Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

Rabbit

I look up just as Toby rounds the corner out of the kitchen, four plates balances across his arms. The dishes are all matching, slate grey ceramic, deep bowls and plates without lips. There had been a perfect three of everything. Another sign this place was setup by someone for these men. Apparently, a new set was added right before my arrival. I can't see what he made from this angle. Masky jerks up. Pain bursts through my jaw as he roughly grabs it. I stumble, trying to get my knees under me to support some of my weight as he yanks me up.

"Toby is going to give you your own plate and fork, can we trust you not to be stupid?" He asks, hot breath washing over my face.

He is so close that the slight tremor in his harsh grip and my shaking body is enough to cause our noses to brush. He jerks back violently, dropping me. His eyes are wide and there is a slight stutter to the heaving of his chest. I scoot back into the coffee table, ducking to crouch under it a little before he can lash out at me. What was that reaction about? The other two ignore it. Toby sets the plates on the coffee table. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for the reply to Masky's question. I nod slightly, the movement stiff and robotic. He smiles handing me a warm plate with a fork resting on it.

I have weak wrists. Kind of embarrassing, actually, the plate threatening to topple as I lower it to my lap with a single hand. I should use all my new free time to do something about that. It's the least alarming muscles to work on, could probably even hide it having to compensate for the broken arm.

Toby hands a plate to Hoodie, sinking down on the couch next to Masky. He waits for the other man to calm before passing the plate over. It's weird, all eating in one room at the same time. It's weird that Masky isn't feeding me. I sneer at myself in disgust for finding that weird. I really have turned into a toddler. I look down at the warm plate. It's some kind of past dish, lots of little parts to it.

"The pa-pa-pasta and s-sauce are ho-omemade," Toby brags.

He actually can cook. It wasn't arrogance or a joke. I try to blink away my surprise before it can become obvious on my face. I hesitate to take a bite. Toby is staring at me so intensely. Warmth registers before the taste, the texture of the noodles, thickness of the sauce. The acidity of tomato, slight bite of barely cooked garlic (he must have added it last), bell peppers, mushrooms, a kick of spice. He really can cook.

"Have-have-have-heavn't fig-figured out br-bread ye-yet," he mumbles, more to himself.

"I can make bread," I respond automatically.

My mouth is really doing its own thing today. Toby perks up a little, glee in his eyes.

"W-we can b-ba-bake together!"

"I need both my arms to knead the dough."

"You'll figure it out," Masky says, suddenly joining the conversation.

He is smiling smugly. This is a small victory in his eyes. I've made an offer when I only meant to make a statement, when I didn't even mean to do that, my mouth just opened. His shock and discomfort from the contact earlier is gone. He is patting my head again like a dog. Behave. Be useful or be killed. Polite to Toby, play Hoodie's game, deal with Masky's poking and prodding. None of that came to make bread with monsters, reach for a comfort from before. I could poison the bread. I can't.

I miss Camilla. I miss Sadie. I miss Mason. I miss the way they haunted my nightmares and half-conscious moments in the basement. I miss my sisters, my mom, people I had learned not to miss. My appetite is gone. I eat what I can until the food feels heavy and slimy in my mouth and I know I won't be able to force more down without getting sick. I need to be here, mentally here, or I'll accept this and turn a blind eye to the night of the run. Hoodie hums softly.

"You aren't a fighter," he says when he notices he has my attention.

I sink in on myself, numb. For a second, I believe him. I'm not a fighter, surviving by turning off and sinking into the background of this place. Then I remember kicking and headbutting and stabbing Masky. I remember trying to run. I remember getting Camilla and Sadie free. I scrunch my nose and glare at him as hard as I can. I let the details of the woods surrounding this place flow through my head, reenforce themselves in my memory. I'll get out again and this time I'll know which way to go, how to avoid them. Hoodie reaches for me, slow. Angered by his comment or by my own flickering awareness, I strike at his hand with the fork. I didn't expect the prongs to break skin, didn't expect them to so easily slide through those first layers, so I can't stop myself until the effort to push the metal deeper becomes difficult. Surprise flares through me. I can't look at the red starting to swell around the shiny metal.

My gaze flickers up and Hoodie is smiling warmly. He wanted me to lash out. He wanted--

I'm slammed hard into the floor. My vision blurs and my ears ring at the pounding vibrations that work through my head. The rest of my body is cutoff, numb. That's probably a good thing. Masky is over me, sneering, eyes alight with fire. One large hand is digging into the side of my face, fingers digging into the skin. He lifts my head and slams it into the floor again. The world rattles. I can hear his breathing, the clatter of objects on the table above me. The rest of the room is a hollow place, dark and echoing the limited range of sound. I can't hear my own breathing. Maybe I'm not breathing. Masky is leaning, shifting down.

"Simple fucking directions are too much for you, huh?" His weight is bearing down on my skull.

I wait for it to pop underneath him, give like a watermelon rind and spread red and pink everywhere. His shoulders are shaking. The pressure is mounting, becoming unbearable. My vision blurs and I can feel less and less of myself. There is a clatter, shuffling, the floor shakes. The pain leaves all at once. I'm shot back into my body, pasta splattered and sore. My broken arm is shrieking from having Masky's weight on it. Thudding, shouting. In my blurry periphery, I can see the vague shapes of Masky and Toby fighting.

Orange breaks my line of sight. Hoodie is leaning down over me, cutting off my breathing again. His gloves feel cold against my burning arm. Gently, oddly gently for him, he repositions the limb in its sling. My chest aches, breaths rattling. Hoodie gently taps his fingers along my ribcage.

I am a rabbit beneath a wolf. My body buzzes with adrenaline, my heart going a mile a minute. My eyes are wide, so wide they feel like they are trying to escape from my head and run on their own.

Just soft tapping, along my numb torso, pressure moving down and across my abdomen. He stops feeling for breaks and bleeds, running a gloved hand through my hair. He lifts my head, and I can feel the sticky flow of blood on the side that was bashed against the ground. As he gently turns me, the stream starts heading for my eye. I flinch from the flow and from his grazing touch to the injury. I lurch forward, wild animal I am, and clamp down hard on his arm, teeth pushing into thick layers of fabric. It dries my mouth, and I can hardly feel the skin underneath. His chest, too close, grazing my shoulder, shakes with a deep chuckle. He runs his fingers through my hair, pets me like a dog with his free hand as my jaw stays clamped down. It's soft, it is soothing, the slight pressure moving from my forehead, back to my neck. My bite falters. He doesn't even have to pry me off.

"You aren't a fighter," he repeats, coos right against my ear.

I don't believe him, don't want to believe him. My heart rate steadies to a softer thrum. Hoodie picks me up and carries me to his room. I cower from the screaming, crashing, thudding taking over the living room. I hide my face against the thick material of his hoodie. Something wooden cracks. The floor vibrates as the other two crash down. He wanted this.