Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tracker leaned halfway against the car window, supporting his head with a hand, but soon found this posture even more uncomfortable and stiffly straightened up.

He couldn't help glancing at Greedy's lap beside him, craving to rest his head there for a nap—during his rare family trips, Papa had always allowed him to do this.

Vanity opened a pack of pokey in the front seat, took two sticks for himself, then turned to hand the rest to Greedy, who had immediately perked up at the sound of the crinkling wrapper. While passing the snacks, Vanity checked on him. "How are you holding up, Tracker? Carsick?"

"A bit," Tracker replied. "but I don't smell your perfume this time. Maybe I'll last longer."

Vanity hmphed. "If I wore perfume in the same car as you again, you'd definitely throw up on me."

Tracker chuckled noncommittally. Though grateful for the consideration, lingering on memories of the scents that had once made him vomit wouldn't help. He closed his eyes, letting recollections of wind-swept hiking trails combat his queasiness.

He watched Vanity pester the driver with Pokey, only to be rebuffed by Grouchy, who hated coated biscuits. He got annoyed when disturbed while finding his way. Will people feel the same way while driving on a set route? Though with Grouchy, any disturbance seemed equally unwelcome.

Maybe he should learn to drive. During his last episode of retching into a bag, Brainy had muttered that drivers never get carsick. Having rarely stayed in cities, Tracker had never considered driving—wilderness adventures seemed far more appealing than sitting on faux leather twisting a steering wheel. But with increasing visits to this extended family, perhaps he should take the wheel himself.

As Tracker pondered, Greedy gently patted his arm. He turned to see his cookie-crumb-dusted brother gazing at him sympathetically. "Papa says he's gathered all the ingredients for motion sickness meds. Next car ride won't be so rough."

Tracker smiled. "That does help."

He hesitated, then added. "Though lying down to sleep might help more. Would you mind if I..."

Greedy blinked, squirmed deeper into his seat, and patted his thigh.

Tracker settled onto the makeshift pillow, feeling content. "Thanks, Greedy."

Chapter Text

“Hey, Tailor! Can you fix my pants again?”

Clumsy, of course.

Tailor rubbed his temples and turned to face his grinning brother, who was clutching his trousers. The left leg now resembled frayed rags barely clinging to the waistband. Fringe fashion.

Even he couldn’t salvage this mess. The pants were beyond saving, and the jacket had visible holes and fraying seams. He had to maintain his enthusiasm for refurbishing Clumsy, so that when family members mentioned having a “skilled, hardworking tailor” at home, others wouldn’t respond with polite skepticism.

But not today. He hasn't been so enthusiastic lately.

“Clumsy, strip those off and put on the pajamas from that shelf.”

Clumsy obeyed. Despite the pants’ state, luckly his legs bore only minor scrapes—already cleaned and treated—sparing Tailor the need to dig out antiseptic ointments and bandages.

Tailor’s tired eyes tracked Clumsy undressing. His overstrained nerves twitched with every near-collision between Clumsy’s flailing limbs and the fabric piles and tools crowding his worktable.

“Wow, Tailor, your place looks… different,” Clumsy struggled to free his hair from the button and finally managed to reach the pajamas while leaning on the table. “The table’s overflowing, and the floor! Golly, did I mix up these fabrics?!”

“Don’t worry. Remember the family ball? I've been preparing for it all along.” Tailor said flatly.

Recalling these days and nights spent alone sewing the requested formalwear for his family members—at first he'd been brimming with confidence. How wonderful it felt to be looked at with those expectant, needing eyes. Sewing en masse? Easy. His specialty.

But he’d overestimated himself. The workload was crushing. He simply couldn't handle such a massive volume of orders all at once. He had barely left the room to enjoy himself with others. Of course his brothers had tried to invite him out to relax. He would pause with his needle held in midair, look at the calendar, and hesitate before giving a half-hearted OK. But then another sibling barged in with new demands, drowning him in fresh deadlines. Offering quick apologies, he would lower his head and continue stitching.

Sometimes he would snap at his most creative brothers' ridiculous demands and shoo them away, because these were impossible. It also frustrated him. He remembered saying things like "I'll satisfy every single one of you". How he regretted those impulsive promises made in moments of exhilaration, raising people's expectations high. But did no one consider his limits? Sometimes he wondered if those doing the most work received the least care… Or perhaps exhaustion was warping his thoughts.

“…Must be tough! I’ve been helping decorate, but they mostly have me watch baby. Had no idea you were buried here!”

Tailor blinked at Clumsy’s furrowed concern. Hearing his efforts being affirmed and acknowledged was such a comfort.

“Yeah Clumsy… you know I'm really like... swamped with work. I'm exhausted, and there's still so much left to do. Hey, could you borrow clothes for a few days? I’ll finish everything by the ball’s eve.”

“Sure! I’ll ask Brainy, we’re similar sizes.”

Clumsy grinned, slapping his hands against his sides, smoothing the pajamas.

“Now let me help! You shouldn’t shoulder this alone. And I’m not tired!”

Normally, Tailor would definitely refuse. But today, companionship from someone who understood was irresistible. “Thanks, Clumsy.”

“Well, let me see... Perhaps I have some work you could do."

Tailor looked around, picked up two strips of lace cloth from the table, and handed one to Clumsy.

“Could you braid these into bows? Smurfette’s dress needs dozens.”

His deft fingers demonstrated, crafting a perfect bow that drew awed gasps.

“Uh… Tailor? Mind showing me again…?”

“Of course” Tailor chuckled, positioning himself beside Clumsy. Slowly, patiently, he guided each step under his brother’s rapt gaze.

Chapter Text

Hefty sat slouched on the couch, aimlessly pressing the remote buttons, trying to find something watchable. Outside, heavy rain was pouring down. He had originally planned to brave the weather and head to the gym, but before he could step out, Tuffy had called from a payphone, complaining about the gym was closed and he had made a wasted trip.

Hefty wasn’t used to wandering around at home on his days off. Well, not that there was much space to wander around anyway. Before moving into this rented place, he had planned to work out at home, but soon realized that even leaving a pair of dumbbells on the floor would get in the way. The place was cramped and tiny. Back in his village, using a space like this as a rabbit hutch would be considered animal abuse.

The TV screen began to flicker with little squares, the sound stuttering. With a crackle of static, the screen was completely covered in snowflake. The tattooed man let out a frustrated groan and slumped backward. He recalled the first time this happened with the television back in the village; How Brainy had eagerly tried to explain the reason to everyone, even though most of his theories were wrong.

With nothing to do for the moment, his thoughts drifted back home; The home he once had, crowded yet united, noisy yet warm. Back when Papa hadn’t suddenly vanished after going out on a visit, everyone hadn’t yet gone their separate ways.

Three years ago, after Papa and several other family members who had gone with him lost contact, Hefty had been one of the most adamant about maintaining order. He had been irritable and rough back then, offending quite a few of his brothers—something he still regretted when he thought about it. Day-to-day life had managed to carry on, but everyone had been restless. Without Papa there to keep things in check, little conflicts only grew worse. The day the first person left the village, the bond that had tied them all for so many years started to unravel. He just hadn’t wanted to stand by and watch everything he knew fall apart.

Now, even he had left the village, scraping together a living in this cramped little place. Every time someone left the village, they told those who stayed behind that they were going to look for Papa. When Handy was leaving, he made a point of knocking on Hefty’s door to say goodbye. They talked for a while, and Handy said that maybe if everyone went far enough, they might find clues about their missing family members.

“Don’t be so gloomy. I believe everyone will come back,” Handy said finally, gripping Hefty’s shoulder. “It’s just a long trip. Same with Papa.”

Now Hefty couldn’t reach Handy, nor most of the others. All he could do was hope that by Christmas this year, all the family members who had left would return to the village like they did last year. Not knowing whether the people he cared about were safe drove him crazy. If it weren’t for Tuffy and Grouchy being out here with him, making him feel he still had someone to look after, he didn’t know how he could keep pretending everything was fine day after day.

Tuffy had already made a run for it last year and probably caused trouble wherever he went. Hefty suspected he’d stirred up some irreversible mess outside, which was why he returned to the village to lay low for a while after just two months away. Tuffy didn’t live with them and had his own “social circle”. Hefty didn’t think it sounded like a good thing. But Tuffy was an adult now; Hefty couldn’t control him like he did when they were kids. They met at the gym every week, and Hefty could only guess that Tuffy was doing alright based on his relatively tidy appearance.

As for Grouchy, Hefty had dragged him along when he left. He worried that if left unsupervised, the man would simply rot away in the village with his arms crossed. Fortunately, Grouchy hadn’t resisted much. He just grumbled a few complaints as usual, rather than digging his heels in silently.

Hefty rented his current place with money brought from home. The day after settling in, he started asking around the neighborhood for work. About a twenty-minute walk away, in a slightly more remote area, there was a food processing plant. He had originally intended to apply for a job on the assembly line, but after sizing him up, the boss decided he was better suited to replace a recently resigned security guard. By luck, they were short two guards, so Grouchy ended up working at the same place with him.

Grouchy had been on the night shift last night. It was already half an hour past his usual time home, and Hefty guessed he might be dawdling at the factory to avoid getting his pants soaked.

Just then, the TV signal began to return. Hefty started clicking the remote again, pausing for a moment when he reached a soap opera channel. He knew this show; The ones back home who liked it always hogged the TV when it was on. He wondered if they were watching it now too.

The actors were as overdramatic as ever, and he was yawning within minutes. Then the lock clicked, and accompanied by the sound of pouring rain, a man in a black jacket pushed the door open and stepped inside. His hair was plastered to his face, his clothes soaked through, and water dripped onto the floor, quickly forming a puddle.

Hefty jumped up, grabbed a towel from the rack, and tossed it toward him. “Where is your umbrella? Change your clothes quickly or you'll catch a cold! ”

Grouchy caught the towel and scrubbed it roughly over his hair and face. He glanced at the clock on the wall, quickly shucking off his jacket as he walked toward the bedroom. “The umbrella broke. I tossed it. Hey, change the channel to the one with the hostess wearing the big bow tie around her neck.”

Not sure what he meant, Hefty picked up the remote anyway. The hostess’s distinctive feature made it easy to find. It was a simultaneous radio and TV emotional support program, with a main segment where the host delivered messages sent in by the audience. Most people used it to confess love or express affection to family, which didn’t seem like Grouchy’s style at all.

By now, Grouchy had changed into a T-shirt and shorts. He walked out ruffling his hair and plopped down beside Hefty. Hefty nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, what’s this about? Don’t tell me you’re going to declare your love for me on air.”

Grouchy rolled his eyes. “Don’t be disgusting. Did you know they also take missing person submissions? I sent them descriptions of Papa and the others and left contact info. Make sure to keep an ear out for the phone, and set aside some money for the reward.”

Hefty’s eyes lit up, and he broke into a grin. “Smart move! How did you describe them?”

“Well…”

“Well, then let’s move on to our next audience submission. Oh! It seems this is a missing person notice: If you see an elderly man wearing a red beret and red clothes, with a thick white beard, possibly accompanied by several young men—one also wearing a beret and glasses, nose always tilted upward; one who is overweight and carries the scent of bread; one who is jumpy and has a ridiculous French accent… My, these are some very helpful distinguishing features! Kindhearted souls who have seen them, please contact them. A reward is offered!”