ask-thelivingonce-ler:

Ghost’s words trickle in a little at a time. He’ll give him antibiotics that’s good. But what does that have to do with him being old? Of course he’s old! So is Ghost, that doesn’t mean he has to have it pointed out to him every goddamn second. That’s just– oh. 

Oh.

He reaches out numbly, not even caring if Ghost saw how much he was shaking now. He’s barely able to grab Mustache and pull him close, holding him against his heart. “Y– yyou don’t mea-an. H-he’s. He’s not–”

Everything is blurry, why is everything so blurry? He blinks away hot tears, burying his face into his cat’s fur. “N-no. No!” 

He lets out a single, desperate sob.

"I know it's not what you want to hear," he says, "but Tumb, if we ignore it, it's only going to make it worse for him. Neither of us can pretend that he's going to live forever, we both know that. He's had a good long life."

How to go about this without using those overly cliche euphemisms, he doesn't know. What is he supposed to say? 'Sorry your cat is dying, but suck it up.' No, no, and even /he's/ grown fond of the old thing.

"There's some things you can do to help him be comfortable, and the medicine will keep him going for a while. But beyond that, there's not much else to do. I'm sorry, Tumb. I am. I know what it's like to lose a dear friend like him. The same happened to me with Melvin, and it wasn't easy. I understand. But /you/ have to understand."

Perhaps he's rushing this, perhaps he's being too harsh. He's never been too fond of cats, but he still knows that pain. He's quiet for a moment, to let Tumb take in the information.

ask-thelivingonce-ler:

Antibiotics. Thank god. Tumb’s hands start shaking in relief and he forces them into his lap to keep Ghost from seeing. If all it took was some medication to get his cat back to his old self, so be it. Hell, he’d pay good money for medication, if he had to. He doubted Ghost would make him pay though. He was his – his good friend. 

His ears are ringing so loudly he barely registers Ghost’s question. “Oh? I dunno. Twenty years, maybe twenty one? More? I didn’t exactly adopt him from a shelter. He was an adult when I found him.”

He frowns more, and mumbles something from behind his hand ("Oh, dear, that's what I thought.")

He's quiet for a few minutes, catching Tumb's shaking out of the corner of his eye. He can't lie, Tumb trusts him with this, he can't lie to a good friend. He's practically his--

No time to think about that now.

"I'll give you a bottle, and you'll just give him a small amount a day," he instructs. "Half a pill in the morning, half at night, until you run out of them. Always with food. But Tumb, I.. Mn." He stops himself again.

No, Once-ler, you have to tell him.

Ghost sighs, and looks over to the college student. "Tumb, he's.. very old. Very old for a cat. And this has been a traumatic experience on him. The antibiotics will help him with the cold, ease his.. pain. But beyond that, there isn't much else to do for him. He's.. very old, Tumb-ler."

He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to hurt Tumb with the information. Not directly. He hopes that Tumb understands what he means, please, oh please don't make me have to say it, I can't bare to.

ask-thelivingonce-ler:

“Oh. Y-yeah.” Tumb sits down in the seat Ghost had pointed out to him earlier, though he never took his hand off of Mustache. “H-he got sick, I think. The rain wasn’t good for him. But he never got better. Do– d’you think he need medicine, or something?” He’d have to shove the pills down his throat himself, but at least it would be a solution. He’d do anything. “He was sneezing, though lately he’s just been coughing. And he isn’t as hungry. It’s not li-ike him.”

Ghost frowns, and tells H3L3N to bring the first aid kit, and stay on standby. When she brings it, he pulls a tongue press from a pack and somehow manages to pry Mustache's mouth open, peering down his throat. He takes his temperature, and even holds him to feel any difference in weight--of course, not without a great deal of protest, but he manages.

He thinks for a good few moments, just watching the cat, observing, recording.

"Mm, I was a little worried about the rain," he murmurs. "Not eating isn't a very good sign, either. I.. could give you some antibiotics to give him, tide him over for a while and hope for the best, but.." He tugs his beard again, thick brows crunching up in the middle of his forehead. "How, uh, how old do you say he was again?"

ask-thelivingonce-ler:

Tumb lugs the carrier into the room – Mustache hasn’t been eating recently, but that doesn’t mean he’s not heavy – and heaves it onto the kitchen counter. “Hey. Mustache is.” He chews his lip. “He’s better. And he’s not.”

He breaks off and busies himself with opening the door and coaxing his cat out, scratching him behind his ears and under his chin. His fur isn’t as shiny as the last time Ghost saw him, and his eyes aren’t as bright, though they swivel around and take in his surroundings, glaring pointedly at Ghost. Clearly, he remembers him. 

“His cuts h-healed right up,” says Tumb. He’s avoiding saying what he needs to say but he can’t bring himself to say it. “See? You can barely see them. And his fur covers most of them up, anyhow.”

Ghost hums and tugs at his beard, coming over to observe. The mustache is just as bitter--probably still angry for having to have his fur cut back a little bit. That, and being man-handled in general. But the cat's physical changes have not gone unnoticed.

"Yes, yes, those wounds healed nicely," he agrees. He doesn't need to part the fur to know that; he doesn't want to have his hand bit up. "Though, I must ask.. how has he been? I, uh.. assume you didn't bring him all the way out here just to show him off."

It had been several weeks, and Mustache still hasn’t gotten any better. His cuts had healed up, sure; the bleeding had stopped, covered by skin and muscle. Most were completely covered by his shaggy fur by now, only a few were still visible to a casual eye. 

No, physically he was fine. But he still had a cold that wouldn’t go away, still sneezed and coughed hard enough that he lost his voice. 

At first, Tumb had tried not to worry. He was an older cat, after all, it was normal if he took a bit longer to recover. But he couldn’t put aside his worry any longer. That’s how Tumb finds himself shoving an unwilling Mustache into a cat carrier and opening a portal to Ghost’s house. On a normal occasion, he would walk. But this is no normal occasion. 

Tumb sets down the carriage, knocks, then opens the door. “Ghost? You here?”

It's one of his better days.

He's really been spending time with the kids; this week is the first week of school for them, and he'd been spending as much time as he could with them prior. Unfortunately for his back, most of the activities they had planned were quite strenuous, from sitting at the small table in the playroom having a tea party to giving piggy-back rides around the Valley to playing with Leeuwie down by the river.

With the little tykes at school, Gretchen and Ami busy in the Subworld, and Beth busy with her training, Ghost has been quite alone. The sound of another voice at the door brings a happy grin to his face, and he pushes himself up out of his chair, setting his pipe aside.

"Tumb-ler, come on in," he smiles, gesturing towards one of the chairs in the kitchen. "What can I do for ya? Oh, there's our patient, how's he doing?"

The bells chime loudly throughout the kingdom to signal the coronation beginning.

In only moments, the hall if filled with dignitaries, invited by Mabuz, and with those Beth herself invited. Rehearsed music plays, though it’s far from the focus of the moment. Murmuring, talking, whispers and such go on, before the doors at the very end of the hall are opened by two demon guards.

They bow, an immediate silence filling the hall. The only sound is Beth’s soft steps against the special carpet, and the beautiful blue gown captures everyone’s attention from the dark, gloomy and warmly colored room and land. Beth passes all those sitting, her head up, shoulders back and hands held gracefully in front of her. She can feel all eyes on her and she feels her fingers tremble. Holding tighter to her hand, she forces it to settle for a moment as she steps to the front, right before Mabuz. The guards who previously opened the doors shut them to preserve the privacy and specialty of the ceremony.

Keep reading

And done packing!

-sigh- I should probably write a note to Once and Webby so they know what’s going on… And the kids. I miss them so much. Best try that new trick I learned by watching Harry Potter with the twins.

-snaps up a notebook and pen that float by her head and copy down what she’s saying- “Dear, Once, Webby, Flynn, Ariel, Emmett, and Emily,

How are things in the Valley? I miss you all so much and am so sorry for not being able to visit or call. Things with the Corps have been hectic, especially with the races coming up at the end of the month. Including having to be called away for a mandatory retreat that starts tomorrow and lasts for a week.

However, I am able to break away for just one day. For Beth’s coronation. I hope to see you there. But then I must go immediately back.

My sweet angels, I love and miss you so much. I can’t wait until I can once again hear you running down the halls and your laughter. I promise to bring you gifts from Solla Sollew, as well as gifts for your father and Mama Webby.

Take care of eachother. I’ll see you soon.

Love, Moirin (Mama, Mommy, Mother)

P.S. Once, be sure to give everyone big hugs from me. And thank you.”

-sighs and snaps her fingers, the note disappearing to the cottage- I hope they find it easily.

Ghost brings over a cup of hot coffee from the kitchen, easing down into his chair and handing the mug to Tumb. Well, he sets it next to him. Kid’s a little preoccupied right now.

He’s quite content with sitting in silence for a few moments, while Tumb takes his time with his cat. The work had been tiring; he’d been at it for a solid forty-five minutes or so, and on his legs the whole time. Fast paced thinking in crisis situations has always worn him thin. He takes a sip of his tea, warm and gentle on his throat, the steam rising against his face. H3L3N brings over a blanket, and Ghost thanks her, quietly waiting. He’ll tell Tumb what he needs to do once he’s calmed down a bit.

Tumb doesn’t even notice him at first. He’s too busy doting over his cat. But after a few minutes he finds the coffee mug, and he twists around to see Ghost. He ducks his head, almost embarrassed to be found worrying over his cat so excessively. Almost. 

“Thanks,” he croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Thank you, Ghost. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. How do you want me to repay you? I’ll do anything – just ask.”

Ghost chuckles and shakes his head, raising his hand up to silence Tumb.

"You don't need to repay me, that's preposterous," he says. "I'm happy to have been able to help you. That's how our rag-tag little fam--er, group works, don't you worry about it."

He takes another sip of his tea, and sets it on the table beside him. Time for a subject change. "I trust that you'll let that poor cat rest later, hm? You were there, you know what I did, remember that he has stitches, now. You've got a little bed for him, don't you? He's going to need plenty of rest, and keep him warm. I have some painkillers for animals, I keep some around for the pets, I'll give you a few of those."

It’s quiet now.

The voices in Tumb’s head have stopped screaming, stopped teasing him for not being able to fix up Mustache himself, for not finding him sooner, for tracking mud into Ghost’s house when he was specifically told not to. For the countless number of little mistakes he’s made in the past hour.

But now they’re silent. 

Tumb curls up in front of the fireplace, a towel thrown over his steaming shoulders. He holds Mustache in his lap, bundled up in a rag. The cat sleeps, snoring slightly with each breath. 

Tumb sniffs and wipes his snotty nose on his arm. He’s not crying, he’s not– Okay, he is. But only because he was so scared he’d lose Mustache, and being able to hold him again is nothing short of a small miracle.

Ghost brings over a cup of hot coffee from the kitchen, easing down into his chair and handing the mug to Tumb. Well, he sets it next to him. Kid's a little preoccupied right now.

He's quite content with sitting in silence for a few moments, while Tumb takes his time with his cat. The work had been tiring; he'd been at it for a solid forty-five minutes or so, and on his legs the whole time. Fast paced thinking in crisis situations has always worn him thin. He takes a sip of his tea, warm and gentle on his throat, the steam rising against his face. H3L3N brings over a blanket, and Ghost thanks her, quietly waiting. He'll tell Tumb what he needs to do once he's calmed down a bit.

Ghost gives him an odd look; this poor kid, he lives on his own, his old cat gets all beat up, Tumb is ready to cry–

“I’ll do my best,” he decides to say. “He’s pretty bad, but I keep plenty of medical supplies around because of the kids, and the dog.. I’ll patch him up, kiddo. Dunno if you’ll want to watch, but you’re welcome to come help me if that would make you feel better.”

He scoops up the cat, gentle, gentle, and again gestures for Tumb to follow. “Ask H3L3N to get you a towel or something, both you and this cat are soaked to the bone. You’ll catch cold, and it can’t be much better for, uh, Mustache here.”

Tumb nods and stays close to Ghost’s side all the way into the lab. At some point H3L3N hands him a towel and he clutches it in his fists for several minutes before realizing that he should actually use it. 

“I want to sttay,” he says as he takes off his sopping coat. He kicks it to the floor where he quickly forgets about it. His clothes underneath aren’t much drier, but there’s no time to borrow anything. “I owe it to him. Besides, He’ll pprobably be c-almer if I’m around. He doesn’t like peop-ple.”

Ghost nods to him, and lets the boy tag along. The old scientist has H3L3N shade them with a large umbrella as they travel to the lab. She's already remotely cleaned off a table, setting up the equipment around a large open spot, covered with a towel. There's a chair nearby for Tumb to sit in--the android has thought of everything.

Despite Mustache's protests, Ghost does all he can to help the old cat. A full roll of gauze, plenty of cotton swabs, tape, stitches--everything he can do to help. He works and works and he sees Tumb out of the corner of his eye, barely even touching the chair, shoulders shaking. He's got to do this, to help, it's the least that he can do.

And so, he works.