Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

A war is raging. I sit the ravaged land between two unrelenting fronts. My body bruised and battered, mind scraped and scabbed. Tim and Hoodie sit as opposite each other as they can in the small living room. Their glares pass messages like radio waves through the air. I duck down low to avoid the radiation.

Toby, far braver than me and a neutral party, stomps into the room like an earthquake, drawing a temporary ceasefire from both sides. He whips his head left then whips his head right to consider the other two men with cold hostility. The golden retriever has been exchanged for a doberman trained only to fight. Neither Tim nor Hoodie will get near me with Toby here, maybe worried about tipping him towards one side or the other or unwilling to add a third party to their silent fight. He holds himself with a certain regality as he crosses the room and takes a seat next to me on the sofa. He does not duck as the glares resume, nor does he bother to acknowledge the unspoken attacks being thrown again.

Sometimes I really do wonder if the thing they call their boss has linked them psychically or if it is the nature of their work that demands such complex communication through something as simple as eye contact. I almost ask Toby, but I feel dumb just trying to arrange the question in my thoughts.

All four of us in the room together, locked in this silence, I begin to wonder what any of them do for fun. Beyond the rain, all I've witnessed them do is work, chores, or monitor me (which I guess is just more work). Leisure activities are done in private, away from my prying gaze. Maybe the walk with Toby is an exception, an invite in. I could ask. I've survived the doldrums by being half present, if that. Now guilt and grief gnaw me into consciousness and my understanding with Tim, to find out what I am and get us out, demands a degree of presence. I cast a side glance to Toby who chews too deeply on his cheek and stares ahead. His posture is rigid, and he isn't making any contact with me. Chin held high and head slowly turning to scan the room, he looks almost robotic and guarding.

My leg is healed, suddenly and miraculously as my arm and nose had been. I still dig my fingers into the skin and muscle, searching for the pain, the swelling, the not-rightness. It's becoming difficult to track my injuries. All I know is that I hurt to my bones, like a creaking old house, and that's enough to ground me in my body. In a way it makes my body feel foreign, not mine. I dig my fingers deeper into my healed leg, up against the sticks and cloth wrapping it.

The wooden frame of the chair crackles as Tim stands from it. He is far closer than I realized before he got to his feet. He extends a hand out to me, but his glare is still cast across the room.

"Come on," he says.

He offers no explanation, fabricated or otherwise, to me or the two men. Maybe he doesn't feel like wasting energy lying to them, or maybe he just doesn't think any of us deserve it. The tension in the room thickens and I can hear the soft scrapes of the chair behind me as Hoodie stands. Toby is the one to step in though. He shoots up from his seat, a jitter in his body and eyes wide. He says 'No' or at least tries to, but no noise accompanies the movement of his mouth. He positions himself between Tim and I so all I can see is his long back reaching toward the ceiling from where I sit. Too close, legs grazing mine and transferring some of that light tremble.

In equally silent motion, Tim mouths 'No' with perhaps a quizzical expression. As soon as the soundless word leaves his lips, the tension shifts in his body, slips from his shoulders down his spine and through his hips. A soft thud and scraping behind me. I spin in my seat to look back. Hoodie is trembling as well, leaning into the little table. It's actually pretty sturdy, managing to support his weight, at an uneven distribution without wobbling too. Impressive table. The little wooden polls stretching from the legs to the middle seem almost too thin. It's all smooth, no fancy design. Pale wood. Thin wood. It looks so simple, but its impressively sturdy. It's fine grain wood and the tight lines merge from this distance. I try to focus in and distinguish them from each other. Maybe I should learn more about woodwork, about making tables. Are those the same thing?