Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This may be the first time Dandy is happy to see Poppy.

Standing in the elevator, surrounded by other toons yet horribly alone, teasing the blue bandana tied around her neck. She's a shaking, sweaty mess. The euphoria almost cancels out his irritation at seeing her casually soil his prized possession.

Dandy calms himself by watching her squirm under his gaze. She's so obviously hoping someone else would see her and say something. Nobody will.

Dandy’s loathing for Poppy was an open secret, just like it was with Glisten and Vee and whoever else got close to him. It just wasn’t worth the risk of condemning their luck for the rest of the run.

Just having Poppy in the elevator was punishing enough, really. She wasn’t good for much, beyond being a pitiful, paranoid, shadow of herself. A warning of what would happen if you got in the way of Dandy's love for him.

…Dandy descends with his shop, and a few seconds later, the elevator doors heave open with a spine-rattling screech. Poppy rushes out of the elevator as if he's still there; his eyes still feel hot on her back even as the floor falls into pitch black darkness. Can she feel his gaze through the monitor?

It's all the better for him, though. Another layer of punishment, punishment for every time she dared to brush hands with him and walk with him and share a bed with him and seduce him and taint him—

Dandy can't see the blood red of his iris, but he can feel the rage building. He takes a few deep breaths and returns to watching her move through the floor. She'll pay soon enough.

Poppy's about a fourth of the way through her first machine now. She couldn't keep her grip on the machine for long before her anxiety started screaming at her to run, leaving her stuck in a cycle of extract-breathe-extract some more. She was going to fail a skill check soon… and Dandy would finally have his peace.

It doesn't take long for an angry bzzrt rips through the air from where Poppy stands. The sound sends alarm bells through Dandy's partially-twisted mind with pleas to make the awful noise stop but, its fine, he's used to it. And how could he possibly look away when he's just getting to the best part?

Poppy whips her head around, already hyperventilating; she can't see far beyond the red light of the machine, but Dandy can see the floor just fine, and he can see him approaching.

Boxten lunges from behind, his teeth clamp around Poppy's bandaged calf and suddenly Poppy's shrieking in pain and there's the gooey splat and crunch of his first bite— the bite that sends them both tumbling into a stack of rotting boxes.

“Get OFF ME!” Poppy squeals before kicking him in the jaw; Boxten releases her on impulse and Poppy scrambles back into a wall. She hoists herself up and tries to run, tries to do the one thing she's good at, but even her adrenaline is good for nothing— it can no longer cover up the pain of the flowing gash in her left leg, and so she stumbles and falls flat on her face and Boxten's upon her again. All she can do is roll over to look upon her doom.

Dandy presses his face closer to the screen and Poppy's eyes widen in sudden, horrible recognition.

It’s Boxten, now twisted, that’s holding her down— and he isn't wearing his bandana.

Of course he isn't. It’s around her neck. But he’s going to take back.

“Boxten..?” Suddenly, Poppy stops struggling and stares in abject horror.

Boxten doesn't care, though. He doesn't love her, he probably doesn't even remember her cursed name; and finally Poppy’s going to see that their so-called friendship was just a one-sided fantasy, a fleeting dream. Her delusions are going to be dispelled in ichor and pain—

“Don't!” Comes a desperate cry, “You know me— look!” She pulls off the bandana and waves it in his face. “You gave this to me!”

It reminds Dandy of those bullfighters, the fools who wave red cloth in front of bulls and then get skewered by their horns…

Boxten isn't taking it back though, and he isn't gripping her dress as tightly either. Poppy can't do much but wait. What an idiot— she's only delaying the inevitable. Sprout won't waste a tape on Poppy, Dandy’s made sure of it. She's going to sit there until Boxten remembers she's there, or until the last machine's finished. Either way, she's going to die a nasty death, alone.

Poppy finally breaks the silence, “We’re friends… right? We’re… we're still friends… pleasedon’tkillme.”

Her silly words make Dandy want to go down there and kill her himself. But Boxten breaks out of his stupor first and takes advantage of her paltry display of weakness— he rips a chunk out of the arm stretched before him, and Poppy screams, back arching, tears flowing helplessly.

She can't run; her left leg is too far gone for that. And she's certainly not crawling with only one arm, no matter how much she's trying to. So all that's left is to cry and beg.

Good. She should beg. She should beg for forgiveness for ever thinking she was worthy of even looking at him. And he won't forgive her. He'll take his revenge.

One ichory arm finds her pink bow and clamps around it on instinct, pulling it off her. The other drags along her face harmlessly, as Boxten's lower arms claw at whatever they can reach. Dandy’s never seen him smile so wide.

The final machine pops and alarms wail. Poppy screaming finally ends. It can't help her anymore— the others must've heard her wails by now, and none have come to save her.

Poppy stops struggling, for good this time— she's not dead, but she’s not trying to live either. How disgusting, how pathetic— it must be so very boring for him to have to rip at a victim that doesn't squirm.

“They… they're leaving… m-me… to die…” she mutters through the ichor bubbling up her throat. “Like… how I left… you… haha...”

Boxten licks up the ichor dripping down her face. He obviously isn't listening— Poppy’s rambles don't deserve his attention.

“i get it… you're mad… at me…” she continues, more to herself than to Boxten, “I got to… live, when you d-deserved it mORE-” Poppy descends into a coughing fit for a moment, her lips drowning oily black. The elevator doors slam shut. The lights of the machines fade.

“I… ugh… I think… I think I’m… okay with you… killing me..?” She continues, more to herself than to Boxten, “…I think… if it means we-” she coughs up another puddle that Boxten eagerly laps up “-we'll be… together… like before…”

Her voice trails off, seemingly to take a breath again, but those next words never come. She's finally done filling his beloved's ears with rubbish words. Now he can eat in peace.

He holds her head in his hands and licks up all the ichor she spilled during her little spiel until her face is clean, then leaves her corpse to sit against the boxes where she'll rot.

Dandy doesn't realize how close he's pressing his face against the screen until he accidentally pulls out a plug and it goes black. His heart feels like it's going to burst with love. It's only natural, isn't it? After all… this is proof. Proof that Boxten no longer cared about the chains of his past. He only loves Dandy and Dandy loves him. They'll be together forever.

There's a sudden bang on the door to the security room— Boxten’s probably running into the door again, attracted to the only light source on the floor.

Dandy lets him in, caressing his wooden face. “Did you have fun?”

Boxten doesn't respond, only gazes at him doe-eyed as the empty hand in his head reaches toward him. He hasn't spoken since Dandy twisted him, but Dandy wasn't really expecting him to. It's fine. He's cuter this way.

“You did so well… maybe should I let you out on this next floor too?” Dandy hums to himself. “Whaddaya think? Are you hungry?”

Boxten's hands finally find Dandy and he… pushes him away? His eyes are distant, crawling along the floor, before finally ending at his right hand— his right hand, which was clamped tight around a pink bow.

“Oh.”

Boxten seems as surprised at the sight as Dandy is, raising it to near eye level and tilting his head to the side with that same old smile.

“…looks like you brought… that… with you…” Dandy smiles at him with grit teeth. “Welp! Not a problem. We can just… leave it where we found it.”

Boxten, strangely enough, disobeys- doesn't let go of the bow, simply twisting his body away when Dandy reaches to grab it. “Lets just bury the hatchet! That thing is dead now. You dont have to worry about its things, alright?”

Dandy pulls the bow out his hands, earning a whimper and then silence as soon as it leaves his vision. Boxten's face falls blank, and then returns to his silly little grin like nothing ever happened.

Dandy smiles at him again, freely this time, and pets him, whispering praises like prayer.

That bow wasn't anything special. It was just a little episode. He had those sometimes…

“You're getting better,” he purrs, and kisses his bleeding forehead, “I love you.”

Boxten only stares.

Chapter Text

The days coming are increasingly peaceful. Summer is approaching, though nowadays that only means smothering heat and endless runs trying desperately to keep the AC on.

For Sprout, it means adding ice cubes to the smoothies making up an increasing portion of Boxten's diet.

He's been sick for quite a while now, leaving Sprout as his primary caretaker. He’s trying to keep them distinct, to keep Boxten happy, but the runs only really bring back candy and Dyle can only do so much as he loses the cover of the night to the equinox. All Sprout can do is hope the occasional cupcake was enough to stimulate the toon that could do nothing else.

The situation was eating away at the music box slowly— what was once harmless coughing fits had spiraled down into seemingly endless nausea and vomiting. He can't even sit up without his body rebelling sometimes, much less go on any runs.

Matter of fact, Sprout wasn't going on runs much either, anymore. Someone had to take care of Boxten and Sprout was just the better healer of the two, and after a bit of… negotiation, with Dandy he'd gotten permission to simply stay and take of Boxten all day.

Today, Sprout's making the same thing he'd given Boxten a few days ago for breakfast. It's safer, and easier, to start the day with liquids rather than solids. Boxten was less likely to vomit those up. Maybe for lunch Sprout would give him something more solid, though he can never really be sure.

When Sprout wheels the cart into his room, Boxten's unusually lively. He's already sat himself up, and he smiles at Sprout when he enters the room.

“Good… morning,” He mouths more than he says, his voice still weak.

“You're up,” comes out Sprout’s mouth with a surprised little tremble.

Boxten's face falls. Sprout recoils at his own words— he hadn't meant to make Boxten feel bad, he just…

“It doesn't hurt to sit up like that?” Sprout wheels the cart a little closer before letting go and walking up to the music box.

Boxten shakes his head, but the rapid rising and falling of his chest tells a different story, of exertion and a bit of suffering.

Sprout doesn't say anything else though. He sets the tray of food down before Boxten, careful to balance it on the blankets covering his legs.

Boxten doesn't seem to struggle much as he eats. His appetite was coming back. He might be able to go on runs again soon.

“You really are looking better.” Sprout hums, more to himself than to Boxten, eyes drifting along his silhouette. He was recovering quickly, a natural side effect of eating whatever Sprout baked.

Boxten replies with a happy little mhm, and Sprout's heart flutters. He's never done anything like that for Sprout before… they've become so close over these past weeks, just the two of them on Sprout's floor.

Boxten's eating slows, his spoon dancing along the sides of the half-empty bowl.

Sprouts quick to notice the change in his demeanor, “is something wrong?” He seemed so… well, a second ago. Maybe Sprout had spoken too soon?

“N-nothing,” Boxten whispers, his voice a soft and enchanting melody. “Just… thinking.”

“About?” There's no harm in prying a little, is there?

After all, Boxten doesn't really have much people to talk to nowadays. He gets “get-well-soon” cards, but nobody really swung by as often as Sprout did. They're basically friends now, right?

Boxten's gaze drifts, the shy toon unable to meet Sprout's eyes. He looks to the door, and that speaks for him.

“Oh.” Sprout mutters, his gaze darkening slightly. Of course that was what he was thinking about. Now Boxten was starting to get out of the woods, it was only natural he'd think about the rest of Gardenview, about what his friends— his actual friends— were doing.

Something horrible writhes in Sprout's stomach, sinking its fangs into his swollen heart.

Boxten mumbles, hands shaking ever so slightly, “s-sorry.”

Sprout looks back at him, “I'm not mad! I just… don't get so caught up in getting up. Let's just worry about what's in front of us, yeah?” Sprout gestures back to the bowl.

“…Yeah.” He mumbles and gets back to eating, but the damage is done. The tension pushes Sprout out the room the minute Boxten's done eating.

Sprout hides away in the Diner’s kitchen. He can't suppress that horrible feeling for another second; the one that's slithering along his spine, curling around his ear.

He's going to get better. It whispers, and then he's going to leave you behind. You won't be able to protect him anymore.

It's a little audacious of him to feel that way, maybe. After all, it was only because Sprout had gotten too far ahead of himself that Boxten had ended up bedbound, but… it was for his own good.

He just wanted to give him a little break. He just wanted to get close to him. How was Sprout supposed to know a such a small amount of his twisted's ichor could make someone so sick? He figured his own sweets would be enough to counter it… and it was, right? He was getting better.

…He's getting better. Oh goodness, he really is going to leave.

Sprout frantically washes his hands, tears threatening to run down his face. He's going to leave. He can't leave. There has to be a little left.

He practically throws himself into the nearest elevator, pressing the button to his floor.

He'll do it right this time. He'll make Boxten stay, right where he can see him every day.

The elevator doors open, but not even that noise can keep his thoughts from spiraling further.

It’s for his protection. He wouldn't understand. Nobody could possibly understand. He just wanted to keep him for a little while. Those runs, those horrible ichor runs— he'd seen him get hurt within an inch of his life far too many times— gashes exposing bones that were never meant to see the light of day, hearing his screams and helpless to soothe him, watching him writhe in agony that went deeper than the bites. He just couldn't let it continue. Boxten needed to be saved and nobody else was going to do it so Sprout finally did.

He finds his saving grace in one of the bottom cabinets, hidden by rows of pots and wrapped in multiple layers of paper.

Sprout turns over the cool glass in his hand, watching the black, chunky substance crawl up and down the vial.

He still needs saving. He needs Sprout's protection. He's doing the right thing—

“Sprout~!”

Sprout almost drops what's in his hand, but he quickly shoves it in a pocket on his apron before turning to face the voice.

“…Dandy.” Sprout replies, stilted and cold. “Boxten doesn't want any visitors. You should go.”

Dandy takes a deep breath and smiles, the picturesque one he curated for the children that once surrounded him constantly, “Oh, no need to worry about that, friend! I'm here for you.”

Dandy makes himself comfortable, sitting on the nearest barstool as if he owns the place. How annoying.

“I thought we agreed I don't have to go on any runs for now?”

“And I'm keeping my promise! But… I guess I just want to talk about your side of our deal~?”

“who's the healer here again?” Sprout scoffs, “Just let me do my job.”

“Oh, who am I kidding?” Dandy spits, hopping off the stool and shoving a finger into Sprout's chest, just an inch away from the precious vial, “Its been far, far too long, Sprout! Just what am I even leaving you around here for? Cosmo would've figured this out by now.”

“He wouldn't.”

“That's not the point! I want Boxten back, Sprout.”

“Says the one who forces his ‘friends’ to pay for his help.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Dandy growls, “If you keep messing around I'll get someone else to fix him. If not Cosmo, then Ginger. I'll keep her awake.”

“…You won't.” Sprout mutters.

No, Sprout was always Dandy's last choice when it came to Boxten. He hated seeing them together, he always has— he likes it when Boxten is alone with nobody to protect him, when he can prey on him freely.

That's why it has to be this way, an ailment so impossible only Sprout can be trusted to treat him. Dandy knows better than to mess with Boxten's life.

“If you don't want me to then don't make me.”

“…Just give me some time.” Sprout sighs, looking away. “I know what I'm doing.”

Dandy gives him an irritated glare.

‘That's right. There's nothing you can do to me right now.’ Sprout thinks to himself, and lets his thoughts drift back to the vial in his apron.

He'll take care of Boxten, just not how Dandy wants him to.

He’ll protect him.

🍓🎵🍓🎵🍓 ∘ 🍓🎵🍓🎵🍓 ∘ 🍓🎵🍓🎵🍓

Sprout’s face flushes as he guides Boxten back into his bed.

Every little movement is so maddeningly intimate— Boxten grips Sprout like he’s his lifeline, his hot, uneven breath tickling Sprout's collarbone. He's so cute, and what a strange thing to think about the one who's covering his favorite apron in his half-digested breakfast again— that was the easy part, really. The hard part was listening to him struggle to breathe, feeling his body tremble and his heart stutter. He’s so horribly frail now, teetering on the edge of oblivion constantly. Sprout can't even bear the thought of taking his eyes off of him. That’s why Boxten stays on his floor, staying in the room Sprout had long since been preparing for him. The thought of leaving Boxten's life in the fate of the elevator was absolutely revolting. It was unacceptable. He needed to be there, to keep Boxten close, to keep him alive. Anything less was an absolute failure and a rejection of his sole purpose—

Sprout’s train of thought is cut short by Boxten starting to heave again. He sighs and simply rubs circles on his back while making sure Boxten doesn't choke on his vomit.

“Its okay, it's okay,” he whispers, as Boxten gasps for air. “This is just what happens when you push yourself too hard…” Boxten doesn't need to do thing himself. He has Sprout to rely on. Why won't he understand that?

Boxten's shivering lessens. He lets out shaking, faint breath, and leans back into bed. Sprout can tell from the grimace on his face that even sitting up had set Boxten's muscles alight— unfortunately, he's going to have to sit up again soon, so Sprout can keep him from starving to death, but he's not going to rob him of that little relief.

“I'll be back,” Sprout says as he places the half-full bucket of vomit on the floor next to the bed. “Just rest for now.”

Boxten only whimpers.

The kitchen on his floor is a lot more ornate than the one in the dining hall. Back when Gardenview was open, guests could pay extra to have Sprout bake for them, and they'd get to watch. A performance art you could eat. Of course, this came at the cost of the kitchen being small and a little unwieldy at times, but Sprout had grown used to it.

Ironically, it’s become a bit of a hidey-hole for Sprout. In the mornings, he and Cosmo cook for everyone in the dining hall, leaving the kitchen on his floor to be for his eyes only. That meant he didn’t have to put nearly as much work into hiding the ichor Cosmo was so kindly bringing him, though he had enough sense to keep them in containers that weren’t transparent.

It’s a shame Boxten's bedbound now, so he couldn't share his beloved kitchen and maybe spend some time baking with him, maybe even without Cosmo knowing.

But it's fine, really. Just getting to handle his food (to be the sole handler of his food, in fact) is an honor. He even gets to feed him now that Boxtens starting to struggle with it—

Ding! Ding!

The unobtrusive ringing of a cute little strawberry-painted timer reminds Sprout of the pastry in his oven. It was for Boxten, but after all that vomiting he probably isn't ready for solid food, is he..?

Sprout isn't exactly thrown off by that, though. It wouldn't be the first time Sprout had prepared food that Boxten couldn't keep down. He likes to consider himself decently proficient at soups and smoothies, Boxten hasn't complained yet anyway, so it must be edible, at least. (But then again, Boxten is such a sweetheart… would he even tell him?)

Sprout sets the baked goods— vanilla cupcakes— out to cool anyway. He sets to work blending whatever was on hand, a handful of candles with chocolate, milk, ichor, and warm water, and pours it into a plastic cup.

Sprout returns to Boxten's room with the bowl. The walls are a soft pink that reflects beautifully on his deep purple wood. How can someone so sickly still look so adorable?

Thankfully, Boxten’s vomiting should be over for now— the area around the bucket was still clean, meaning Boxten hadn't tried to vomit in there and missed (as always.) Sprout would just have to feed him and monitor him for a little while, to make sure that doesn't come up too.

Sprout moves the bucket aside, making a mental note to empty it for next time, and turns to Boxten.

“I’m going to sit you up now, okay?”

Boxten can hardly even nod. Oh, what a poor, poor thing he is. His little wooden doll.

Sprout sits on the bed beside him and pries one small scoop into his mouth.

He'll be okay, so long as Sprout is there to watch over him.

Everything will be okay.