Chapter Text
The Owner’s nails scrapped along the wood of the Dollhouse and if Huxley had a spine, a cold shiver would’ve run up it. There was something so horribly wrong about her. It? Huxley wasn’t so sure. He had yet to see her face and he really hoped not to. Gift or not, that surreal fear stuck deep in him.
Dahlia had seen her face. She very confidently proclaimed that she was beautiful. Whisker quivered at that. Huxley was already very aware that Dahlia’s perspective was unaware at best and unreliable at worst. Dahlia swore up and down that the Owner loved them. “Honest,” she insisted. She was willing to bet her favorite dress and parasol that the Owner had their best interests at heart. Even from behind that door. Another… “disagreement”had occurred between them over the Owner and Dahlia had shoved him hard off his spring at one point.
“You ingrate! What makes you so special?!”
She would’ve said more if she had a chance and he would’ve too. The Owner had other plans though. Huxley’ anger disappeared the moment that familiar greying, dry hand opened up the roof and seized Dahlia. Her own anger contorted to fear and despair as she was placed right back in her room. The door was locked and the hand all but slithered right back out. Not a word. Not a sound but the creak of wood and Dahlia’s panicked begging.
He had been so scared, he did not move from his spot until Whisker nudged him back to reality. Though Huxley was grateful for the cane, he couldn’t shake an awful feeling. The Owner’s favor was shifting to a new subject and all eyes were on him. Dahlia was being put aside and she was growing more and more distressed. She was so jealous, angry, and confused. Despite being very angry with Dahlia for how she treated him, Huxley did pity her. The Owner catered to her every whim and will for who knows how long. Suddenly that favor was on him. With Whisker being generally uncomfortable around the porcelain doll, he could imagine just how lonely she must’ve felt.
He was loved once, after all.
He wasn’t even sure if the Owner actually loved her. Did the Owner love any of them? People that love don’t lock someone up and refuse to talk to them to reconcile. If anything, love seemed to be throwing a gift in and shutting the door. That didn’t feel like love to him. It felt like pacification. It felt nice to be given something but… that creeping fear was only getting worse. It hampered any joy he had left.
He had a horrible inkling that things were only going to get worse.
Maybe if things smoothed out between him and Dahlia, the Owner would have less reason to get involved. Huxley hopped up the stairs to the front of Dahlia’s room and put his ear to the door. Faintly, he could hear her. She was sobbing inside, muffled and devastated. Huxley took a deep breath and called to her.
“Dahlia? Are you… ok?”
“Go away!” she shouted
“We gotta talk about this!”
“Just go away, Huxley! Please ! Just go away! ”
Huxley knew the difference between crocodile tears and real tears. The way her voice strained at the word “please” was no joke. It was broken and a very real plea. Dahlia could not be consoled right now. Instead, Huxley hopped down to the living room, brought up a scrap of paper and pencil lead. In his best ability with a lack of hands, Huxley wrote a note to her and slid it under the door.
I’m ready to talk when you are.
Huxley hopped upstairs to his room. If she wanted to talk, she would. Forcing her to talk would only make her clam up even more. He might as well let her sleep on it.
The next morning, the paper was pushed back out into the hallway. In much neater penmanship and shiny black ink, she had responded.
She still loves me, right?
Huxley frowned. Parts of the ink were blurred with tears. Taking his pencil piece and a fresh sheet from his room, he wrote back.
I don’t think she loves any of us. I don’t know what she feels .
He folded it and pushed it back under the door. Surprisingly fast, there was the clinks of her porcelain feet on the floor. In a few moments, the paper was returned to him with a response.
She does! She does love me! I’m sure of it…. This has got to be just a quarrel, right?
The reply was written and pushed back under.
Did she ever tell you? Did she ever show you outside of a gift or two?
He got his reply back.
Maybe that’s the only way she knows how. Maybe she just can’t express it any other way.
Dahlia, gifts can only show so much until it becomes meaningless. What if it’s just meant to keep you happy? Just to make you stay here? Has she ever let you leave? What about Whisker? Has he ever gotten anything? Can he leave?
The paper is slipped under. The response is longer this time and there’s the little clink of steps back and forth. A new paper is sent under, very neatly folded.
We have everything we need here. Why would we leave? Where would we even go? I’d never survive outside of here. I can’t survive without the Owner.
Huxley was growing more and more frustrated with just how firm she was in defend this false Eden and their warden. But he stifled it. It was just the hold the Owner had on Dahlia. This was years of careful manipulation. It was terrifying, knowing that that Being somewhere outside their home was trying to do the same thing to him. He’d have to be careful. New favorite or not, enraging false gods still had consequences.
He signed a new message.
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Not that we will but just to dream, y’know?
Dahlia hesitated when the note was passed into her hands. The pause was long and heavy. Eventually, a shuffle of the paper across the floor was heard. Flipped on the opposite side was one word.
France.
Huxley smiled a little bit. Dahlia waited on the other side, scrunching her dress in her hands anxiously. She hoped it wouldn’t be a betrayal to mention a place away from the wonderful home the Owner gave her. Huxley wouldn’t tell, right? They’d been fighting a lot.
The paper was returned with a little answer underneath the one she gave him.
I want to go there too.
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Dahlia was to remain in her room for a while. This time it was longer, too long for a shove and a couple harsh words. Though she had yet to apologize, Huxley didn’t want her locked up for that long. Especially since isolation caused her more emotional stress than any form of discipline should. Huxley and her kept passing notes under the door. He was careful to hide the papers he received and insisted that he’d hide them. It was… uncomfortable to acknowledge but he didn’t exactly trust Dahlia. They were friends, yes, but with tensions in the house and her loyalty to the owner, Huxley wasn’t exactly keen to leave her with any temptation. She didn’t seem to notice his apprehension.
In one note exchange, Dahlia wrote something that caught him off guard.
What was your life like before this? I’m sorry I hadn’t asked much before.
Huxley hesitated in his answer.
I was in a story book theater at a library. Kids were fun, if a bit rowdy. Always got that one kid thinking he’s a comedian to smack the clown. Still, whenever I got out of that box, I had my fun. I liked it.
He slipped it under the door.
There was the scribble on parchment and it was pushed right back under.
That must’ve been amazing! What were the kids like? Did you have a favorite?
He remembered those kids. All of them sitting on that cloud rug. Some were too busy screaming over one another to hear the librarian speak through him. One little girl loved his jokes. One little boy said he wanted Huxley’s hat and came in one day wearing one much like his. There were the regular kids, some once-in-a-whiles, and some he’d never see again. Still, he remembered the librarian most of all. Sweet and old. She took very good care of him; brushed his hair and gave him a wash whenever he got dirty. All his jokes were hers at one point, save for the more crass jokes in his comedic arsenal. He was her “little pal.”
Yeah, I had a favorite.
Her return response was even quicker this time and the new sheet was almost crumpled from how fast she pushed it under the door.
Tell me more, please! What was it like? Wish I had some tea. Always makes story telling more relaxing.
Huxley smiled. For the first time in weeks, they had a real conversation. He felt heard.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After another day of passing notes, Huxley had hopped up the steps of the attic, holding the papers tight to his chest. He felt a lot better now and seemed things between him and Dahlia were finally smoothing over. They still had a away to go but Huxley was filled with fresh determination to help her untangle herself from the Owner’s influence.
He hopped up the steps and Whisker scurried to join him. Whisker was apprehensive of the whole situation and didn’t sit in to read the notes. Huxley was content with that. He was pretty sure Dahlia would not appreciate a third party sitting in on their notes exchange and if anything bad came up from it, Whisker would be left out of whatever storm that could stir up. He was such a nice bunny and certainly didn’t deserve anything that could happen.
Huxley sat on the floor by his picture frame that lay adjacent to the wall. On the floor of that little makeshift tent was a loose floorboard, where he had been storing the last few day’s letters. He didn’t trust to leave it anywhere in obvious view. He cracked open and stuffed them within as neatly as he could with no hands. Whisker helped him move it back into place and pushed the picture frame back to lean on the wall. He looked at the spot estoy obvious unease. This was very obviously risky and Huxley did not trust the Owner, no matter the gifts. He couldn’t explain it but he had a very bad feeling that if they were caught, the Owner would not be kind about it.
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “We’re all in this together.”
Whisker didn’t look so sure. It was too bad he couldn’t talk. He knew Dahlia and the Owner much longer than Huxley did and had reason to be distrustful of them both. Hopefully, things would be better with Dahlia now. Huxley felt like now he could stop feeling like he was walking on eggshells. That was a bit optimistic for him but maybe he could let himself be a bit positive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“How’s your side coming?” Huxley asked through the door.
“It’s coming along but I think I have a corner piece from your side?” Dahlia said, pushing the puzzle piece under the door. “I dread getting to the middle part. I mean, I am going into this mostly by memory. Whisker, be a dear and see if this piece belongs to Huxley’s side.”
Whisker brushed the piece between his paws and looked it over curiously. He showed it to Huxley and pointed to the picture.
“Looks like a top border piece,” he said. “Think it goes there, Whisker.”
Whisker popped the piece into one of the gaps along the border and lightly patted it into place.
“Did it fit?” Dahlia asked. “Sure wish I could see what’s going on!”
She said that way louder and in an intentionally obnoxious tone not meant for them. Huxley snickered a bit. Seems like she got her wish this time because like a summoned genie, the Owner cracked open the top of the dollhouse and reached in. Huxley jumped and instinctively covered his head with his fabric limbs. Whisker jumped behind him for protection as with a single, uncomfortably pointed finger, the Owner unlocked the door to Dahlia’s room. The door swung open and there she was, dressed in a nightgown and messy wool hair.
She lit up seeing her friends and freedom but as soon as she realized that they had seen her in her night clothes and completely disheveled, she gasped and scrambled to shut the door. Huxley and Whisker exchanged a look and he busted out laughing.
“Geez, Dahlia, you just got out,” he teased. “I expected a bit longer before I drove you crazy.”
“You shouldn’t laugh at a lady!” she scolded. “I’m hardly dressed! It’s so improper!”
“You’re pajama dress is longer than your usual one, so how is that ‘improper?’” he asked.
“It’s based on principle, Clown boy,” she shot back. “Oh go downstairs and start on a meal. I’ll make scones if you agree you never saw me like this.”
“Oh my, her hair was messy and she was in her wittle jammies,” he snickered. “Scandalous, eh Whisker?”
Whisker covered his stitched mouth with a grin.
“Not a word or no scones!” she shouted through the door. “Honestly, you boys have no class! Do you want scones or not?”
“…. We’ll I do like scones,” he mumbled to Whisker as he hopped down the stairs. “Guess we saw nothing, right, buddy?”
Whisker saluted dutifully and followed him down. Dahlia joined them moments later, dressed even more extravagantly than usual and pretended like nothing ever happened. They had tea and Dahlia kept her end of the bargain with her baked treats. They finished the rest of their puzzle and Huxley decided not to tease her on how her puzzle really didn’t “come along” at all.
That night, Dahlia chose to keep her door open and they all departed to their own rooms. Just as Huxley was about to fall asleep, he heard a shuffle of something being slid across the floor and the tell tale sign of porcelain feet clinking in descent from the attic. Huxley hopped out and unfolded the sheet of paper left behind.
He read it and smiled.
Thank you for being my friend.
He slept soundly that night, pleased that today was a pretty good day. He slept so soundly, he didn’t hear the sound of paper rustling and the roof closing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dahlia’s shouting woke Huxley up. Blearily, he hauled himself out of his bed and hurried down the stairs best he could on his one spring. Unease turned to fear hearing another unknown voice.
“That is not your property!” Dahlia shouted, stomping one of her feet while Whisker hid behind her. “You wanted us to get along and now we’re getting along! But you get to decide how my friends and I play?!”
Peeking through the slit between the floor and first story ceiling was that weathered hand. Pinched between pointed fingers that were too long was a crumpled stack of papers. Huxley’s body went cold with complete terror and lightheadedness made it hard to focus on what the Owner was saying. The hand suddenly moved and Huxley cowered as the papers were brought up close to his face.
“Huxley dearie, can you explain this?” she said in a sickly sweet tone.
Huxley felt sick. Her creaking voice seeped in from outside akin to smoke. It sounded like a rat’s squeak and a serpent’s hiss mingled into one weathered voice. It was sweet but not a sweet like a gentle grandma. It was more of a sweet that beckoned in an uncomfortable, slightly eerie way. He pictured a predator trying to soothe prey into stuffing its belly and lying on a platter. She had that platter out right now for him and his eyes darted to the side to the stairs on his right. Maybe if he was quick enough, he could make it to the next floor in a single hop. Of course that’s just put off the inevitable. Huxley swallowed shakily and his mouth moved on its own.
“I was being nice to her,” he said, barely audible. “She was upset.”
“And that’s fine but what’s this about not ‘being loved’ and running away?” she said, that saccharine tone that dripped with condescension. “After everything I’ve given you? Your spring, your room, your very home? You’ve gone and hurt my feelings. I am very disappointed in you. Perhaps some time alone in your own room will straighten your attitude.”
The hand reached for him like a five petaled Venus fly trap, papers falling and scattering across the floor. Huxley cowered with puppet arms over his head. He couldn’t hold back his squeak of terror.
“You stop that this instant!” Dahlia intercepted loudly.
She moved quickly between him and the Owner, hands on her hips. She sneered and swatted away the fingers.
“This is not fair!” she yelled. “We didn’t do anything wrong! We do what you want and live by your rules but we get to decide how we play and talk and what we talk about! If you insist on this then I don’t think we should entertain you any mo-“
She didn’t get the opportunity to finish her sentence or say any more on the matter. With a quick jerk of a massive hand, Dahlia was slapped aside. She fell to the floor hard and her face hit the corner of the stairs with a loud crack. Huxley gasped, stumbling back on his spring and scrambled across the floor and against the wall, away from the Owner. Whisker’s paws flew to his mouth in horror and he made a move to rush forward but couldn’t get around the object of his terror.
Dahlia didn’t move.
“If you’re going to be so disrespectful, you can just stay there,” the Owner sighed. “I don’t have to entertain you either. I’ll have no more talk of leaving. You all would never survive out there. I won’t let you get yourselves killed.”
With that said, the hand retracted and the gap sealed shut. Huxley barely registered the sounds of the Owner shuffling away or Whisker running to Dahlia’s side. He shook her shoulder and helped her roll onto her side once she began to stir. Huxley snapped out of his frozen trance and dragged himself over to her. Her back was turned to him and she forced her weight onto her palms in a weak attempt to sit. Huxley helped her straighten up and couldn’t withhold a horrified gasp.
Dahlia’s face had cracked further and the gap in her face stretched to her eye. That was the least of her injuries. Her right glass eye had been shattered completely, leaving a empty, gaping hole where it once was. One could look in through her eye socket and see right into her the cavity of her head.
Her expression was haunted and distant. Her fingers trembled as she lifted her hand and felt the curve of the eye socket. Panic and anguish creased her face and Huxley found himself floundering for some kind of reassurance or support. Whisker gripped her dress and tugged on her skirt to try and get her attention as if to encourage her not to focus on her disfigurement.
Of course, it didn’t stop her from screaming.
Dahlia screamed and screamed. She clawed at her face and wouldn’t stop until Huxley pinned her arms to her side in a tight hug, anything to keep her from hurting herself more. He held on as screams turned to despairing wails. Whisker, for the first time Huxley had seen, moved in to hold Dahlia. He hugged her tight and listened to her cries. She grew less rigid and she slumped into their arms, sobbing incoherently. Huxley didn’t know how long they all stayed there on the floor but eventually, Dahlia regained enough composure to shakily stand. Whisker held her hand as he guided her up the stairs, Huxley following behind them. She bitterly wept now, silent tears streaming down her broken face.
Huxley and Whisker helped her into bed. After a moment of hesitation, Whisker scooted to lie down beside Dahlia. She embraced him tightly, eye screwing shut. Huxley sat on the edge of her bed, unable to look at her face.
He remembered being like that. Weeping so hard your chest hurts. Screaming your heartache into the air. After the librarian never came back, the new owners that didn’t take care of him, rotten children that used him as a punching bag, and being left in that box for years, Huxley knew what it was like to scream. He just didn’t have anyone to hear him.
Dahlia may have been… difficult later during their friendship but he knew deep down that the owner put her in this situation. The Owner organized Dahlia’s entire life to suit and enabled the worst of her behavior and now, she was aggressively punished for doing something good. Huxley didn’t want to see Dahlia cry over that thing. He’d have to step away to try and think of something to at least console her. Maybe if he really “sweetened up” to the Owner, she’d give Dahlia a new eye. It’d take a lot of pleading and playing nice but maybe it’d work.
Huxley stood up on his spring to go to his room and try and make a plan. Dahlia must have heard the metal coil creaking because she sat up quickly and grabbed his sleeve. It took him by surprise a little, but he stopped and turned to her. Her eyes- well, eye- grieved as it was, held something else within its colors. Tears streaked her porcelain cheeks, leaving damp trails.
“Please don’t go.”
Huxley hesitation lasted less than a moment. Ideas could wait. His friend needed both him and Whisker. He sat back down and Dahlia scooted closer to him, holding Whisker in one arm and wrapping her free one tightly around Huxley’s cotton filled waist. Her grip was fierce but careful and Huxley, for once, actually felt truly comfortable with the troubled doll. His floppy arms slinked around her and Whisker. Quietly, Dahlia lifted her head and met Huxley’s gaze.
“Take me to France,” she said.
Huxley looked between her and Whisker. With determination stronger than he had ever felt in years, Huxley nodded.
“I think I have an idea.”