#I should probably get the basic storyline established before I jump into whumptober and skip around in time and arcs I haven't even

[sofspook]

good morning!

|| Masterlist ||

i want to kill tumblr. i literally had this queued for 8 this morning, and it didn’t post. then I tried to post it manually and it deleted all the text inside. and now I have to go back and make edits. at least I back up my stories partially. hhhhhhhhh.

anyway. finally some background! this takes place directly after One Thing. have some fluff and a liiiiiiillll bit of sad.. !!

CWs: blanket warning for boxboy universe/pet whump setting, implied past childhood physical, mental, and sexual abuse, implied past withholding of food, and food in general

The next morning's stiff coldness was met with a strong, sweet smell of Swedish pancakes from the kitchen and a quiet sizzling of batter in a skillet. And Keith was no professional cook, by all means, but he did have that one recipe down thanks to his father all those years ago and, he figured, maybe he'd fix up something a little nicer than the usual eggs and toast to brighten the kid's first morning here.

Perks of having sold a successful company happened to include money, sure, but mostly the freedom and flexibility in schedule to take out a few years of working, in Keith's case, which meant he didn't worry about calls about credit or hiring and firing as he chopped strawberries. It meant that now, he could focus on helping people, and filling his hours with rescuing and rehoming boxboys. And making Swedish pancakes.

By the time he poured the last of the batter and finished up the plates with fruit and powdered sugar, it was nearly two in the afternoon. That was something he'd learned to plan for, though, and done on purpose, after having enough exhausted rescues cycle through the place, so when the new boxboy stepped carefully into the kitchen with his hands tucked up in his sleeves and pulled up to his chest, breakfast was still warm.

Keith smiled. "Good morning!"

He remained in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, hesitant. Even with that bit of distance, Keith could see the fear in his eyes. The tightness in his shoulders. Lowered head, slouching to appear smaller. It wasn’t unfamiliar, and it wasn’t something Keith couldn’t help with a little bit of care.

“Come on in,” he said, nodding to the kitchen island. “I’ve got breakfast for us.”

The boy’s steps were silent, soft new socks on tile. His hands were drowned in the navy hoodie given to him the night before and so was the rest of him, all skin and bones covered in thick clothing that shouldn’t be too big for someone his age. At Keith’s gesture and with a little pause, he finally reached for a stool, and took a seat.

There were several plates set out. One had chopped strawberries, another had bananas, another with blueberries, and on another plate there were minced mangoes. There sat a jar of peanut butter and a jar of Nutella and two big things of whipped cream and some Ghirardelli chocolate sauce and even more miscellaneous toppings strewn about the countertop. Plenty of choices. Couldn’t go wrong.

Keith flipped a Swedish pancake onto the empty plate in front of the boy, and he flinched.

“Ever had these before?” he asked, and he was glad that the answer is a small shake of the head. Breakfast wouldn’t be accompanied by a flashback, then. “Well, the best part about these, is all the toppings.” He dished some onto his own plate pointedly. “See, you just- put whatever you want on top, and roll it up- like this. Like a... burrito.”

The boy watched with fierce, nervous focus. And then, he looked up, with a gaze that said What if I get it wrong? What if I don’t choose the right answer?

“There aren’t any wrong choices,” he assured. “Have whatever you’d like.”

And eventually, after a period of rushed thought, the boy did reach for a few plates, put some odd combinations together like mango and peanut butter, and rolled it up exactly the way he’d been shown. And then he stopped, pushed the plate towards Keith, and looked at him expectantly.

And Keith, who sat beside him at the kitchen island with a mouthful of strawberry-chocolate-pancake, realized he didn’t understand that no, I didn’t mean make me one, I meant make you one. “No, no. This is for you. We’re sharing this food, bud. I made plenty for both of us.” An afterthought, minding the way the kid tensed at doing something wrong as he perceived it, Keith added, “Thank you, though. That was kind.”

So finally, tentatively, with his frantic deer eyes darting over to check his expression every millisecond, he ate, and even gave in when Keith insisted he take at least another two and eat until he’s no longer hungry. Which, in any safehouse’s book, is a success. 

There was... one thing, though. The kid kept one hand under the opposite thigh the whole time they sat at the table. Keith probably wouldn’t have noticed, except he kept switching his arm, and at first he couldn’t figure out why he did that, thought maybe it was some sort of nervous tick or something, until he caught the pattern. Every time Keith moved to another side of him, right or left-- whether it be to get up and feed the cat or grab the plate of mangoes without reaching over him-- he’d switch arms. Why, though, he didn’t know. And probably, he thought, he didn’t need to. None of his business. 

But still. It was... odd.

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