Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You crawl though the padded tunnels and corridors in the Playhouse, not for the first time thinking just how much bigger this place used to feel.

You’re both relieved and suspicious that you haven’t seen any of the small Smiling Critters about. The little crawling stuffies are little more than animals now and with every day that passes, you have more and more trouble thinking of them as anything but.

Maybe that’s for the best. You’d’ve gone mad long ago if you were always wondering which of the little toys attacking you had once been your friends, your mentors, your coworkers…

There’s no time to think about that. You haven’t heard from DogDay in nearly five days--that’s the longest he’s ever been out of touch. You can’t help but think CatNap or perhaps even the Prototype himself may be behind it this time.

As you round the corner, you finally see him…and it’s so much worse than you’d feared.

DogDay lays in front of a metal shutter door, torn in half and being picked over by the little Smiling Critters who, despite their cute and cuddly appearance as a variety of adorable and market tested animals are little more than grinning vultures now. Their eerie grins fade only long enough for them to bite at him and pull at the plush “flesh” of his toy-like body. But there's nothing toy-like about the blood that oozes from his wounds, staining the once bright and cheerful padding of the play tunnels.

One of the CatNap Critters hisses at you, and for a brief moment you hesitate as you realize there’s about two dozen of the little things.

But a canine yelp of pain as one of them pulls on DogDay’s ear causes you to go from cautious to enraged before you can even realize what you’re about to do.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” you snarl, firing a few flares from your GrabPack.

The Critters hiss and whimper as they scramble back from the bright light, but you don’t wait for them to fully clear off as you dash forward, kicking the stragglers off DogDay. You hear a crack as your boot collides with a CraftyCorn’s horn, and the creature lets out a pathetic whine and scurries off.

Whatever sympathy you have for the wretched things is gone for the moment. It had been impossible to see them as anything but mindless monsters as they had crawled over DogDay’s limp form, gleefully biting at him. Torturing him.

Once the Critters have scattered and hid, you crouch beside DogDay.

“DogDay? DogDay!!” you cry, fighting back tears as his dark, empty eyes stare blankly upwards, his permanent smile looking lopsided and slack.

You gently stroke the fur on his head, scratching behind one of his ears to try to wake him. You try not to think about how you never could reliably get a pulse or measure the breathing of the Bigger Bodies, how you have no idea how much blood he can afford to lose, what being torn in half could have--

His voice box lets out a staticy crackle, almost like a half-digitized cough, and at last you see the white pupils in his eyes flicker faintly back to life as he mumbles your name.

“Yes! Yes, DogDay, I’m here, I’m right here. Come on…let’s get you out of here…”

“I…I don’t think I can…” he mumbles, his eyes unfocused as they seem to wander around the room. Finally his gaze settles on you, and he lifts a hand, resting his thumb against your cheek, gentle as always. “I-I’m…glad I got to see you again…”

The sentiment is like an icicle in your heart. “D-Don’t say things like that…w-we’ll see each other plenty. N-Now, come on, hold onto the GrabPack hand…” you say, angling one of the hands towards him.

He takes it, and you launch the other hand down the hall, letting it grab onto one of the plastic beams that enclose the tunnels. You retract the cables, allowing the GrabPack to do the work of pulling DogDay.

As much as you want to sling him onto your back and carry him out yourself, he’s still considerably taller than you even without his legs.

You shudder at that thought. He’s been torn in half. The toys--especially the Bigger Bodies--are far more resilient than humans, but you’ve never known one to be maimed like this.

DogDay rouses himself enough to occasionally pull himself along with his arms, and together you make your way through the Playhouse’s back maintenance entrance and into the cave system outside Playcare.

You’re surprised at how easy it is. You must have really scared off the Critters this time--usually they’d’ve come back for round two by now. Not to mention CatNap.

Had he and DogDay had it out at last? Was CatNap just as bad off as DogDay, off licking his wounds elsewhere in the Playcare dome? It’s hard to imagine DogDay doing something like this, even to CatNap. But you’ll have to find out all that later.

You’re not sure how you’re going to navigate the cave system with DogDay. The GrabPack has always had trouble finding purchase on the uneven surface of the cave walls.

After some deliberating with yourself, you loosen the straps and help DogDay slip the pack onto his shoulders, apologizing any time a movement causes him to groan or whimper in pain, which is far too often for your taste. You guide one of the hands to grab onto the bar above the maintenance door, then loop an arm around one of the straps. DogDay manages to lift an arm and wrap it around you, but you can tell he’s too weak to hold you in place if your grip slips.

But bless him, he’s certainly going to try.

You let the GrabPack lower the two of you down to the darkened cave floor, far below Playcare’s dome, far below where other toys or humans dare to tread.

You touch down on the rocks below, and DogDay lets out a sharp whimper as his wound brushes against the rough ground.

You quickly pull away from him, helping him steady himself in the darkness before taking back the GrabPack and retracting the hand. You resist the urge to ask if DogDay’s alright. He’s clearly not.

“Come on, just a bit further,” you say gently, helping DogDay pull himself along the rocky path.

There’s little to see in the inky blackness of the deep parts of the cave. The lights from the Playcare dome don’t reach down here, so you have to rely on the small light from your GrabPack.

The walk that normally takes about ten minutes takes nearly an hour as you and DogDay struggle to make your way back home, inch by agonizing inch. Occasionally you manage to hook the GrabPack onto a rock formation to help DogDay pull himself along, but after one abruptly gives way in an explosion of dust, you realize that even that approach isn’t without risk.

But you do make it, finally. You pull DogDay through the opening of the little home you two have carved out in the past decade. Not literally carved out, of course--it’s a natural alcove in the cave system, but you two have made it yours.

In the darkness, DogDay drags himself onto the rug--something you’d stolen from Home Sweet Home in a moment of reckless desire for normalcy years ago. His eyes briefly flick to the pile of pillows and blankets you two call your bed. Not even ten feet away.

A raspy sigh escapes his voice box. “I-I…can’t move anymore…I-I’m sorry…”

“No sorries, DogDay. We’re home. It’s okay,” you murmur as you shrug off the GrabPack and put it aside. You had only intended to kneel beside him for a moment, but you collapse next to him, your head resting on his shoulder. You need to get up. Clean up the blood, make sure his waist is closed up…

You’re dizzy from exhaustion, and your eyes droop shut as you feel DogDay’s large handpaw rest on your shoulder, hugging you close to him.

He speaks, his voice raspy. “Do you think…if we’d both been adopted…we’d’ve kept in touch?”

You don’t open your eyes, but you speak without hesitation. “We’d’ve been pen pals.”

“C-College?” he asks, before letting out a sputtering cough.

“We’d’ve gone to the same one,” you say immediately, your voice breathless from fatigue.

“A-And…then…?”

“Gotten jobs in the same town. I’d be a florist, and you’d be…”

“A firefighter,” he finishes.

You give a soft murmur of agreement, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze as you rest against him. You feel yourself beginning to drift into unconsciousness when DogDay speaks again.

“...You know…I’ve been a toy longer than I was ever human…” he says softly, his tone distant and contemplative.

Your eyes blink open and you look up at him. His white pupils have faded, leaving only the darkness in his barely open eyes. You reach up, lightly touching the long fur on one of his ears. “But you’re still you. That’s what matters,” you say softly, though the assurance rings hollow even to you.

The only response you get is a soft, gravelly sigh as DogDay finally fades into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

You had been eight years old when you’d first arrived at Playcare, and the past few days have been a parade of adults telling you how lucky you are to have been accepted into Playtime Co’s very own Playcare, how many opportunities lay before you, how many friends you’ll make, how much fun you have, how very, very lucky you are.

It’s basically like living in Playtime Park!

But it’s hard to feel lucky or joyful or care about some theme park when you’ve just lost your parents.

Years later, as a young adult, you’ll realize that the folks at Playcare meant well--at least in terms of their overbearing positivity when you’d first arrived. Most kids arrive much younger than you--the large number of cribs in the nurseries make that clear. And the ones that are closer to your own age when they arrive have often spent some time in worse orphanages, foster care, bad adoptions, or bad biological families.

Playcare is indeed a significant step up with no downsides for most of the kids who find themselves here, whether they are old enough to appreciate that or not.

But your parents had loved you, and you had loved them. They’d cared for you. You’d had a nice home and gone to a nice school. You’d had the same classmates, friends, and neighbors since you were all in diapers.

You don’t want a new family. You don’t want new friends. You don’t want a new bed, a new home, a new school, or even a new toy, and you quickly grow tired of adults telling you how “lucky” you are to be given a chance to have any of that.

So you do just about the only thing an eight year old in your position can do: you sulk. You sulk as the counselors try to help you get set up with a friend group, you sulk when prospective parents try to get a read on you, you sulk when the doll teachers of the Playcare school try to engage you in class activities.

You sulk right past the whimsy and wonder of having giant dolls as your teachers.

Most of the time you sit sullenly wherever you’re placed. The adults mostly tolerate your sulkiness, at least having the sense to not outright chastise you or push you too hard, even if their positivity and smiles grow grating almost immediately. The other kids--being kids--don’t quite know what to make of you. You look downright unfriendly as you sit there glowering, and those who deign to try to introduce themselves are met with short, abrupt answers that quickly discourage them.

And at night, when everyone falls asleep, you cry silently into your pillow, mourning your parents and the life you’ve lost.

A month after you arrive, it’s truly setting in that this is your new life. Your old life is well and truly gone, forever.

And what triggered this realization? Salads.

There was an outdoor lunch that day--as “outdoor” as anything in Playcare was, anyway. A big picnic table held an assortment of sandwiches, snacks, sides, and drinks that students could pick to make their own lunches, which they then ate while sitting on the fake grass, mostly sitting in groups of two to five students.

You, though, are by yourself, as always. You hadn’t even bothered to grab a lunch.

Nearby, two girls had gotten salads from the big picnic table and are now trading the cherry tomatoes one of the girls doesn’t like for the green peppers the other girl doesn’t like.

Just like you and Mom used to.

It’s so mundane, so innocuous. A little detail of your old life you hadn’t even thought about for the past month. You’d almost forgotten. How long until you do forget? What have you already forgotten?

It’s too much. It has always been too much but suddenly it’s way too much.

You barely register that you’ve stood up until you’ve already run halfway around the school building, crouching behind it. You’d been far enough away from the main group seated on the grass that you had managed to slip away largely unnoticed.

Though kids getting “lost” in Playcare isn’t of much concern, so you’ve found the teachers and counselors here don’t watch you as closely as they would have at your old school. There’s only so many places you can disappear to, only so much trouble you can get into.

It’s surprising that your crying doesn’t attract the attention of any of the adult staff. The sounds of the children playing in front of the school must be drowning out what the building itself isn’t blocking, but you certainly are not crying silently as you do at night.

You bury your face in your hands, your knees tucked against your chest as you tuck yourself into a corner behind a shrub, your back against the brick wall of the schoolhouse. Sobs shake your little body and tears stream down your face.

After a few moments, you hear the bush you’re hidden behind rustling. You jump, your wide eyes darting towards the sound.

A young boy, a couple years older than you, pushes a branch aside to join you in your little hiding spot. He has wavy dark hair, dark brown eyes, and light brown skin. He wears denim overalls over a red t-shirt and carries a stuffed dog. DogDay, you think its name is, from the Smiling Critters toy line.

Most kids around here carry some kind of doll or stuffie with them almost constantly. At your old school, you’d been told you were getting a bit too old to be bringing your toys to class. This kid definitely would have been past the age where bringing a stuffed dog to school was acceptable, especially for a boy.

“You okay?” he asks, inviting himself to sit against the wall beside you.

Despite everything, you feel too shy to cry in front of a stranger, so you manage to quiet your sobs as you hug your knees tighter to your chest, unable to meet his gaze.

He hesitates, having the sense to know the answer is definitely a firm no. “I’m Samuel. Or Sam. I like Samuel but Sam’s easier…” he says, staring down at the DogDay stuffie in his hands, idly fiddling with one of its ears.

Another beat of silence passes between you two as your eyes flick to Samuel. You can’t decide if you want him to stay or go, but you’re certainly surprised he’s bothered staying this long.

He speaks your name in a tentative voice. Apparently he remembers it from when you were introduced to everyone at orientation. When you don’t respond, he adds, “...Right?”

Realizing he’s waiting for you to actually answer, you dip your head in a glum nod, wiping the tears from your cheeks with your palm.

A third awkward silence.

“Do you wanna hold DogDay?” he asks, only for you to be caught off guard when he practically shoves the toy into your arms before you can even consider making a decision.

You turn your face away from Samuel shyly, resting your forehead against the top of the stuffie’s head as you squeeze it. It’s…soft. And nice. You haven’t hugged any of the stuffies you brought with you since you arrived. You haven’t hugged anyone in a month.

As you snuggle the toy in your lap, you catch a faint whiff of vanilla. You lift your head slightly, glancing down at DogDay in bewilderment. “H-He smells like sugar cookies…” you say, finally speaking for the first time in days.

“Vanilla,” Samuel agrees with a nod. “It’s his signature scent! All the Smiling Critters have their own scents.” He reaches out for DogDay, holding out a hand for you to pass the stuffie back to him.

You’re surprised at your own hesitance to hand over the toy that’s not even yours, but after a brief pause, you do.

Samuel holds DogDay facing away from both of you, then pulls its tail, causing a puff of air and scented droplets to spray from its wide open grin.

Even with it sprayed away from you, you quickly catch the strong scent of vanilla.

“N-Neat…” you mumble, feeling as if you should say something.

Samuel grins, handing DogDay back to you, and you once again hug the stuffie, your chin resting atop its head.

“You didn’t get any lunch, did you?” he asks.

You glance over at him wordlessly. You hadn’t expected anyone to notice. Certainly not any of the other kids, anyway.

As soon as you shake your head no, Samuel gets to his feet, holding out a hand to help you up. “We can get some from the kitchen. They usually have a few sandwiches and snacks in there,” he says.

You tuck DogDay under your arm and give Samuel your other hand, letting him help you up. You make as if to pass DogDay back to him, but he shakes his head.

“You can carry him for awhile,” he says with a bright grin.

You follow a few steps behind him for a bit until you finally muster up the nerve to mumble, “Th-Thank you…”

“A’course!” he says cheerfully.

He leads you to one of the back entrances of the schoolhouse, then down the tiled hallways full of students’ artwork, and finally to the school kitchen. It looks more or less like a typical house kitchen, though bigger--with three fridges, two stoves, and two microwaves.

“Lesse…peanut butter, ham, tuna--eugh!” he says with a playful grimace.

“I-I like tuna…” you protest meekly.

“Oh, okay!” he says readily. “Then you can have it.” He grabs one of the baggies from the fridge and passes it to you, and you tuck DogDay under one arm to free up a hand to accept it.

“Theo likes tuna too. Maybe you two could be friends,” he suggests, taking a sandwich for himself. He takes a seat at the small table in the kitchen, apparently expecting you to do the same. As you set DogDay on the table and sit down, Samuel continues, “He’s pretty quiet like you are.”

You wince a bit at that, but Samuel’s already too busy digging into his PB&J to catch it. You didn’t used to be the “quiet kid”.

Well. Samuel doesn’t seem to hold it against you that you are, at least. He’s content to let you two eat in silence, with the DogDay stuffie perched on the table between you two.

You register the sound of clacking shoes on the tile floor a moment before you hear the chipper voice of one of the doll teachers exclaim, “Oh! There you two are! I was wondering where you’d gotten to!”

You glance over your shoulder at the teacher who just entered. A human-sized doll with blonde hair, rosy cheeks, and a massive, permanent grin dominating her face. Her face and voice are identical to all the other teachers. You glance at her frock, noting the peach on it, meaning this one is Miss Joy. The different fruits and vegetables on their frocks are the only way to tell them apart--though from what you’ve seen, they don’t seem to mind when students mix them up.

You stare at her in nervous silence, unsure if you’re in trouble or not. She sounds cheerful and relieved to have found you and Samuel, but you’ve also heard her give out demerits in the same bright, perky tone she’s using now.

“It’s so nice to see our new student finally making a friend!” she continues, and you actually notice some genuine warmth in her voice. You could have done without the “finally”, but at least you’re not in trouble.

“I thought they’d like to eat somewhere a bit more quiet,” Samuel says, to which you nod in agreement. You want Samuel to get in trouble even less than you want yourself to get in trouble, after all.

Miss Joy nods in thought. “I see. Well, that’s very thoughtful of you Samuel, but I’m afraid this will have to be a one-time thing. If they really need quiet that much, they’re going to have to speak with me or one of my sisters. We can’t have kids just coming into the empty kitchen when nobody’s around!”

“Alright…” he says. “Um, sorry, Miss Joy…” he adds contritely.

“S-Sorry,” you say as well.

“No harm done,” she says graciously. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again!”

You and Samuel gather up what’s left of your sandwiches, and Samuel nudges the DogDay stuffie towards you with an encouraging smile. Relieved, you tuck it under your arm as you follow Miss Joy back to the recess yard.

Once you’re out the door, she lets you two walk ahead of her before lightly placing a hand on each of your backs, nudging you forward so you can go pick out a spot in the yard to finish your lunches.

“C’mon! Let’s go sit with my friends!” Samuel says, leading you to one of the fake trees on the hillside. A group of three other kids is sitting below it.

“Oh, you brought the new kid?” one of the girls--you think you remember her name being Sarah--pipes up. Set on the grass beside her is a Candy Cat toy.

You and Samuel sit down with the group, Samuel introducing you. They seem receptive to your presence, even though you don’t say much. You just don’t know what to say when surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces. Well, you suppose after a month, the faces are familiar enough, even if you don’t really know anyone yet.

But…maybe, in time…you could get to know them. At least some of them.

And Samuel seems willing to help you.