Archive of Our Own ^beta

"We can do it.. juntos, together."

Charlie yelped as he fell to the floor. It was his fault; his bed was lazily slapped together months ago, and he hadn't bothered to upgrade. Not even when he fell onto the floor in the mornings, which this wasn't the first occurrence of. He'd have a larger problem with it, probably, if he could actually feel the sting of the floor. Maybe then he'd have some sort of motivation to do something about it. Maybe if he were able to bruise, others would see, and they'd pity him enough to do it for him, like Etoiles and his weapon gifting every time Charlie dared to pull out anything unenchanted. 

Not that Charlie ever wanted any pity– he lived this way of his own accord. He could fix it, all of it, if he wanted to, but he doesn't. That's as simple as it is. 

He wasn't going to address what had been lingering behind his eyelids before he'd been rudely interrupted. He never did. There was no use in it, after all, it wouldn't change anything. He'd learned that after the first five of these occurrences. 

Realizing he was still, stupidly, sprawled out on the floor, one leg still on the bed, he pushed himself upwards and snatched the leg back. Unfortunately, he still had feeling in his brain, and he could feel the blood pooling from remaining upside-down. He didn't need another reason to have a headache. How stupid that he couldn't feel anything, yet his head seemed to be untouched. Parts of his face had even fallen victim, hardening his signature slime and making it so that occasionally his ear ended up in the air for a few milliseconds. Even the chunk of slime atop his head was black and hardened- yet, in another strike of his comedically bad luck, the part of his head that could ache could feel just fine. 

He wondered, if it took over his head, would it seep into him, and take his brain? What do you become if you can't feel your brain? A zombie? 

He revelled in the ability to stop thinking, the ability to stop being. He knows it's a bad thought. He stopped caring about that, too, after the first few times. Long before this.. rash had made a home out of his body. 

Pushing himself off the floor with an angry sigh, he wobbled as he stood upright. Lacking feeling in your legs will do that to you. He's still not entirely sure how he pushed himself off the ground. He's not entirely sure how he does much of anything with this "rash," really. He seemed to just.. naturally adapt to it. Nothing changed in that aspect. He's perfectly capable of doing everything he could before this– if you don't count the excessive headaches… and the annoyance of your hand disconnecting from you now and then when you're trying to use it.

Wow, he thought. This was the most thinking he'd done in a while. He didn't like it very much. He needed to get busy with something, and quickly.

He opened the door to his rickety house, the thing practically begging to be let off the hinges at this rate. Taking a breath, he revelled in the genuine beauty of his surroundings. He's the only one ruining the thing– this place is gorgeous. The only thing putting a splinter in its thumb is Charlie's atrocious-looking house. Oh, and the blocks . He's not entirely sure where they're from, but given they match him pretty well, and sting to the touch, he can assume that's on him too. 

He peeked around, trying to catch sight of his daughter. If she's here, she always greets him, so the lack of her makes him assume she's not. He's usually right on that assumption.

He doesn't think too much about where she goes. He learned that after bringing it up to Baghera, casually, and she'd looked at him with a look that made his stomach hurt. After that, he decided not to bring up Flippa's weird little "quirks." Even when they were so obvious sometimes it made everything awkward. He could feel everyone's stares on him, like they were expecting him to find yet another excuse. They weren't excuses. They were reasons, and he didn't see why everyone felt such a strong need to question his daughter for doing anything . 

 Enough about that, he decided. He didn't know what his plans were going to be, but it was evident his brain was deciding to be a bit louder today. He needed to find at least one thing to temporarily shut it up. It didn't have to be anything crazy, but he knew he wasn't touching that warpstone today. People had been looking at him weirder and weirder as of late. He can't hold any conversations with even his closest friends without them giving him that look . He's not even talking about anything weird, either. They give it to him for just existing the way he is right now. He's sure his mouth could be entirely shut, and he'd still get it.

He didn't need that on top of all of this. Absolutely not. He'd just.. chop more wood he wouldn't use. Find some actual food, maybe mine. Yep.. three ideas. That's all he's got. There's not much to do here, especially alone. He still refuses to move out or leave without being prompted to. 

He could organize his blocks for like two hours again, and jokingly dwell on each one for an extra thirty minutes to drag the time out, but Flippa's room and those blocks are down there, and he knows that'll get him thinking. He also hadn't bothered to replenish the light, so.. 

The warpstone sounds off.

Great, he thought, slinking behind his house. Someone's decided to care on the one day I don't want them to.

That, or they're finally here for his intervention, and he's not doing that any day, but sure as hell not today .

The warp noise stops after the single one, though, and he thanks whatever's out there, probably Lil J, for only bringing him one inconvenience instead of an entire gaggle of them. 

He immediately regrets the gratitude. He actually would appreciate it much more if that lightning strike that seemed to happen every time he said something stupid with his friends would please find its way to him in this moment. 

It's her.

He holds back a groan, a squeal, a yell, a whimper– he's not quite sure what he's holding back, but he's fucking holding it alright. 

"Slime?" She finally calls out, and Charlie's stomach drops so far he has to check his feet to make sure it's not detached from him. He stays silent. He's not sure if it's on his own accord anymore– his lips feel glued together. His feet feel strapped to the sand below him. He's entirely frozen. He's hidden well enough for this not to be an issue, but it's still not enjoyable by any means. He would really appreciate it if she would turn right back around and do what she does best. Leave. He wouldn't be mad, not this time. It'd be an act of kindness. He'd consider it a loving gesture, even. His love language was get the fuck out, he thinks, and he'd appreciate if Mariana could take that hint he'd been planting in his head since they met. 

Of course, like everything he's ever wanted Mariana to do, she does the exact opposite. In fact, she walks forward. She's looking for him. She is actively looking for him, and he quite literally has nowhere to hide. He could run, but he knows damn well that Mariana is faster than him, especially when he can't feel his own feet. 

"Slime?" She repeats, and Charlie has to physically hold onto his stomach to stop himself from either puking or perhaps imploding. 

"Slime," She tries a third time, more stern. The familiarity in the hardness of her voice, especially while saying his name, like he's being scolded– he hasn't heard it in forever. Well, at least not for real. 

"Donde estas? Sé que estás aquí." .

Charlie may not still be fluent, but he can piece together what she's saying. He ends up clutching his stomach so hard he forgets that "rash" somehow turned one of his hands into a claw. 

"Ah, fuck–" He whispers, wincing. He looks down at his claws, wiping off the small bit of blood adorning them onto his leg. It's entirely the "rash" at this point, so it doesn't really matter. Unfortunately, his reflex to swear at every inconvenience has fucked him over. 

"Slime? Ya te he oído." 

He glues his back to the wall, kicking up sand with the motion. He would love to have thought to hide better than literally just behind his house. 

He hears Mariana clear her throat, very obviously displeased.

"I will not leave until you come out." 

He knows she's not lying. She really is that stubborn. She's not gonna go retrieve him like a lost toy, but she's not going to let anyone else pick it up. Average Mariana behavior, he thinks, scowling. 

"Please," She says, lower, and Charlie wants to shove his face in the sand so he chokes to death on it. He's only ever heard her this desperate at the trial, begging for him not to separate them– and he'd yelled at him regardless. Here he is, metaphorically yelling at him by refusing to just greet his own wife. 

"I know you are angry," She continues. Charlie doesn't know how much more he can take.

"..I can leave, if you really want. I am sorry." 

Charlie rounds the corner with such force that it could make the sand give rugburn. 

They meet eyes. It feels like the movies. That is, if movies made you want to rip your head off your neck and kick it like a soccer ball in any general direction. 

"You," She starts, and he feels her eyes burning his infected skin. He's suddenly very self-conscious. He'd gotten so used to everyone just knowing and ignoring. Or doing a really bad job at trying to seem like they were, at least. 

"Me," He responds stupidly, shrugging with a disgustingly awkward grin. 

He doesn't really have much time to think before there's another body on his.

They cartoonishly roll around, connected as one, as they fall to the ground. Charlie is thankful he can't feel much, because he's sure this would hurt like an absolute bitch. Mariana doesn't even know he can't feel, the asshole. For all she knows, this is very, very painful. 

He's about to ask her what the hell her problem is, but they stop rolling, and he suddenly loses all courage to even swallow. She's pinning him to the floor– not intentionally– but she's staring at him like he's the most important thing in the world. Charlie thinks she must have some sort of laser eyes, because it's really hurting to be looked at like that. 

They both just.. stare. Charlie is sure he looks stupid, his jaw slightly open. He's trying to say something , but it keeps getting caught in his lungs. 

Mariana starts crying.

Now he's concerned, and he's actually going to say something, but the second he takes in a breath to talk, he's shushed. He could easily still talk, it's literally just a finger to his lips, but he feels like she's cast a spell on him to just listen for once. 

She sits up, maneuvering her hands under his shoulders so he comes with her. She's sitting cross-legged, and Charlie is forced to use that as his seat, legs awkwardly sprawled to her sides. Mariana's got a grip on him so hard he wonders if she's actually trying to kill him. Ultimate karma, he supposes. 

The sniffles throw him off of that, though, and he quickly remembers that she's crying . With much less of a fight than he expected, he takes his head off of where it's been shoved into her shoulder, and pushes back against it with an uninfected hand. They're staring at each other again. Mariana's hands are clutching his sides, and it kinda hurts, but he's got bigger problems. She's crying and sniffling and looking at him with such big puppy-dog eyes he's sure he could physically get lost in them if they were his size. 

"What?" Is all he can manage, and despite the bluntness, it's said gently, like Mariana is badly glued together, broken ceramic. 

"You," she repeats from earlier, and whimpers. "You," she repeats, and Charlie really is lost now, not in her eyes but in what the hell she's talking about.

"Yeah, me, what about it? You came to my house, and I'm here. What did you expect?" He laughs awkwardly. His hands subconsciously squeeze the shoulders they're resting on. "Is there something wrong with me?" He adds, jokingly. He knows damn well he's covered in ones and zeroes and black and green. It's supposed to be ironic.

"Yes," She gets out, and Charlie looks at her like he's offended, before she quickly shakes her head. "Not.. not like that. I mean, you're.." She tries to find the words, and in English no less. Charlie gives her the time.

"You're sick." She finishes, and Charlie's still confused. 

"No? I mean, I don't have a fever, I feel fine," and Mariana shakes her head again. 

"Not that kind of sick, I mean, like.. You're not well." She takes a hand off his hip and gestures to.. all of that. Charlie looks at her confused, like it's not that big of a deal. He's used to it, everyone else is used to it, they never really question it for much more than a minute or so. Mariana's dwelling on it like it's something revolutionary. 

"You can't possibly think this is normal?" Her face contorts, "No se puede ser tan estupido."

"I never said that," Charlie says, almost emotionless, "I'm just used to it."

Mariana's lip trembles. Charlie is still confused. Is he doing something wrong? It wouldn't shock him. He's really good at that.

She wraps her arms around his torso, shoving her face into it, knocking them both over again. Charlie lets out an oof, but Mariana doesn't notice, continuously burying her head into his chest while shaking it. 

"What? What?" He says with urgency, arms floating awkwardly above her back. "What is wrong with you? Not, like, in a rude way– like, why are you.. y'know?" He stumbles out. 

"You're all messed up," She practically wails, muffled. "You're all messed up and you're all alone!"

"I've got company, like, actively," He says, snarky. He hears Mariana growl, and he laughs awkwardly. Maybe not the time to be a smartass.

She's suddenly lifting him up, still grasping onto him, and they're standing before he has time to register it. Well, Mariana is. He's actively being carried bridal style. 

"What are you doing? I can walk, you know. You already shoved me to the floor. I took that like a champ, so.. I'm clearly put together enough. " He wiggles uncomfortably, but Mariana's grip is strong, so he settles his arms around her neck with a scowl.

"Shut up, pendejo," She spits, and Charlie decides to be obidient. Mostly because he doesn't have much of a choice, and he's still very confused. 

She kicks open his door, and Charlie winces as it rattles. Those hinges are actively praying to Lil J. 

He places him on his bed. 

"Hey, man, I just got out of bed. You're the one who interrupted me."

Mariana doesn't bother responding, just crawls in next to him. There is definitely not enough room for both of them in this thing. Before he has time to complain, though, Mariana is picking him up like a cat, underneath his armpits, and placing him on top of her. They look like a sandwich. 

"What's your issue? You show up, you knock me to the floor, you cry at me, and now you're.. doing whatever this is. I'm getting mixed signals right now."

"Sh," Mariana says, stern again. She wraps her arms around his back, not bothering to question the lack of a blanket. Charlie is clearly working perfectly fine as one. "You are not well," She says again, and Charlie still doesn't know what that means.

"What made you care now?" He questions, before he can think. Mariana frowns, and he regrets it immediately. He can't just have a good thing without challenging it.

"I always care," She says, solemnly. "I don't want you to think otherwise, I am sorry."

Still, Charlie can't seem to drop his attitude. It's a bad habit. 

"What else am I supposed to think? You're never here, and when you are, you act like everything is fine."

Mariana hums gently, "We will talk, Slime. We will talk this time," she reassures, playing with his hair mindlessly, looking at him like he's that important thing again, "Not now, later. I am here now. We will have time."

Charlie seems confused, so she elaborates.

"I am done leaving you. This would not have happened if I were here. I am done letting things happen to you," and she sounds so sure in herself, more sure than she's ever sounded about anything , that it makes Charlie want to be the one to cry now. He won't, but he feels it in his throat, so he doesn't talk. He just nods.

"For now, let me have this. Let yourself have this. We will fix everything, I promise, but I just want to be with you first." She sounds so desperate, her eyes closed and her grip strengthening.

"Okay," he says, voice cracking. "Okay."