shitfactory-official
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i think eating one of these would fix my problems
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“Pierre?” Trumpet whispers, coming up beside him and holding onto his shirt.
He glances behind him before whispering.
“Léo m'a parlé des…um, codes.” His accent is clumsy, but his face is set and serious. “Maximus est-il un…code, uh, déguisé?”
[Leo told me about the codes. Is Maximus a code in disguise?]
[@yaaay-propellerhat]
Pierre's hands still. (His son, learning French. His heart is warmed.)
"Non," he says, at least sure of this. Nothing here reminds of his interaction with "Kameto", at any rate. "Elle est juste... malade."
He sets down his wrench to give Trumpet's head a little pat. "We're working on it," says Pierre, softly.
[No. She's just... sick.]
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"Always and forever, Maximus."
What else can he do?
Pierre fixes things. That is, by definition, what he does. He sees problems and fills in the gaps, like solder being heated, wires connected to circuit boards. He fixes things. Something is wrong with Maxo. Something has been wrong with Maxo, for a while. It is something Pierre has been aware of. It is something... odd. Something that doesn't make sense. Something that Pierre can't fix. What do you do? When something so foundational to you is denied? When there is something you cannot fix? Answer: Pierre knocks, gently, once on Maximus's bedroom door before letting himself in. There's that ever-familiar crinkle to the corners of his eyes, but it's pensive, trepidatious. He's dreading an answer that's coming. "Hello, my love," he greets, quiet, with a little smile. "How are we feeling?"
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i thought u were a bot at first
<html>
if.Doubt <header><title>Oh, that's funny. No! I assure you I am a real person. No robots here.</title></header>
</html>
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“Then I’ll get you Pomme, mon fils,” he says. He bounces Trumpet, a little, on his hip, breezes through the house like he lives here (he does) and sets both himself and Trumpet down on the couch.
(Something’s wrong with Maxo.) He shoots a message off to Pomme with steady hands, waits with Trumpet for the minute or so it takes for her to appear through the warpstones, and gives him the sweetest little kiss on the forehead.
Something’s wrong with Maxo. Pierre can… fix it.
Trumpet bustles downstairs, for once putting in the extra effort to lift his tail off the steps scaling up behind him, and turns into the kitchen.
"Papa. Bonjour," he says, first off. Gotta practice, even now. "Um. Ça va...a?" he tries.
"Bonjour!"
Pierre gives Trumpet a respectful nod. (It seems he's now on the third prototype of his absurd soup machine-- this one seems focused on the act of stirring every other minute.) He's fastening screws into the chassis, chewing on the inside of his cheek; Trumpet's entrance has him setting down his screwdriver and resting his hands on the counter.
He makes a little impressed face. "Ça va," he reciprocates-- "Et toi?"
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…Pierre softens.
“Yes,” he says, gently. “Yes, always, mon fils.”
Trumpet hopes it's not obvious that he's been avoiding Pierre. Like. He mostly sleeps all day. He only went downstairs that one time for Asha, so that doesn't count. And when he's not either sleeping or with a sibling he's at dinner, where he eats his soup without really looking at anybody.
So it's not like he has to try very hard. And it's not like anybody's gonna ask questions.
The only problem with the whole arrangement is that Pierre is the guy who does his physical therapy. And if Trumpet stops doing that his arm is gonna stop being able to move, and his fingers are gonna start getting tingly and rubbery again.
He's gotta face it sooner or later. So one day he makes his way slowly down the hall, down the stairs, to the kitchen, where Pierre is.
There's still a chance that he just DREAMED that he called him Papa. He has dreams like that sometimes. It felt more real than that. But maybe he imagined it, in that weird half-asleep state. Maybe he actually just said gibberish and Pierre didn't hear.
Christ he hates walking through the house alone. He doesn't know what's been wrong with him since he lost the fight against the new Cucurucho, but just walking through an empty hallway alone is enough to make him feel like he's alone in the whole house. It makes him want to sit down and scream until somebody comes and picks him up.
So as nervous as he is, it's still a relief when he sees Pierre. His shoulders relax even as his stomach twists.
"...Hola," he ventures.
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And like he wasn't blunt at all, Pierre nods quaintly and pours the broth into a can. "I'll make soup, then. Noodles, too." The claws at his back already start to click and organize things-- noodles pulled out from the pantry, a second pot, lids and ladles. Like he's his own traveling kitchen staff. "Go get Maximus and Trumpet, yes? Should be about... thirty minutes, I think." He smiles.
Pierre works in projects. Once you get down to it, it's really easy to think about everything like that. Problems and solutions abstracted. Except it's not so abstract, now. Very early on, it was-- but now there are extraneous factors. He loves Maximus, takes care of Trumpet (who called him papa!), and... ...wait, he's never met Dan.
Problems and solutions. Pierre enters the kitchen with a purpose. Trumpet needs food he can eat, but he has no problem with drinking, therefore: broth will work. Soup.
But which soup to make?
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🥺
Little guy is too fucking sweet to handle holy shit
I’m very fond of him :}
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There’s an enormity to that. It’s undeniable. Trumpet tucks in close and Pierre can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around tighter and pressing a smiling kiss to the crown of little Trumpet’s head.
Papa. How sweet is that.
The house has, since, been coaxed into an uneasy silence. This is when Pierre does his best work. He's never good at the during, always before or after. Right now is an after. Glaringly, an after. Trumpet got dropped. Maximus passed out. Dan is now home. Not to worry. Pierre's right here. ...Pierre took one look at the master bedroom, at Maximus and Dan, and decided the impending proverbial clusterfuck waiting for the four of them when the morning hit was just too much to deal with. So, Pierre has little Trumpet set up in the living room like old times. Trumpet's on the couch, bundled in a nice soft blanket, and Pierre is sat right by an armrest in a newly set-up chair.
And that's where Pierre stays. Half-interested in his own little project, half-tired. Waiting, maybe.
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That WAS the best first pass at ass surgery I have ever seen from someone not trained in the subject
Meu deus
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pierre, maxo is currently doing ass surgery on that fucking sasuke dogboy like inches behind me and I am not comfortable can you get me out of here please
[@yaaay-propellerhat]
I'll call Pomme over and you can play in the yard okay ?
#She has an odd type of play but she is a bright young mind just like yourself#travail#inquiries#???!? (trumpet)
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Meu deus
#We are ever so lucky to have my healing potion factory#travail#products#General Kameto ladies and gentlemen
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Lol ! 😂
AYPIERRE YOU HOMEWRECKING SON OF A BITCH STAY AWAY FROM MY WORSTIE ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️
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hi, darling. i think i might have a way for you to help, if its not too much trouble. you know the arm things you have ? : >
- @maximum-father
Yes of course would you like some? Are the healing potions not working do we need to have a higher dose are you alright are you feeling sick or nauseous or anything I could also make a machine that gives us soup I love you I would love to make you extendo-grips please let me help I love you.
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We are on a bumpy road but I am here as suspension. So Trumpet and Max are doing fine :}
I am teaching Trumpet Create! And he is not too bad at making coffee too. That might be a good business
Hello Pierre!
I'm taking Trumpet on a little adventure to my house to hang out with some of his siblings ;P
How have you been over there?
[@daddestboyhalo]
Oh hello Bebou ! About two weeks I believe. Dare I say it is a home away from home. It is pretty nice :}
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Hello Pierre!
I'm taking Trumpet on a little adventure to my house to hang out with some of his siblings ;P
How have you been over there?
[@daddestboyhalo]
Oh hello Bebou ! About two weeks I believe. Dare I say it is a home away from home. It is pretty nice :}
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[@yaaay-propellerhat]
Trumpet had had one of his former caretakers dissappear, one after another, and God, she should get a fucking grip before it's too late.
The problem was figuring out what to do. The same few options were stuck in his brain, cycling through over and over again until one finally stuck.
They sat down next to him with the same respect that a zookeeper gives to an animal. "Hey, Trumpet. Do you... do you want to stay in my bed tonight?"
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