagined that if they ever "booked a fancy hotel," this would be what it felt like.

The children were happy to sluice themselves with water at a temperature just right. Weary from a whole day of play, the orphans gladly savored their small taste of faux luxury. Hank and Deimos most of all appreciated the clothes ready at their disposal, having rolled in the dusty grounds of the Nevadan desert earlier.

Upstairs, the children leisurely got washed and dressed, blissfully unaware of what had happened that day in the very building that sheltered them. Outside, the sheriff's lackeys cooked dinner over a fire fueled by rust-colored cloth, under the spring moon.

Chapter Text

"Ooh! I know something that'll look real nice on you, Hank…"

If ever asked, Mr. Sheriff would swear up and down that he only meant to give Hank his hat again, in a poor attempt to weasel out of the fact that their little meeting had escalated into a whole dress-up. Wimbleton stood in the middle of his office now in cowboy's gear. The hat looked awful lonesome on its own atop Hank's head, the sheriff had remarked, and so jested that he give them the smallest vest he had on hand. Then, outfitted in a fringed vest over their usual smock, the kid pointed to the boot spurs strapped to the man's boots. Now Mr. Sheriff wound up rifling through his inventory for the third time that morning, all while little Wimbleton, swathed in the smartest shades of black and grey, stamped their feet to hear the jingle bobs at their heels ring again.

"One last thing…" Mr. Sheriff mumbled, fishing out the least used scarf in his drawers and presenting it to Hank. "Before we send you off!"

"Wild rag!" The child exclaimed, perking up at the sight. They had to shove their hands in the pocket of their vest to keep them steady.

"Yep! This one is all yours, Hank; you can keep it. Been meanin' to give it to you on your bir— er, Shelter Day, but here." Mr. Sheriff knelt in front of Hank and tied the grey scarf around their neck, fastening it with a square knot. "Keep you warm or keep you cold, use it for just about anythin' and it looks real good too."

He stood and stepped back, giving Hank a critical look that softened and turned loving. "Look at you, New Mr. Sheriff," the real sheriff beamed, placing his hands on his hips.

Hank turned slowly to show their new outfit off, then looked at their caregiver pointedly. "Still think it looks better on you, p— M-Mr. Sheriff."

His heart all but combusted at the little mistake. "Nonsense," he managed to wheeze out, giving them the widest of smiles. "I oughta get a new hat for myself and you can keep that one. What about it, Hank?"

"Nah," they shook their head, holding onto the sheriff's hat as they did. "Fits you more, I bet. See, it's too big."

"Ah. Well, now, you're right. You can still see, can't you?"

"I can. Now, I'll think about it. But I'm keepin' the rag."

"So we can match," Mr. Sheriff laughed. "'Fore we go off, let's go over it again, alright? What's this for?" 

Hank unfolded the piece of paper they produced from their dress pocket. "I wrote everything I should say so I don't forget again." This garnered a hearty gasp from the sheriff.

"Oh, you absolute darlin'...! Lemme see," he drawled excitedly, sidling up to them.

"These are the questions I'll ask 'em durin' playtime," Hank demonstrated, pointing at the writing with their index finger. "There, and there. And this is if someone wants to go somewhere. I'll ask where they're goin', and then join 'em. Like going to the bathroom. Or if I can't do it myself, I'll find someone to help, like Mr. Sloane."

"This is really g— Sorry, what does this say? 'Do you need…'"

"'Anythin','" Hank finished for him.

"This is really good, dear," the sheriff commended after scanning the paper a little more, pulling back to regard the child proudly. "Oh, look at you! You're a natural, Hank; I hardly had to tell you anythin' at all!"

"I'll be a good sheriff," Hank promised.

"Just remember… try bein'... now, your tone…"

"Mm-mm," they nodded. "Not scary."

"But you're doin' fantastic, Hank. Gosh, I am real sorry I gotta keep askin' this of you. This fella is really…" Mr. Sheriff's voice tapered off, sighing.

"It's okay." Hank folded the paper and kept it in their pocket. "Why. What are they doin'? They givin' you trouble?"

"Just kinda…" Trailing off, the sheriff laughed, shaking his head. "Just kinda hard to get a hold of. Gotta investigate what's the problem, why they're bein' so difficult, that's all."

"So he is givin' you trouble." If Hank had any eyebrows, they would be knit together in the annoyance they felt for the sheriff.

"He has," Mr. Sheriff affirmed mournfully. "You be good to Miss Maia, now. Poor girl got shot, I remember. But that's a secret between you and me, okay?"

Within Wimbleton, something flared, and they did not know what. They managed a small "okay."

"Don't tell anyone, you promise? Well, you can tell 'em to be careful around Miss Maia, but don't go tellin' anyone who did it."

"Mm. I won't." He would just have to confront this guy himself, he resolved. But he could pledge silence just for the sheriff, who gave him a thankful smile in return.

"Her and Mr. Sloane are outside, you go and call 'em in for me, now. Thank you. You try havin' fun today, okay? You remember that, alright?"

"Will do, Mr. Sheriff," Hank called back, striding for the door. 

Somehow it felt easier to walk confidently in this outfit, they realized as they twisted the doorknob. Something about it made them feel… big. Outside, he was met with two of the taller staff members of the orphanage, and yet he still felt this emotion of being "big," saluting them with a tip of the sheriff's hat as he had seen the man often do. Sleepy Mr. Sloane bowed his head meekly and ducked into Mr. Sheriff's office, while Miss Maia— Hank noted the bandage that dressed her shoulder —greeted him with a nod of her own, following after her coworker.

Wimbleton traveled from the shelter's right wing to the left and into one of the playrooms where he would see his task of taking care of the younger orphans through. For the period before lunch time, he parked himself near the door where he could keep tabs on anyone coming in and out of the room. Sanford and Deimos caught him cooing over a new picture book of cats while heading for the door.

"G'mornin', Hank. Cool hat. Cool cat."

"Good mornin'." Hank greeted, closing the book shut and standing to speak with them. "You keep sayin' that. The hat is cool. Thank you, Dee. You can stop sayin' it."

"Well, 'cause it is cool."

"Good morning, Mr. Sheriff. You're Mr. Sheriff," Sanford nodded. 

Hank shook his head. "I'm still Hank."

"He's right. You sound like him and everything," Deimos teased, hopping up to pat them on the head. "Scary Mr. Sheriff!"

Hank ducked under the motion to give Deimos further access to their head, grumbling to themselves all the while. "Scary? Look, whatever. Where are you two goin'?"

The two boys reported that they were bound for Miss Eri's to pick up Deimos' Math catch-up homework. After a gentle reminder that it was Monday, Miss Erimentha's break day, Deimos hastily reassured that they would only pop in and out for his work, and they would bother her no longer. Hank let them go at that.

"Sorry I might not help today, Hank. But I'll try to..." Sanford said in a small voice as they began to part. The other orphan waved a hand dismissively.

"Nah, it's okay. I don't really do much. And you gotta catch up, Dee," Hank grumbled, tapping the boy's shoulder lightly with a fist. Deimos only giggled, returning the motion if not a little harder.

"I will! You'll see!" The youngest child promised, flashing the oldest a confident smirk. "I'll join you guys in class, and then you'll see!" 

As they left, Hank pulled the picture book back up to their nose area, zeroing in on a picture of a particularly cute cat that they liked: all claws and milky-furred, with fluff like a white-hot flame. But their gaze would sometimes trail towards Dr. Hofnarr instead. The scientist was showing off to the children a handmade train station, and now they were cutting out from cardboard boxes different heights to prop train tracks onto.

Playing tag with him one-on-one sounded fun, Hank pondered, peering at the man from behind their book with great interest. They so wanted to get back at him after the stunt he'd pulled weeks ago. They still had not moved on from their pathetic loss, and they doubted they ever could unless they enacted retribution through beating him in return.

'... LET'S PLAY. I WANT TO PLAY.'

But oh, how to ask? After all, they had the task of watching over the children. Were they allowed any sort of play? Would the other kids get hurt if he so much as turned away from them for a second? Hank didn't want to take any chances lest he fails his task. Alas, our poor hero had forgotten the sheriff's reminder to "try havin' fun," too caught up with the many reminders that day to remember. He had to keep in mind many things— the tone of his voice, the responsibility to keep an internal eye out over the other children, and how he conducted himself in front of them —but in so doing kept "forgetting" all of these reminders entirely. 

This would be why Hank would join the "lunch train" (which obviously set off later at lunch) with such a gruffness that Dr. Hofnarr, orchestrating the train, thought that he had something to do with dear Wimbleton's sour mood.

"Choo choo! Come on, on the lunch… train…?" The scientist faltered, momentarily turning from the line of "choo-choo"' ing orphans to regard Wimbleton. "Hank, is something wrong?"

The child only continued silently flanking the line, shaking his head. "I'll tell you later."

As usual, the little sheriff sat with his two friends Sanford and Deimos for lunch. Any bitterness their mood held always seemed to struggle when those two were around. Somehow. Hank thought it best to stick to them always, though (and you'll never hear Wimbleton admit this) they didn't always need that effect for him to stick around.

"Oh, yeah, Hank, what did you do while we were gone?" Sanford asked over a plate of vegetables.

"Just read the book with cats in it," Hank shrugged. Shoveling a spoonful of peas into their mouth, they spoke with it full. "Why'd y'all come back early again?"

Not that they minded.

"I'm gonna have it after lunch," Deimos replied, waving around a piece of meat speared at the end of his fork. "I'm gonna catch up, Hank, and I'm gonna practice my fire power and show it to everyone!"

"Fire power?" Hank gasped, their head lifting suddenly. "You have that? Can I see?"

Deimos put down his fork and stuck out his thumb. "Here, I'll show you…"

And the result cheered them up from their sour mood only a little bit. 

And by 'a little bit,' I mean a lot. I cannot accurately transcribe just how hard Wimbleton had laughed at Deimos. The 'little' Schadenfreude had lifted Hank's mood considerably, only for it to be dampened when they remembered that Sanford would be with Deimos for the rest of the afternoon. That was fair; Hank would spend the afternoon on his own. He would just have to go on with the given task of checking in on the other children every now and then, no tears needed to be shed.

Other than the added task of occasionally checking on the others with questions such as "what are you (guys) doing," Hank went through the day usually, just with a little more authority than expected. So if they tried to relax, they could not mind their task one mite.

Especially when…

"Haaaank? Can y' go with me to the bathroom, pleaaaase? Now now now..."

The "dancing kid," Walter, did a funny dance of sorts in front of him now. They were bouncing on their heels, and whether they did so out of eagerness or the need to answer the call of nature Hank could not say for certain.

'Why didn't you go earlier?' was tempting to say, but he held his tongue. "Alright," was what Hank said instead, slapping his hands on his lap before standing. He sometimes saw Mr. Sheriff do this, and even he did not realize this until in the middle of their walk to the bathroom.

He gave it little thought even as he had to wait for Walt to finish their business, though, listening instead to how they sang one of Mr. Christoff's hymns as they went. He had to wonder what Jeb was doing now, at an actual school instead of the little classes they held at the orphanage. What were actual schools like, Hank wondered? And he'd always thought that adults didn't have to go to school anymore. Why, then, would Mr. Christoff be at school?

Walt came waddling out of the toilet area, calling Hank's train of thought to a halt. "Almost done. Where's the steppy?"

Finding the usual bathroom stool missing, Hank grunted and picked Walt up instead. "Here."

Yelping, the child relaxed in the older foundling's grasp and reached for the bottle, pumping a few dollops of sweet-smelling soap into their hands. Still in Hank's hold, they sang Happy Shelter Day twice as they washed their hands, rinsing them of the suds happily.

"Thank you, Hank," Walt said when they were on the ground. "You're really nice."

"Whatever." The older child took the younger one's now clean hand in their own, carefully pulling them along. "Come on, now."

As they walked, Walter had a lot more to say.

"Haaaank! Can you hug me? Please?"

Hank furrowed a "brow." "I'll think about it."

"But Sanford and Deimos get to do it," the child cried as they walked back to the playrooms. "How 'bout me? You don't like me?"

Hank sighed heavily. "It's… it's different."

"Oh…"

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Hank spread their hands out. "Ugh, fine—"

So, there. Hank found some of the things he received that afternoon enough to last him throughout the day. At least, he thought he was fine with it. But it seemed his body language had other plans, for when Hank approached a group of children to ask what they were up to, they were met with a

"Gwaaaa!"

Startled, Hank took a few steps away from them. "Jeez! What's wrong?"

The kid who had screamed held back no verbal punches. "You're scary!"

"Why?" So Deimos hadn't been kidding earlier; they did look scary. "I look like Mr. Sheriff, Sanford said. Mr. Sheriff ain't scary."

"Dude, you look like you wanted to come and beat us up for a second," Emmie laughed nervously. At this, Hank made an effort to un-square their shoulders, realizing they were tense.

"See, your hands, and— yeah, that's a bit better! You looked like you wanted to punch us."

"Well, I don't," Hank insisted, uncurling their fists. "That's just somethin' I— there! That better?"

They received the third critical look that day, after which the girl giving it nodded. "Mm, kinda. You don't look that scary anymore."

"Okay," came the little sheriff's numb reply. "Uh, thank you."

And thank Emmie indeed; dear Hank could rightly be commended for being more approachable that day. The other orphans wound up interacting with Hank more times that day than they ever had since they'd met him. He escorted orphans wishing to check their plots of land at the shelter's garden, helped children get items from the storage rooms, assisted the shorter ones in retrieving toys from high shelves, all with ease. All Wimbleton had to do was internalize what the other grunts taught them: unclench their fists, soften their gaze…

'... I'M BORED.'

Scratch that.

Even Hank, ever strong and ever staunch, had to admit that being a "caregiver" was getting a little exhausting, especially with how he'd have to do it more than twice times by now. Caring was nice in its own right, however tiring they sometimes found it to be, but being cared for was something they were missing quite quickly. Frankly, they wanted to go back to being a kid, even just for the smallest of whiles.

And as time passed, it became ever so much harder to, as the other orphans put it, "stop being scary." How much simpler it was to just glare at the man who had his hands too full to play with them. Maybe after a while, Dr. Hofnarr would get the message, but it was taking too long. And Hank could not simply waltz over there and demand the man of his time, especially not in front of the other kids. That was rude, and Mr. Sheriff reminded them to be nicer. 

But dang it, he wanted to! Glaring was all Hank found himself able to do, and glare he did. This caught the attention of a nameless orphan who garnered a "name" for themselves in how observant they were. Tearing their attention away from the network of cardboard buildings before them, they tugged at Dr. Hofnarr's smock.

"Why's Hank staring at you?" The nameless one asked, then turned back to regard their senior from afar. "Eeee... scary..."

"...Oh, gosh, you're right. Gee, they're burning a hole in the back of my head," the scientist laughed awkwardly. He laughed even harder when one of the orphans in his care actually walked behind him to check. "Oh, no, kiddo, that was just— a, uh, it's just an expression."

To tell you true, the doctor had noticed that Hank menaced them. Hours ago, in fact, but he could just not piece together what was wrong. He had quietly beckoned them several times to come forth and tell him what the matter was, but they only glared harder. Now that the children within his care were well satisfied with the play they had had for today, perhaps now he could approach Hank. But he did not need to do that; as soon as his little group dispersed, Hank came striding over.

"H-Hank! Hay, kiddo. Do you need anything?" Hofnarr stammered, offering the child a small smile.

Without giving time for pause, Hank demanded, 

"Play. With me. Now."

The world came to a standstill at that moment. For lack of subtle phrase, Dr. Hofnarr looked absolutely shell-shocked. Tense, Hank quickly threw out the word they had forgotten: 

"...Please."

"You… you wanted to play!" remarked Dr. Hofnarr finally, realization passing over his face. "Oh! That… that makes sense! I'm so sorry, Hank, I didn't know." He motioned for Hank to sit by patting the space next to him. "Gosh, you've been hard at work, haven't you?"

Hank shuffled over to sit across from him, crossing their legs and placing their hands on their shoes. "Mm. Play with me."

The scientist picked up one of the trains with a trembling hand, setting them back on the tracks. "R-Right! Here we are..."

While the scientist set up the train at its train station, Wimbleton took the cardboard cutouts under careful consideration. Sometimes they would pick a box up, noticing the windows drawn onto their sides. They then lifted their gaze to meet the doctor. "What's all this stuff?"

"Oh, they're supposed to be bridges and, uh, infrastructure. City infrastructure. That one you're holding is a building," explained Hofnarr. "We imagined this to be a city, and the train runs through it."

"Well, now, come ride the train with me." Hank fashioned a little play-person out of their own hand: two fingers comprised its legs. "I'm goin' on the train."

"Ah, yes. Here I am. Ooh, I'll be Mr. Conductor since I'm an adult." Hofnarr's play-person hopped up front.

The smaller play-person stopped in its tracks, looking just as confused as its puppeteer. "What's that mean?"

"I'm conducting the train. Ah, that means making it go places."

Smaller play-person followed bigger, taking a "seat" on top of one of the train's cabs. "Okay, Mr. Conductor. Take me to a burger place. Um, please."

"Ooh, and I'll be the chef of the burger place, too. If that's fine."

The train peacefully rode along the tracks, and the two grunts' play-people came along wherever it went. Hank seemed content, while Dr. Hofnarr…

"U-Um… Hank? Can I ask you something, though? If it isn't any trouble. We can still play."

Hank only made a slight noise to show they were all ears.

"You… you can tell me if you want to play!" Hofnarr offered, his face darkening in embarrassment. "It's just— oh, this is…." He scratched the back of his head before continuing. "I… k-kind of have a hard time reading you, you know?"

Watching Hank's shoulders tense, he stiffened as well, mumbling, "I'm sorry..."

If the creator of their world allowed it, Hank would be squinting at the scientist by now. "Feels kinda weird, but okay… Uh, "readin'" me?"

Hofnarr's tongue nervously ran along his quickly drying lips. "Er, it's kinda like… it's hard for me to tell… what you want."

So used to the other children, who asked of him exactly what they wanted, when they wanted, Hofnarr struggled even with beginning to convey the problem he had with Hank. He feared a gang of thugs seeking to ransack the shelter less than Hank's body language. But of course, he could not say that.

"B-But that's my bad, though!" Dr. Hofnarr clarified, his hand floating forth as if to reach out to them. "I'm really! Kinda bad at that… it's not just you, I… I-I just… earlier I was certain you were mad at me, and I made a mistake…!"

To his horror, Hank nodded once. "Kinda am. I wanted to play with you, but I couldn't."

Choking back a strained noise, Hofnarr waved his hands in a panic. "Ghh— I'm sorry…! Here, I'm playing with you now. I'm taking you to the burger place—"

Hank's play-person did not move. In fact, Wimbleton's hand came to rest on their lap instead. "Doctor."

"H-Huh?"

"I did talk," Hank stated. "Just a while ago. When I went to you, you forgot?"

"Oh, no, I meant… oh…." Hofnarr faltered under Hank's candidness, biting his lip. "I'm sorry. You did talk; I just didn't…."

"Don't worry 'bout it," Hank grumbled stiffly. "Just play with me. Or don't."

' Crap. We confuse the hell out of each other.'

Oh, this conversation was going nowhere! In the middle of their play, Hofnarr suddenly shouted, "How about this!"

"What?!" Hank yelped, startled.

"S-Sorry! For shouting!" The scientist cried out, then took a deep breath. "Hank… when you want to play with me, pat my hand… three times," he offered, lifting his gaze from the toy trains. "That should be a good sign that I can understand. And, you don't need to talk! How about that?"

"Pat…" Wimbleton repeated in a quiet voice, looking at the doctor.

Hank straightened a few moments after that, seemingly just digesting what this little method would accomplish. They reached over the make-believe train tracks, holding the doctor's hand in their own. 

Pat, pat, pat. 

"You still want to play with me," sighed a relieved Hofnarr. "There. Is that okay?"

Once again, still wordlessly, Hank nodded. Fervently, even, and with a smile on their lips. Hofnarr returned the smile.

"Better?"

"Better."

Over play, they occasionally thought of more signals Hank could use if they didn't feel like talking. "Flap your hands— yeah, like that! —if you're too panicked or scared, and something bad is happening, and I'll come and help you." "Pull on my clothes and point, and I'll look at whatever you want me to see, okay?" "You can hug me any time you want." 

And if ever Hank was mad at Dr. Hofnarr— and heaven, if it existed, forbid that happen — then they might avoid him. But if they weren't, they could always approach him with the signals they came up with. And, Hank reminded the scientist, no laughing when hurt.

Hank had patted their caregiver's hand thrice again, and he took it as a sign that they wanted to play something else. A one-on-one game of "tag" ended on tense yet still-friendly terms, for it ended in the most unfortunate way—

"Why, thank you— h-hay!" The scientist had yelped, whirling around to face Hank with a snack in hand. "B-But Hank! I wasn't ready!"

"I won," Hank had returned obstinately.

"But that wasn't f—" The doctor stopped himself, tapping on his chin. "Well, I wasn't very fair the last time we played, that is true..."

This time, Hofnarr wanted to initiate play with Hank, patting their hand thrice after their game. Thus, they agreed that they would have a rematch on one-on-one "tag" the next time they met, for the scientist would be leaving by tomorrow.

That night, it was decided that this work suited Hank no better than the strange sheriff's hat on Hank's head. And, of course, that was fine. Mr. Sheriff had kissed Hank on the head and apologized, telling them not to worry any longer. They didn't have to do the task he'd put them up to for a few days, "and I'm real sorry about that. I should'a realized it was stressin' you out."

"Really?"

"Like that one day, 'member?" He chuckled as he helped Hank shrug out of their gear. "Gosh, Deimos was so scared."

Miraculously, Hank laughed, ever so soft. "He wouldn't eat the peas. Still doesn't wanna."

"Well, there. Might not realize it, Hank, but that should'a been a sign to me— one of many —that this kind of thing stressed you out a little."

"It's okay, Mr. Sheriff," Hank reassured quietly, cradled in the sheriff's hands. "It was kinda fun."

After that day, word around the adults was how naturally "caring" seemed to come to Hank, even without prompt.

Chapter Text

Sanford woke to a splendid morning greeting him through the curtains.

Through a sizable crack between the drapes and the wall, he could see the outside world. He spent a few moments gazing at the building opposite the shelter, wondering if he would find a hostile face staring back at him. Finding that morning relatively safe for once, he drew the curtains back by the tiniest fraction.

Sanford settled back into his bed, marveling at how the sunlight poured through the room in the form of a bright, quaint sliver. It brought to his attention the little dust motes dancing in the air, which held a darker gray than the light that revealed them. 

The boy watched them as if it was the most splendid little thing.

He heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet across the floor. He did not move an inch. Deimos would not know if he was awake or asleep, what with the lack of external eyes to open or close. He felt the boy clamber into the bed with him, throwing a hand onto him in an embrace. The other hand crept under his back, to which Sanford carefully shifted to make an allowance for.

"I knew it. You're awake," he heard the toddler giggle. He feigned a slumbering face only to grin at the finger poking his cheek playfully. "'moooon, quit it. Look at meeee."

"Okay, okay… mornin', Dee," Sanford yawned, shifting to return the hug.

"Morning. Why you wake up early?"

"Why are  you  up so early?" Sanford snickered. His laughter ceased and he frowned. "Is it because I..."

"Uh-uh. Not tired."

"Oh. Okay, then why?" The older one asked. He moved to tuck Deimos' head under his. 

It seemed like the younger one's focus lay on other matters. Over the other child's shoulder, he peered toward the windows. "This really can't break?" Deimos asked, pointing at the window panes in question.

"I hope we don't find out," Sanford murmured, trying to remember what else the sheriff had told them during their first days here. The windows were fortified, but they should still be careful, especially if someone roamed the building opposite theirs. They should always ask a grownup to accompany them if they wish to go outside. No talking to anyone who didn't look familiar. Standard protocols that didn't exactly  ensure  the orphans' safety, but merely increased their chances. Yet, for whatever reason, his mind drifted towards the mental picture of the fire fueled by rust-colored cloth, created and overseen by the staff, and there it lingered for some time. It had happened weeks ago, and he reminisced over the sight weeks after.

The boy had watched it as if it was the most...

"Ooh, where's Happy?"

Jarred from his perusing over memories best forgotten, he let the younger grunt hold onto the stuffed bear. Deimos held it close to his chest, allowing its "floating" limbs to splay around his torso. "Hi, Happy."

Sanford took hold of its head and moved it as if it spoke. "Good morning, Deimos." He lowered his voice, to which Deimos could only reply with hearty laughter.

"Stupid voice!" Deimos poked the bear squarely in its facial cross, grinning. "Haha!"

"Deimos, you asshole. That's what Dr. Hofnarr says sometimes when he hits his foot on the door," Sanford explained. "Anyways. I'm not Happy anymore, I'm sad. Goodbye."

"What does that— wait, Happy!" The younger boy cried, hugging the bear tighter. "Don't be sad!"

"Too late. I'm sad now—" Sanford giggled, breaking character for a moment. "My name is Sad,  heh—  Don't call me Happy anymore—"

"What a stu— agh, don't make Happy sad!" Deimos took the bear at a length and looked at it in its facial cross. "Okay, Happy, no, don't be sad— I'm sorry, your voice is nice." 

"Thank you, Deimos. I'm Happy again."

"That was so stupid!" cried Deimos, butting his head gently against Sanford's. "Why'd you make Happy sad?!"

"Because you were  mean!"  retorted Sanford, sliding off the bed and grabbing his covers. "C'mon, let's fix the bed. Your bed too."

The two boys made their beds while laughing still, with Sanford snickering to himself and Deimos muttering an amused "so stupid" between giggles.

"Oh, yeah, I was gonna tell you." Deimos nuzzled into the teddy bear after picking it up from where it had fallen on the floor. "Wanna join me? I'm gonna go to Miss Eri's for my homework. I'm gonna be smart. Like Mr. Christoff."

"You already are," Sanford scoffed. "I wanna. But I saw yesterday that Hank was writing stuff for their job as Mr. Sheriff. I wanna help with that, too…" 

The younger boy tucked Happy into the neatly laid-out covers. "It's fine if you don't wanna!"

"Hmm… alright, here: I'll join you for a little bit." Little Sanford decided, nodding to himself. "Then I'll try to help Hank if there's time."

"Thank you, Sanfoooord!" Deimos took him in an embrace, hopping up to latch onto him. "You're my guy, my number one guy. Hank's number two."

"I feel like I'm forgetting something, though," Sanford mumbled, carrying Deimos out of the room and to the bathroom where they would clean up for the morning. "Something today…"

"Is it bad?" The younger boy asked, his mouth screwed up with concern.

The older could only shake his head; it wasn't  bad,  but it was important.

That forgotten thought would have to go forgotten, though; today would be one of the two days in a week that the children would have a break from their version of "school". So Sanford and Deimos allowed themselves around a half-hour of play in the playrooms before consulting their teacher. Approaching the door they met with their intimidating friend Hank, the oldest and biggest of the orphans, the most dreaded, the most powerful…

…making cooing noises towards a book on cats. Upon hearing them approach, Hank closed the book shut and stood from his seat, then after a while questioned their whereabouts.

"Going to Miss Eri," Deimos reported. "I'm gonna do Math after lunch!"

"Huh?" Their friend grumbled. "It's Miss Eri's break today, remember?"

At this, Sanford remembered what he had forgotten. "Shoot, you're right! That's what I forgot. How's that, Dee?" He whined. 

"Oh, no… I-I  just  gotta ask her for the things," Deimos explained, sounding a little nervous himself. "Then we'll go. That's it."

"Mm. Okay," Hank shrugged after seemingly considering this for a while. "Don't bother her too much, 'kay? Let her sleep. Y'all need me to join you?"

"It's close, don't worry." Sanford lifted a hand. Apologetically, he added, "Sorry I might not help today, Hank. But I'll try to."

"You really wanna join?" Deimos said in surprise as they headed out the door, trotting over to the shelter's right wing. "You can help Hank if you want. You don't wanna?"

"I do wanna, but… what if you get lost?"

"Get lost!" Deimos laughed. "So mean! I'm not dumb! You think I'm gonna be able to catch up, don'tcha, 'Ford?"

"Oh, man, you're gonna," the older boy reassured. "You're doing it all so fast. You'll be okay when you catch up, we're just learning how to fix stuff now. 'Use anything you have on hand resourcefully,'" he recited.

"Sounds easy," Deimos commented loftily.

"Kinda. I can teach you during playtime if you want. We needed a  lot  of practice to get it right…"

"Eh, we'll see. Maybe I'll learn it by myself. Is this where she is?" Deimos pondered aloud, raising a fist to knock on one of the many doors before them. Miss Erimentha poked her head out from the door across the hallway as if on cue.

"Oh, boys? That's where Mr. Sloane's sleeping, you don't want to bother him."

Sanford let out a little relieved noise, then poked Deimos gently in the side. "See, dumbhead, you almost did get lost—"

"Dumbhead?  You're  the dumbhead—"

"Boys," Miss Erimentha laughed, opening the door a little further. "Don't fight. I heard you were looking for me? Or were you looking for Miss Maia?"

"You, Miss Eri! I'm gonna do math."

"Ah, I see. Come in, come in."

"Ah, but—" Sanford sounded flustered, staying behind while Deimos moved forward. "Hank said you were gonna sleep today. We just wanted to pick up Deimos'... thingies."

"Oh, no, I'm not very sleepy. Besides, I kind of have to make it up to you," the woman admitted, pushing the door open to further beckon the two inside. "I remember you specifically, Deimos, were left alone that one time… and it slipped my mind…"

"Huh? It's fine, Miss Eri!" Deimos waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "Don't you wanna sleep?"

"I'm really not all that tired today. Oh, and I bet you want to join classes, too." 

"Mm," the younger orphan nodded, toddling inside to sit on a chair pulled up at a desk. He hopped onto the seat with difficulty, and Sanford had to push his back for him to get seated. "I wanna be with 'Ford, and Hank, and-and I wanna practice… Miss Eri, do you know how to do fire power? Thingy?"

Their teacher was in the middle of closing the door when she stopped, her hand still on the doorknob. "...S-Sorry, boys, what now?"

"Oh." Sanford blushed from his seat on another chair, remembering that their teacher had no clue what Deimos was talking about. "Um. Miss Eri, Deimos can do the thing where… fire in his hands? You know that?"

The engineer's lips parted as she recalled a fairly useful mutation that ran rare among a "privileged" few.

"You do!" Miss Erimentha exclaimed, quickly striding over to kneel in front of them both. "Oh, gosh… And…  you  don't have this ability, Sanford?"

He shook his head. "Mama said I didn't have it. But Deimos does, and she's..."

Alarmed by the way Sanford's lower lip trembled, she placed a hand on his head, shushing him. "You can stop when you want to."

"Yeah. There." Sanford finished.

"Okay, let's see… may I take a look at your hand, Deimos? I want to check something."

Deimos held forth a hand that wasn't holding Sanford's, and Miss Erimentha gently took it in front of her vision. The engineer shook out a tremor in one of her hands before resuming her examination. She clicked her tongue as she peered over the pads of Deimos' fingers critically, running her thumb over them to feel their texture. She noted how fibrous the flesh at his fingertips looked and felt: a more calculated, pattern-oriented callous of sorts.  'Like asbestos. And pores…' 

She motioned for Sanford to give her his hand, too. The pads of the older boy's fingers only felt like the usual soft, unmarred clay young grunts had at their inexperienced fingertips.

"Okay. I think… I think we can do this. But Deimos, is it okay if we try something? Right now?" Her mouth ran on autopilot; the engineer was backing away slowly.

Deimos quirked a brow, gently squeezing her hand. "Um, Miss Eri, aren't you gonna rest today? Are you okay?"

"I just wanna check. For safety." Her tone ran hurried, and so did she. She made for the storage rooms for a fire extinguisher and three gas masks with an increasing sense of urgency, already imagining horrid pictures of the shelter swallowed up in flame. Within minutes, the boys were outfitted with the equipment needed to shield them from the extinguisher's foam, should the need for it arise.

Sanford fiddled with the second-smallest gas mask the shelter had on hand, tapping it with a finger. His voice came muffled as he said, "U-Um… Miss Eri…"

"What's up, Sanford?" The engineer chirped, fitting her mask to her face. "Can you breathe? The masks are fine, are they, boys?" 

"Um… it's fine, it's nothing…"

"It's good," Deimos said shyly.

Finding that response satisfactory, she picked up the fire extinguisher from the floor. "If you say so. Alright, Deimos, hold your hand  away  from you, as far as possible…"

She readied the fire extinguisher and motioned with it for Deimos to begin. Tense on her heels, she awaited a blazing inferno to come forth from the boy's fingertips… 

"...Oh. Okay."

Bringing over a fire extinguisher was, in hindsight, an overreaction.

"That's… what I was gonna tell you…" Sanford placed his palms on the mask and pushed it inwards, wishing he could hide his face further.

Looking from between the two to the minuscule flame at his thumb— barely any bigger than the specks of dust Sanford marveled at earlier this morning —Deimos puffed his cheeks.

"Hay, I can't do much yet," he told her, offense in his tone. "That's the best I can do!"

"No, no!" Eri chirruped guiltily, reaching to remove the gas mask from Deimos' face. "I'm sorry! It's good! Really good for your age, actually. I've heard of this before," the teacher said, pulling off her own mask to show a reassuring smile. "Okay, we just need a controlled environment during classes, and… what do you want to do with this, Deimos? Do you want to make it bigger, or…?"

"Bigger!" Deimos spread his hands wide. He looked at the hand that was alight and blew at the flame, then fanned out his hands again. "Like,  lots  bigger. It's cool!"

"Bigger," she hummed. "You know, Deimos, this can be really handy. You can weld things in a pinch— that's putting two pieces of metal together — or you can light fuses. It's good for cooking, making a fire… a-a bigger one..."

"See!" Deimos jumped up and down excitedly. "I want it to be bigger!"

"Come back after lunch for your work, Deimos. They  should  be ready by then," Miss Erimentha instructed. "Then maybe you'll be able to join classes… at best, by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Deimos cheered, throwing his fists in the air. "Yes! Thank you, Miss Eri. We'll come back."

The two kids returned to the playrooms where they resumed playtime. Sanford would help with Hank's "work as Mr. Sheriff," while Deimos mingled with the other children. After a few hours, they all set out for lunch, and the two ate their food at Hank's usual spot at the tables. Poor Deimos found his miserable attempt to create a flame from his hands an appropriate talent to share with Wimbleton, from whom he was not expecting such boisterous laughter.

"You're laughing," Deimos cried. "Why, man?!"

"Nah, nah, it's cool, Dee, it's awesome, it's just— Ahahaha! That's so—" Hank shook their head, holding it in their hands. "So fuckin' funny. It's so small. I thought it would be huge!"

"Better than no fire—" Deimos started, annoyed, then tilted his head. "'Fuckin’’? What's that mean?"

"Gahaha… oh, heh, I dunno. But Dr. Hofnarr says it. It sounds cool when you say it."

"Cool, like your powers, Dee," Sanford said from his plate of peas. 'Fuckin'…' Dr. Hofnarr says 'asshole,' too. You know what 'asshole' is, Hank? 'Cause I don't know."

"I dunno that, either," the eldest shrugged, scoffing before shoving a spoonful of vegetables in Deimos' face for him to eat. Their hand was batted away. "Eat, dang it... Pff. I bet he makes his own words."

"He's cool like that," Deimos agreed, seeing Hofnarr's ability to "make his own words" in a more positive light. "I bet he's cool enough not to eat peas. Ew. Hay, why are you calling my powers' cool'?"

"... 'Cause it is?" Hank sounded confused. 

"Wouldn't it be… 'hot'?"

Sanford slammed his fist on the table as he laughed, while Hank grumbled, "don't make me take it back."

Lunchtime was had and the three friends parted; Hank went to the playroom in the left wing while Sanford and Deimos went to their teacher's room. However, in the middle of their walk there, the younger boy stopped stock-still and made for the shelter's left wing.

"We need a pencil! And paper! Dang it!" Deimos exclaimed, running for the storage rooms. 

"I don't think we need paper, man, she's gonna give you the paper. But we do need pencil." Sanford opened the door and looked through the shelves. "Where the heck…?"

They eventually found the "school's" boxes of pencils, which for whatever reason were stored on middle shelves next to a box of ammunition. After a bit of an argument on whether Sanford should just lift Deimos up (to which the former protested that he might drop him), they eventually took the bathroom's stepping stool and used that to help themselves.

"Ugh, Sanford, you're so annoying," Deimos groaned, watching with hands crossed over his chest as the older boy took the boxes from the middle shelf. "Kidding, thank you. But you could'a carried me." 

Sanford shook his head, replacing the containers on the lower shelves this time. "This is careful, Deimos. What if I dropped you? And we made a mess of everything, huh?"

Deimos plucked two pencils from the boxes and kept them. "Whatever. Okay, come on, let's hurry. Let's go, let's go!"

A knock on the engineer's door marked the beginning of Deimos' "finals" before being included in the shelter's classes. Miss Erimentha had the boy sit down across from her while he did his catch-up work. Serving as emotional support, Sanford sat by the teacher's side in the event that the kids were up to something dishonest. Of course, they weren't, but this seating arrangement gave Sanford ample space to speak with the engineer, whom he was quite concerned for. Half the time, he thought the woman would fall fast asleep onto her notebook, which partially stood as a reason for why he stayed.

He whispered to keep the steady atmosphere in the room unbroken. "Um, Miss Eri…? Y-You don't wanna… like, sleep, or something..." 

The teacher turned toward him, her voice hushed as well. "Really, I'm fine, Sanford, promise. I don't spend my breaks sleeping all the time. Sometimes, I  do  sleep, but sometimes I take care of the garden or spar, and right now I'm drawing you and Deimos."

This story's species may not seem too remarkably complicated to draw: simple ovals atop less simple but still not that complex polygon as a torso, with vague shapes for feet. What  did  amaze Sanford was his teacher's steadiness of hand despite her condition, and her ability to capture how the light fell on them both. Each line only needed one, sure stroke, giving it a clean appearance, and as such, the drawing seemed like real life caught and confined on paper. The image of the two boys stood awkwardly among sketches for doohickeys and thingamajigs Sanford had yet to understand— things like "pipe bomb em-kay II's" and the like —but everything impressed the child nonetheless.

"Awesome…"

The engineer lifted her gaze from the paper once more. "Do you like drawing?" 

He whispered back, "sometimes. But I can't do it like you do."

"Aw, Sanford, it's okay… I've been drawing for a long while now. Here, you wanna try and practice?"

Spurred by a wordless nod, she tore a piece of paper out of her notebook, then slid it under the boy's palm and handed him the pencil.

Sanford's paper had no marks by the time his teacher got a pen for herself. "Um… how do I draw the light?"

"For now, just copy what you see," she supplied. "You'll be able to 'draw the light' in time."

"Okay. Deimos." Sanford was careful not to break his friend's focus. He shot down problems of division with a concentration seen more often in grunts older than him. Sanford chose not to trifle with that. He silently began drawing Deimos who, for a time, sat completely still… then lifted his head and flashed the older boy a wide grin.

"Deimos! You moved!"

"So-rry." The toddler whined. "Heck, what do I do? I'm looking down like this, right?"

Sanford held up the parchment and compared his subject's pose at present to the one on paper. The slight differences in posture were passable. "Okay. It's alright."

The teacher stared at Deimos for a time, then snorted. "Deimos, you can  breathe,  dear, and you can move a little bit."

Deimos snickered. "Maybe 'Ford's gonna get mad at me again." Despite this, he thankfully resumed breathing.

Sanford let out a huff, waving the pencil's point at him. "I won't. Hay, shut up and do your numbers."

"I'm doing it so fast, look. Bam! And…" The little test-taker paused on a particularly confusing problem, then shot that down too. "...bam! Bam!"

"And then it's all wrong," came the light-hearted tease.

"No!" Deimos cried, then faltered. He went over his solved problems quickly, muttering mental calculations under his breath. "Okay, yeah,  some  of it was kinda wrong," he grumbled after a while. "But I would'a seen when I check it all after."

"What the— Be careful!" Sanford scolded. 

"'Kay, okay, I will! You go back to drawing."

For a time, the engineer watched quietly as the two geniuses, each in their own right, sat in the making before her. Sanford had drawn up several cartoonish renditions of Deimos, who had gone over his work enough times that it would ease the other boy's worries. 

By then, Miss Erimentha had her head bowed onto her notebook, her pen unmoving in a similarly motionless hand.

"Miss Eri… aw, Miss Eri, I knew you needed sleep," Sanford mumbled guiltily.

"Oh, no." Deimos whined, reaching over to ruffle her hair a little. "Miss Eri… Miss Eri…"

"Don't wake her up, Deimos," the older boy whispered in a panic. "We'll just—"

Her head popped up from the desk. Ruffled, she hurriedly made to fix her mismatched glasses.

"H-Huh? Oh, you're done? S-Sorry, I dozed off… it was really comfy, I wasn't tired, it was just… A-Are you done?"

"Yeah. Sorry we woke you, Miss Eri…"

"No,  I'm  sorry for falling asleep on you, Deimos. That was rude… ah, let me see."

She began skimming the sheets for Deimos' answers. "You two are really waiting for me to check?" The engineer laughed while filing through his work, catching the little student-to-be still seated at the desk out of the corner of her vision.

Deimos was kicking his legs under the table, sometimes kicking the thing with how wildly he swung his feet. "We gotta know, Miss Eri, how good I did…"

After a while, the engineer wound up back at the beginning of the pile of paper and found herself quite impressed.

"...Hm. You know, Deimos, you might be able to catch up faster than we thought, after all."

"Oh, yeah!" Deimos cheered, jumping up from his seat. Even Sanford had to let out a loud whoop of his own, so loud that he blushed ashamedly after.

"In fact…" Miss Erimentha aligned the arrangement of papers by tapping it quickly on the desk. "... you'll be joining us tomorrow."

Restraining himself now, Sanford allowed only a small gasp to slip from his lips, while Deimos let out a full-bellied "No way!" next to him. Laughing, he latched onto the older boy and hugged him tightly, thanking their teacher all the while. Miss Erimentha just barely made out how Sanford thanked her for her time, bid her a good rest, with how loud Deimos was squealing. She could still hear how the toddler shouted for joy even as the two walked out of the staff room, cheering something about telling Hank and Dr. Hofnarr all about the ordeal. As Sanford and Deimos made the happy journey back to the playrooms, the engineer began making herself comfortable in bed, quietly reminding herself to tidy up the room when she woke. 

She fell asleep the second she hit the mattress.

Chapter Text

Proceed? > Y/N

> Y

…

PROCESS FAILED.

"Why isn't he here? Remember? He's supposed to be here, then go, then be here, then go…."

He had spent the early morning casting glances toward any of the caregivers in the hopes of seeing them go out to greet the doctor. Deimos tried to chalk it up to the adult being late doing adult things; perhaps work took longer than usual, that was all. Yet forenoon had come, and Dr. Hofnarr was nowhere to be found by the time forenoon had gone.

"The doc can't be here all the time, dear, much as we want him to," the sheriff cooed, rocking the toddler back and forth in his hands. 

"But he's supposed to be here today, right? A-And also Mr. Christoff… right? It's Monday…"

"That is the plan, dear, but lab work must be gettin' busier for Dr. Hofnarr not to come today. And Mr. Christoff might be busy, too," explained Mr. Sheriff. He supposed Deimos didn't need to know that he had called the two scholars only to be met with voicemail. "I'm sorry you had t' learn this way, Dee. I didn't think they'd be so busy this week, either. Are you sure you don't wanna nap?"

"No," Deimos sniffled. He rubbed at the dampness in the middle of his facial cross with the back of a hand. "I'm sorry, I can't…."

"Well, that's alright. Let's sit here 'till you feel better. You okay with that? And I'll take off your hat too, okay?"

The boy hummed, "mmhm," nuzzling into his caregiver's smock. "You're here. You're not gonna leave, are you? For a long time?"

"Not unless I absolutely have to, Dee," Mr. Sheriff replied, carding through Deimos' hair with his fingers. "And even then, I'll come back within the day. But don't hold it against Dr. Hofnarr or Mr. Christoff, now, how they can't come in every day."

"I won't," Deimos replied. His voice rang strangely soft, ever so much that it broke Mr. Sheriff's heart. "I'll forgive 'em even if they didn't say sorry. That's good, right?"

"That's very kind of you, Deimos."

"Yeah. Like 'Ford says."

Their conversation lulled, the toddler pulled into silence with a soothing hand on his head. Deimos was the one between the pair of orphans that was "chill," as the children sometimes said, with his hair being touched. The sheriff used that knowledge well: within half an hour, the child had turned into a lump in his embrace.

"Still awake?" If Deimos wasn't, he spoke gently, carefully pulling back to check.

The youthful head laid on his chest rose to meet his gaze. "Uhuh."

Mr. Sheriff raised his voice to a higher volume; he sounded excited. "Speakin' of Mr. Christoff. You wanna know somethin'?"

The toddler rubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. "W-What?"

Proceed? > Y/N

> Y

…

……

PROCESS FAILED.

"Heard Mr. Christoff just might be able to come back soon," Mr. Sheriff whispered, smiling at the awed gasp Deimos made. "Maybe later night or tomorrow. He told me about it a few days ago."

"Oh, my gosh," Deimos muttered. His mourning ears did not reject what seemed like unmelodic music; one of their caregivers would be coming back today! 'Mr. Christoff… Mr. Jeb… Maybe he'll fight Hank, instead of Mr. Abram doing it… wait, fighting… oh… oh, I know what to do!'

"I know, I know," the boy sniffled again, taking the sheriff into a quick and tight hug before hopping out of his hands. He had left Mr. Sheriff quite taken aback, though the man returned the embrace for as long as it lasted.

"Well, now, what is it, dear?"

"I think I'll just watch Hank fighting today. While I wait," Deimos told him.

From his seat on the rocking chair, Mr. Sheriff slapped his own knee, smiling. He had no idea how that connected with anything he had said, but he was happy for Deimos nonetheless. "Atta boy, yeah! You think it'll cheer you up?"

"Maybe," sighed the boy wistfully, heading for the door. He turned back around when called, taking back his cap. "Thank you, Mr. Sheriff. I'm sorry for crying…."

"Oh, dear, don't apologize for cryin'. Don't want me to join you?" His caregiver offered, to which Deimos waved his hand.

"Nah, it's close. I'm a big boy, ya know?" Deimos hopped in place.

Mr. Sheriff smiled at the sight. "Right you are. You wish the kids luck for me, now. Oh, but you'll shout for me if anything bad happens, okay? I'll listen out for you."

"Yup," he nodded, bouncing on the heels of his feet. The sheriff saw that as a cue, clearly seeing the pep in Deimos' step make its comeback.

"Off you go now, then. That's my boy, Deimos. Big and strong, right?"

"Yeah!" He managed to flash his elder a smile, waving as he headed out the door. "Goo'bye, Mr. Sheriff. I love you!"

"Love you too! Poor darlin'." The sheriff let out a sigh, shaking his head to himself. He walked over to his office's desk and sat down, mulling over the newest letter in his inbox. "Don't matter how calm you try to be, Dee, I know you love 'em too. Very much."

The orphanage's golden child roamed throughout its premises, stepping down a flight of stairs with his hands behind his head. At the penultimate step at the bottom of the staircase, he spread his hands out like an airplane's wings and jumped to the ground, landing on both feet. He thought it was cool how Hank practically vaulted the stairs once and wished to do the same as they had, always so in awe of his older sibling figure. But those wishes were dashed when Mr. Sheriff advised against it— "No one's jumpin' any staircases in my house again, not like that, no sir," he had told everyone. Thankfully, behind the sheriff's back, Dr. Hofnarr came up with the safer alternative of hopping from the lower steps to the ground! And how fun it still was…

'…Dr. Hofnarr…' 

Deimos tipped his head back and let out an annoyed groan before he finally headed for the yard outside. Here, a select group of children at the age of seven began a precursor to armed combat practice, training with rudimentary staffs instead of weapons. It post-faced Sundays' worth of melee lessons and prefaced modules upon modules of weapon training and harder melee practice. All the older kids stood in a line in front of a steadily-tiring Mr. Abram. With all the misfortune in the world, he had Hank of all children as his last combatant. Most of the younger ones found the practice too interesting to ignore, crowding around the make-do arena and watching their seniors from the shade let off by the shelter building.

The young Deimos cupped his hands around his mouth and bid his seniors' good luck with a shout. Then he tippy-toed his way to the only other kid that wore a bandana around their head, sitting next to them. "Hey, 'Ford."

"Hey, man." Sanford greeted. In his lap lay the head of one of the few nameless children in the orphanage. "You aren't gonna nap?"

The question struck Deimos as oh so familiar. Remembering Dr. Hofnarr's absence had him frowning again. He took place on the older boy's other leg and wailed,  "Aaaahhhh…."

"Aww, Dee," cooed the older, taking off Deimos' snapback and petting his hair. "I-I'm sorry…." 

The smaller shook his head. 

"Oh. Uh, what'cha crying about?"

Deimos laid flat on the ground, save for how his head rested on Sanford. "Whhm mmh mh mh—"

"W… What?"

He lifted his face from the other boy's smock. "What if he's supposed to come back, but something happened? Somethin'  bad?"

"Hmm… maybe," Sanford said, met with another wail. "Buuuut, we don't know that. Did Mr. Sheriff tell you that?"

Deimos' chin rested on his friend's leg as he gave that notion some thought. "No… no, he didn't. Dang it, I should'a asked."

"So let's just hope he's okay instead," recited the older boy. It was a practiced phrase that went around the orphans in case their favorite caregiver was away for longer than usual, a prayer sent to the higher powers above.

"I will," said Deimos quietly. "I hope he's okay."

"Trust me. Dr. Hofnarr's really cool," Sanford promised, tucking a lock of hair away from Deimos' face. "He knows how to use guns and stuff, remember? No bad guy's gonna get to him."

Little Deimos had seen how Dr. Hofnarr fought. And that memory formed on one of the doctor's good days, the boy reminded himself. He relented, grumbling. "Tha's true."

Sanford thought for a moment, pursing his lips and looking up at the sky. After a while, he finally spoke amidst the cheering of other children for the older kids. "I think the chances of him winning are bigger than the chances of him losing."

"You're really smart, Sanford," came Deimos' sigh. He rolled around on Sanford's leg to look up at the sky, sinking ocular teeth into the gray that shone not too brightly to stare at. "That was nice. His winning chance is big. Like that, right? Like the sun," he asked, pointing at the said sun.

"Mm. I'm just telling you what you told me when Mr. Sheriff was gone that one time, remember?" Sanford reminded, training his focus on the sparring up ahead. Mr. Abram had his brief breather, and Hank stepped up for their turn. Excitedly, the child bounced on their heels, clenching and unclenching their free hand.

Deimos tried to remember what Sanford referred to. "When we first came here?" At this, the other boy nodded.

The younger shifted where he lay to watch Mr. Abram bat off Hank's attacks. "Your one makes more sense. His winning chance is big," he told himself.

Their conversation came to a silent pause as the two's watching Wimbleton deepened. He would swing the staff with a strength thankfully neither of the boys had ever sat at the receiving end of, the loud click-clacking of weapons making even Deimos tense. A deflected swing only prompted another to come from the other direction. Hank's relentlessness whittled away at the staggering Mr. Abram, who fought to uphold how he stood both literally and figuratively in front of the orphans.

'Ooh… that's really cool,' Deimos thought, examining how Hank sometimes jumped before landing a hit, the spring in their step seemingly adding more force behind the blow.  'Man, I wish it was Mr. Jeb doin' it. It's a lot cooler when he does it.' The matches between Hank and Christoff called to Deimos' mind some televised programs the orphanage sometimes watched on the cusp between weeks, complete with minor-appropriate violence. Deimos slowly began to sit up from where he lay, conjuring up an imaginary staff in his own hands and mimicking Hank's swings. 

 'I wonder if I can…'

As Hank told the poor agent to "fight me first next time," Deimos spoke up suddenly, though not too loud that it would wake little Nameless. "Do you think I can join? I wanna join. I wanna try." 

Sanford's brows raised. "Huh? Why? Even I can't join yet."

The younger boy bounced where he sat. "I wanna try. What if he lets me? Maybe he'll let me."

"Hm. Yeah, maybe," Sanford relented with a nod. "Just don't go too hard, like Hank."

"Er, but, um… he looks…." Deimos' face scrunched up, frowning as he watched the caregiver lie down on the dirt. "Tired. Too tired for me."

"Hank, slow down next time," called Sanford. The sudden shout jostled little Nameless from their nap, and Sanford apologetically rubbed circles in their back. "Sorry, bud."

An itchy feeling he would one day come to recognize as "guilt" nagged at Deimos to lower his voice. "Who do you think I can try fighting? Miss Eri said she— what was the word again? I forgot."

"She does." Sanford then pursed his lips, remembering, "but it's her break day."

"Oh, yeah… man… who else… Miss Maia?" Deimos thought aloud. 

"Sleeping," Sanford frowned. "Um…"

The two boys thought it further over. Mr. Rich? Most likely busy at one of the many chores he liked doing. Mr. Sheriff? Deimos would feel bad; did Mr. Sheriff even know how to fight? Mr. Christoff, or Dr. Hofnarr? Silly, they weren't here today; in fact, the latter was the subject from which Deimos wanted a distraction! Who else could Deimos face?

"...Mr. Sloane!" The young boy sprang from his seat, standing. "Yeah, that's right, Mr. Sloane! He just woke up. He can't be tired."

"Oh, yeah!" Sanford watched Deimos move excitedly and could not help a happy little wriggle of his own, ever-glad to revel in his friend's accomplishments with him. "I'll join you. I think I'm bothering them, anyway."

"It's okay," little Nameless yawned. The kid lifted their head from Sanford's lap and crawled over to another orphan, where they promptly laid back down without a word.

"Oh. Dang. Okay." Sanford shrugged. "C'mon, Dee. I know who we can ask for help to find 'im."

From his time helping out Hank in caring for the other orphans, Sanford steadily collected bits of information from each child. One particular orphan stuck out to him now with this analogy: if Hank had Mr. Sheriff, then this child had Mr. Sloane. They possessed the impressive skill of memorizing the route Sloane took around the shelter, and they were proud to inform Sanford and Deimos that the soldier might be making rounds upstairs at a time like this.

They also took the time to teach them how to approach Mr. Sloane. The child toddled to a distance of around five feet away from them, then cupped their hands around their mouth.

"You guys should call Soldier Mister like this. Not loud like what I'm saying right now, but…."

Deimos got the idea, his mouth forming an 'o'. "Oh! Quiet?"

"Yeah." The orphan's voice lowered into a half-whisper, half-shout. "'Mr. Sloane, Mr. Sloane.' Like that, okay? Please don't be loud."

"Ohh, I getcha." At this, Deimos put hands over his mouth in the manner of a monkey saying no evil.

The child continued. "But when he sees you, you can be loud. But not too loud."

"Ooh. Got it." Sanford began to pull away, waving at the child. "Thanks, man."

"It's okay. Hay, wait, do you guys know where Engineer Miss is? I wanna ask her something."

"Miss Eri? Last time I saw her, she was eating," Sanford recalled.

Deimos grinned. "Hehe, dude, we did a switch. Good luck with stuff!"

"You too, guys!"

"Mr. Sloane… Mr. Sloane…"

The man had been shutting up one of the storage rooms, glad to discover that the approaching boys announced their arrival. He turned around to face the little ones, expressing relief with a timid smile. "Oh, oh, thank you, children. Is there anything wrong?"

"No, don't you worry, Mr. Sloane," Sanford soothed, his head shaking to and fro. "Deimos wants to ask you something."

The excited boy at his side clasped his hands together as if he prayed for the old man to grant his wish. Had Deimos any eyes, they would have flickered towards the man's eyepatch far too many times that even the cyclops would notice. The bright yellow heart stitched into its center was far too captivating, but Deimos remembered why he came here quite quickly. 

"Please, Mr. Sloane," the boy began, springing on his heels from where he stood. "I wanna fight practice. But Mr. Abram's too tired, so I went to fight you instead!"

"That so," said the soldier.

"Mmhm! Fight me, please!" Deimos proceeded to pout, jutting out his lower lip far too similar to the manner Sanford did. "Pleaaaase, Mr. Sloane? Aw, your face— you're gonna tell me I'm too young, are ya?"

With a doubtful look on his face, Mr. Sloane nodded towards Sanford. "Your friend can." He then turned to face Deimos, his gaze turning softer as he shook his head. "But, um… sorry, little one. We really do gotta wait for you to be a bit bigger. You might hurt yourself."

Deimos groaned for the second time that day, tipping his head back. "Awwww."

"O-Oh, but we could try sparring, you and I, and Deimos could watch," the soldier tried, frowning at how the youngest child directed a forlorn pout towards the ground. "How's about it, Sanford?"

"Nah, it's okay, Mr. Sloane. Maybe next time," Sanford replied, his gaze only on Deimos. His attention stayed where it lay even as they pulled away from the encounter, walking back down the hallway and down the stairs.

"...Dee? What are you thinking?" He asked the younger boy, gently shaking his shoulder with a hand.

"I still wanna fight, 'Ford." Deimos whispered, with the same gravity one would regard a scandal. "Do you wanna fight me?"

Sanford answered with a pout of his own. "I only wanna fight with you, Dee."

"Okay, then fine. I'll fight Hank instead."

Sanford's heart felt like it sank in the pit of his stomach. He ran up to Deimos when he noticed he had begun walking faster. "Wait, wait, wait. Let's think about this—"

"You scared I can't fight Hank?" teased the toddler, marching with his chest puffed out. "Come on, man."

The boys "thought about this" as they made their way back outside, stumbling upon quite the scene in the shelter's yard. Some kids were checking over the vegetable garden as per usual, but a new vegetable known as Mr. Abram lay rooted in the center of the make-do arena. A handful of children stood over poor Abram to shade him with umbrellas or pieces of cardboard, quietly giggling to themselves about the man laid ungainly on the ground. A few feet away stood Hank, ever so eager to improve himself, performing some of the cool tricks he would show to the two boys during their free time. He did a few cartwheels to appease no one but himself, although he certainly succeeded in impressing a lot of the orphanage body. Deimos locked onto the sight of the older child and called for them.

"Hank! Hay!" Deimos shouted. "Wanna fight?"

"Deimos," Sanford cautioned, his heartbeat quickening. For what, he did not know, but perhaps that could be attributed to Deimos' diving headfirst into this ordeal. Alas, Wimbleton had stopped their acrobatics display and was already walking over to the two.

"Fight?" Hank met them in the middle, a hairless brow lifted. "Why? Did I make you mad?"

At this, Deimos finally understood where Sanford's worries for him lay, tensing under the accusation. "No! No, I don't mean that… I wanna fight you, like how you fight Mr. Abram."

"Oh, sparring."  Hank scoffed. "I'll only fight you if you make me really mad, Dee. What you want is sparrin'. That's what we were doin'."

"Oh, that was the word!" exclaimed Deimos, relaxing. "The word I forgot today."

To Sanford's dismay, Hank and Deimos almost immediately prepared to begin fighting— apologies, sparring in the middle of the yard. Mr. Abram respectfully crawled to the side to make way for the two children, then rolled onto his side to keep a close watch.

"You sure you wanna do this with me, Dee?" Hank asked, cracking their knuckles. "You saw how good I am."

"Yeah, yeah, I know 'bout that." Deimos waved their half-threats off with a hand. "I'll be fine."

"Please don't go too hard, Hank," Sanford pleaded. "Don't hurt each other."

"But don't go too easy!" The youngest child added, putting both hands on his hips. "I'm not gonna learn if you go too easy."

"'Kay, I won't. And we're not gonna do staffs just yet," Hank told them, pulling Deimos to the very middle of the backyard and standing a few feet away from him. "We're sparrin' with our hands first."

Deimos tilted his head. "Why?"

"'Cause you're gonna be useless if someone gets your weapon," Hank replied, kicking stray stones away from their battleground. "That's where you gotta start, with your empty hands."

"Oh." Deimos listened to his senior, holding his hands up at chest level and mirroring Hank's stance.

"Yeah. Oh, we gotta stretch first. Well, I already did, but you gotta. And don't stand too close, 'Ford," instructed Hank. They dragged the tip of their shoe across the ground, creating an outline of his and Deimos' arena. "Stay outside of this."

Deimos didn't miss the bitterness on Sanford's lips; the corner of his friend's mouth quirked upwards in a manner not of happiness. "Okay," the bigger grunt relented, sitting closely to the mock-arena's edge. 

"Your first one?" Hank questioned, stretching out their hands above their head. They watched as Deimos mimicked their motions, so green, so new to sparring that all he could do was copy Hank.

"Yeah," Deimos grunted, releasing his hands from each other and letting them flop back to his side. "Ooof. That felt kinda nice, right?"

Hank said nothing else, sizing up the spunky little tabula rasa before them as he continued stretching. How they fought now would most likely shape how Deimos fought any enemy going forward.

So they gave it their all.

…Or, at least, a version of their "all" that Deimos could most likely manage.

Hank started off the sparring with a few light punches, pulling their fists back as soon as Deimos dodged the hits. "Left, right, left, right" and the like would accompany each attack, warning Deimos of the blows to come. The younger child proved to be quick in movement, moving past their attacks with a speed even he didn't know he possessed. The tempo at which they sparred increasing, Wimbleton quickly tired of the light hits and threw a heavier one— "left!" —which thankfully only landed on the meat of Deimos' shoulder.

"Ow!" cried the boy, finally spurred on enough to try a hit of his own. An effortful yell marked the first and only punch Deimos would throw during their sparring, which was only met by Hank's palm. Their fingers took his fist in a vice, of which he released himself by wrenching his hand from Wimbleton's hold. This freed Deimos from the punch Hank readied to throw his way but sent him stumbling with his back flat to the ground. The younger boy grimaced; if he could wince, he could have. Several "ooh"'s rang from their growing audience with a couple of "oh no"'s backing the choir.

"Dee—" Sanford began, his heart racing. Crawling on his knees, he came face to face with a hand held out in front of him. 

"N-No, 'Ford, I-I'm fine, look!"

As if to help demonstrate what Deimos planned to do, Hank stood over the downed boy, attempting a kick. Warnings of "lefts" and "rights" forgotten, Deimos still managed to roll to the side and prop himself up with his hands, shakily getting to his feet. Hank had pulled back by then to let the boy regain his bearings, looking impressed.

"You're fast," Hank offered. 

Deimos panted out a "thanks," managing to flash the older kid a smile.

Then Hank offered their fist, pulled far back and thrown hard forwards, aimed straight for Deimos' face.

~

"Wait!" Sanford yelped, dragging himself forward as he watched that horrifying punch wind itself. A misplacement of hand had his chin crashing into the dirt, and the older boy could only watch from the ground, mortified. Every other grunt with an ounce of responsibility in them also felt kicked into gear, scrambling for something to do and yet coming up with nothing. Mr. Abram, the only other adult in the vicinity, experienced all kinds of fear at once: the fear of patching up the small boy to no avail, the fear of getting relieved of his position soon after. Yet unable to pick his exhausted body from the ground, he assumed a similar posture to Sanford's floundering on the ground in an attempt to reach the scene.

And what of Deimos? So stunned was the younger boy as well, realizing that Wimbleton truly dared to land an actual hit on him, that he 

could—

"Deimos!" Sanford shouted. 

—not— 

"Move!"

Proceed? > Y/N

> Y

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……

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PROCESS FAILED.

~

However long it took for you to read all that, all the events written prior had happened in mere seconds. So it indeed was an impressive feat to behold when an adult hand caught Hank's, entirely stopping the child from landing the hit. 

"Hank. Please, please be more careful," the owner of the hand's voice rang timidly.

A trembling Deimos lifted his gaze, catching sight of that eyepatch adorned with a yellow heart.

"M-Mr. Sloane," he managed to say, his voice wavering. "Thank you."

"Sorry, sir," Hank mumbled, their gaze downcast. "I-I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, Dee, I'm sorry…"

"I'm sure you didn't, Hank," Mr. Sloane sighed heavily, giving their hand a comforting pat and choosing to do the same with Deimos' head. "Are you okay, Deimos?"

"Y-Yeah," Deimos nodded quickly. He didn't know why laughter bubbled out of his trembling lips: a burst of misplaced joy that made even Hank jerk upon hearing. 

"W-What?" Hank managed to blurt out.

Deimos' giggles tapered until they were soundless. "Man, I'm kinda lame at this, right, Hank?"

"...Why didn't you dodge?" Hank finally demanded after a few seconds' worth of staring at him. "A-And why are you laughin'?"

"I… I dunno! Was scary. I felt scared," the young boy shook his head, passing a sharp breath through his lips. "I dunno what to do."

"Don't laugh?" Wimbleton offered, a frown tugging at the corners of their lips. "It's weird..."

While Deimos allowed his shoulders to sink low, he caught out of the corner of his vision a Sanford that floundered towards them. The sight of which, by the way, without the rush of adrenaline spicing his movements, was finally enough to make him feel somewhat sorry. 

"Deimos!" cried Sanford. Finally recovering from the ache in his jaw, he ran up to them both, his face still warped in horror. "Oh my gosh, Hank, why?"

Hank bit his own lip. "I-I didn't— I really didn't mean…" 

"It's okay, 'Ford, I'm okay!" Deimos reassured, taking the older boy by the shoulders and looking him in the facial cross. "I'm okay! It was my fau— are  you—  what happened to your face?"

The older boy shrugged off the hands on his shoulders, frowning. "I don't care about that." 

A frown had also settled on Deimos' little face. In childish fashion: "Me, I care about it…."

"Your fault? But Hank was the one who…." Unconvinced, Sanford trailed off, looking to him helplessly for answers. Deimos only turned to regard Wimbleton.

"Yeah… sorry, Hank. I was supposed to dodge. I got scared." He gave his sparring partner an apologetic smile.

Hank returned his gaze. One would be quirked up dubiously if they had any eyebrows to speak of. "Well, yeah, you're scared 'cause you thought you were gonna get hit. You won't get hit if you dodge. I thought you were going to dodge. You were doing so good at it."

The elder between them all merely gazed on until this moment, finding their exchange amusing and taking the backseat. When the practicalities of the battleground came into play, Mr. Sloane found it apropos to speak then, his gentle voice still managing to take center stage. "Now, Hank, I'll tell you a little something. Sometimes, people freeze up when scared. Deer in headlights kind of thing," he explained. "You get scared stiff."

"What's a— wait, I know. It's like a horse but smaller. Not as cool," Hank remembered.

"Yes, and it freezes up when it gets in the middle of the road, and you're driving, and it gets caught in your headlights," Mr. Sloane clarified patiently, squatting down to check Sanford's face.

"It's gonna get hit," Sanford cried. Then he cried again. "Ow."

"Sorry," the old soldier muttered, carefully tilting Sanford's head upwards to check the underside of his jaw. "Yes, and it's too scared to move. That's what that saying means. This needs some cleaning. Thank you, Abram," he nodded to the agent, who jogged briskly past them towards the shelter.

Hank crossed their hands over their chest. "Oh, that's what it means. Huh. That's dumb. I hope I never do that."

"It's something you might find yourself doing," the soldier reassured the young ones, "though it is a good thing you want to grow out of it soon as possible."

"Like you, Dee," Hank pointed at their sparring partner, flicking him on the forehead to Sanford's alarm. "Grow out of it."

"He will, with practice. This time, I'll spar with you, Deimos," Mr. Sloane declared in a firmer tone. Then it gentled back to his usual voice. "You can join too, Sanford, after you get your chin bandaged. The sheriff suggested to me something."

"We'll fight together?" Sanford asked with his mouth ajar. He quickly closed it to the request of his stinging jaw. "Really? Am I allowed?"

"That's what the sheriff said," smiled Mr. Sloane. "Got good faith in this arrangement, so he'll let the rules bend a little."

Alas, the sheriff began saying something else on the soldier's walkie-talkie, which had the man jerking his head up when called. "Sloane, come in, Sloane. Sorry if I startled you."

The old grunt fumbled with the communication device, holding it up to his head. "Not at all, sir."

"The thing I told you earlier..." Hank and Sanford noticed how reserved the sheriff seemed, so unlike his usual barks into the device. "Gotta open up."

"Oh…" Mr. Sloane looked to a confused Deimos, giving him an apologetic frown. "Right, that. The doc, right, sir? I-I mean... the first d— Dr. Hofnarr?"

"Yep." The exchange made Deimos gasp loudly, caused Sanford to form an 'o' with his mouth, and prompted an interested little jerk of the head from Hank. "Meet you at the gates."

The gates could not have opened any slower, the car could not have pulled into the parking lot any slower, and Dr. Hofnarr could not have gotten out of the vehicle any slower. Deimos pestered Hank (but not Sanford, who found it endearing) with how he existed in this mortal coil momentarily as a bouncing ball of energy ready to latch onto one of its fellows. Finally, Deimos found his reprieve as he practically leaped into the adult's embrace, his hands thrown around his neck.

"Ooof!" Hofnarr grunted though he reciprocated the hug. "Ha-ha-hay, Dee…! Why—! Oh, dear, you aren't… c-crying, are you, Dee? O-Oh, no…"

"Of course! I missed you!" Deimos sobbed, hugging the scientist tighter and tighter. "I missed you, I missed you!"

Chapter Text

Proceed? > Y/N

> Y

…

PROCESS FAILED.

A weepy Deimos rubbed at his face, drying his face of tears before allowing a smile to spread on his little face. "Okay, okay," he giggled. "Now you guys have to play! The rematch! You and Hank!"

Hofnarr snapped his fingers, pointing at Deimos with a finger gun soon after. "Right you are! Goodness, I almost forgot about that. Thank you, my boy!"

"Are you tired?" questioned Sanford, who approached and began to take the scientist's hand. "And don't be nice and say you aren't…."

 The group made their leisurely walk back into the shelter, Sanford leading the scientist on as one would help an elderly grunt cross the street. (The gesture was not lost to Hofnarr, who in other situations would  hate  being babied like this, but his heart was too busy melting to care.) "Oh, well, uh, I suppose I am sort of tired, yes," Hofnarr admitted.

"'m kinda tired too," Hank piped up. "I was sparrin' already, remember?"

"Aww, you guys can sleep; I can wait." Deimos hopped to the front of the group to beam at them. "Right now, I wanna fight Mr. Sloane!"

"A fight!" Hofnarr laughed, turning to his coworker as he steadily walked towards the building. He met the cyclops' gaze with an amused twinkle in his features. "So you're picking fights with our Deimos now, hm?" 

"Oh, he has," the sheriff whistled, locking the gates tightly. His voice lowered and softened to mimic Sloane's: "'By your command, sir, I'll fight the little ones—'"

"N-No, sir— doctor," Sloane said with a flushed face, smiling despite himself. "Little one asked me to. Spar with him, I mean."

"Easy now, Sloane," Hofnarr's tone softened. "Was only teasing."

From here, Hank had spent the late afternoon lounging in the yard with Dr. Hofnarr, waiting for dinner to boil and their energy to replete. As Hank laid their head on the scientist's lap, their gaze focused on the view of Sanford and Deimos sparring with Mr. Sloane, they lent half an ear to Dr. Hofnarr telling the other children stories of the outside world. His tales of science seemed more and more like magic the more he told them about it. Hank just barely made out bits and bobs of "all of us having something that can be harnessed so that we may improve in just about every aspect you can think of," and their mind shut down soon after that. He contented himself with letting his vision go black. As he slept, the faint image of Sanford and Deimos imprinted in his mind with such clarity he wondered if he had been watching them the whole time, awake after all. Soon, Hank woke to the two boys acting as one, sparring with Mr. Sloane so impressively that even the seasoned soldier had to up his ante, and that picture planted itself in his thoughts firmly. 

One could attribute part of his roused consciousness to how the younger ones around them began cheering, hollering words of encouragement and attempts to guide their movements from the backseat. "Go faster, 'Ford!" "Hit harder, Dee!" The children would shout. Even Hank could not resist giving a cheer of their own, pride solely for their juniors swelling in his chest.

It could also be attributed to the fact that Hank was, well, done with their nap. In fact, both Hank and Hofnarr were content with the rest they had gotten, and Wimbleton became aware of this when the adult carefully took their hand in his own a half-hour before dinner.

Pat, pat, pat. It was one-on-one tag time.

After their sparring session with Mr. Sloane, Deimos gave a breathless announcement that Hank v. Hofnarr was about to begin. The children started to bet on who would emerge as the game's victor, giving the two combatants ample space to have their game as they spoke. Radiant with a hard-won glow on their cheeks, Sanford and Deimos stood by to watch the match, the latter seeming eager to commentate.

"Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Hank versus Dr. Hofnarr!" Deimos boomed in his squeaky rendition of a television host, complete with a fist in front of his mouth simulating an invisible microphone. "It's gonna be a great match today. Where we last left off, Hank got his revenge by surprise-tagging Dr. Hofnarr after the doc won the first-ever game."

"Oh, yeah," Sanford nodded knowingly, recollecting the games prior. "I remember."

"Today, we're gonna be breaking the ties," Deimos announced sagely, "and this is going to be the last game ever. In their fight, I mean. Who do you think's gonna win, 'Ford?" 

Hank found themselves sort of surprised by what Sanford said. "U-Uh, well, I'd like Hank to win. 'Cause he's one o' my best friends. Sorry, doc."

"Aw!" cried Dr. Hofnarr from the middle of the arena.

Deimos put the microphone back in front of his own mouth. "Me, after the mean thing Hank did last game, I'd like to see  Dr. Hofnarr  win. But we're gonna find out soon in this very cool game of tag!"

One might think, "wouldn't a game like this between only two people be a bore to watch?" Not if the two players were Hank and Hofnarr, of course. The line drawn between playing and sparring ran thin between these two. The promise of inklings of combat sated the orphans a little too well.

"Hank's dancing around Dr. Hofnarr like a ballerina," Deimos commented. "But Dr. Hofnarr's too cool for that— it's like he knows what Hank's gonna do next…."

"Get back here!" The scientist had hollered, pawing feebly at the air behind Wimbleton and missing by an inch. "No!" Hank laughingly shouted back. They turned when Hofnarr was winded from the heavy swipe, attempting a tag of their own, only for the doctor to sidestep expertly to the right. The uninitiated may mistake the game for a round of sparring wherein one wins by landing the first and only hit. But frankly, they were playing the shelter's strange version of "tag."

At least, that  was  what Dr. Hofnarr thought they were playing: a game sure to end swiftly by the hand of its victor. But Hank turned the tables and, instead of running away…

"And…" Deimos clutched at his head with a free hand. "Wait! What's Hank doing now?! They're—!"

"H-Hank? Where are you— Hay! Come back here!" Dr. Hofnarr called in between laughter, reaching out to the fleeing child. He turned to the other children, pointing. "After them!"

Wimbleton had bolted straight for the shelter, children scrambling to make way for him like a sea parting in half. Amidst laughing orphans scattering to catch him at Dr. Hofnarr's behest, Hank had giggled to themselves, crawling and hiding inside a spot in the shelter's cellar that concealed them from a hasty look into the room. Not a one of his companions had caught him stashing himself away there, too caught up in the chaos to find who had caused it. 

Not exactly closed off to the orphans but too musty for anyone to stay for long periods of time, a shelf in the cellar beheld itself to them as the perfect hiding spot. Hank squeezed in next to a box of ammunition and hid in a fetal position. Sure, he felt small, but a decreased size was essential to this mission. Wimbleton rocked himself a little to feel better and relished the tiny thrills brought about rocking to and fro in such an exciting, new place. To combat the dust they kicked up around them, they brought the wild rag in their pocket and held it to their mouth, taking controlled breaths through the clean fabric.

'Okay. What do I do now? It's gonna be forever 'til he finds me here.'

He was pretty sure that if Dr. Hofnarr came in through the cellar door, he would be alert enough to tag him first. And from such an advantageous hiding spot, too. Hank searched through his mental photo album for something to latch onto and keep him busy while he waited.  

Keeping himself entertained, he replayed how Sanford and Deimos had fought alongside each other and pried into each movement for details. At first, they had thrown blows clumsily, some even landing on his partner rather than their shared opponent. But they made up for lack of skill with spirit, and even Hank could notice that. Eventually, as practice went on, they became akin to a singular machine that they would fine-tune with time and effort. How synchronized they already were, and how grand! Hank wondered if he would rather fight them or if he should become a part of them instead, those two who had weaseled their way into his heart. But oh, there was a charm in watching Sanford and Deimos form a whole together, without necessarily taking part in the whole. Surely, there was a charm in being a unit like them?

There were charms in everything, Wimbleton realized; he just had to choose which one worked best. Which one he  liked  best, too. So addled with thought were they that they missed someone entering the room and leaving soon after, muttering to themselves about Hank.

As he nestled deeper into the shelf, Hank decided that he ought to stay by himself instead. It seemed like the best choice with how they were. He would rather be able to make it on his own while also functioning alongside them as friends. Sure, he probably scared Sanford today, but that could be fixed, could it not? Sanford seemed to like them still, if they read him correctly. They would apologize to him and "make it up to him" through actions as well as words— that was always how it worked, as far as they understood. That was how he would fix them both and keep them together. Doing this would ensure the security of the happy emotions Sanford and Deimos kept making him feel: by making them feel something good in return. Between each of the boys and them were two containers that constantly cycled volumes of happiness, cycling and recycling the positive feelings between them. He needed not become part of their two-man unit to feel this wonderful feeling; all he had to do was function alongside it.

Whether he became part of their whole or not, this feeling was something they wanted to keep

"Forever," Hank murmured. "Forever, forever…"

As our protagonist lay dazed in the cellar, Mr. Sheriff had warrants for their arrest in the shelter above, absolutely bewildered as to where his kid had gone. Both caretaker and cared alike turned the shelter upside down, trying to recover the elusive Hank. However, no one seemed interested in inspecting the dusty cellar for more than a minute under the impression that Wimbleton would not hide in such an inconvenient hiding place. With that, Miss Maia took it upon herself to scour the area for any sight of Hank while she collected some ammunition for her post as the guard that evening. Seeing the child curled up on a shelf almost made the poor woman swear something frightful. She bit back curses as she crouched down in front of them and gently shook their shoulder.

The intrusion had Hank righting themselves straight up. They grunted when their head hit the upper shelf. "Miss Maia," they mumbled softly.

"I thought you were playing  tag,"  Miss Maia mused, picking up a disgruntled Wimbleton carefully in large hands. "Not hide-and-seek."

Their face softened, and Hank only offered a giggle. Then, alarm striking them, they gripped at the woman's shoulder. "Wait, don't tell. Please, Miss Maia." 

"I won't," the adult white-lied. Her eyebrows raised at how kind the child was to her at that moment. "But aren't you tired?"

"No. I gotta win."

She chuckled lowly and shook her head in amusement. "If you say so. You know, it's really easy to find you here, so…."

She hid him somewhere Hofnarr could never reach, him being one of the shortest among the adults. A lovely, sleepy grin blossomed on our protagonist's face, one that could only be smiled by a child up to mischief. "Thank you."

Maia swiftly left after collecting her prized shotgun shells from the box Hank had been sitting next to, leaving the snoozing child with a knowing smile. Hank giggled himself to unconsciousness, in drowsy awe at the brilliance of his new hiding spot. They dreamt of the best scenarios from their position in the cellar: him pouncing on Dr. Hofnarr as soon as he crept into the room, winning the game on such a fantastic note. Yet these daydreams would stay daydreams, for Hank had fallen asleep.

A particular bearded staff member also entered the cellar soon after to stumble upon the sight of Wimbleton in a strange place, this time at the very top of a thankfully sturdy shelf. Jebediah Christoff muttered that their game of "tag" was over and that Hank had technically lost, though they seemed too deep in sleep to be upset.

Carefully extracting the child from the top shelf, Jeb took Hank into his embrace and cradled them. Wimbleton's head lolled to his chest and rested there, a rare sort of contentedness settling over the young grunt's features.

"Bless you, my dear. Poor dear," Jeb muttered, drawing the sign of the cross on top of their head with his thumb.

Whisking small Hank out of the cellar, Christoff was just about to begin trekking upstairs when he bumped into a hurried Hofnarr on the way.

"Hay—!" His friend almost shouted before he caught himself, clapping his hands over his mouth.

Jeb would have held a hand out to help him were they not already full. He opted to steady him with his shoulder, letting him clasp onto it. "Easy now, friend—" 

"S-Sorry, heh… I knew I checked here already. Where'd you find them?"

"Hiding up in a shelf. A high one." 

Hofnarr reddened, letting a little stamp of foot show his annoyance. "G-Guh— no wonder…! How did they even get  up  there?" He whisper-shouted. "He a frickin'... ninja now?"

"Sneaky thing, aren't they," Jeb mused, dancing around the fact that he had brushed by the tallest staff member on his way there.

Grumbling, the other scientist rounded the taller and watched Hank's sleeping face, then shook his head at the sight. "Catch ya next time, Hank," Hofnarr promised, a faint smile on his lips.

Christoff gave a charmed tilt of his head, raising a brow at his friend. "I'm sure you will. You and Hank's antics will be… one of the things I will truly miss the most, Hofnarr."

"Don't say that like you'll leave  forever,"  the other doctor mock-whined. "You'll be just like me, y'know?  Oh,  it'll be so cool, Jeb. We'll tell Hank tomorrow, and they'll wake up to

Proceed? > Y/N

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PROCESS FAILED.

the news, and…." At this, his friend gave pause, pursing his lips. "Well. Maybe it won't be that exciting."

"It won't," Jebediah laughed softly. "A new title won't mean anything to Hank, I'd wager. This changes nothing with him and me."

With how they spoke adoringly of the future to come (at a volume that would not rouse Hank from his sleep, of course), Jeb already felt at home. He rocked the sleeping child in his hands for good measure, pulling them closer. One more look at the Texan-raised grunt prompted his colleague to pull away.

"Reminds me. Someone ought to calm Shemuel before he tears the walls down," grunted Dr. Hofnarr, seeming guilty as he stepped back. "You think we should wake Hank for dinner?"

"They seem tremendously exhausted, given how our talk did not rouse them," Christoff observed aloud. His tone turned warning but playful. "And you know how Hank is…." 

"Yeesh… You're right. Big kid needs big rest."

"So it is. I'll make sure to reserve an extra big breakfast for them tomorrow."

"And you," Dr. Hofnarr grinned, pointing at his friend with finger guns, "better come down to dinner. Let's break the news!"

"Of course, friend," Jeb returned warmly.

They parted at the foot of the orphanage's staircase, leaving Jebediah Christoff to reflect on what he had said. Oh, but everything would change, even if the following events in their lives shifted only ever so slightly. No matter the size of the changes, big or small, they would itch at him all the same, leaving him longing for a more comfortable and familiar past. For one, he would be busier, and his visits to the shelter would become less frequent. And the scholarly man realized this as he put little Wimbleton to bed.

So he pulled the covers over the child in a manner most tender, as if this would be the last moment he would ever spend with them.

"Goodnight, Hank," Dr. Christoff murmured.