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Awareness returns to you slowly. You feel, before you comprehend, and what you feel is painful. Within the darkness trapped behind your closed eyes, there is only heat, and static; a sharp, frayed, suffocating feeling that permeates and violates every fiber of your still-dim mind. You know what this feeling is. It's been your constant companion for longer than you can remember. It's a headache. Only a headache. It has nothing to do with your 'brain,' no matter what it feels like--your brain has no nerve endings with which to feel.
No, this terrible feeling is only the result of tension in the muscles around your skull. You know this. Intimately, you know this, after all the time you have spent dancing this ceaseless dance. Regrettably, you also know that it is beyond your ability to fix. You do not have the absolute control over your body that would be required to soothe this pain. You, frail and impotent human that you are, require medication... And water, you add, trying fruitlessly to swallow down the scum that has formed in your mouth during your sleep.
Sleep. You were asleep. Why were you asleep? You don't remember going to bed last night. You don't even know if a 'last night' has passed since the last thing you do remember... Which is...
Your eyes fly open immediately as you bolt upright in the bed. Not your bed. Not your house. Not your-
"Good morning, petal~"
A sick feeling wells up in your stomach. You turn your head to look at her, the plant sitting at the side of the bed, and you remember with all the force of a magrail smashing into the side of a building what you were doing in the moments before you lost consciousness.
The convention. Your findings. The briefcase with all of your research, all of your evidence, all of your hard work, thrown out of your hands when that damned plant fell upon you. Being muffled, carried away, drugged and touched and held... Everything is blurry after that, and for that fact you find yourself almost grateful. What unfocused flashes your memory still retains are still well enough to mortify you.
You need to run away. Scramble off the bed, crawl to the door, and bang on it until it opens. You cannot be here. You cannot stay in her domain. Yet, you remain still. Your fear is a distant thing, shrouded behind a nigh-impenetrable wall of exhaustion and grog, and so you find that for all the frantic beating of that little thing in your chest, you can only sit and stare in silence. You need to say something, assert yourself somehow, but transmuting your recognition of that fact into action upon it is a task well beyond your capabilities right now. You rub some sleep from your eyes, and she continues on.
"I hope you will forgive me for my impropriety yesterday. You seemed to be in such dire need of help, I just couldn't allow myself to watch from a distance any longer. How are you feeling?"
You ignore all but a single word. Yesterday. You need to get your bearings. It is the day after the convention now.
"How long was I asleep?"
The words come out of your mouth wrong. You had tried to sound commanding, demanding, yet still your diction slurred, your volume faltered. You sounded only too ready to fall right back to sleep. You could not afford that.
"Eighteen hours, dear. I didn't administer anything known to extend sleep. You must have been exhausted beyond belief."
Your eyes fall away from the affini as you contemplate what she's told you. Eighteen hours. That is a shocking number, but it does not surprise you. You knew that you had been incurring a debt for a very long time, and you knew that it would take many sleeps to pay it off. You simply hadn't expected to start paying that debt so soon.
"...Yes. I was."
You don't know immediately why you chose to affirm her statement. She would use it as leverage against you, to coerce you into an arrangement that you didn't want. As evidence that you were unfit to care for yourself, that you needed to place that privilege right into her waiting vines. You don't know, exactly, why you would finally acknowledge the truth of your condition.
Perhaps you were just exhausted.
You try to puzzle something out.
"My head... Hurts. Can you tell?"
She answers quickly, but not straight away. She had been leading the conversation before, deliberately so, and she recognizes your sudden bid for agency in this dialogue as just that. She cedes it to you with care.
"Yes, roughly. I could see the way your eyelids were tensing just before you woke up. You seemed to be in pain."
She acknowledged that she was aware that you were in pain. Then, she is aware that you are in pain. She is an affini, and you both know that she is capable of and obligated towards removing that pain--yet she has not.
You know she has had no hand in making you feel this way--you are perfectly capable of that yourself--but it is clear that she is allowing your pain to continue deliberately. She is content with you understanding this. You struggle to construct your next sentence without allowing it to sound like a needy plea.
"Why haven't you... Taken it away?"
You think you failed, but it does not matter. You think, also, that you know the answer to that question already. You wonder how much of this conversation is truly necessary, but you cannot deny that it is necessary altogether. You don't know how things are going to end. You are, perhaps, being led there unawares.
"I do not believe that you would acknowledge how much harm you have been causing to yourself if you were not faced with the facts of it like this. I understand that such a method is cruel, when I could just as easily spare you from it in the same manner as I did yesterday, but I would like to believe that this will allow you to come to a healthy conclusion about your needs on your own."
One might easily hear those words and mistake them for a promise of independence, conditional upon the subject's willingness to take better care of themself in the future. You know that that is not what she means. You know this affini, and you know that she has been prodding you insistently to become her pet from the moment she first read one of your published papers. She thinks you're adorable, trying as you have to stake new ground in a field that has expanded so far beyond the previous scope of your accumulated Terran knowledge. You have always hated her for it, but right now, after your first good night's sleep in far too long, you think your brain is too busy repairing all the damage you have done to it to have any time for things like that.
You slipped, and she jumped at the chance to catch you. Now that you're in her grasp, it would take a miracle to get you out of here without a collar around your neck.
You don't believe in miracles.
You approach her words from her perspective. You are going to be a pet before the day is through, in her eyes. What she is offering, then, is not liberty, but the choice of what kind of pet you will be. You can tell her she is wrong, that you don't need her care and that you will resist her in providing it. In that case, she will have to treat you as she did yesterday. She will drug you out of your mind until all resistance is replaced with longing, and you will never be anything more than a debased creature desperate for its owner's touch. Or, you can tell her,
"You're right. I wasn't taking care of myself."
and watch as anticipation that you didn't know she was holding in softens up into relief. ...Relief. The emotion of someone who was sincerely worried for you.
"I'm proud of you for being able to acknowledge that. I didn't expect that you would so soon--but you've always been very smart for a Terran, haven't you?"
You don't enjoy being praised in such a way. Not by her. What was she playing at? She hadn't 'expected' you to do that 'so soon.' She has some sort of plan for you, then. That would explain why you woke up sober at all.
"What do you want?," you ask, uncertainty briefly overwhelming the caution with which you've navigated her so far. You know what she wants--you, on the end of a leash--but you don't know how she wants to get it. She is courting you in a way that you are completely ignorant of, and it feels to you like being stalked by a predator that you can only glimpse in the edges of your vision.
"I want you to be well, dear. You have been neglecting--no, actively mistreating yourself for quite some time. I am putting an end to that today. But, you could have guessed as much. What I want from you right now is for you to finally start using that wonderful little brain of yours to help yourself."
You don't... Understand. Why does she have to be so difficult? What in the world is she even talking about? Isn't that just a bunch of words to say nothing?
"I'm sorry... My brain just isn't working right now. Could you just... Tell me what you mean by that, simply?"
If you were in your right mind, you would be fuming at the thought of having to ask her to dumb something down for you--especially so when you see how pleased she looks that you've done it. Right now, however, you are far more concerned with understanding the landscape of the conversation you are trying to navigate.
"Yes, darling, if it would help. What I want is for you to recognize what it will take for you to stop letting your needs go unfulfilled. I have brought you here and removed you from the environment that you have so carefully tailored to trap yourself inside your downwards spiral, and, now that you have had a truly restful sleep for the first time in who knows how long, I have full faith in your ability to be reasonable in assessing what your future will look like from hereon."
It takes you a few seconds, but you eventually stitch the raw, fuzzy information of the words that she has said into some kind of comprehensible meaning. She wants you to... Think things over. To have some space from the motions you've been going through for the last two years, and reassess them with a perspective not fully lost in the thick of it. She showed full willingness to simply make you hers last night, so the rational part of your brain insists that you at least entertain the idea that this is not all elaborate ploy to make you her pet. You still don't trust her, however. You may trust her words, and you may trust her actions, but you have spent far too long despising this creature for you to trust her.
There is only one way forward, you decide. Be proactive in your self-care, while you are here and stuck with her. Take initiative, and with it, agency. If you flounder, she may grab hold of you, so until you work out how to escape, you must simply keep moving.
"I need water."
You resist the urge to throw your tired legs over the side of the bed and get it yourself. You need to rest. Only if you rest will you have a chance to convince her that you have 'come to a healthy conclusion about your needs.'
"Would you... Get some, for me?"
She smiles at you for confirming that her faith was not misplaced. You will, perhaps, have time to prove otherwise in the future. Spiting that condescending look would certainly be worth a little pain of your own.
"Yes, happily. I'll be just a moment."
You imagine that she must be perfectly capable of getting you a glass of water without even leaving her position at your side, but she chooses to do so anyways. Perhaps she is trying to not weird you out. You take this time to assess your needs and plot out a course of action. The scum in your mouth will need to be washed out, and you regret not taking care of that before asking for something to drink. Relatedly, you will need to brush your teeth, and you suppress the feeling that that's such an extraneous thing to worry about right now, no matter how much you agree with it. You will need to eat, and... Should eating come before or after brushing your teeth? Before, you suppose. And then what? Once you have eaten, hydrated, and taken care of your oral hygiene... The only other self-care activity that comes to mind is more general hygiene. A shower. You aren't going to have to shower... Together, are you? You shake your head to dispel the thought. You can wash yourself in her hab without washing with her.
"Dear?"
She has returned to your side, and is holding a glass of water out to you. You don't like being addressed that way, 'dear,' but you swallow your pride and accept it.
"Thank you."
You bring the glass to your lips, dismiss any lingering concerns over whether or not it might be drugged, and drink. It tastes disgusting, inasmuch as it makes you taste what's inside your mouth, but you don't have the luxury of worrying about that. It is, however, enough to make you decide that you will have to brush your teeth before eating breakfast, even if that is out of order.
You finish the whole glass, and scoff to yourself. You're putting an awful lot of thought into a morning routine that has never once concerned you before.
"Is something the matter?"
On any other day, that space in your mind would be reserved for thinking over whatever wall your research had run into the day before, or seething over some condescending remark that had been made to you days, weeks, or months prior. You admit that subjects such as this frustrate you significantly less to think about.
"No, everything's alright. I just... Have a lot on my mind, as you might expect."
You didn't intend to sound so pathetic. She brings forth a vine to run along the side of your face, and you remain stock still as it passes over you. Somehow, it did not incite you to flinch, but you were still not quite comfortable with it.
"You were quite sweet last night, you know. Whenever I laid a vine on you, you treasured it like it was the most wonderful thing in the world. You really seemed to love the comfort that my touch brought to you... And you were so adorably insistent that I not take them away. Watching you dance between desperation and adoration for me was the most fun I have had in a long time. Do you remember any of that?"
"No." you lie.
You lied, but you can not hide the blush growing on your cheeks after she dredged up that particular memory. Some residual feelings from that time pass over you, and you wait for them to pass before you attempt to rejoin your dialogue. Your hesitation presses her to take up the conversational baton.
"That saddens me to hear. I must admit that, even now, some part of me hopes that you will remember, and accept that you are happier with me. I did not bring you here to bore you with my longing, however. I believe I owe you something. Will you allow me to take care of that nasty headache of yours?"
She floats a peculiarly shaped flower in front of your face, providing a visual aide for what her 'offer' implied. You had expected an injector--that's what she stuck you with the day before--but the structure of this flower's petals seems to be perfectly engineered to fit over a human's mouth and nose. A breathing mask, for aerosolized medication. You suppose it makes sense, for a headache treatment to be administered through the lungs. You need only a moment to convince yourself that she had no reason to lie about what the sweet scent wafting off of it will do. You nod.
Numerous vines crawl up your back as a brace, giving you something to settle and correct your posture against in advance of the flower being pressed against your face. She does just that, and you release a breath that you didn't realize you had been holding in.
"It's okay, just breathe."
You inhale, hesitantly at first, expecting the flower's gas to be stale and suffocating, but it is no such thing. Your lungs accept it as though it were the freshest air, perhaps even more easy to breathe than that which fills the rest of the hab unit. You close your eyes and relax into it, your unavoidable anxiety about accepting something like this from the one who kidnapped you eventually fading away into an unfamiliar sense of serenity.
"That's right, just like that."
You simply breathe into the flower for a few quiet moments, and almost find yourself drifting off to sleep again before something happens. The harsh feeling behind your eyes begins to fall away. The further it progresses, the less you believe it. You have spent months suffering with a head that knew only varying shades of pain, a prismatic array of pressure and heat, tension and torsion, crushing pain, boiling pain, miserable, torturous, pain--
but now, for the first time in far too long, your head is beginning to clear. You see an empty, open sky, shining a brilliant blue. There is no more pain.
The flower comes away, and the sweet scent that you had started to let yourself enjoy goes with it. You open your eyes and struggle to process the sight of a world not stained by miserable strain. Her vines retreat from your back, and she asks,
"All better now?"
You turn your attention to her, unsure of how to feel. Through the typically stony visage that rests upon your face, only a sad, happy smile breaks through. You had expected relief, a reduction in suffering, a reasonable abatement that was just enough to live with, but this... This was health. You think back to the past... To just a moment ago, a day ago, a month ago and a year ago, and all the time that passed in-between. All of that, every desperate attempt to breathe slow and deep to ease the pressure, every pill taken to bring you back within bearable bounds, every hour of sleep lost while your brain fizzled and burned in that intangible acid, and you realize that none of it was necessary. Every ounce of your suffering could have been avoided. You had forced yourself to languish in that pain for so, so very long, and none of it had meant anything. Your vision clouds for just a moment, and you feel a tear roll down your cheek. Then, another, and still more. You don't quite understand it, with your mental exhaustion distancing you from your feelings even now. You try, vainly, to hold it back. It doesn't work, so you let out a soft laugh. If you are going to cry in front of her, you can at least save face about it.
Ironically, you find her wearing the same face that you imagine must be on yours. A quaint smile, curling up towards eyes possessed by an unmistakable look of pain. It would be dangerous, to consider her anything more than an obstacle to surmount, but the longer you study her carefully crafted face, the more you find yourself trying to understand the feelings behind it.
She is sad that you are hurt. You have understood and accepted for quite some time that the affini, as a people and a society, are here to help you all and keep you safe from harm, but this understanding has never quite extended to her. She has been her own category of person, as an enemy and a rival and an antagonist. She is the one who you have come to blame for making your life's work utterly meaningless. She is the reason that you have pushed yourself to your limits and beyond, until your body and mind began to break down beyond your ability to repair. She is everything bad in your life, and now you are sitting in her bed, with her drugs fending off your ever-present misery, seeing your very own emotions mirrored on her face.
You almost feel sorry. You don't want her to look so sad, in no small part because of how uncomfortable it feels to sympathize with her. What are you to do?
"All better now," you say, putting on a brave face. Your crying stops, and you wipe away your tears. "Thank you."
Her face melts again into relief, and you, too, share in the feeling. What you said has helped. She begins to cheer up. Even so, you don't have time to pin down the way your conception of her is swirling around inside you. You need to keep moving.
"I need to brush my teeth. Do you-"
You stop yourself. 'Do you think I'm well enough to get up and do it on my own?' is what you were going to ask, more or less, but that would be problematic. You don't need her permission to get up, and you don't want to establish that precedent... But you also can't risk inciting her to set it herself by rushing too quickly out of your rest. That was precisely why you had asked for the glass of water, but brushing your teeth is different. Short of bringing you the implements for the task and a pan to spit in, you would have to get up to do that. So could you, or couldn't you? What would she be comfortable with?
"Um, would you help me to the sink?"
The simplest solution is to pretend you need help. It doesn't matter if you do or don't--she will be satisfied nonetheless if she has a hand in it. You only hope you don't give her too terrible an impression of how you're holding up.
She seems satisfied by your request, but you quickly realize that it would have ramifications you were not prepared for. You had imagined simply sharing some of your weight with her as you hobbled performatively to the nearest faucet, but that was not what her affini mind would jump to at the thought of helping someone get somewhere. No, instead, you feel a selection of vines snaking under your body to form a lattice even before she verbally acknowledges your request. The lattice grows into a cradle, and she lifts you up towards her chest.
"Of course, dear~"
You shrink away from her, uncomfortable with the proximity to her face and those strange, cognitohazardous eyes, but for all your efforts you cannot get any further from her than she wants you to be. This... Feeling. Of being held in her grasp like this. It brings you closer to your memories of the night before, when you were in much the same situation. You can almost, almost feel what you felt for her then, and it petrifies you. Your breathing becomes heavier. Your eyes remain locked onto her, but she isn't looking at you. You have a feeling that if she was, you might simply ▅▅▅▅▅. You count your lucky stars that she's sparing you, for now.
A thought crosses your mind as she starts moving. She is not human. She has no teeth to brush. She would not keep a toothbrush in her hab. If she intended for you to brush your own teeth, she would be walking to her hab's compiler. Instead, she is walking straight to the sink. Then, she must intend to...
"I haven't had the time to acquire any oral hygiene grafts yet, so your teeth will need to be properly cleaned again soon, but a quick scrub will be better than nothing."
Shit.
She runs the faucet and wets a variety of small, thin vines, one after another.
Shit, shit, shit.
You try to summon the words to protest, but stop yourself just short of opening your mouth. She is doing this because she wants to. You could tell her that you are perfectly capable of brushing your teeth on your own--that it would take a mere few minutes to compile the tools with which to do so--but you know that she would disagree. She would say that she is far more fit for the task than you are, and that proper recognition of your needs means letting her take care of it for you. She... Would be right, too. Her numerous and prehensile vines can probably do a much more precise job of it than you, with your clumsy hands and a brush blindly attacking into a crevice you can't even see. You don't have any ground on which to fight her over this. You let your would-be protests die in your mouth, and notice a shade of satisfaction passing over her face. She was paying attention as you came to that conclusion. She is proud of you.
Four larger vines snake up your neck, over your cheeks, and to the corners of your mouth. She intends to pry it open, if she has to, but you both know that it will be unnecessary. She is merely making a projection of power for her own amusement.
"Now, open wide, darling~"
Your eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge a world in which such a thing has to happen. But it does have to happen. Any resistance at this point will only be taken as play, and you do not want to encourage her. But, still... Opening your mouth on command, for her vines to invade and crawl and slither and scrape and brush all over your teeth? Your tongue, too? Your eyes open on their own, as if to plead for an out on this one, and the gravity of that mistake strikes you like a hypermetric kick. You do not make pleading eyes to an affini, ever, NO MATTER the reason.
But that is what you just did, and you tear your eyes to the side as you open your mouth, if only so you don't have to look at how stars-damned in love with you she seems after seeing that look on your face. You may as well have walked up to a domestication center and put a gun to your head. What in the world are you going to do now?
Well, for now you are going to sit patiently and wait for the dentist to do her work. It's definitely a curious feeling, but not quite as violating as you had expected it to be. Her vines keep themselves to your teeth and gums rather strictly, and it gives you a sense that they know what they're doing. More accurate to describe the feeling would be that they belong there, as in your instincts are not recognizing them as a foreign object to reject, but saying that in that way carries some implications that you don't want to make.
Really, the weirdest thing about the whole process is that you are doing it at the kitchen sink, rather than in the wash room. You suppose that water is water, and this was closer, but... Doesn't she have any sense of propriety? And what was that that she said about having to do this again? That is not happening. You are getting out of here, and you went over the steps again in your head.
You've been watered and medicated. Your teeth are being brushed. You are going to eat and then shower, and then that will be it. You will say 'thanks for the check-up, doc, but I'm headed home,' and you will walk out the door.
And you will go back to your home, and you will... Have to clean up, probably. You've let the place become a mess, so focused you have been on your research. There is the pure trash, of course. The empty food wrappers strewn about, the napkins and paper towels that have long outlasted whatever use they were torn off the roll for, and the boxes of takeout that hide Schröedinger's moldy leftovers. Then, there is the refuse. Papers full of notes you no longer need, printouts that are no longer relevant, drafts that have elsewhere been finalized. You imagine having cleaned up all of those things, but this fantasy does not come with the familiar feeling of satisfaction and peacefulness that should pervade a living space recently freed of such environmental stressors. No, you would not be free. You would still have your work, your projects, your research. Those dearly beloved active efforts that you pour your blood, sweat, and tears into from dusk until dawn. Imagining what it might be like to have a clean home, you realize now just how much they alone contribute to the stress that you feel by simply existing in your own living space.
A thought occurs to you, timidly poking its head out from hiding. What if you got rid of that, too? You couldn't do such a thing, of course... Those were your life blood. The medium through which you carry the torch of the Terran academic spirit, the expressions of all the effort you have put in over the last twenty years to become the woman of science that you are. But what if you did? It would feel nice, to be able to relax for a change. To not have any physical reminders of what you really ought to be doing in your sight at all times. And besides... You had won, hadn't you? After two years of running yourself ragged, you made a discovery that the affini didn't already know. It was niche, but it was something. That little something was all you had been hoping for for quite some time, after it became clear to you that you would never actually be a leader in your field again. To spend another several months, or years, trying to make that magic work again would be utterly farcical, if it was even possible. Pandora's box has been opened regarding your sleep habits, and you don't think your body will tolerate another several months of you staying up until whenever you passed out. You don't think she would, either. To go right back into hurting yourself for the sake of what, in affini society, is hardly more than a hobby, would certainly push her to take more drastic measures in 'helping you.'
You think she's watching you stare off into space, but she knows better than to disturb you while you're contemplating something. For all she knows, you might be realizing right here and now how much you want to be her pet. As if. But for that reason, she can't interrupt you. Instead, she continues brushing away, exploring even deeper crevices of your mouth to find new and heretofore unknown forms of plaque to scrub away. You've heard before that affini can see from any point on their body. You wonder if she likes the view of inside your mouth, and then feel like a pervert for having that thought.
What were you thinking about? How over your life is? Right. Why did you even become a scientist in the first place? Did you ever actually like what you've spent the last twenty years studying? You think so, maybe? The Accord had a way of turning passions into drudgeries. Maybe you just needed to look at it with fresh eyes. Maybe you could keep doing your research for fun. You didn't know. You wouldn't know until you went home and had the chance to look over everything with a clear head.
Suddenly, a much thicker vine invades your mouth, and she forces your jaw shut around it. You look at her quizzically. Now she's the pervert, though you suppose she always was.
She rolls her eyes like she doesn't have time for your petty human suspicions, and a liquid begins to fill your mouth. It doesn't taste or feel like anything but water, so you assume that it must just be plain old water. The final step of brushing your teeth is to spit everything out, of course. She's only preparing you for that step. You swish while she leans you over the edge of the sink, and you spit from on high. You feel proud of yourself for getting none of it on the surrounding counter. Her smile tells you that she is too, but that sours it for you.
"Might I ask what had you so rapt in thought?"
She might. You might even answer. And if you felt like it, that answer might even be true. You had only to figure out if you felt like it. Could you tell her that you had given up on pursuing your self-destructive quest to prove yourself an accomplished intellectual? You just know that she would offer to fill that void herself. You couldn't give her the chance to make that offer, because... Oddly, you were feeling comfortable here. With her. More comfortable than you had felt anywhere with anyone in a long time. You had nothing to go back to, really, so some part of you felt that if she asked you to stay here you might honestly consider it. Only consider it, and then immediately dismiss it.
"I was wondering why you didn't make me breakfast in advance. Now I either have to wait, or eat something compiled. You're a terrible host."
"There's nothing wrong with compiled food!" she protests, shooting a concerned glance towards her hab AI's main interfacing terminal. Had you just insulted someone? "We'll merely have to split our tasks. You need a shower,"
"Hey."
"So you can go take care of that while I prepare you something."
She lowers you gently towards the ground, but stops before allowing you off.
"Will you need assistance getting to the wash room?"
You think she has enough faith in your mobility by now to believe you if you say yes. She did ask, after all.
"I should be okay."
She gently places you on the floor, and pats your back.
"Hop to it, then!"
You think you would grumble, if you were really all that upset. You were... Bantering with her. Is this how you were when it didn't feel like your brain was trapped in a vat of lava 24/7? Sociable? You couldn't believe it. You had heard, however, that building up a rapport with your captors was an essential step of saving yourself in a hostage situation, so you felt like you were winning. You hop to it, as requested, and although you find that your legs are much more tired than you were aware of, you eventually find her shower. You verify that there are towels at the ready, and turn on the faucet. You turn it all the way up to get it to warm up faster, and then, to verify the temperature as it rises, you stick your ha-
You yelp as your hand reflexively jerks back out of the water, realizing as you run over to the wash room's sink... Or... Smaller-vine-washer, that you had failed to think of something crucial. The affini have plumbing many tens of thousands of years more advanced than the pipes inside your own house. They do not need time to rise to an adequate temperature. You would get what you had asked for with no delay, and you seemed to have asked for a throbbing burn on your hand. Now, you ask for cold water to treat it with, after verifying that you are indeed about to set the faucet to cold water. You let the water run over your wound for several seconds, and feel wasteful for not turning off the shower before doing so. You don't mind. Running up a non-existent water bill will really show her for... Taking you home and being nice to you. Bitch.
As if on queue, she steps into the wash room. She must have heard your... Rather undignified noise.
"Are you alright?" she asks, sounding concerned. She could see plain as day that you were treating a burn on your hand.
"Just... Practicing my electrocuted monkey impression."
Your awkward deflection of concern from one of the universe's greatest worrywarts is about as successful as deflecting a zweihander with a paper shield. She hurries over to you and leans around your back to study the wound herself, with several vines quivering around it as though they are each making independent considerations of their own.
"It's fine, really."
You try to shoo her vines away like bugs, half convinced that they might actually be persuaded to disperse, but they do no such thing.
"You will hurt yourself if you try to shower with this wound. We can't leave it exposed to hot water."
Instead, those vines and many more close in around your hand. You watch, mystified, as they weave themselves into a tight glove to cover up the burn. It stings at first, but the feeling fades before you know it.
You suppose this means she's going to be here while you shower.
"What about breakfast?"
"I will be able to prepare your food and protect your hand," she says, looking down at you like you're stupid. "The length of appendages contained within me is more than enough to cover the entire floor of this hab unit. There is nothing to worry about."
You spy a trail of vines leading out the door of the wash room. She never really left the kitchen, did she?
"Okay, but, um..."
She cocks her head, seemingly wondering what you could possibly have to complain about now.
"Can't you... See? From your vines?"
"Yes."
She looks down at you like you're extra, super stupid. But she's the one who isn't picking up what you're putting down, so the idiot is her.
"I'm going to be naked!"
.
.
.
She offers no response. Instead, she leaves you with perhaps the most smug look you can imagine her face creating, and deforms into a mass of foliage that returns to the kitchen. You are left staring at your envined hand, somehow feeling the very same smug expression radiating off of it. You won't stand for it. You take off your shirt and wrap it around your hand. It's a bulky covering that will be inconvenient to shower with, but it might at least deny her this victory. Or... It... Would, if she couldn't see from the rest of the vines that connected the glove to her main mass. That is beyond your ability to blind, and so you disappointedly unwind your shirt from around your hand and toss it onto the floor. You give the glove a mean look before taking off your pants.
The shower water, which you were thankfully able to guess a comfortably warm level for, feels nice. You think back to before, to your banter with her. You are still puzzled by your ability to exchange blows so casually with a person you have spent the last two years hating. You suspect that knowing her at all for that length of time is part of it. As peers in the same field of study, you had gone to conferences together, kept up with each other's findings, and been part of the same world for quite some time. You had felt only vitriol for her for every moment of it, but that all seemed so very far away now. You think, perhaps, that she existed within a special class of other inside your mind. She was not a benevolent affini, and she was not herself as an individual. She existed only as a manifestation of the threat that she posed to your worldview, which was sustained by the pressures of the Accord and the pain inside your head. Both were gone now. One had been gone for quite some time. You had merely needed some time, and a trigger to make that fact set in. She had provided you with the trigger, and now, to you, she was... A familiar face. A familiar face, and nothing more.
You pop the cap off a bottle of what might be some kind of soap, and consider throwing caution to the wind before you remember that someone who can read the label is in there with you.
"Squeeze my hand twice if I can wash my body with this!" you say, voice raised to overcome the sound of the shower's jets. You feel kind of silly, holding the bottle up to your own hand. It's almost as though you're asking the question to some sort of weird puppet.
The glove squeezes once, and no more. You suppose it was a good idea to ask. You find yourself curious, though, about what it might be.
"Will it hurt me if I use it?"
Another squeeze. Okay, that's good. She wasn't so neglectful as to risk leaving a substance hazardous to you within your reach. Still, though, what could it be? Affini didn't really have hair, so you ruled out shampoo or conditioner.
"Is it drugs?"
A bunch of rapid squeezes. You struggle to interpret what that means for a moment--perhaps an emphatic yes?--before the sound of laughter from the other end of the hab unit briefly breaks through the noise of the shower's jets. A second later, she gives one clear squeeze. Not drugs. You rack your brain to come up with something that an affini might keep in the shower that doesn't sound totally ridiculous.
"Vine exfoliator!"
Squeeze.
"Core shiner!"
Squeeze.
The vines around your hand quiver. You choose to believe that means you're cracking her up. It's a bad idea, you know, to be too entertaining around an affini, but you already know this one wants you. You might as well have fun while you can.
"Um... Help me out here... It's not, like, a cleaning product? This is not just for cleaning the shower, correct?"
Two squeezes. Okay, that's something. You haven't been wildly off base this whole time.
"Are you actually getting any showering done in there?" she calls out from across the hab. She should know whether or not you are. She's in here with you, after all. But that was precisely the point, wasn't it? The question was rhetorical. You, full of cheek, clench your hand into a fist once, wondering if that counts as a squeeze.
You receive no response. Feeling the bit die, you decide to get on with it and grab one of the other three bottles of stuff in the shower. This one, probably, is a variety of soap. If it isn't, she will give you a squeeze to warn you. You pop it open and overturn the bottle, holding out a palm to receive the substance, until--
The enfoliaged hand with which you grip the bottle opens wide without your input. The bottle drops to the floor with a loud bang, causing you to flinch away in a fright. Were you holding something so terrible?
No, your hand... It continues to disobey you. It wants to rise. Wants to come in closer to you. You try to resist, if only out of confusion, but you cannot. Even with only the half dozen or so leading vines that come together to form the glove, she is still so far beyond your strength that to call it overpowering you would be a misconception. You do not factor into what she does with your hand at all. You stare into it, stare into her, wondering what the hell she's doing. You want to ask her to explain herself, tell her to leave you be, but you don't. Maybe it's that, even though you intellectually know she's here with you, you still do not register a personage to speak to. Or, maybe... Maybe you are just curious.
Your resistance against her manipulation eases, as if it ever mattered in the first place, and she brings your hand... To your breast. Stars, she was being a pervert again. For real this time.
"Cut it out..." you say, wariness evident in your voice.
You begin to fondle yourself. Thumb and index finger put a loose vice around your nipple, and stroke along the skin. Pressing, curving, dragging and pinching. It feels... Good. Frightfully so. A soft, confused moan escapes your lips, and your free hand flies up to cover your mouth in embarrassment. You haven't done anything like this, with yourself or another, in so long that you have forgotten the last time. It must have been at least a year ago. You understand what that means. You are going to be sensitive.
"S-Seriously, cut it--"
You are cut off by another moan. Smooth 'fingers' move on from your nipple itself, caressing the skin of your breast that surrounds it. Light touches that make goose bumps rise on your skin and bring a near-ticklish rise of sensation to your heart and head. She drags you lower, feeling your own body up on a lazy, certain path towards your groin. You... Should move. You should walk out there and demand that she stop. You should, but... You know better than that. What would that be taken as, if not presenting yourself to her to be--
A flash from the day before. Of having her vines all over you, of being overwhelmed with blissful sensation, and loving every minute of it. The twin stimuli of feeling her on your body, and imagining her taking you again, have dredged this memory up from the deep murk underneath your mind, and to recall it brings you to your hand and knees in an instant. You feel a shadow of the insatiable need that possessed you back then, and though you try to resist it now, you cannot ignore the ache that begins to run through your erogenous zones.
You caress your inner thigh, fingers dragging themselves up and along towards your crotch with just the right amount of pressure against your skin to make you shiver. With each journey up, you send more and more of that electric feeling into your penis. You are fully erect now, and every desperate little twitch fills you with another mote of embarrassment. You want to touch yourself now, if only to get it over with and return to your right mind, but... You can't. You won't. You aren't going to give her the satisfaction.
Why is she doing this, even? There must be some reason. As much as you would like to insult her, you don't believe that it's simply perversion for its own sake. She has been more or less modest all morning. Then, what end could this means serve? You don't know, and the feelings that grow inside you with every further second that you're made to play with yourself are so distracting that you wonder if you'll even be able to figure it out.
Maybe not on your own, but... You aren't on your own. You can ask for help. It will be difficult, and obtuse, but your options seem to be either accepting that you're going to be her little plaything for a while, or revisiting your game from earlier. Yes or no. Narrow it down. You'll give it a shot.
"Did I cross a line?"
She seemed to be enjoying your jokes just as much as you were before she went quiet all of a sudden. It gave you the impression that you had stepped over some boundary, or pressed some button that you weren't aware of, and set off an adverse reaction in her. Granted, you couldn't rule out that this wasn't just another good-humored way of fucking with you in turn, but... That seemed a bit far.
Two squeezes. Yes. You did mess up somehow.
You--she--drags your middle few fingers up the length of your shaft... Over the sensitive surface of your head, and pauses there for a second, with your tip in a light grasp. She holds it there, lifting it only so much as to make you feel that it is no longer hanging loosely down--a subtle, physical assertion of the fact that you are in her grasp. Your penis feels as though it anticipates some nebulous next step all on its own, waiting excitedly for her to stimulate you more. You wish it would try to have a little more self-respect, but it's your breath that's hitched and paused in that very same anticipation. You are both waiting on her. What difference does your self-respect really make?
You shake your mind back into movement. You can't let this distract you. You need to continue.
"Are you punishing me? Did I upset you?"
There is a pause before her response. One squeeze, and a beat, and then two very light ones. No, and yes. You did upset her, a little bit, but she is not punishing you.
Your fingers come down, wrapping around the far side of your shaft, while your thumb rests against the near side of your head. It starts to move, stroking up and down in a smooth, rhythmic pattern. Your hand as a whole moves up and down ever so slightly to accomodate it, adding a further, more whole-bodied dimension to the action. It's... A lot. It's a lot, and yet somehow not enough. You don't want this at all, but you still find yourself feeling... ▅▅▅▅y. You want her to go faster, to make you feel more, regardless of how against this whole situation you are. You tell yourself that it's just so you stop feeling so distracted. She moved on to this pattern after you asked your last question. If you ask another, she might go even further.
"I- fuck, uh..."
It's difficult. Difficult to focus, difficult to keep track of your thoughts. ▅le▅s▅. You're supposed to be... Supposed to be... Puzzling this out. You made her upset. You owe it to her to figure out what you did. You're smart. You always were smart, for a Terran. You can do this.
"Was I t-taking... Too long? Impatient?"
She stops. You feel relief, at first, that it might be over, but it takes an active effort to not resume her work yourself. She swipes along the surface of your head with your index finger, and then takes your hand fully away. She moves it, carefully, under your body and towards your face, so as to avoid any of the water pouring down the sides of your back. You see your hand again, and see something glistening on the surface of your finger. It's pre-cum. Your pre-cum. Your hand comes closer to your face. You close your panting mouth instinctively, but it doesn't matter. Your thumb and middle fingers position themselves on opposite sides of your lips, and pry them apart. You know better than to try to resist at this point. Your slicked index finger comes to rest on your tongue, and she closes your mouth around it. Then, the vines around your hand constrict into that familiar squeeze. You did not guess correctly. You are not done. Now lick.
You'll do it. You've already spent the last however long on the floor of the shower jerking yourself off for the amusement of the one controlling your hand. You have to admit, as well, that the taste and texture of her foliage around your finger is novel enough to be worth exploring on its own. You don't think you would ever admit to something like that outside of these circumstances, but you are a naturally curious person, and behind your back you have become much more resigned to your situation than you realized you were. So, you do it. You lick the finger that she has taken for herself all over. Diligently, even. Dragging your feet will get you nowhere, and it's not like you can ask any questions like this anyways. It's better to put your best foot forward in satisfying her, you decide. So you lick, and you try to suction it in even further into your mouth, and you try very hard to not think about the noises you make while doing so. It's something else to focus on besides how unbearably neglected you feel elsewhere, so you focus on it intently. It's almost meditative, and she allows you to re-center yourself around her for quite some time. After what feels like too short of a while, she withdraws your finger from your mouth. You weren't ready for it to go, and you most certainly aren't ready when she brings your hand above your head and pets you with it.
A few slow, relaxing strokes through your hair. For a job well done. You seem to have made her very proud with the way you worshipped her. That's... What it was, wasn't it? It was worship, and you were wonderful at it.
Why... Were you thinking that? You didn't have time to mock yourself right now. You had to figure this out. But the words echo in your mind once again.
'It was worship, and you were wonderful at it.'
You were... You... You were. You remember what she shared with you earlier, about how sweet you were to her the day before... You remember how lonely she seemed when you told her you didn't remember that. She hasn't claimed to want to break you now, but... She misses the you that she met yesterday. She misses the one that was sweet to her, and--for some reason you still haven't pieced together--she let you wake up with your reservations about her intact, and you... You were trying to make her laugh before she went quiet. It didn't mean much to you, but to her, it must have been another sweet moment with the one she missed so much.
You understand. You drove her over the edge by reminding her of the one she was keeping herself from. You taunted her with your companionship, while she was still denying herself the presence of the pet that she had longed for for such a long time. That pet can't coexist with the independent you, but still, you feel... Guilty. You broke her restraint, and pushed her to play with you like this. This is how she is making herself feel better, so if you want to do anything for her...
"I-- Um... Please, keep... Going?"
She does not respond. You sounded quite uncertain of yourself, and it may have been so much as to bleed over into her. Or, perhaps she was simply confused about your sudden change of heart.
"I mean, I think... I think I get it now. Why you're doing this. I'm sorry for playing with you like that... If that's what it was. So, um, if you... Want to keep playing with me, then... Please, I want you to... I want you... To play with me... More..."
You shouldn't do this. Every part of you is telling you that you shouldn't do this. If you care about her, you shouldn't tempt her with the idea of having her way with you when you still don't want to become hers. If you don't want to become hers, you should absolutely not tempt her with the idea of having her way with you. When you had first woken up, you navigated your interactions with her carefully and cleverly. You did what was wise. You thought about the consequences that your words and actions might have. But now... Now, you don't care. Something has gotten in the way of that cold, analytical detachment. Something that you're willing to mess up for. She's spent all morning caring for you. You've felt more real and alive just talking with her than you have in longer than you can remember. You've spent your entire life paring down the list of the things that mattered to you, all for the sake of attaining even greater focus on your scientific pursuits. Eventually, that desperate struggle to maintain your self respect became all that you had. But now, even that is vague and distant. There's something else now, something real and tangible, something right in front of you, and it's clawed its way right up to the very top of your priorities.
There is someone who cares about you, and you can make her happy. Everything else can wait.
You slide your knees forward, using them as support to lift your back up straight. You hold the hand that she has claimed out in front of you, as if to deliver a soliloquy, and with the most desperately pleading face you can muster, you speak.
"Please, don't make me crawl out there and beg... Can't you see how badly I need this?"
You do not even have the time for your inner voice to ask if you laid it on too thick before your hand begins to move again. She takes it back to your breast, to begin fondling you just as she did at the start of all this. It makes sense--your arousal has faded significantly in the time that has passed since she stopped groping you outright. You will need to start from the beginning again, and you tell yourself that you will do better this time.
"Thank you," you say, making no effort to hold back your reactions to her touch. "Please, m-make me yours... Just for now."
You bring your free hand up to mimic her ministrations on your other breast. She knows very well how to pleasure you, and though you may be clumsy in comparison, copying her technique can only improve your own. The rest of the world seems to sink into the background as you kneel there, rubbing and pinching and scratching yourself in all the right ways and in all the right places. She seems to have picked up on the fact that you're following her lead, as some of her own movements slow in a way that makes them easier for you to follow. This comes, also, with the consequence of making you more desperate, as the tension that builds up over the course of each stroke and caress builds up inside your mind.
"Please... Are you... Are you proud of me? Th-This is one of my needs, isn't it? I'm letting you show me--ahn, how to- how to take care of it..."
She does not confirm or deny what you asked. At least, not in the language of the little game you had developed with her. Perhaps she is done entertaining that. That's okay. She's making you feel so good right now, and she's even providing you with patient instruction on how to help. You don't need her to tell you that she's proud of you to know that she loves you. She loves you, and that's why she's making you feel this way... Every movement that she makes with your hand, every ounce of pleasure that she causes to ring out inside you, is an expression of that love. In that way, she's filling you with her love right now. As you realize that, you feel like you should be afraid. You were afraid, before, of the idea of her filling you with feelings that weren't your own... Of doing things to you that would warp your judgement and brings you deeper into her grasp. But you aren't afraid of this. How could you be afraid of her, when she loves you this much? You're grateful for it, and it makes you so happy that all you need to do to repay her love is let her express it even more.
"F-Fuck... Please, please give me more..."
You place your hand over the one she's using. It stops what it's doing, and you make a ginger attempt to draw it lower down your body. She allows you to guide it like this, and you bring it down to rest on top of your erect, twitching penis.
"Please," you ask. "Please, I need you to... To touch me."
Your hand remains there for just a second, before rising away from it. Your heart sinks, and she consoles you with another round of petting your head. Why... Why wouldn't she? Was she trying to torture you? You wouldn't stand for that. You didn't need her to do it, anyways. You still have one of your hands, and you bring it down to wrap around your shaft itself. You try to mimic the grip she had on it earlier, and imitate how she stroked it, but it only takes a second for you to realize why she refused to do it herself. Shower water is the opposite of a lubricant, and your penis has been fully exposed to it for minutes now. Nothing of significance can be done to it without causing you pain. You loose your grip on it, defeated. You won't be able to satisfy yourself. Not right now. Not... Until you're done with this shower. And then you'll have to dry yourself off and go out there, all filled up with this burning, sublimating need, and you'll have to face her, and... Are the vines quivering again? Is she laughing at you for failing to jerk yourself off? That bitch!
Swiftly, your disappointment catalyzes into indignant determination, and you rise to your feet to complete your shower. Screw the soap. Water and scrubbing is all you need for now, and if she complains about half-assing, you've got a full set of teeth to point to in your defense. You rub yourself fiercely all over, until eventually you've covered enough of your skin to feel comfortable calling it. She leaves your hand alone for the duration of it, allowing you to bring your overly long shower to an end uninterrupted. Once finished, you step out, turn off the water, and get to drying yourself. You find that she placed a single article of clothing on the wash room counter while you were... Distracted.
It's a dress... A familiar kind of dress. It evokes styles that you have seen increasingly commonly in the two years that have passed since the affini took your home world into their care. A companion dress, the kind that they make their pets wear. You certainly don't appreciate the implication behind it, but you cannot help but let out a small snort. If this is another joke, and it had better be, then you can at least appreciate that. You'll wear it. It's just clothes, and trying it on only until you have a chance to find something else to wear at least beats charging out there naked and demanding she compile you something else.
You finish drying yourself off and slip into the dress, looking into the mirror to take your first impression of how it looks on you while you finish fiddling with the shoulder straps. It's colored primarily in two tones--a warm yellow, and a muted gray. Dozens of varieties of flowers and flower analogues in many other shades of yellow seem to bloom outwards from the yellow portions, growing out to invade the grey and define its borders by the shapes of their petals. The majority of these flowers you do not recognize. They must be from all over the universe. You think that, at least, is a little cool.
You also have to admit that... It does look pretty nice on you. You've never been one for dresses, but seeing yourself in this one makes you feel like you're about to head out for a picnic. You've never had a feeling like that before. It's fitting, you suppose, since you are about to eat. You break off the staring contest you had been holding with yourself, and leave the wash room.
Finding your way back to the more open half of the hab with the kitchen, you eventually spot your torturer for the past... However long your shower took. She's turned around and hunched over, presumably making a show for you instead of just grabbing whatever she needs with a vine like a normal person. When she turns around, you see a plate held in her hands. In her grasp, it's too high up for you to make out what's on it.
"You took quite some time in there, petal. Was something distracting you?"
In an instant, her voice washes away the thin layer of indignance that you had used to cover up your needy weakness. You freeze, and feel a familiar itch in certain areas of your body, the shadows of her prior actions upon you passing over your memory. It gives you pause, so much so that she must be able to take note of it. You move yourself to respond just before it would feel inappropriate to do so at all.
"I was attacked... By a common house-weed. You need to stop leaving food out."
"Attacked, you say?"
She comes to stand before you, setting the plate on a table that is still too tall for you to see the surface of as she passes by. Then, she kneels, and takes the hand that still her vines are wrapped around into the palm of one of her own. You don't offer any resistance--rather, with the state that your mind is in right now, the attention that she's offering your hand as she play-inspects it makes you feel a strange warmth inside.
"Well, darling, this common house-weed seems to have left you with a very strange affliction indeed. How does your hand feel?"
"It's... It's okay. It's not hurting me."
Even kneeling, she is still significantly taller than you. There's a certain... Pressure to it all. Of her leaning in and bearing down on you, of holding your arm out limply for her, and of being roped into putting on a performance with her, for no one other than yourselves, that makes you want to just cave. You don't care about any of this. You need to... There's something that you need to do, you're starting to feel, but you can't confidently say that you know what it is. You tell yourself that you're just remembering how badly you need to get out of here... But that doesn't feel quite right.
"That's good, then. If it's not hurting you, then perhaps it would be best to just let things run their course. Your body, more often than not, can tell what's best for it, can't it?"
"...Yeah," you say, speaking before realizing what you were agreeing to. She had characterized the vines around your hand as 'your body's reaction to a common house-weed attack,' and suggested that you simply let it be. You hadn't thought about it, but you had just given her consent to keep her vines wrapped around your hand as they were. Did she really have to do all this just for an excuse to keep holding your hand? You ask yourself how you would have responded if she had simply asked... But that is, in effect, asking yourself if you want her to hold your hand. You imagine how it would feel for her vines to retreat, to leave you bare, and you can imagine only that it would feel cold and... And lonely. You would want to say yes, and allow her to keep it, but... That doesn't mean that you would. Most likely... You would tell yourself that to do such a thing would be to give her too much leeway with you. It would be a boundary that you could not allow yourself to allow her to cross.
...So she didn't ask you outright. She didn't make you face the burden of choice, so that you wouldn't have to worry about something like responsibility, so that you wouldn't choose something that made you unhappy. You can't possibly believe for sure that she knew you would walk yourself through it like this, but... After having done so, you can't help but feel like this was all an elaborate lesson in submission. A case for why you should... Should simply... Go along with her. An example of how she knows, better than you do, what would really make you happy. You feel as though a spell has been cast on you, unable to break yourself from your contemplation. You are lucky that she does not have the patience to simply sit and watch for the rest of the day while you absentmindedly extend and retract the fingers of the hand that rests in her palm.
"Come on, petal, it's time for you to eat."
She grabs you by the waist, lifts you up, and sets you down on the table next to your breakfast. You look down to your right, and see it. A plate of pancakes in the shape of various extraterrestrial beasts, all of which look familiar to you, covered in sweet-smelling syrup that bleeds off and pools up around assorted berries and proteins. It's quite picturesque. But you can't... You're not done. You haven't moved on from what you were thinking about. Is that... Correct? Does she really know how to make you happy, better than you do? ...Of course she does. When has your own happiness ever been a priority for you? If it was at any time in the last two years, you have failed miserably at promoting it. She, on the other hand, comes from a society that is built from the ground up around the happiness of people like you. In terms of who could make you happier, there is no competition between the two of you. She takes note of the fact that you are still simply staring off into space, without making any attempt to touch the food that she had so kindly prepared for you--to make you happy.
She should... Know better than to disturb you. For all she knows, you might be...
She simply sets to slicing up the selection of sweets into smaller, bite-sized pieces herself. It's okay if you need a moment to process your feelings, she's implying. She'll take care of you regardless.
You feel... Grateful. You feel comforted. For once in your life, you won't be left behind if you need some time to think something over. That strange warmth that you had begun to feel seems to grow inside you. There's... A weight to it, as though someone were covering you in a blanket from the inside out. It's a strange feeling, but the weirdest part of it is that you aren't worried. You don't mind it. You might even go so far as to say you like it.
You open your mouth thoughtlessly as she brings a forkful of pancake (with a little berry stabbed onto the end!) to your lips. Inside it goes, and you close your mouth to hold it in as she withdraws the fork. It's only a second after the operation is complete, when the tastes begin to saturate your mouth, that you realize it happened at all. Your eyes focus on the person in front of you for the first time in a few long minutes, and it feels to you as if she had just popped up out of nowhere. You're so surprised that you forget to even start chewing, but the way in which she answers the shock on your face--with a smile so warmed with pride and satisfaction that you're in danger of melting right into it--helps you to settle yourself enough to regain control of your faculties. She looks so very curious about you... About what's going on inside you. You feel a tug in your heart, asking you to share it with her.
"Why... Why are you trying so hard? To make me happy? I don't understand."
A lilt of amusement creeps up the corner of her mouth. You seem to have asked her something incredibly juvenile.
"You must know why, petal. Have you never wanted to bring a beautiful flower to bloom?"
"N-No, but..."
You still understand the metaphor. She thinks... She thinks that you're beautiful. Your insides curl in on themselves as you process that, your lungs tense and feel as though they crumple. It's... Embarrassing, but up here, sat where you are, there's nowhere to hide. You can't even turn around with your legs dangling off the table. Your only defense against her compliment is to tear your gaze away.
She's not doing it for you, then. That's easier to swallow than the idea of this much flat-out altruism being dedicated solely to you. No, she's doing this because... Because she thinks you're beautiful. Because she thinks there's a flower inside you that she can bring to bloom. You don't see it, but... If she can, then you can't say she's just imagining it, either. You're not an expert on flowers, or people, or yourself.
You open your mouth in response to the approach of another forkful of food, but feel a strong compulsion to shut it and grab the fork yourself. You're capable of feeding yourself. ...But you don't. She's... Enjoying feeding you like this. You don't want to take that away from her, and you know that it would only be a chore to you. Just a chore. You don't really... Care, about taking care of yourself, do you? In what world would it make sense to deny her something she enjoys so much just so that you can be miserable forcing yourself to do it on your own--if you do it at all? It... It doesn't make sense. It would bother you to let that happen, it makes so little sense. She had been holding the fork in place at the entrance to your mouth after seeing you start to move, but now you move in a different way. You lean forward to take it for yourself, and complete the motion of transferring it to your mouth all on your own. You're so bothered by the idea inside you that you should cut her out and do it on your own that you can't help but feel compelled to actively refute it. You will help her feed you, damn it. You will help her, and maybe... Just maybe, you might come to feel some of the joy she feels in taking care of you. You might be able to understand why it matters at all.
She smiles at you, a small amount of surprise evident on her face, and the sight of it sets something alight inside you. The small flame of fierce resistance against your own drive to make yourself miserable grows in the presence of her pride, and you feel... Good. You did something good. Not something responsible. Not something that made you a little less disappointed with yourself. Something good, something that felt like it mattered, something that made the world you share with her just a little bit brighter. She wants to make you bloom, and for the first time, you think you understand what that means. With a smile on your face, you chew up and swallow down what you had taken, and look at her in silent expectation for the next round.
You two continue on like this until the plate is empty, with her loading the fork, presenting it to you, and you eagerly accepting its bounty from her. Occasionally, you think--about what you should say to her, in light of the new feelings you've developed, or of what your plans are now, now that your outlook on certain things has changed--but you don't dwell on those topics for long. You are satisfied enough with the perfect little moment you've found yourself sharing with her, and you don't want anything to interrupt or sour it. You can say all that you need to with your face, which she seems to be quite the expert at reading, or by letting your legs swing back and forth under the table. You just wish there was some way you could express yourself with your arms.
Once the last bite has been bitten, you realize that it's time. You have completed your last task, and now, all that remains of what you had planned to do is to say goodbye.
You cannot bring yourself to do it.
You sit there, the phantoms of words you do not want to speak stuck in your mouth. Your legs stop swinging. Your gaze falls away from your very special friend. She had provided you with ample time to decide what you want... To come to a healthy conclusion about bla bla bla, but you had spent all of it simply avoiding the question and... Enjoying the time you had with her.
That must be an answer, in and of itself.
You can tell her goodbye; that you are grateful for her care but have no further need of it. In that case, you will go back to your house and return to a life you do not want. You will slowly acclimatize back into your old habits until everything she's done for you may have never happened at all, and you will never be anything more than a sad, pained burnout. Or, you can ask her,
"...What are we doing next?"
And watch as an injector that you didn't notice floating in your blind spot returns to its place inside her body. Ah. She was never going to let you leave, then. She probably only let you wake up sober this morning so she could watch you reason your independence away all on your own. Because her position--that you would be happier if you were hers, and you should let her have you--is the correct one, and she had faith in your ability to puzzle that out. She knew that, somewhere under the haze of pain and exhaustion that had grown thicker every time you met, you were a rational, logical person, who could find and accept the truth of things. So she let you wake up with your mind unmolested, and held a celebration of your own cleverness that you are only now recognizing as such.
She is ridiculous, and you think you love her. Your hypothesis is confirmed as soon as she grabs you again, lifting you up to cradle you in her arm. You stare up at her, gradually coming aware of how fast your heart has begun to beat in your chest.
"I am taking you to the vet, my darling. One good morning is not enough to recover from a lifetime of damage. Perhaps, if you had been kinder to yourself before giving yourself over to me, we could be spending more time alone. Such are the prices we pay, however~"
You ignore all but a single word.
My.
"...Can I choose my collar?"