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The sound of the door closing is what jolts Espio out of his reverie, in the end.
Or, well. It doesn’t close so much as it violently slams shut, causing the house walls to shake threateningly from floor to ceiling and breaking the chameleon’s painstakingly gained concentration in a single sweep. He groans in frustration, tipping his head back and silently praying for patience, and then turns towards the entryway as he opens his eyes, trying to keep his annoyance in check.
“Come on, Charmy, we just fixed the roof, you don’t have to try and take it down again every time you-“
The words die in his throat as he registers the figure standing nervously before him, too tall by far to be a six year old menace and definitely not flying around all a-buzz. “Uh.”
“Sorry,” Belle pipes up, in a squeaky, uncertain tone of voice. “I- my hand slipped. I didn’t want to startle you.”
“It’s alright.” It’s a lame attempt at backtracking, especially given his previous, clearly irritated declarations, but he’s at loss as to what else he should say.
It’s not that he doesn’t know how to speak to Belle – he does, and perfectly well at that, thank you very much. She’s a far less bothersome interlocutor than some other people he lives with, for one, less likely to interrupt him or flutter away mid-conversation, and she’s not nearly as dumb as her Restoration HQ fame painted her to be. She would make for fine company to anyone inviting her in their house, she would.
Except- there lies the catch, at least as far as Espio is concerned. This is his house, true enough, and though he didn’t get a say in whether Belle would be welcome to temporarily make herself at home in it, there she has been for the past couple weeks, bunking in Charmy’s glorified broom closet of a room and trying and failing to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. He has every right to feel somewhat miffed, he thinks, particularly now that she’s cut his meditation short with her clumsiness.
Still, it’d be in poor taste to bring it up to her, now or later. She’s just a kid, and all she’s done she did in good faith, not thinking (or, in some cases, overthinking) whether it would cause trouble or not. He’d find a much worthier target for his anger in Vector, if he so wished, because Vector’s the one who can’t resist opening their door to people in need, even when said door had been torn off its hinges by Zombots mere months ago and still creaks ominously when it rains, but Vector is God knows where right now, and Belle can’t be blamed for the crocodile’s penchant for taking in strays left and right.
However, that doesn’t leave Espio with many options as to what to do with her, having ruled out the possibility of making a scene. He fumbles with his words for a moment, and then finds himself raising an eyebrow in puzzlement, once he finally registers the state she’s in. “What happened to your hair?”
Belle ducks her head, clearly embarrassed. She’d blush if her body were capable of that sort of thing, like as not, and some orange strands fall forward to cover her eyes, hiding her expression from the chameleon’s questioning stare. “Uh, yeah, that. Charmy and Cream wanted to try and style it. I was going to fix it while they were busy with something else.”
No wonder she wants to fix it, Espio thinks, perhaps a tad unkindly. What she has on her head can hardly be granted the title of hairstyle – it’s a mess of tangles and stray tufts, sticking upright or falling in uneven waves down the girl’s back every time she moves. She tries to tug at one of the locks that have landed on her cheek, squirming under his gaze, but the gesture doesn’t mark much of an improvement, and in fact seems to make the situation even worse.
By rights, Espio should limit himself to nodding in understanding and waving her off, leaving Belle to mind her business as he returns to his own. She’s still reeling from the way he’s reacted to her entrance, blatantly enough, and he definitely has better things to do than interfere in whatever shenanigans Charmy has enacted since Cream came over to play with him. It’s a non-negotiable issue, at least from his point of view.
But she does make for a pitiful sight, he has to admit, standing there like that. And he supposes he might be feeling a little guilty for having snapped at her so harshly. Whatever the reason, his mouth is opening before he can so much as stage a protest, and he hears himself say, without even the barest hint of hesitation: “Do you want some help?”
Belle rears back, blinking in mild shock. “I- no, it’s okay, really. I can do it myself. And you’re busy anyway, I don’t want to bother you.”
“I’m not that busy.” Some part of Espio already regrets holding out this particular hand, but the puppet capable of making him go back on his word has not been born yet. “And it’ll be easier, looking at it from the outside.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am. Come on, you look a mess, and those two are going to come asking for you any moment now.”
He doesn’t put near as much heat as he should in those words, and yet she still seems hesitant, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt as if she truly needed to consider her options. Espio bristles briefly at the sight – he’s hardly offered to take her for a stroll along the edge of a volcano, for God’s sake. It’s just hair. His fine motor skills are most likely above Cream’s, and definitely better than anything Charmy or Vector, who are usually the ones to lend her a hand when she’s in some predicament, could hope to offer her.
But perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised, he realizes once the sudden wave of disappointment has washed over him and left. It’s not like he’s been all that warm and welcoming towards her, after all. In fact, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s done his best to avoid spending time alone with her, and only ever tends to speak directly to her if it’s strictly necessary. It’s understandable that she would be wary of getting any closer, relaxed and unassuming as he might appear while sitting cross-legged on their dingy couch, and that she’d rather not turn her back to him without any sort of insurance policy. It’s a smart move, truth be told, one Espio could appreciate in any other situation but this.
Still, she appears to overcome her indecisiveness after a few moments, and then crosses the room to huddle on the floor before him, swiftly, very swiftly, as if afraid she’ll change her mind if she stops. “Alright. Thank you.”
Espio’s stunned by the sudden change of pace that his brain only draws blanks for a good thirty seconds, almost forgetting what he’s offered to do to begin with. But even that dissipates as quickly as it came, and he leans forward to start undoing the mess the younger two children have created, shaking his head to clear his mind.
He doesn’t say a word, in the beginning. He likes the house this quiet – quiet is what he’d been striving forth in the first place, after all, and he needs all the concentration he can get when approaching a task like the one at hand, which requires careful hands and careful eyes, not to mention an endless amount of patience. The silence is almost complete, save for the occasional childish screech filtering in from one of the windows, and even Belle seems to enjoy it, absentmindedly picking at a thread in the lace of her dress instead of trying to strike up a conversation.
It's clear, however, that she’s still entirely too nervous about the whole ordeal to truly relax. Her back’s stiff as a board, and she keeps sneaking tense little glances at him, maybe thinking he won’t notice if she turns away quickly enough. It’s vaguely amusing, admittedly, but Espio’s not so cruel as to put her through such discomfort any longer than necessary, and he has some words of wisdom to offer her, besides. Really, she ought to do better, if she plans to stay at the agency indefinitely.
“You shouldn’t let them push you around like that,” he ventures, therefore, combing through a particularly stubborn knot with his fingers. “You can walk away if they’re bothering you.”
Belle shrugs, though she’s careful not to disturb his work. “It’s alright. It was not a bother. They just wanted to play with me. I get it, you know- it’s like having a life-sized toy, really.”
A stray stab of fury starts needling at the back of Espio’s brain, not directed at her, but at the casual, dismissive resignation in her voice. “You’re not a toy. You’re playing with them, and they can take no for an answer. And you have my permission to kick Charmy’s butt if he doesn’t.”
Surprisingly, she giggles, a surprising, if still uncertain sound. “Vector said the exact same thing.”
“He did, didn’t he.”
“It’s okay, though. I promise. It’s…kind of what I do anyway. Make kids happy. It was the same back when- back when I lived in Windmill Village, that is. I always had kids around.”
You’re just a kid, too, Espio thinks, but he bites his tongue before he can say it aloud. It’s not often that she mentions her life before Mr. Tinker’s untimely demise, not even when she’s with Vector, who clearly has a way with her, and he doesn’t want to startle her now that she’s dared open up some. “Do you miss it? The village?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, long enough that he begins to think she won’t respond. Then she clears her throat and murmurs: “Sometimes. Some- some parts of it.”
He hums in what he hopes is an encouraging fashion. He doesn’t like the sad, wistful tone her words have taken, not one bit, and though he has no business prying, nor was he expecting himself to make the attempt in the first place, he finds himself wondering what she might say next, surprisingly, gloomly eager to know more about these things she so rarely talks about.
As predicted, the silent acceptance seems to encourage her, and after a beat she picks up where she’d left off, even braving a higher volume of voice.
“It’s just…I liked it, there. Before- before everything. I liked the village and, and my house, and I liked the people that lived there. They used to like me, too. They’d let me hang out with the other children. And then they just…stopped. They didn’t trust me anymore. I don’t like thinking about that part.”
“They were scared,” Espio mutters. He’s not 100% sure it’s the right thing to say, but he feels he ought to offer some solidarity towards her, or some reason, at least. He’s good at being the voice of reason. More than at heartfelt conversations, he’d wager. “They weren’t thinking straight. It was a bad time, after we defeated the virus.”
“I know.” Belle curls even further into herself, pulling her knees to her chest. “I’m not mad at them. And they weren’t wrong, anyway. I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t a real girl, and I was made by him, besides. I can see why they wouldn’t trust me.”
And what can Espio respond to that, really? She’s right. There’s nothing about her that would make anyone believe that she’s made of flesh and blood. She doesn’t need to eat or sleep like the rest of them, though she makes herself do both from time to time, as not to feel left out. She doesn’t feel the cold as keenly as a normal girl would, or any change in weather, really, and the hair he’s trying to coax into a passable braid is as artificial as it gets, coarse and difficult to tame. That her creation came at the hands of Eggman is merely the cherry on top, truth be told.
But it still nags at him, this passive acceptance of her fate. Part of him wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she can judge for herself that her wooden exterior can be useful, and not just a burden. The other part, the one that tends to prevail in most occasions, wants to kick himself for bringing up the topic in the first place – even if it’s not strictly true, in hindsight. He can tell she’s been bottling up this kind of thoughts for a while; the signs are all there, the relief poorly concealed under the robot’s reticence, the stricken look on her face that betrays just how much she’d have rather not said a single word.
Espio would know. He’s the leading expert in swallowing down bile and pretending it isn’t burning his throat down, as far as he’s concerned.
Unbidden, his thoughts go back to the first days of the virus. They don’t do so very often: he’s very careful not to let his mind wander too far back, not even in his sleep, from which he usually wakes up in a cold sleep rather than enduring more nightmares. The images are too vivid, even now that quite some time has passed – the empty, eerily silent cities they’d move through, the cold inhospitality of the bases they’d camp in, even the last frantic hours, where they were fighting more often than they were cowering in fear.
He pictures having to go through that without the few other survivors at his back. He pictures being utterly, completely anyone, left behind in a ghost town without even the shaky goal of getting Charmy and Vector back, and then having himself be rejected by them after waiting months for their return. The mere idea sends a brief shiver down his spine, and he’s got a tough hide, hardened by a long time spent fighting various mad men. He can’t imagine how Belle must have felt, young and frightened as she was.
That’s in the past, he reminds himself sternly. They’re safe. His family is safe. Even this strange, desperate puppet girl is safe – he could prod at her wooden limbs some to prove it, if sinking his fingers in her scalp weren’t enough to ground him. He should make sure they both remember how lucky they are, to have someone willing to welcome them with open arms.
“I don’t know why those people acted like that,” he begins, slowly, with as much care as he can conjure up. “I can’t imagine what they must have gone through. But, listen to me- they were wrong. They shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
He hears gasp. “But-“
“No buts. They should have trusted you to be like you’d always bene. And I get that it hurts- that was your home, I’d be surprised if it didn’t hurt. But it’s not the end of the world. There are people who care about you here, and who trust you to do the right thing and not follow Eggman’s lead. Tangle and Jewel trust you. Vector and Charmy trust you. I trust you.”
There is a brief pause. Then, to his surprise, she snorts in open disbelief, causing him to frown.
“What? Did I say something funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just- you don’t like me much, so…”
That catches him off-guard, if nothing else. “I do. Like you, I mean. I have nothing against you.”
“But you don’t want me around, right?” Belatedly, she seems to realize what she’s said, and makes as if to flee, jerking forward abruptly. “I- Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, really, that was uncalled for, I-“
Espio sighs, feeling guilt clench at his insides. Of course she thinks that. What did he expect? That watching him turn the cold shoulder for ten days and counting would leave her unfazed, that she would carry on as if nothing were wrong? They share a house, now, and Belle hardly goes past the end of the backyard if there isn’t a good reason for it. It’d be difficult for her to ignore his behavior, even if it were subtle in any way.
“I’m sorry,” he says, lightly tugging at the nearly-finished braid so that she will lean back once more, and oh, doesn’t it smart at him to say that, but he can’t avoid it, this time.
Nor does he particularly want to, truth be told.
“I have nothing against you,” he repeats, sounding more convincing even to his own ears. “What Vector said was right- our door is always open to everyone who needs help. You needed help. I’m glad you could find it here.”
“But?”
“But nothing. I just have a hard time adjusting to changes. Ask anyone. You haven’t done anything wrong. Charmy’s far more trouble than you are, and we’ve kept him around all this time. You’ll do fine.”
And he means that, every single word. He’s mistrustful by nature and suspicious by trade, and contrary to what people say about chameleons, it takes him longer than reason would have it to adapt to a new environment. Even Vector, who is arguably the person he trusts the most in the entire world, had to poke and prod a long while before he managed to dig through the walls Espio had carefully constructed around himself, though in cases like this the crocodile almost makes him want to get some bricks and rebuild them from scratch. It’s not like he leaves the door open for anyone who wants to take a stroll in his general vicinity.
But he thinks he can put in the effort, for this odd little girl. Vector was right: she needs a stable place to live, and people in her corner who won’t dump her at the first sign of trouble. The Chaotix have always been just that, for anyone desperate enough to come knocking – the fact that she was an unexpected arrival shouldn’t make any difference, and it won’t. He won’t let it, so long as he can push some nasty thoughts in the dusty corner where they belong.
Another stretch of silence, longer this time, more pensive. Then Belle says, in a small, tentative voice: “Does that mean I can stay?”
Espio’s heart doesn’t quite break, because it’s made of much sterner stuff than that, but it does crack ever so slightly. “Do you want to stay?”
“I…Yeah, I do. I like it here. I like sharing with Charmy, and he says it gets lively when you guys have a case. I want to see that.” She turns ever so slightly, enough for him to catch her small grin. “And I like you and Vector too. You’ve been nice to me. No one except Tangle has been so nice, since…since my father.”
Nice is not a word Espio would use in this particular situation, but neither is lively, so he supposes he’ll give her a pass. “Then it’s settled. You’re free to leave whenever you’re ready, but you can stay as long as you need, too. We don’t mind the company.”
He fishes out one of the ribbons he’s untangled from Cream and Charmy’s creation and begins winding it at the end of the braid. “It has to be your choice, though. Wherever you decide to go, whatever you decide to do, if someone’s treating you like dirt, you can leave or give them a piece of your mind, but it has to be up to you. And that includes us three.”
He smooths down his finished work, only stopping for a moment to check that everything’s in order before nudging her lightly in the shoulder. “There. All done.”
Belle’s hand raises almost dazedly, the fingers skimming along the edge of the braid. “Oh, that’s great,” she breathes, awe dripping from every word.
She stands up, swiveling around to beam at him, bright and wide. “Thank you, Espio!”
“You’re welcome.” It’s hard not to return the grin, as it is to wipe off his face once she leaves – the genuine, infectious burst of joy lingers with him even once she’s left to join the younger children again, her new updo trailing after her as she scampers off.
Espio remains there, smiling faintly to himself like a loon. It’s as if something warm and soft and comfortable had just taken residence in his chest – it’s not just the sudden change in atmosphere that has gotten to him, but something else as well, something he can’t entirely name just yet. Maybe it’s that he’s been left alone with his thoughts once again, though he can hear the chatter outside the window grow louder just outside the door. Maybe it’s because he knows that not only Belle’s words weren’t just referring to the braid, but neither did his own.
He finds that he doesn’t particularly care to find out, all in all.
“You’re very, very welcome.”