vagabonddaniel:

//So five hundred years ago, I took requests for fics. sheepskeleton asked to see something about Daniel emerging from his madness and the transitory period under Marius’ care, where their relationship turned from caretaker and mad man into something more even-footed and solid. I have no idea if I’ve done that justice, but here I offer a series of vignettes spanning several months, of Daniel slowly crawling out of that hole under Marius’ careful watch. 

It’s about 1,900 words, and mostly under the cut to spare your dash. Thanks to damnitarmand for a quick beta read. Sorry for any typos I’ve missed. I’m sure there are plenty. 

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It sounds cliche, but the first time I really emerge from the haze of madness, the colors of my model world look brighter. Clearer, too, like I’ve been seeing through fogged up lenses and suddenly the glass is clean. I set down the paint brush. I’ve been painting tiny green pine trees and gluing them to a mountain. It looks good, exactly like the world seen from a plane. That real. Who knew the reporter boy was secretly a miniatures prodigy? 

Cold washes over me, making my ivory skin tingle. Just how long have I been here, putting together model worlds and laying tiny train tracks? From the look of things, a while. But I don’t know. And that’s fucking terrifying.

I stand, pushing back from the table. The sleeves of my gray shirt are covered in splotches of paint and glue. I push them up over my elbows. My jeans are marked with more paint streaks, and paint covers my hands. It’s under my fingernails. Suddenly I feel itchy and need to wash. I find the restroom down the hall and scrub, paint turning the water in the sink blue, green, and then a muddy brown. I stand there washing until the water runs clear but it’s not enough. I still feel dirty so I keep washing, standing over the sink like Lady Macbeth, watching soapy water swirl down the drain until Marius comes and turns off the tap.

He gives me a hard look. Serious, but not angry.

“Come, Daniel,” he says, and puts his arm around my waist.

“There was paint…” I start. I glance back at the sink as he leads me toward a bedroom. I recognize it, vaguely, as my own. The one given to me when Marius brought me here. The bedspread is a deep purple and the curtains are thick, with heavy blinds behind them to block out the sun. I have not slept here often. Usually I pass out in front of my craft table. He walks me to the bed and pulls off my shoes.

“I can do that,” I say, sharply.

“Of course,” he says, but not like he really believes it. When he leaves, I pull the purple cover over my head and cry and I don’t even know what I’m crying about.

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