Archive of Our Own

For some reason the first thing he thinks as he sees Kanaya for the first time is "Goodness, she's tiny." It's such a stupid thing that he chatises himself, as he knew he would. Of course she's tiny. She's a pre-adolescent female in an extremely large home, the only one awake in her world at the moment (Which astounds him, nothing really astounds him), and she's staring out the window at the beautiful landscape that is Alternia's desert.

One day she will hate him and she will die.

Right now, he watches through his mind's eye and sees her examine everything, take in every last speck of the sand. She knows nothing and he knows everything. He's grown a bit tired of the dynamic, but it's the only one he knows.

---

This is their first in a long line of meetings. She is wandering away from home to explore. It's sort of a rite of passage, he supposes, for any young child. She stares at him for the longest time, but he stays still as best as he can manage, just the occaisonal spark of yellow electricity pulsing through him.

Her eyes are wide, and she sort of tilts her head. He's not a troll, most obviously not. He's not a statue, or a lusus, or some beast.

"Good morning." He says eventually and his voice, his odd, non-existent-yet-there-it-is-voice surprises her and she falls back. He laughs, laughs at her shocked face, laughs as the sand flown everywhere as she falls on her rear, laughs as he knows this will all go to hell soon.

And such a laugh is so inviting that she laughs too. It's nervousness and surprise, and some meta realization at how WEIRD this all is. She covers her mouth and giggles childishly, and eventually it dies down and she's staring again with a fanged grin.

"You're funny looking." She says.

He'd need to teach her some manners.

---

Her speech is not exactly amazing. She has a bit of a lisp, she mumbles. "Enuciate." He says. He's sitting on a chair and she's lying down in a pile of pillows, staring up at him. She gets bored easy. She's a child, it's to be expected.

She murmurs something along the lines of "Ehnunshiate." She rolls over onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

"Louder. Don't be so nervous." She was afraid of disappointing him, afraid of looking like a fool. This is something she wouldn't admit, but it was the truth, and he knew.

"Ehnunshiate." She sits up, knees curled to her chest. "I wanna do shomething else." She has such a quiet voice. He cannot blame her. There is so much to be afraid of. So much bad that will happen to her, the heartbreak, the sorrow, the fear, the pain. The inevitable moment when it's all cut away.

"To be a proper young lady," he begins, leaning back in the overly plush chair. "You need confidence. You have plenty to be confident about, but such a soft voice does not convey it very well. You don't have to yell. Just speak carefully, and clearly."

She sticks her tongue out at him and the only noise is a careless "Pffbbbt."

"Kanaya." He says sternly.

She looks down, a little embaressed. She looked stupid, her worst fear. "You're fine, dear. Just follow my lead. Enunciate."

She glances up. "Eh-nun-ci-ate." It's deliberate, slow, perfectly pronounced. "Ish... Is. That better?"

His hands come together in a slow clap. "Wonderful. So much improvement!" So much to work on. It was a slow start.

---

"I need to get her a hobby, is all I am saying. To be a seamstress seems to be something a young lady would catch onto quickly." Stitch stares as him as he adds another patch to Lord English's coat. He could fix that thing while blindfolded.

"Don't see why you're so invested." Stitch brings the needle up and back down. Doc Scratch has this sort of conversation with the Felt often, and he will repeat it almost once a day until they're slaughtered brutally and needlessly because of a petty sense of revenge. "Never do, really. We're kinda pawns in your prescence. Don't see why you need to care so much."

"You underestimate me, Stitch. It's insulting, truly." Really, he'd slap him upside the head if he could, but that would be extremely rude. He has to keep himself polite in the face of The Felt.

Stitch cuts the thread on the colorful coat. "Am I? Sorry, look, I feel like I'm helping you push and shove a little kid around."

Scratch stands still. Due to his lack of face, he cannot glare at someone, nor can he grimace. But he can stand still and unnerve people.

He can also cause his electricity to act up a bit more and zap a bit more violently around his form. Which he does.

Stitch just takes a step back and scoffs.

"I will make her life as lovely as I can until the inevitable. Allow me that, Stitch." The green carapace glares, before turning on his heel and digging through his desk.

"It's a girl, right? I got some dress patterns. Bought 'em when Snowman showed up, but uh, I don't think she wants much to do with any of us." Stitch shoves a treasure trove of supplies into Doc's arm, fabric and patterns and needles and threads and fabric chalk and pins. "And a sewing machine. You'll need that. Something high-quality."

Doc Scratch decides to go shopping later that day.

---

Her first attempt is a jade-green skirt with a red ribbon around it. The stitches are a tad uneven and there's a large blue patch on the front where she accidently cut a chunk out of it, but as she spins around her room he knows she'll never be prouder of anything.

The realization makes him happier than it should.

---

She's injured herself plenty of times, but this is the first while he was in her home. She cut her index finger with her scissors and is holding the digit, green oozing on her hands. The tears run down her face but she's trying her damndest to bite her lip and not sob, not in front of him. She needs to look strong.

He takes her hand in his and the green stains his gloves and the sleeves of his coat and dress shirt, but he doesn't care. She's hurt.

The cut is a little deep, but nothing that will scar.

He regrets for a moment an existence without any sort of face, no way to kiss her injury to make it all feel better.

Instead he leans his so-called head onto the fingers, something more symbolic of a kiss. She stares and laughs, blood running down her hands, laughs through the tears. It will be a skill she'll need.

When he's grabbing bandages for her he notices the way she licks at the wound.

Foreshadowing, he supposes.

---

Lipstick-chainsaw duality. Stylish and deadly. Short hair, long sleeve shirt and red skirt, though her outfits cycle. Every word comes out clearly, curtly. She is polite. She is handy. She can repair any article of clothing and make it three times better.

She is a perfect example of a gentlelady, and he happily informs her of this as she ties a lime-green bowtie around his neck. She made it herself, and as soon as her hands pull away, it crackles with the same electrical pulse that always engulfs him. It amuses him greatly.

"All because of you, Doctor." She curtsies, jade lips curled into a smile. "All because of you."

---

This is after her inevitable hatred of him. He won't visit after this. Instead he watches.

He watches her toss stuff left and right around the room, kicking mannequins, throwing fabric and works in progresses.

He watches her hold a pillow and roll onto her side, back away from his vision. Watches the way her body lurches and quivers as she sobs into the silk.

He briefly considers visiting her and trying to apologize. He doesn't.

---

Vriska has broken her heart. He knew she was going to do this, knew every last detail about it as Kanaya sobbed into her hands.

By the point he is actually at that moment, though? It hurts. It hurts more than it should.

He adds it to the mental list as another reason to hate the spider girl, but this time he mentally bolds, triple underlines, and circles this reason.

---

And it's about to happen. He was dreading this, but he cannot tear himself away. He tenses as he watches Ampora point the wand at her. Shakes as it hits her. The tiniest "No" forms in his voice.

She collapses and blood is everywhere, and her murderer is gone.

He doesn't know why he's shaking. She will be fine. She'll come back and live and get her revenge, and she will be fine.

He stops watching the brutal scene and goes back to the typewriter. He needs to warn the Knight of Blood.

---

He watches her arise. Watches the glowing white seem to fill her skin, watches her eyes flutter open. She stumbles as she gets up, staring at the carnage in the room. She goes to her knees, holding her stomach.

But there's nothing there to be held. She stares at the gore covering her hands, but her resolve is quick. No time to mourn. No time to hurt.

He wishes he could have raised her to think for herself a bit more, but it's utterly useless to regret. He figured this out years ago. He still does.

She will not see his message, nor will she ever read it or hear of it. But he still types it, still sends it, still leaves it to be read. Because he knows it's the truth and so does she, somewhere deep in her soul.

---

This timeline, the alpha timeline, is coming to a close. It's after this moment that things go black for the rest of time. His vision can only extend so far, and he feels extremely worried for the first time in his life. How do people live this way, not knowing the next move on the board, exactly how the next tick of the clock shall go?

Things seem to be ripping apart around him, but there is no pain, there is only bright green and white and the images, flashing back and forth as he sees all the terrible things he had to do. The people he had ruin, the carnage he caused.

He finds his similarities to "normal" people amusing. He's seeing his life flash before his eyes and yet unlike most people, he has no regrets. Everything he's done bring him another step closer to ending this all, and he's done that. He served his purpose, and now it's over.

This is a lie he tells himself.

Will she be alright? Will she find her happiness?

Who knows.

But he knows she knows that he treasures her. It is all he can tell himself before it all ends.

---

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