Okay, here goes nothing! There's no sex in this but there will be some darker themes later on (references to trollfighting and serious injuries in the past.) I'll warn for them again when they come up.
---
As you pick your way through the living room, stepping over the shredded remains of your favorite book and kicking aside some fluff from a pillow you'd just bought to replace the last one, you decide that you've very nearly had enough of this.
It's not that you expected owning a troll to be easy. All of the owners on the memos you frequent told you that it could be fun and rewarding, but that you had to be careful with them, treat them well and make absolutely sure that they knew you cared about them all the time, one way or the other. They didn't have to like you, but they had to know you felt something about them, or else they'd just get moody and then really bad things could happen. They'd stressed that you especially had to be careful with the ones you found at the society shelters, because they'd usually been through several owners who hadn't cared. And you'd taken all of that to heart and decided that you were going to be careful - maybe try to find one of those adorable little grubs, or even a cute purple seadweller slug that you could keep in the pool in the back yard. It's not as if you ever use it; you're a thousand miles away from most of your friends, since Janey had to up and move for her new job. Somebody might as well get some use out of it! Sure, you'd have to find the right mix to fill it with, and cover it when it rained, but hey, you're getting good money for your tech skills, so why not use it?
And then you saw Gamzee, almost too tall for his room and happily fingerpainting on his walls, and you finally knew what troll owners mean when they say that they fell in love. It's not quite like falling in love with a human - you've done that a couple of times before, or thought you did, and it's kind of like losing control, which is something you don't particularly enjoy doing unless booze is involved. Really, the only time it ever felt right was with Janey, but she's your best friend and now she's living halfway across the country and you're not sure telling her would do any good now.
But that's another story. This story is about you and Gamzee. And with him it was just complete serendipity, or at least that's what you thought at first. You went in hoping to look at grubs, and they said that first they'd like you to look at the older trolls, the ones who had a bunch of sweeps on them and still didn't have anyone, okay? And you said sure, fine, expecting to see a bunch of sad-faced teenagers with surly frowns and eyes just beginning to change color. Not that you didn't understand - they wanted to get rid of the older ones before someone decided there was something wrong with them, and they ended up culled - but you just wanted to get it over with, so that you could see the adorable little grubs with their waggily antenna, and pick out the prettiest one.
And that was when you saw him for the first time, face painted up almost as much as his walls, a big clownish smile on his face, looking back at you over his shoulder and just beaming at how you admired his work. That was when you knew that you had to have him. You just had to take him home and get him a room where he could paint on his walls to his heart's content. He was just so goofy, so adorable. You agreed to take him home right then and there.
The agency gave you a bunch of paperwork to sign (that you didn't really read) and a history of his life (which you took but figured you'd look at it later, because really, he was so sweet and there couldn't possibly be any problems, could there?) You had to deal with all of that before they let him out, hands tied up in the usual harness so that he couldn't cause any trouble before you got him home, wearing an indigo collar with shiny new tags. It had his name on it; they'd told you the name that his first owner had given him, and you had thought it was as cute as the rest of him, so you kept it. You'd let him keep his makeup, too.
He didn't say much as you drove him back home, until the very end - you had him harnessed in the back seat so that he couldn't do anything, couldn't move around too much. You've heard horror stories about new troll owners nearly crashing because their new pets kept moving around and clawing at the windows to try to escape. Some of them really hated cars; the scientists said it reminded them too much of the culling pods back home.
"Hey," he said as she was about to pull onto her street.
You grinned back at him. "Hi there, Gamzee," you answered. "You got something on your mind?"
"Not much, 'less you up and motherfuckin' count these miracle horns of mine," he said, his voice loopy and high and a bit rusty. He must not've talked much to the other trolls in the society's shelter.
Roxy laughed. "I knew I'd like you," she said.
"Huh," he said. "That mean this is for real? You're really gonna up and motherfuckin' take care of me?"
"Yes, Gamzee. Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm around. You're going to have your very own room and all the paint you want."
"Wow," he said, grinning. "How about Faygo? Any sweet Faygo up in there?"
"I'll buy some for you!" you answered. So that's why they keep stocking soda in pet stores! It's all starting to come together now. "Whatever flavor you want."
"Fuckin' beautiful," he said with a lazy grin. He was tall, almost too tall for your car - his horns were scraping the lining of the roof, and you were afraid he'd scratch them if he tried to move too much, but so far he'd been good about it - which meant that he had to slouch forward a lot - but even then he looked like he was the most comfortable troll in the world. "You're a fuckin' miracle, you know that? All kinds of motherfuckin' miracles all up in here."
You'll have to get him to watch his mouth in public if you want to take him out, or only take him to places where you're sure it won't be a problem. But that's a little thing, and you'll handle it later. "We have all kinds of miracles at my place," you say brightly. "It'll be great!"
"Aw, yeah. I can't motherfucking wait."
---
That had been three months ago, and you've already had to replace five different pieces of furniture. Five! You make good money, but not that good. You can't afford to buy five tasteful pieces of home decor in three months; you're having to make do with a temporary loveseat for a while, because really, who cares about the loveseat? Well, you do, obviously, but it's hardly ever used, so it's easy enough to hide under sheeting for a while until you can get a proper replacement.
It's not just the furniture, either. Gamzee's been acting up for a little over two months now, and he always ends up doing it when you're not there to watch him. You can't lock him anywhere, because he's strong enough to break the locks - or the doors, whichever give first, so he just goes where he pleases. You buy him toys and games to play but nothing helps. He's shredded and painted in your favorite books, eaten you out of house and home, and left Faygo spilled all over the carpet. You try to keep it clean, but it's starting to stain a little and it's bothering you. You're lucky that Frigglish is gone, or else Gamzee would've terrorized him too, or worse!
It's just really weird! When you're home, he's completely different from what he used to be, a sweet and diffident little guy who never talks above a whisper; he still fingerpaints, but he never talks about miracles anymore, and his creations are nowhere near as bright and colorful as they were back in the shelter. When you're not... well, you tried hiring a professional troll-sitter before to watch the house while you worked and try to keep Gamzee calm. What ended up happening was that the man came out as soon as you pulled into the garage, slightly clawed and really bruised up, and told you that you needed to keep anything even remotely club-like out of the house, and that your troll had the worst damned case of separation anxiety that he'd ever seen and he felt really damn sorry for you.
You gave him extra, of course. You didn't want him reporting anything to the society; they could be such hard-asses sometimes. And you haven't gotten any unusual calls from them, so apparently he's kept quiet. That's good news, at least.
Separation anxiety. You turn the phrase over and over in your head as you hunt for Gamzee. You've heard it before - you've owned cats before, used to take care of quite a few of them, although Frigglish was the only one you really considered yours before his tragic death. The others were mostly foster cases, and you at least managed to get most of them good homes before you moved. But they'd all had each other, so it hadn't been nearly as bad. It's different with Gamzee; if he'd just needed company he would've been fine with the pet-sitter. It seems like it's you that he wants with him.
You find him crouching in a currently untouched corner of his painting room, head in his hands. He's still shaking, which means that he's not nearly as contrite as he looks - if anything he's panicking over what he's done and whether or not you'll still want him there. It's happening so much lately, and you're so tired of this. You had a moment of wanting to kick him out, or to take him back to the shelter, when you first came in, but that's passed, now; you know you don't want him to go. You still think he's adorable, although you do miss how he was before; right now you just want to cuddle him and pet him and make him feel better. Later on you can try to figure out why this keeps happening.
You walk over to him very slowly - you know from past experience he might lash out if you're not careful - and gently pap him on the top of his head. "Gamzee," you say, "are you okay?"
"I messed up again," he says, voice wobbling. "I went off and messed everything up and I'm so sorry -"
He nods and doesn't say anything else, just sits there all curled up, and you're just... so sorry for the poor bastard that you don't know if you can think straight. You have to figure out a way to fix this, though, or else you're not going to be able to afford to keep him. There has to be something you can do.
You'll call the society tomorrow. They have to have dealt with this before, right? But for now you have to get him calmed down. Hopefully it won't take too long this time, and you can put him to bed in his slime-filled little pod, and you can get this mess cleaned up and get some sleep.
Oh, and a stiff drink. Or two. That needs to be in there somewhere.
Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 1/?)
There's no sex in this but there will be some darker themes later on (references to trollfighting and serious injuries in the past.) I'll warn for them again when they come up.
---
As you pick your way through the living room, stepping over the shredded remains of your favorite book and kicking aside some fluff from a pillow you'd just bought to replace the last one, you decide that you've very nearly had enough of this.
It's not that you expected owning a troll to be easy. All of the owners on the memos you frequent told you that it could be fun and rewarding, but that you had to be careful with them, treat them well and make absolutely sure that they knew you cared about them all the time, one way or the other. They didn't have to like you, but they had to know you felt something about them, or else they'd just get moody and then really bad things could happen. They'd stressed that you especially had to be careful with the ones you found at the society shelters, because they'd usually been through several owners who hadn't cared. And you'd taken all of that to heart and decided that you were going to be careful - maybe try to find one of those adorable little grubs, or even a cute purple seadweller slug that you could keep in the pool in the back yard. It's not as if you ever use it; you're a thousand miles away from most of your friends, since Janey had to up and move for her new job. Somebody might as well get some use out of it! Sure, you'd have to find the right mix to fill it with, and cover it when it rained, but hey, you're getting good money for your tech skills, so why not use it?
And then you saw Gamzee, almost too tall for his room and happily fingerpainting on his walls, and you finally knew what troll owners mean when they say that they fell in love. It's not quite like falling in love with a human - you've done that a couple of times before, or thought you did, and it's kind of like losing control, which is something you don't particularly enjoy doing unless booze is involved. Really, the only time it ever felt right was with Janey, but she's your best friend and now she's living halfway across the country and you're not sure telling her would do any good now.
But that's another story. This story is about you and Gamzee. And with him it was just complete serendipity, or at least that's what you thought at first. You went in hoping to look at grubs, and they said that first they'd like you to look at the older trolls, the ones who had a bunch of sweeps on them and still didn't have anyone, okay? And you said sure, fine, expecting to see a bunch of sad-faced teenagers with surly frowns and eyes just beginning to change color. Not that you didn't understand - they wanted to get rid of the older ones before someone decided there was something wrong with them, and they ended up culled - but you just wanted to get it over with, so that you could see the adorable little grubs with their waggily antenna, and pick out the prettiest one.
And that was when you saw him for the first time, face painted up almost as much as his walls, a big clownish smile on his face, looking back at you over his shoulder and just beaming at how you admired his work. That was when you knew that you had to have him. You just had to take him home and get him a room where he could paint on his walls to his heart's content. He was just so goofy, so adorable. You agreed to take him home right then and there.
The agency gave you a bunch of paperwork to sign (that you didn't really read) and a history of his life (which you took but figured you'd look at it later, because really, he was so sweet and there couldn't possibly be any problems, could there?) You had to deal with all of that before they let him out, hands tied up in the usual harness so that he couldn't cause any trouble before you got him home, wearing an indigo collar with shiny new tags. It had his name on it; they'd told you the name that his first owner had given him, and you had thought it was as cute as the rest of him, so you kept it. You'd let him keep his makeup, too.
He didn't say much as you drove him back home, until the very end - you had him harnessed in the back seat so that he couldn't do anything, couldn't move around too much. You've heard horror stories about new troll owners nearly crashing because their new pets kept moving around and clawing at the windows to try to escape. Some of them really hated cars; the scientists said it reminded them too much of the culling pods back home.
"Hey," he said as she was about to pull onto her street.
You grinned back at him. "Hi there, Gamzee," you answered. "You got something on your mind?"
"Not much, 'less you up and motherfuckin' count these miracle horns of mine," he said, his voice loopy and high and a bit rusty. He must not've talked much to the other trolls in the society's shelter.
Roxy laughed. "I knew I'd like you," she said.
"Huh," he said. "That mean this is for real? You're really gonna up and motherfuckin' take care of me?"
"Yes, Gamzee. Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm around. You're going to have your very own room and all the paint you want."
"Wow," he said, grinning. "How about Faygo? Any sweet Faygo up in there?"
"I'll buy some for you!" you answered. So that's why they keep stocking soda in pet stores! It's all starting to come together now. "Whatever flavor you want."
"Fuckin' beautiful," he said with a lazy grin. He was tall, almost too tall for your car - his horns were scraping the lining of the roof, and you were afraid he'd scratch them if he tried to move too much, but so far he'd been good about it - which meant that he had to slouch forward a lot - but even then he looked like he was the most comfortable troll in the world. "You're a fuckin' miracle, you know that? All kinds of motherfuckin' miracles all up in here."
You'll have to get him to watch his mouth in public if you want to take him out, or only take him to places where you're sure it won't be a problem. But that's a little thing, and you'll handle it later. "We have all kinds of miracles at my place," you say brightly. "It'll be great!"
"Aw, yeah. I can't motherfucking wait."
---
That had been three months ago, and you've already had to replace five different pieces of furniture. Five! You make good money, but not that good. You can't afford to buy five tasteful pieces of home decor in three months; you're having to make do with a temporary loveseat for a while, because really, who cares about the loveseat? Well, you do, obviously, but it's hardly ever used, so it's easy enough to hide under sheeting for a while until you can get a proper replacement.
It's not just the furniture, either. Gamzee's been acting up for a little over two months now, and he always ends up doing it when you're not there to watch him. You can't lock him anywhere, because he's strong enough to break the locks - or the doors, whichever give first, so he just goes where he pleases. You buy him toys and games to play but nothing helps. He's shredded and painted in your favorite books, eaten you out of house and home, and left Faygo spilled all over the carpet. You try to keep it clean, but it's starting to stain a little and it's bothering you. You're lucky that Frigglish is gone, or else Gamzee would've terrorized him too, or worse!
It's just really weird! When you're home, he's completely different from what he used to be, a sweet and diffident little guy who never talks above a whisper; he still fingerpaints, but he never talks about miracles anymore, and his creations are nowhere near as bright and colorful as they were back in the shelter. When you're not... well, you tried hiring a professional troll-sitter before to watch the house while you worked and try to keep Gamzee calm. What ended up happening was that the man came out as soon as you pulled into the garage, slightly clawed and really bruised up, and told you that you needed to keep anything even remotely club-like out of the house, and that your troll had the worst damned case of separation anxiety that he'd ever seen and he felt really damn sorry for you.
You gave him extra, of course. You didn't want him reporting anything to the society; they could be such hard-asses sometimes. And you haven't gotten any unusual calls from them, so apparently he's kept quiet. That's good news, at least.
Separation anxiety. You turn the phrase over and over in your head as you hunt for Gamzee. You've heard it before - you've owned cats before, used to take care of quite a few of them, although Frigglish was the only one you really considered yours before his tragic death. The others were mostly foster cases, and you at least managed to get most of them good homes before you moved. But they'd all had each other, so it hadn't been nearly as bad. It's different with Gamzee; if he'd just needed company he would've been fine with the pet-sitter. It seems like it's you that he wants with him.
You find him crouching in a currently untouched corner of his painting room, head in his hands. He's still shaking, which means that he's not nearly as contrite as he looks - if anything he's panicking over what he's done and whether or not you'll still want him there. It's happening so much lately, and you're so tired of this. You had a moment of wanting to kick him out, or to take him back to the shelter, when you first came in, but that's passed, now; you know you don't want him to go. You still think he's adorable, although you do miss how he was before; right now you just want to cuddle him and pet him and make him feel better. Later on you can try to figure out why this keeps happening.
You walk over to him very slowly - you know from past experience he might lash out if you're not careful - and gently pap him on the top of his head. "Gamzee," you say, "are you okay?"
"I messed up again," he says, voice wobbling. "I went off and messed everything up and I'm so sorry -"
"Shhh," she said. "Shh, shoosh. Don't cry anymore, okay? Don't cry."
He nods and doesn't say anything else, just sits there all curled up, and you're just... so sorry for the poor bastard that you don't know if you can think straight. You have to figure out a way to fix this, though, or else you're not going to be able to afford to keep him. There has to be something you can do.
You'll call the society tomorrow. They have to have dealt with this before, right? But for now you have to get him calmed down. Hopefully it won't take too long this time, and you can put him to bed in his slime-filled little pod, and you can get this mess cleaned up and get some sleep.
Oh, and a stiff drink. Or two. That needs to be in there somewhere.