Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was hard to define, difficult to pin down, and altogether utterly flummoxing.

He was a full, red-blooded, human person, and yet he felt… empty. Completely hollow; as if someone had scraped his insides out and left behind a simple husk. Sometimes it went away. If he was finally able to eat his fill, or bask in the sunshine for a moment, but those moments were few and far between.

There was a lingering feeling that something was wrong. He didn’t know what was causing it or where to turn for answers, but he knew that he mustn’t have lived his whole life up to this point like this. It was unbearable. There was no way he —that anyone— could ever survive this feeling.

It was like drowning in freezing water; sinking down, down, down into the murky depths of ice cold and suffocating pressure. And he knew what that felt like, unfortunately. Something was eating at him, gnawing at his insides and leaving behind gaping holes.

And yet he still couldn’t find a rhythm or a reason to it. There had to be an answer, there simply had to be! He couldn’t go on living like this.

And that was when he found himself standing in front of a ramshackle old house, warm light spilling out from the doorway. A rather rumpled man was standing on the porch, looking out at him curiously.

“Hello, there.” He called softly. “Are you quite alright?”

And he shook his head, stumbling forward and catching himself on the railing of the stairs leading up to where the light was wrapped around the man in the green plaid suit, illuminating him like a saint. Words caught in his throat, and he desperately reached out a hand, hoping that the man would understand.

Blessedly, he did.

The man hurried down the steps, calling over his shoulder with blurred and worried words that were incomprehensible to him, as right at that moment it was like a lit match had been laid on his palm. Looking up with a gasp, he saw that the man had grabbed his outstretched hand, grip firm and comforting. A concerned look was etched into his features as he draped the other arm around his shoulders, supporting him and helping him up the stairs, heedless to the fire blooming along his back.

He barely made it up to the porch before his legs gave out on him and he sank to the ground, muffled sounds ringing out into silence in his ears.

When he awoke, he found he was laying on something strangely soft. It was surprising to not be in immediate pain, but as his mind slowly meandered back into full consciousness, he found the familiar aches growing up in his bones like unwanted weeds. Still, he wasn’t being yelled at either; told to vacate the premises or find someplace else to be, so that was another possible good sign. That is, if he hadn’t outright died and this was the afterlife.

“Oh, good. He seems to be coming round.” The voice was kind, rough around the edges like a carved piece of wood, but smooth in all the right places and sincere all the same.

“What are we going to do?” Dithered another voice. “We can’t just let him sleep on the sofa indefinitely. He needs a hospital, most likely. We’re not qualified to administer any medical care whatsoever.”

“I think,” piped up a third voice, that of a child, “That we should ask him what he wants, first.”

Opening his eyes, he found three expectant faces peering at him. He was inside, which was a first in he didn’t know how long, but not an unwelcome one. There was the man in the green plaid suit, to whom he attributed the first voice, a young woman with a pinched, worried look to her, and a small girl.

“Hello.” Greeted the girl, who he surmised might be around eight or ten. “Who are you?”

“You can’t just ask him who he is!” Hissed the young woman, setting a hand on the girl’s shoulder and drawing her back.

“Why not?” She queried, looking up at her with an innocent intensity. “We don’t know who he is, and he’s the only one who can tell us. We didn’t find a wallet, remember?”

“Now, now, girls.” The man said fondly, before turning back to look at him. “Hello, my friend. May I inquire as to what your name is?”

…How long had it been since someone had asked him that? He couldn’t remember, which wasn’t saying much. Unbidden, a thought swirled across to the forefront of his mind, like ripples on a pond.

“Milligan.” He mumbled, voice rough from disuse. He tried again, stronger the second time. “I think my name is Milligan.”

“You ‘think’?” The girl sounded quizzical. “Don’t you know what your name is?”

“Rhonda!” The young woman admonished, who was, really, only a few years older than the girl, he now noticed.”You must be kind! I swear, we’re never going to teach you tact.”

The girl, Rhonda, pouted slightly, but Milligan’s eyes were drawn back to the man in front of him. He smiled gently, extending a hand for him to shake.

“My name is Nicholas Benedict.” He said, and when Milligan hesitantly accepted his hand, he found that burning sensation rushing to greet him again. Wrapping around his fingers and dancing along his wrist, there it was; a warmth unlike anything he’d ever known, almost painful.

Jerking his hand back, he nodded, trying for an understanding expression. “Milligan.” He said again.

Nicholas’ face had an inquisitive expression, but as he opened his mouth to say more, Rhonda popped up next to the couch.

“Hi!” She said, smiling shyly. “I’m Rhonda. So you’re Milligan?”

He nodded once more.

“What’s a ‘Milligan’? What does it mean? My name is Welsh, and it means ‘noisy’. What about you?”

“Um.” Milligan’s gaze flickered from Rhonda, to who he supposed must be her sister, and back to Nicholas.

“Pardon her,” Nicholas chuckled, guiding Rhonda back to the other girl, “We’ve been doing a research project on name etymologies. Now, can you tell us who we might be able to call for you?”

And, just like that, the roaring emptiness was back. It had been muted by the wonder and curiosity of his newfound environment and its occupants, but now here it was again.

“No one.” He mumbled, forlornly. “I have no one.”

Rhonda’s demeanor dropped at this, and so did the older girl’s. Only Nicholas managed to preserve his neutral expression, though it did seem to take an effort.

“Ah. Well, then. Is there somewhere we can have you taken? I’m afraid none of us can drive, but we should be able to arrange for a cab fairly easily.”

“I can drive.” The older girl grumbled mulishly, and Rhonda rolled her eyes.

“Or, how about we do that in the morning?” Nicholas added, seeing the despondent expression on Milligan’s face. “It won’t hurt to have you spend the night.”

And so it went.

The next morning Milligan confessed his whole story to the trio whom he had learned made up the Benedict family. It was a short story, but it took him a while to explain, especially with all of the interjections.

It was thus that he learned about Nicholas’ narcolepsy, the name of the young woman (Number Two), and quite a good deal on how Rhonda viewed the world. At the end of his sorrowful tale, the girl in question threw herself against him, and the unbearable warmth from before began making its way up his body like vines strangling a post.

Eventually —And yet all too soon— she broke away, and was quickly replaced with Nicholas, though he asked permission before embracing him. For some reason he said yes. Having someone of the same size as him holding him was an entirely new type of agonizing feelings. It was overwhelming, all-encompassing, and it was everything he could think about.

It was like he was drowning again, but this time almost pleasantly? It was like the weight and pressure of a body against his was something he hadn’t known he needed, something fulfilling and warm. He was drinking it in like he drank the soup he had been given last night, except probably faster because there was no danger of him choking this time.

His throat felt raw. Oh. Apparently there was danger.

Nicholas pulled back a bit at the feeling of tears dampening his shoulder. Milligan tried to break away, but Nicholas’ words caught him off-guard.

“Oh, you poor dear.” He murmured. “How long has it been since you were hugged?” Milligan stiffened, but Nicholas ran a hand along his spine and he melted. “Girls,” Nicholas continued, “Would you mind running and finding one of the weighted blankets? No hurry. Just meet us in the sitting room.”

There was the pattering of two sets of footsteps, soon fading into silence.

“Now, “ Nicholas said, “Let’s see if we can make our way over there before them, hm?” Guiding him carefully, an arm wrapped around him, practically supporting him once again, he led Milligan into the sitting room, settling the two of them down on a couch. All the while Milligan found his racing thoughts slowing, the discomfort of being held by someone who was almost a perfect stranger combatted by the wildly abundant comfort that was spreading into his core.

“You poor, poor man.” Nicholas whispered. He seemed to drop off for a moment, but before Milligan could decide what to do he was back again. “You see,” he said, covering a yawn, “what you seem to be suffering from is a form of touch deprivation. It’s a basic human need to be touched, to have physical contact with others, throughout life. It seems from your story that you have been denied this for a long time.”

Milligan was about to protest, to say something that would contradict and disprove this assessment, but he found the words lodging in his windpipe. There was nothing to say. Nicholas was right, he realised. How long had he spent living on the streets now? How long had it been since someone had reached out, had touched him kindly? Had touched him at all?

He was reminded of the brisk slaps and the perfunctory restraint of the men he had woken up with. Shuddering, he shook his head, trying to erase the memory from his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Nicholas asked, voice holding an instant keen awareness. He began to pull away, and Milligan whimpered. “Oh,” he settled back against Milligan’s side, oblivious to the man’s embarrassment, “I see. I know it can be a bit much, at first, but I promise you the best cure to this is touch.”

Right then, Rhonda and Number Two appeared from the hall, carrying a weighted blanket.

“Found it!” Rhonda called. “Sorry it took so long.”

“It would have taken less time if you let me carry it.” Number Two muttered.

Rhonda stuck her tongue out at her sister, half-carrying half-dragging the heavy object over to the couch. Almost throwing it onto Milligan’s lap, Rhonda scrambled up next to him, intertwining her fingers with his.

“Mr. Benedict says sometimes it helps to be held when you’re sad.” She said softly, squeezing his hand with her small one.

Number Two sat primly on the ground, back leaning against Nicholas’ legs. She wasn’t quite touching Milligan, but she produced a protein bar from her pocket and passed it to him wordlessly, and he felt touched all the same.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, holding back tears. As he relaxed into the deluge of comfort he had been gifted, he wondered what could be missing. His mind wandered to the little hand engulfed in his, and, for a moment, he imagined it to be smaller. He felt the weight of Nicholas’ arm resting across his back, and it seemed to him that it was the wrong shape; it should be centered around his neck, sensation playing with his hair and kicking at his chest. The closeness of Number Two was precipitating something; the feeling of a tiny body crashing into him and clutching at his legs.

Drifting into the most peaceful sleep he had experienced in… forever, probably, he felt the almost-images blend into one in his mind’s eye. “Katie-Cat…” he thought, right as he slipped past the part of wakefulness that retains memory. “I miss my Katie-Cat…”