Work Text:
Crack.
That was the last sound Pawbert heard, apart from the whistling winter wind kneading his body. He laid there, staring up at the sky. Thick, cotton clouds danced high, far above him, making him smile weakly, even if it hurt.
Even if everything hurt.
He felt the cold seeping into the back of his head, along with the other scars and wounds that were scattered across his body. Turns out falling from such a height can be very harmful, Pawbert thought, especially when you land on shards of ice.
He also felt something else seeping… out of his head…
No, don’t think about it. He didn’t have the energy to cover the back of his head, he didn’t have the energy to move, he barely had the energy to stay awake. The cold gripped him by his cuts, chaining him down to the ground, letting him rot away in this pile of warm white pillows. The bed of snow he landed on was even comfier than his own bed, which made sense because it was the living room loveseat.
He wanted to wince, to react, to yell out in agony, scream his pain away. Instead, he laid there, wallowing in defeat. Looking up at the sky, too far away to see the fox and rabbit, probably rejoicing in some way or another. God, no, he needs to get to the reptile neighborhood. He needed to burn it, burn it all. He needed to bask in the warmth of knowing that he’d be secured as a real part of his family.
Pawbert groaned as he tried shifting his body, reaching an arm over his chest to prop himself up. He just needed to limp over to the lighthouse to—.
As he placed both his paws, his front paws, on the ground, his body trembled. His arms wobbled, shaking him. Both of his legs screamed in pain, almost mocking him and his silence. God, he’ll show them. Instead of trying to stand, he got down on his elbows and began to crawl.
Crawl…
…Crawl where?
He breathed heavily, looking up and around, spotting the distant light through the thick snow droplets and foggy air. The light. The lighthouse.
He was a real Lynxley.
Pawbert raises his elbows once more and drags himself over, snow piling up under him, legs dragging behind, his feet twisting and turning, his ankles numb. Everything was numb, but yet he could still feel. He could still feel the wet dots of moisture spawning and spreading through his sweater’s arms, but from melted snow or from the crimson... no, no, it was melted snow. He couldn’t afford to be bleeding right now. He could still feel the snot running down from his nose, with blood coming from the other. He could still feel the sadness he felt when that fox was saved instead of him.
The underdog. That’s all he was.
He panted, throwing his head down to catch his breath. Sharp icicles of air stabbed his throat, making it a task to breathe now, too. He looked back, hoping to have made some progress in what felt like a half hour of physical, gruelling torment.
There, where his toes still dangled precariously from his feet, there was a puddle of blood. A puddle of blood, and an imprint on the snow, left behind by the lynx who fell into it. He hadn’t even left his starting point. He had barely even moved five feet.
Defeatedly, he slumped back down, curling into a ball, trying to hug some warmth back into him. He clenched his eyes tightly and just wished someone would hug him, like Judy, or Nick, or Gary or… or even his…
“Pawbert.”
He looked up immediately, his eyes snapping open. There, standing tall above him, was a lynx. He was a spitting image of Pawbert, save for his old age—which didn’t treat him well, mind you—heavier fur, and sheer volume of his body.
“…Daddy?” Pawbert winced. He placed his palms on the ground and pushed his body up. It still hurt like hell, but he didn’t care. Lynxleys have to be presentable, or in his case, half presentable. His knuckles ached.
“Pawbert, my son…” Milton got down to one knee, eyes meeting his son’s gaze, but his chin still miles above Pawbert’s forehead. He moved his paw gently, landing just under his son’s chin. Was he…? Pawbert closed his eyes, trying to embrace this moment. But seconds passed, and he felt none of his dad’s warmth. “How predictable.”
Pawbert’s eyes cracked open. He was met with his dad, now tutting to himself. Milton stood back up and dusted himself off, wiping his paws on his vest. He almost touched him after all.
“Who knew your mother would give birth to such an unfitting heir?” Milton spat out in a whisper. Pawbert’s heart dropped. “Who knew you’d be so… so disgustingly different from the rest of us? You’re a sad excuse for a Lynxley.”
No, no, no…
Pawbert gasped for air, shifting his gaze from his dad’s eyes looking down at him to the snow beneath his feet. He blinked tears out of his eyes. “Please. Please, Daddy, I—…”
He was cut off when another voice appeared, mocking him. “Aw, look… Pubert still calls Father ‘Daddy…’”
Kitty.
“I must say, isn’t he a bit too… old for that to be cute anymore? If anything, it’s a bit… odd.”
Cattrick.
The two of them peek out from behind Milton, their bodies tilted as if they were peering from around the corner. Pawbert failed to see the lower half of their bodies, hidden behind his dad, speaking of which…
“We’ve always been better than you,” Milton repeated, taking a step back. His siblings did the same. “And we always will be. Nothing you do to ‘prove yourself’ matters.”
“No… please…” Pawbert forced himself up, a task that took too much energy, too much energy. He held a paw down on his knee, he couldn’t stand without it. Then, he raised his other paw to his dad. If he was going to die, he’s going to be felt. He’s going to be seen. He needs to be real. He is real.
But as he attempted to place his hand on his dad’s shoulder, his arm seemed to move right through him, like his dad didn’t exist. Like he didn’t exist. Like he was just a ghost.
Pawbert fell on his knees.
Of course.
It’s not real.
It would never be real, would it?
Pawbert wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to throw a fit, just to be seen.
But he crumbled instead, falling down onto his chin, not feeling the nothingness of snow under him. He couldn’t breathe the sharp air anymore, because he wasn’t breathing. He couldn’t see anything anymore, because in his last moments falling from the peak, he had closed his eyes.
Pawbert whimpered in the black darkness, not even the cold reaching him anymore.
The question of whether he was a real Lynxley left him, replaced with an even worse question…
Was he ever real?
Pawbert tried to hug himself, but he couldn’t feel his arms anymore.
Or his legs.
Or his body.
Or his neck.
~ ~ ~
“Yeesh…” Nick grumbled to himself at the horrid sight. “I thought he wouldn’t survive a fall like this, but… this is worse than I thought…”
Judy stared at the corpse, icicles stabbed from the ground up, piercing the lynx’s body. He had become nearly unrecognizable. He left the world with his face covered in bruises, blisters, and blood.
She fell to her knees.
“Woah, woah, Carrots, are you okay?” Nick knelt down beside her quickly, wanting to comfort her. “Hey, hey, hey, breathe…”
Judy didn’t have trouble breathing, so she didn’t understand why he was saying that. Nick held her hand. She stared at Pawbert. Or rather what could only be described as Pawbert.
She shook her head, catching her breath. Now she understood. She wasn’t hyperventilating, no, she just stopped breathing. “Sorry, I, uh…”
She clenched her eyes, took a deep breath in, and turned away from the bloody puddle. At least it was a quick death, must’ve been on impact.
She sighed. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. We need to focus on Gary right now. We need to find that patent.”
She stood up, turned, and… left Pawbert by himself.
He didn’t say anything. He was used to it.