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Your cruelty knows no bounds

Summary:

Dahlia fixes Huxley. Not like he needed to be fixed, anyway.

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Dahlia’s face momentarily misshapes as she works her mind around what you mean by this. You can see tiny gears turning in her glass head.

“Oh!”

Dahlia’s expression lights up. It takes only a tick for her to understand.

“Yes, this is perfect! Thank you so much!”

To Huxley’s doubt, she calls out to nothing, but Dahlia knows you’re right behind that wall. It was just now you had delivered the aptly sized spring in the same box Huxley arrived in. You take a childish moment to admire just how well the spring settles in, appropriately just the length of Huxley.

Shuffling, heavy sighs, and clicks on the hardwood as Dahlia makes an effort to haul the coil out with as little strain as she can manage. It’s not particularly dense, having good elasticity, not so much as to compress under weight entirely. But it is certainly unwieldy, and clumsy.

Again, it’s amusing how easily you can see how Dahlia thinks. For a brief moment, her mouth twists, eyes fly to the doorway, and considers it best to leave the device right where it is. There is no need to endanger any of the kitchen decor. She’s very particular about scratching the finished wood on the chairs, keeping the tablecloth clean and pleated, all those things. Dare she think of the horrific yet obvious, smashing a plate or knocking a teacup off the table in the process of attaching the spring to Huxley. Ultimately she sits it upright on the rug, lest it roll away, and skips off to fetch the puppet.

Promptly Dahlia reappears in the doorway with Huxley in her grasp, secured to her chest by looping her arms under his. He doesn’t look too delighted to be dragged around like this. You don’t blame Dahlia for assuming he was dead in that box.

“Alright! Well now…”

Dahlia seemed determined with a start, but she soon trails off. Now, just how is she meant to install this… And, quickly, she feels like she’s bit off more than she can chew.

Huxley focuses on the device. There it is, a spring. He sticks his lower lip out in a morose display. Either way, he’s indifferent. Whatever will get him around, give him an ounce of autonomy. He glances up in Dahlia’s direction.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“I’m just… Not quite sure how to approach this.” Dahlia admits with a pout.

She’s still lost in thought with her lips pursed. There’s a thump as her knees gently hit the floor, figuring that there’s not much of a reason to be on her feet with no direction. Huxley is quite heavy too, for her. Now, he sits slouched in her apron. More comfortably than on that chair or loose in her arms, he must confess.

Dahlia starts again. “So, you’re adamant about not allowing me to stitch things onto you?” She quips with a smirk.

Huxley sighs, “It’s hard to tell if I was entirely joking, even now.”

At this, Dahlia huffs. Huxley cranes his head up to meet her gaze.

“But, I see what you mean. Even if I’m not exactly a fan of the idea of Dahlia sticking needles into me.”

In good faith, he grins.

“Well, appears that is how it is going to have to be, if we’re to get this onto you.”

She returns a smile before glancing up to scan the foyer.

“There’s not much of anything down here. I’ll have to run up to my room.”

Huxley hums in response.

“I’ll set you down, alright dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Huxley humors with a wave of his arm.

Dahlia hoists him up from under his arms to sit him up against the box, again, as comfortable as can be. He nods, and gives a gesture to a similar effect of a thumbs-up. Dahlia brings her hands up and splays her fingers as if to anchor him to the spot. In an instant she’s gone up the stairs with wrists up and a string of taps from her mary janes.

And Huxley, alone, can only think. Things about how different life will be. “Different” for Huxley’s entire existence, has never been better or worse. Just, different. He wonders why he even bothers going down this road of thinking if it’s always the same uninspiring conclusion. The spring glints in the light, almost winking back at him from the center of the rug. It’s aligned with the gold flourish, almost staged for his viewing. Perhaps this time, “different” can be better. Moving about freely by himself, without aid, has never been in his skillset. The spring is unconventional, eccentric, but oddly befitting. His white face softens, his frown lessens.

It’s only a moment before petite footsteps come closer, and Huxley perks up. Dahlia’s descending the staircase, clutching a hefty lacquered box that looks funnily out of place in her fumbling grasp. She bends at the waist, carefully setting it down. Once more, she pivots to slide the spring in reach. She sits across from Huxley, sweeping her skirt under her bottom and smoothing her lap with gloved hands.

“There we are! This has everything we need.”

Dahlia opens the box and it assembles itself into tiers, each level housing dozens of spools of brightly colored thread, miscellaneous square slips of fabric to rise to the occasion of patching, and all kinds of tools. Most notably, fabric scissors, thread snips, a seam ripper, and more needles than Huxley can even name the uses of. To him, it feels like staring into a surgeon’s kit.

“Or, more accurately, everything I need. But, I feel almost under qualified for something as unusual as this.” She brushes her chin sheepishly.

“I’m assuming you enjoy sewing?”

Huxley’s still eyeing the array with a palpable anxiety.

“Oh yes, of course. Always clothing, I’m sure you can guess. I used to be much more avid of a seamstress, if that’s the title I’m landing on, but it feels like a chore lately. Especially when, there’s not exactly much point to it, all alone…”

Dahlia trails off as she shuffles through the box. She selects a thread of choice color and an appropriate needle, pricking one through the spool. Swiftly she sets a pair of scissors and patches beside. Huxley’s rendered silent. He’s not exactly nervous, but more so anticipating the discomfort that’s to come with the pseudo-surgery. Funnily enough, Dahlia slips her gloves off for the ordeal. Briefly, he’s distracted by her meticulously jointed fingers, almost impressed by the design.

“So, my plan is to sew a few patches inside the hem, much like belt loops. They’ll be on the inside, naturally, to be less unsightly, but I’ve picked out a few I think you’d like. What do you think?”

She’s motioning as she speaks, spreading the squares like playing cards. In front of Huxley is a couple white polka dotted squares, already painfully fitting, and the other few in red and blue with a simple argyle, or gingham, or something of the sort. He didn’t know the names himself.

“Hah, you know me inside and out, it seems. Or, at least, in the next hour you will.”

Always joking to manage the situation. To manage himself, more likely. Dahlia clicks her tongue.

“Oh goodness, I’ll be much quicker than that. I may be the slightest bit out of practice, but I’ll get you standing right away.”

Huxley feels as if she can hear him gulp. It’s hardly any assurance.

“Alright then, seamstress. What’s my job, then?”

He supposes it’s best to get it over with.

“Hmm… You, now, just lay down. Perhaps I’ll prop your bottom end up to make things easier for myself. Do you… Need help?”

“That’s alright.”

Huxley’s already sliding down the side of the box from where he was sitting and onto the floor. He folds his sleeves over his chest, looking surprisingly leisurely.

“Oh, good! Well…Not too comfortable to be on the floor, but in the end, I assume anything is better than that box you were in.”

Dahlia scoots forward to meet the end of Huxley, and sweeps his bottom onto her lap. Her smile is bright and determined; Huxley masks his uneasiness.

“I must fold this over to sew them in.”

She’s moreso narrating than giving warning, and Huxley’s not at all expecting her to start so readily. Without hesitation Dahlia grips the fabric with both hands and inverts it from inside with a sweep of her thumbs. Her hands are ice. At this, Huxley can’t stop himself from jumping, eyes crinkled shut. Dahlia freezes. Clearly, she’s underestimated how much of a test this will be for Huxley.

“Are you alright?”

“No, no, It’s just… Sore, since I’ve been dragging around on it.”

It’s a half lie. He hasn’t done much of anything since arriving, being swung around by Dahlia. Huxley is a comic especially susceptible to the opportunistic crude joke or innuendo, so it’s difficult to say the word. Well, Huxley is… sensitive, for lack of any sort of savory term. Never being touched by hands of one of his own. Especially ones as delicate as Dahlia’s, that much readily becoming apparent. Even being moved around by Dahlia without warning, though necessary, posed its tenderness. Only being manhandled by rough, hulking fingers and sprawling palms can do that to a toy. It’s a strange inverse.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, Huxley.”

She sighs as she searches for the right words.

“You were particularly eager, but I must admit, I can understand this attachment won’t be all roses, getting it on. I can’t imagine someone sewing something onto me, but… It must be done, in your case.”

She glides her fingers over the exposed stitching in some kind of comforting motion, and Huxley can all but shudder. He is realizing how infinitely and indefinitely arduous this entire process is going to be. For him, at least.

“I’ll try to be careful. But, equally, I’ll try to be fast. To get this over with, for your own sake”, Her face twists at the disconcerting wording, “Well, that doesn’t paint too good a picture, but I assure you are in the skilled hands of Seamstress Dahlia.”

Huxley hums idly in answer and tries to disguise a frown. Dahlia gives a meek smile as she picks up a square of fabric, tucking it halfway into the obscured pocket of her apron. She can only wish her “jokes” ease him. Her eyes follow the hem of Huxley with focus. Fingers come to trace the stitching, reading the backend of his frills. She runs parallel, then up to scale the three tiers of pleats like stairs, finally taking satin bordeaux between a finger and thumb. The sensation runs like a dull heat through Huxley, effectively at his hip, and his mouth crumples out of Dahlia’s sight.

Dahlia takes care in exploring just how he’s been altered. Huxley should be hollow entirely, or enough to house a hand, but there’s a thin panel of cloth just past the ruffles that seals in downy stuffing. Certainly, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to hold himself upright in any capacity. How curious, that anyone was to alter him at all, only to leave him in this sad state. Regardless, he is made with care, indicated by the well matched thread and careful stitching. The junction where the ruffles are sewn onto the border even appears tidy from behind.

“The work really is beautiful… For a puppet, that is.”

Eyes wide, she begins in earnest admiration before sealing the statement with a jab. It does make Huxley smile.

“Maybe not all toymakers want to make pretty dolls.” He snarks.

“Oh, you are pretty.”

Her eyebrows raise with sincerity, smoothing wrinkles with a sweep of her hand. Huxley spares a response in favor of biting his tongue and falling poker faced. No one’s ever called him that. Or, ever turned him inside out to observe him so closely, for a start.

“You seem to be in good spirits. The sooner we start, the sooner we end.”

And, just one more thing. Dahlia leans over, plucks a nub of chalk, and dashes five white marks in one fluid motion. One goes to the back, where she is required to elevate him and sneak her hand under. From her pocket she produces the first piece.

“Alright, front to back, I’ll start.” Dahlia mulls.

The slip is folded in half appropriately. There’s still a lot of back and forth before she can truly start. Dahlia seems to be forgetful, Huxley concludes. She pulls a bouquet of pins by their yellow tops and one by one fastens the first cut of fabric to Huxley, perpendicular to his opening.

“Sorry, I am going to have to prick you lots first.”

“No problem.” He can’t help but grit.

It’s a quiet string of pinches more than a painful sensation, so Huxley can manage. More accurately, it’s the spot on his body that’s of concern more than anything else. It was a strange feeling, Dahlia running her fingers along the structure homologous to the apex of a pelvis, the junction of a hip. It’s all procedure, but it’s abnormally intimate. He nauseates himself even describing it. Lazy red eyes stare at the twisting trim of the ceiling to distract. Huxley’s breathing is labored by now, and he’s prone to holding in gasps of air between stabs. Loose mismatched sleeves curl around him like a straitjacket and his bottom fidgets ever so slightly in Dahlia’s lap, much to her disdain. Often she has to grip both his sides and scold him.

Pinch, pinch, pinch. Huxley doesn’t look down, but he can assume the four points Dahlia can access from the front have all been nailed down when the poking ceases.

“There we are. Everything’s pinned now. Well, except for the back. I’ll have to flip you over in a bit.”

There’s a light humor in her tone and a shine in her eye that eases Huxley just a bit. At least she’s not picking up on just how torturous this has been on his end.

With a start Huxley naively begins to prop himself up. “Just the back and we’re done?”

Dahlia stamps a hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him down. “Absolutely not, silly thing. I still have yet to sew them onto you. You want to be walking around with pins in you?”

Huxley sinks as his face runs a shade past white. He mumbles something to the effect of no, no way, hah... before nonchalantly pressing back to the carpet.

Dahlia nods, gives a tsk and again straightens out Huxley’s hips in her lap. She pulls away to expertly thread a long, winding piece of wine colored string through a needle before sticking it into the breast of her apron. Huxley’s brow tweaks with interest at the uniquely unrefined motion, seeing she’s not at all the type to ever disturb her own clothes so selflessly. Dahlia reasons this is as much elbow grease she’ll ever put into anything.

She hunches over to align her thumb and index with the first piece, a curtain of silky mahogany spilling onto the workspace. Quickly a hand sweeps her hand away and over her shoulder, and she peeks up through long lashes to check in with Huxley. He’s holding a painfully wary eye that anticipates the stab of the needle. Their eyes meet.

“I’ll start, yes?”

With a swallow, Huxley nods. Her wide, dark eyes nearly lessen the heavy anxiety pressing down on his chest. The closing margin as she leans in draws attention to just how beautiful she really is, such a carefully crafted doll. Her face is an open book, he thinks, like you can read her thoughts just by following her eyes. A rosy complexion decorated with delicate lashes, painted eyelids, and a sloping nose that scrunches when she purses her petal lips. That open scar marring the left side of her face is such a shame.

Huxley’s ripped out by a sharp pain cutting the side of his pelvis, one that contrasts the feeling of the pins now scattering the hem. So it starts. He can’t help but whine at the fresh pain, but Dahlia pays no mind. Skirting the border of her vision she can see his face contorting with discomfort, mouth pulled in a grimace as he clenches his teeth. Customarily for Huxley, she can see his bottom lip stick out in that funny way it does.

“So, I’ll go left to right…”

Dahlia intends to get this over with as promptly as she can, not stopping at every wriggle or whimper. It’s going to hurt, she concludes. She proceeds with a rhythm of looping motions as she sews, in and out and up and down. The top stitch is done, and she anchors the thread in a way where it ties itself into a knot. Swiftly, she nicks the excess off with the snip, ties the loose end of the string for the next stitch, and moves on.

The feeling is unbearable, not in the sense of pain, but just how violating it feels. His fabric is his skin. Consequently, his nerves are alight with the sensation of thread being dragged through his body, consuming his thoughts. The minute friction, torturously tender as Dahlia follows the stitch through, and then comes the fwip of her pulling the thread taught before tying it off. The tight pinch is nearly preferable to the droning of the thread passing through.

“First one, done! That was quick, don’t you think? It’ll be only a moment before we get this spring onto you.”

Huxley can’t even manage a coherent response, so he groans in reply. I know, I know, Dahlia sighs.

She keeps a good pace and continues her diligent work. Lithe hands fly as she performs; elegant, much like everything she does. Anyone would make the correct assumption that sewing is certainly Dahlia’s own personal specialty. Huxley’s agony spares him the chance of observing her expert work. He’s slung his sleeve up to his face, biting down hard on the loose fabric. It’s unclear whether it’s to produce a new pain to distract, or to disguise his mewling. The answer escapes Dahlia, and assuredly himself as well.

One, two, three points finish, and now comes the fourth to complete the design. Now, a proper series of discordantly patterned patches adorn the frontside of Huxley’s inside-out border. Again, Dahlia pulls the string tight, loops a knot, and quickly snips. Nearly done, says an inward sigh of relief.

“I’m pleasantly surprised I didn’t need to go back for more thread. Suppose I am quite efficient!”

“Or just lucky.” Huxley mumbles, and he’s not even sure what she’s talking about. Not sure whether it’s because he doesn’t sew, or because he can hardly pay attention in his haze.

“Oh, you love to tease me. You’re not necessarily in such a position to have the upper hand, you know.” She looks down at him and motions, swinging the thread snip in her grasp.

My, what a sight. Since first meeting one teatime past, Huxley had given the first impression of seeming worse for wear. But now, the state he’s in is truly dire, as if he has no energy left in him to complain. His face shows pallor, like all life has drained from his painted cheeks.

“I… Perhaps I can manage without turning you over. Maybe if I just fold you over, here…”

Dahlia manipulates Huxley’s torso to fold at the waist. His body gives way easily, almost like his stuffing was churned, making him more malleable than usual. His bottom end flops over to sit on top of his chest, and the final white target is revealed dead center on his backside. Dahlia rushes to fasten the finishing piece all while muttering nothings to ease Huxley, lest his soul rise from his body. You’re alright, Huxley. Last one. I’m being quick.

But she pauses.

Just for a tick. And she turns the idea over in her ceramic head.

Dahlia signs her work. In every dress of her design, there’s a discreet little kiss, a winding “Dahlia” in delicate lettering. Fixed to the neck, under a collar, or the underside of a hem if she can’t be bothered to fashion a tag. Huxley still mumbles from behind his torso obscuring his face, and she can only see the mussed up edges of his ashen hair from where his head lays on the floor. It’s a very tight situation if she wishes to sign this. Huxley will not last six neatly embroidered letters. She racks her brain. Well, upside down, a simple “D” inverts itself. Ergo, a simple mirror will avoid the complication of flipping Huxley’s border back down and distorting the seal. Upside down to her now, right side up when the job is done.

She thinks quick and draws a single stitch down for the first stroke, and no more than three or four for the curve of the second stroke. A clumsy, momentarily backwards "D” stamps itself in the center of the final patch in the back. The red embroidery clashes against blue, and it’s much more contrast than she wished, pronouncing her secret. He’ll…Never see it. None the wiser. Hurriedly, it’s tied off, snipped.

“And that is it.

Dahlia punctuates each word like a ruler to a chalkboard. There's a heavy sigh where she attempts to pour the worry from her chest. She brings his bottom end back into her lap. Much like she chirped earlier, there’s no way this clown is walking around with pins in him. The work is finished appropriately and she nimbly snatches every last pin from the project, gathering them in her hand as she goes. Huxley’s letting out an odd drone as the points slide out from his fabric. It’s the absolute last of it, but he’s seeing stars, monologuing about how he might not make it.

“Dahlia...” Huxley slurs.

“Yes?” In answer, coolly ignoring the beating of her heart.

“Are we…done…”

“Yes, Huxley, if you heard me. Now’s just the spring, naturally.”

Dahlia smiles down at him with a mixture of pity and fondness, and Huxley returns by fluttering open his heavy eyelids to meet the real world. His brow is still furrowed, but the best is he no longer seems lightheaded and ready to faint. Dahlia brings both hands to ever so gently fold Huxley’s opening right side out, and she admires how it appears just as she began. She clandestinely peeks up the opening at the now right side up mark. Not too shabby. She smooths him out once, and it seems more like a petting motion than settling wrinkles. Huxley doesn’t notice full black eyes silently admiring him, and not the work done.

“Okay…Okay then. Alright.”

He seems to be coming to.

“Alright, let’s get this on.”

Huxley props himself up on the end of his arms to slouch against the box, partially sliding off of Dahlia’s lap.

“I’m just cleaning up now,” Dahlia answers. She’s slipping her gloves back on and brushing up all her tools back into the sewing kit, taking care and assuring the thread isn’t loose and that every needle and pin returns to its home. “There.”

She gets to her feet and relocates off to the side of Huxley, grabbing the spring and making sure there’s just enough room to operate.

“My goodness, hopefully this doesn’t hurt. I understand being poked and prodded was an entire ordeal, but surely this will be a breeze. Surely.”

She seems to be consoling herself. Huxley chews his lip, but he’s certain nothing could be worse than surgery. Or, realistically, this is still part of the procedure. He shakes his head to himself, his hat lightly battering against the box. Like Dahlia said, sooner to start, sooner to end.

“No matter how bad, I’m getting this on. I’m tougher than I look. Despite you…Helping me all this way.” Trailing off towards the tail end, he gives a bashful smile. Truly, he’s grateful. “So, let’s get this on.”

Dahlia nods, expression bright. She kneels to the side, and brings the spring on its side to align with Huxley’s opening. It’s a bit of a cumbersome carry, but she positions it just right. She mumbles to herself, finding it difficult to hold the mouth open and begin to insert the coil.

“It was not possible for you to hold the teacup… Is there any way for you to lift this up for me a bit? It would be even worse for this spring to stab you in the wrong places.”

“Hmm…” he mulls. He’s able to animate the empty sleeve, but his dexterity is debilitatingly poor. Still, his own delicate fabric seems just within his capabilities. He curls the end of his sleeves around the border and lifts, bunching ruffles in his grasp.

“Perfect!” Dahlia shines. “Now I should be able to just twist this in through the loops…”

She finds herself squatting to get both a good grip and a good view. Gloved hands hold the spring steadily, and she begins to prod at the first loop. Huxley senses this from the inside, ultimately now numb from the prior sensations. He can handle it.

The first insertion comes as the point of the spring slips itself through the first loop. Huxley bites down on his lip. Everything is unexpectedly sore. He could never anticipate anything being worse than being pricked ten times over, but this seems to be coming close. It’s a combination of Dahlia fumbling with the bulky device, and the newly installed parts inside him aching with tenderness. The patches of fabric pull away from his insides as the spring finds its way inside, and god, does it hurt. Or, feel funny. Huxley can’t find a name suitable to any of these newfound sensations. It’s just, debasing.

“Dahlia, hah, careful.” He can feel his already weak grip nearly becoming slack.

“I’m sorry, it’s just,” she grunts, “more difficult than it seems.”

Huxley is infinitely grateful for Dahlia’s selflessness. The house, the acceptance, the accommodation, the help. It’s all intimately new. And he can’t settle on a way to show his appreciation, or even say thank you. But, if he knows one thing, this vulnerability is torture. It’s being seen as lesser than, in need of fixing. The resignation of himself to someone else. Sure, it’ll get him on his feet, but this brief moment, it’s torture. For now, he’s trying to convince himself to let his guard down for Dahlia, this stranger, for she’s helping.

The coil winds inside him, and, after what seems like hours of digging and scratching, he feels the thick wire sit inside each loop. Dahlia claps once before patting her hands eagerly on her lap. She grins beside Huxley.

“There we go! Finally! Do you feel like a new clown, Huxley?”

Huxley’s endlessly pained, but he reserves enough energy to roll his eyes and bite. “A new jack, maybe.”

Dahlia cocks her head at this. He’ll expand upon the joke later.

“Truly, Dahlia, thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for just yet. You’ve yet to even get up!”

Huxley takes a heavy breath to the bottom of his stuffing. He’s not sure if he can even handle the pressure of his body on the spring, whatever that’ll feel like, but he has to start somewhere.

“You’ll have to help me.”

“As was anticipated.” She smiles in earnest.

Dahlia scoots over to seal the gap between the two, and, much like before, scoops her arms under Huxley’s. For the last time, even.

“On the count of three?” Huxley cocks a brow, as it should be Dahlia giving the warning. But, knowing her, he’ll have to ensure one of those himself. She tucks her chin quick in a nod. One, two, three, and the two pull each other close, rising off the ground. Huxley takes a good moment to settle himself on the ground, and thankfully the spring seems to be an extremely steady point. Dahlia flanks both hands at his waist until Huxley stops wobbling, imagining how challenging it must be to get used to this new part while expectedly being sore all over.

After a long trial, Huxley balances.

“Ah…This certainly is different.”