Chapter Text
The realization of just how horribly wrong things have gotten came to Spamton slowly at first, then all at once.
It began with him awakening from his slumber as per usual, in the dark confines of a dumpster all too familiar to him. That is, until he realized that things weren’t exactly in order. The usual horrid stench was a bit off, and his pillow wasn’t underneath him. Shrugging it off, he’d figured he’d just get back to his usual daily proceedings… that was, until he tried to hoist himself up with his arms, and his arms simply would not move. His mind whipped up into a panicked frenzy, he made the motions of movement in his mind over and over again, but they simply would not translate to his body. He attempted to do the same with his legs, but to no avail. No matter how hard he was struggling, he was utterly incapacitated. He tried to cry for help, but no voice would leave his throat. The only part of his body that was capable of moving was the stream of tears running down his face.
At first, denial. He rationalized to himself that this couldn’t actually be happening, that this had to have merely been a dream. He’d wake up from it eventually, and everything would be fine! But the minutes slowly passed into hours, and the horrifying reality became ever more evident. This wasn’t a dream whatsoever. Of course, he knew this from the beginning, but he tried to deny it in his head, in the hopes that maybe if he believed hard enough that he was dreaming then he’d be able to escape.
Following denial comes fear. Overwhelming, incomprehensible fear. He doesn’t know where he is right now, he doesn’t know why he can’t move his body, and he doesn’t know what’s in store for him. He assumes he’s died, or in the process of dying, and this is his final resting place. He knows now he is not dreaming, and that this is truly the most horrifying thing he could possibly be experiencing. He didn’t know this loss of control was possible until now, this complete and utter torment. If he has truly died, then this is hell. Most likely, he will rot here forever. If he doesn’t stay here forever, he’s sure he’ll be crushed to bits by the hungry jaws of a garbage truck, completely incapable of preventing his fate. The thought of just how gruesome this fate could be for him… he swears he can feel his heart trying to claw out of his chest, desperate for escape.
This fear, of course, never subsides. It’s constant, agonizing suffering, but this constantness is something he finds himself becoming numb to after the first few hours. He has to accept this. One way or another, he has to accept what’s happening to him, accept what’ll most likely be his fate. There’s still a sliver of hope that someone will somehow come to his rescue, but he’s certain that this is a very slim chance. Though he wishes desperately that he could close his eyes and let his last moments be in a peaceful slumber, his racing heart refuses to give out. He wants so desperately to accept his fate, but he just can’t.
The hours are passing by so agonizingly slow, that he’s starting to wonder if time itself is even a concept this realm has. His mind swings back and forth between possibilities, and none of them are conclusive enough to leave him satisfied. It’s the uncertainty that’s the most horrifying part– the fact that he’s utterly helpless to fate itself. Still, he desperately needs rest. Staying suspended in fear for this long is utterly exhausting him, and so he begins to close his eyes…
Right as he does so, the lid above him swings open, and his eyes meet a variety of sights. The first is a sliver of a great sky– based on the coloration of it, it looks like the sun is about to set. He can’t help but be taken aback by just how beautiful the sight is… more importantly, however, is the face of a human. A human who looks utterly shocked to find him in this predicament, letting out a hushed gasp as they try to process what exactly is set before them.
“What the fuck?” you whisper to yourself. “Who would leave this here?”
You drop whatever was in your hand, which he assumes was a garbage bag, and your arms ensnare him, lifting him up and resting him on the closed half of the lid. You begin to inspect him carefully with both eyes and hands, rummaging around his body.
“Doesn’t look like you’re broken,” you mutter to yourself. “Why would someone just… throw you out?”
A very good question, indeed. But there’s a bigger question on Spamton’s mind: “Is this heaven? Or is this still hell?” As if to answer this question, you lift him up into your arms, resting his head on your shoulder, and he decides in this moment that this is heaven.
“Alright, you’re coming home with me,” you explain, carrying him away. His eyes are trying to process so many things all at once that it’s hard to keep track: a small parking lot, a grocery store, and of course, the dumpster he emerged from. Trees, grass, a warm breeze, and the sky. The beautiful, beautiful sky. Most notable of all, however, is the warmth coming from your body, as your arms squeeze onto him so tightly. He hears the sound of keys jingling, followed by the sound of a car door opening. Carefully, you place him into the passenger’s seat of a vehicle, giving him a gentle pat on the head. The carseat beneath him is actually rather comfortable, so much so that it’s lulling him to sleep.
“I gotta finish my shift, but I’ll be back in a few hours,” you explain. “Don’t get stolen or anything, okay?”
Locking the door behind you, you bid him farewell before running back to the store’s sliding doors. The immense dread that plagued him has left his body entirely, as he feels a wave of relief wash over every fiber of his being. Of course, there’s still the chance that you could do something horrible to him… but for some reason, he already immediately trusts you. Could the fact that you were talking to him indicate that you know he’s alive? Or do you just happen to have a soft spot for puppets? Whatever it is, he’s been rescued. He can finally get some much needed rest, until you return.
The sound of a car door closing jolts Spamton awake, as you swing yourself into the driver's seat. The sun has fully set, and the sky above him is now a deep pitch black.
“Sorry I took so long,” you say, inserting your key into the ignition. The engine starts to hum, and you lean over to his seat, buckling him in. The feeling of your arm grazing his body is oddly comforting, more than it should be. Once you’re secured back in your seat, with a turn of the steering wheel you make your exit. His eyes twinkle with awe as he takes in the sights before him. Flickering street lights, quaint little houses, and not another car in sight. It’s nothing like the usual hustle and bustle of his previous home. It’s quiet, comfortable, serene. After driving for a few blocks, you park in front of what appears to be an apartment complex, unbuckling the both of you and swinging the door open. You make your way around to the passenger seat, opening it and carrying him into your arms. It’s then that your body freezes up, as if something just occurred to you. You hurriedly set him down on the car hood, pressing your hand to his chest.
“You… you have a heartbeat,” you exclaim, a panicked tone evident in your voice. To double check, you slide your hand under his shirt, and he trembles a bit at the sensation.
“Are you… alive?”
He wishes so badly that he could answer you, but he can’t. The words just won’t form. The only response he can give you is his accelerated heartbeat. You’re pacing back and forth now, seemingly trying to decide your next move.
“Fuck, this shouldn’t be happening, this should not be happening,” you mutter under your breath. “Can you move your body at all?”
Of course, he cannot respond.
“I take that as a no,” you conclude, tapping your fingers against the car hood’s surface. A heavy sigh escapes your lips, as you give into this rather peculiar set of circumstances.
“Well, um… guess I have to figure out how to take care of you,” you say reluctantly.
Those words unfortunately leave a painful sting, as he feels like an utter burden to you. You didn’t ask for this, did you? You just thought he was an old toy, not another living being. Still, you give him a reassuring hand on the shoulder, gripping it tightly with your fingers.
“Don’t worry, we’re gonna figure this out,” you assure him. “And I’m gonna do everything I can to give you a good home, okay?”
Tears stream from his eyes once more. Tears of sheer euphoria, sheer adoration. Once your arms wrap around him once more, he lets out a long, heavy breath, settling into your chest. With no reluctance, no hesitation, you’ve decided to care for him. He’s never, ever had someone show him this much kindness, especially after what unfortunately happened to him. The front door to your apartment opens, and a warm, cozy feeling envelops him. It’s a rather small studio apartment, but you’re walking too fast for him to really process its furnishings. Carrying him to the bathroom, you gently set him down on the washing machine, and he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the sink.
“I should probably wash your clothes,” you explain. “Is that okay?”
He attempts to nod his head, but to no avail. Shrugging your shoulders, you proceed to undress him, starting with unbuttoning his jacket and smoothly slipping it off his arms. Next comes his turtleneck, which comes off with a bit more difficulty. Once you get to his pants, however, he admittedly feels rather flustered– it seems you’re a bit reluctant to do so, too, as your hands hover over his hips for a bit before you finally cave. With a gentle tug, they slip off, and he realizes just how exposed he really feels… at least there’s nothing down there to be gawked at. You realize you forgot to take his glasses off, and so you do so, gently setting them down on the sink. He hopes you don’t realize just how much he’s been crying…
“Well, whoever dressed you definitely has good taste,” you remark. “But man, you’ve seen better days. It’s hard not to be mad at whoever had you last… I just wonder if they knew or not.”
It seems you’re still under the impression that he’s some puppet that managed to come alive, and he can’t fault you for that. Somehow, part of him doubts that there’s any monsters in wherever he is… if that’s the case, then he really can’t fault you for being unaware of just what exactly he is. Flinging his clothes into the washer, you give its mouth a quick glug of detergent before closing the lid and switching it on. The sound of water beginning to rush into the drum is oddly comforting to him.
“Well, um… I hope you don’t mind if I get you cleaned up,” you explain reluctantly. “Y’know, since I found you in a dumpster and all.”
Of course, very understandable. Still, someone hasn’t touched him in so long… he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it. As soon as your hands wrap around his exposed waist, tremors crawl down his spine.
“Um, I… I hope this isn’t too uncomfortable for you,” you stammer, hesitantly setting him down in the bathtub. A blast of cold water smacks against his body, and regret immediately dawns on your face.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve waited first!” you gasp. Truthfully, he really doesn’t mind.
Running your hand under the water, you fiddle with the handle until you find the right temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. Rummaging through the cabinet under the sink, you retrieve a spare washcloth, then a few things from the metal shelf hanging from the shower head. A bottle of shampoo, along with a bottle of body wash. You immediately make work of washing his hair, planting a dollop of shampoo into your hand and scrubbing it into his scalp. Your fingers run through the fibers, trying to scrub as much grease out of them as possible. Once you’re satisfied with how well lathered his hair is, you bring him closer to the shower head, allowing the water to rinse his hair clean. He’s already feeling multitudes better, basking in the warmth he feels throughout his body.
“I hope I’m doing a good job…” you mutter to yourself, only to abruptly break into tears. The sound utterly wrenches his heart… is he being too much of a burden to you?
“I’m sorry, it’s just… I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” you whimper. “I’m gonna try my best, but I’ve never taken care of someone before… Am I doing okay?”
He once again tries to nod his head, but this time, the movement finally occurs. Upon seeing his reaction, you stumble backward in shock.
“Y-You can move your head now!” you exclaim. “I’m so glad!”
Of course, he wishes he could do a lot more, but at least for now, he has some form of communication.
“So, um… I’m doing okay?” you question again. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, or anything?”
He shakes his head, and you let out a sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank god,” you reply. “I was so worried.”
You return back to the task at hand, wetting the washcloth and applying a generous amount of body wash on the surface.
“I’m… gonna have to touch your body now, okay?” you explain.
He nods, and you get to work, starting with his face. With just a light amount of coaxing, the surface turns from a dull gray to a shiny white, and surprisingly his red cheeks don’t rub off. Satisfied, you move to his chest, then his arms and hands, then reluctantly to his torso. You’re able to tell more easily now that his stomach feels rather similar to a real person’s, making you wonder if he actually has, well… organs. If so, that would be especially peculiar– well, it’s already peculiar that he has a pulse. You work your hand down to his legs, admittedly feeling a bit uneasy when you have to wash the insides of his thighs. Still, you push through it, working down both of his legs along with his feet. You seem satisfied with your work, and so is he. He feels like a completely different person now, as if his soul itself has been renewed.
“Well, um… guess I should dry you off now,” you mumble, turning the shower handle back into its initial place. Retrieving a towel from the rack, you make work of drying his hair, then patting down his chest. As you’re drying him, your ears pick up the sound of his stomach rumbling.
“Um… can I get you something to eat?” you ask. He’s reluctant to answer, as he really doesn’t want to be any further burden to you, but you insist.
“You can be honest with me,” you assure him. “I’m here to help.”
He swallows his pride, nodding his head. You continue drying him off, setting the used towel down on the washer.
“I, um… don’t really have any clothes for you,” you admit. “I can give you a shirt to borrow, though… is that alright?”
He nods, so you exit to retrieve a shirt from your closet. You return surprisingly quickly, holding a small black t-shirt with a logo on it that appears to be for some kind of band. You scoop him up from the bathtub and slide it over his head, gently coaxing his arms through the sleeves. Satisfied, you carry him back to the main room, and his eyes wander throughout the space before him. In front of him is a bed leaned against the wall, decorated with several plushies along with a canopy hanging above. In the right corner is a simple black bed stand, along with a closet. In the left corner is a computer desk, in front of a window with dark curtains. It’s decorated with small figurines, along with a rather simple looking laptop. The office chair in front looks immensely comfortable, much more so than the ones he used to have in his old office. There’s several posters decorating the wall as well, for what appear to be from different video game and cartoon series. It’s evident to him that you’ve tried your best to make the cramped space as comforting as possible, which he can really appreciate. His eyes wander back to you, currently heating a pot on the stove.
“I made some tomato soup last night,” you explain. “I think it turned out pretty good, but I’ll let you judge.”
God, just how long has it been since he’s had a home cooked meal like this? Words can’t describe just how grateful he is to you for showing him so much generosity…
“God, there’s so much I wanna ask you,” you remark. “I just… I wanna know who would do this to you. I hope you’re able to talk soon…”
Of course, the truth is going to be a lot more complicated than that, and even if he could speak, he’s not sure if you’d really understand. How is he supposed to explain that he came from an entirely different world, and that he just… sort of woke up here? Still, he hopes he’ll be able to talk soon, too, as he’s certain he has far more questions to be asked. You approach him with a bowl and spoon in hand, setting it down before him and moving the spare seat next to him.
“So, um… I’m guessing you can’t move your mouth yet, or anything like that,” you comment.
He nods his head, and it’s then that he realizes what you’re gonna have to do for him. Your fingers retrieve the spoon, dipping it into the bowl and bringing it to his mouth. You nudge his jaw down with your fingers, then gently dip the spoon inside, tilting it down. He actually manages to swallow, which is rather relieving.
“Um… is it okay?” you question reluctantly.
He aggressively nods his head. It’s much, much better than okay. He only wishes he didn’t feel so humiliated by this treatment… of course, he knows he doesn’t have much of a say in the matter, but god, does he feel so burdensome. Even if you’re showing him the utmost kindness, there’s still a nagging voice in his head telling him that he doesn’t deserve it. Every spoonful you tilt into his mouth is a painful reminder of just how helpless he is right now, and the warmth pooling in his stomach is unfortunately not enough of a comfort to distract him. Still, it’s been so long since someone cared this much about him… he’s overwhelmed with a storm of emotions, so much so that they all blend together into an utterly incomprehensible feeling. It seems the bowl is empty now, as you carry it back to the kitchen and gently set it in the sink. He wants so desperately to thank you for your overwhelming generosity, but once again, no sounds will form. Now that this whole ordeal is over, he can focus more intently on the warm, fuzzy feeling throughout his body, which is making him feel rather drowsy. His head slumps over, a heavy breath escaping his throat.
“Um… would you like to go to sleep now?” you ask. “Um, just so you know, I don’t really have another bed for you, is that alright?”
He gives a weak nod, and so you make your way over to him, scooping him into your arms. As soon as you set him down on the mattress, his entire body goes limp, completely surrendering to the cushiony feeling beneath him. It’s nothing like the cold, stiff surface of the garbage bags he’d been sleeping on for far, far too long. As soon as the warmth of a soft blanket envelops his body, he truly feels as if he’s entered heaven. You switch the main light switch off and retrieve what appears to be a remote from the desk, switching it on. There’s light strips wrapping around the room that he hadn’t noticed before, a warm red light emanating from them.
“Pretty cool, right?” you remark. “Of course, if you’d rather have them off, I understand. They help me sleep pretty well, though. What do you think, do you like them?”
He nods, as he also finds the light rather soothing. Satisfied with his response, you accompany him in bed, slipping yourself under the covers besides him.
“Goodnight, hope you sleep well,” you murmur quietly, settling yourself into the pillows beneath you. He barely processes what you’re saying to him, as sleep is already stealing him away.