Chapter Text
The Host didn’t particularly enjoy company. When someone was nearby, he got a scratch at the back of his mind. His fingers would itch to type out the story his brain would concoct. His mind would always flash back to that dark room he was abandoned in during these times. To when he lost control of himself and took control of others. So, for fear of hurting one of the other egos or guests, he kept to himself.
The only people he did interact with, through necessity more often than not, were Darkiplier - who often had to demand he attend meetings with the others - and the good Doctor Iplier. Though, he only allowed the doctor to help him when the Host couldn’t help himself.
Today, he could not help himself.
He woke up frantically describing everything around him, biting his tongue when he felt the names of others on his lips. He would rather not drag anybody else into this. Instead, he locked himself up in his room - a bare space with a desk and its own chair, a typewriter, a waste bin, and an armchair. A few of his old best sellers sat unacknowledged in the corner. The good Doctor, his only source of help in this tormented state, was out, doing god knows what. If he let his mind wander, he could almost feel where the ego was - but he elected not to think on the topic too long.
His plan worked, for the most part. Nobody truly ever sought out the Host unless there was a meeting or another urgent matter to attend to. That is, until, a guest to the Manor began knocking on his door.
For the last few weeks, Wilford had been bringing along a new intern. The Host was unaware of this fact until he entered the kitchen one late night for a glass of water and narrated your presence. Since then, you hadn’t shied away from him, but you also hadn’t actively sought him out.
More often than not, the two of you would simply happen upon each other. You would be taking a break from Wilford’s antics, catching your breath from following the interviewer everywhere, and find yourself in a secluded corner of the Manor or the surrounding grounds where the Host liked to hide. Or he would be dragged into another meeting and find himself narrating your presence next to Wilford, anxiously making sure he didn’t pull his gun when the egos inevitably refused another one of his wild ideas. Neither of you spoke much to each other, simply existing in each other’s presence comfortably.
Knock knock knock.
“Host? I didn’t see you at lunch.” His mouth narrated your thoughts that he hadn’t been at dinner either before you had a chance to say it. He bit his tongue to shut himself up from saying anything more. “And you weren’t at dinner. I just wanted to check if you were alright.”
Fine , he wanted to say. You had a very kind nature, and the egos all enjoyed your presence. He didn’t wish to upset you and get on everyone else’s bad side. But, his mind couldn’t just will his mouth to shut up.
“The Host is struggling with his narrative abilities today. He asks that Y/N not come in or worry.”
It was quiet outside the door. He could feel your thoughts on his tongue, prodding at his mind. He could feel your worry through the door.
He sighed.
“The Host crosses the room and opens the door. Y/N is just outside. They look concerned,” he narrated. He tilted his head, brows furrowing over his blindfold. “ ‘Concerned’ ?” It was an adjective he hadn’t been expecting.
“Host, you’re bleeding .”
He didn’t have time to process your statement before you were making your way into his room. He could hear you opening drawers at his desk, looking for the emergency medical kit each room was equipped with. (Orders from the Doctor, of course.) Sure enough, when he reached up and touched his blindfold, it was soaked through. The warm, stickiness of blood latched onto his fingers.
He heard your command in his head before you said it out loud. Sit down. He shut the door, making his way to one of the armchairs.
“Sit down, Host.” You had the kit open on his desk by his typewriter, grabbing bandages and gauze. When you turned to the armchair, he was already sitting in it. His hands were set on his thighs and he was seemingly looking forward at the wall.
“The Host can take care of himself.”
You scoffed, almost offended by his remark. “I’m sure you can, but does it really hurt to let someone else help you?”
He tilted his head, covered eyes pointed toward the wall behind you. Despite your insistence on helping him, you still had not approached the chair he sat in. You were waiting for approval.
“The Host gives Y/N permission to help.” He couldn’t shut his mouth fast enough before he was narrating, “At the Host’s approval, Y/N smiles. They step forward with determination and-” He shut his mouth with a great effort, teeth grit together. “He apologizes for his narration. He does not wish to take away Y/N’s sense of free will on accident in this state.”
You knew very little about the Host, to be honest. Wilford had brushed off your concerns when you asked about him, offhandedly remarking that the ego was an author and liked to be alone. The Host was always reclusive and isolated, and no one seemed to worry much for him. If anything, Dark seemed the most concerned when the Host was late to meetings or hiding all day, but he never showed it. The most he did to combat his worries was to send you in his place to ask after the ego. After all, if something was happening, Dark had to be in the know.
You pushed your rampant thoughts of the ego aside and focused on the matter at hand. Setting the gauze and bandages on the arm of the chair, you hesitated to remove his blindfold, even after he gave his permission. Perhaps sensing your uncertainty, he leaned his head forward in your direction. This gave you plenty of room to untie the cloth.
You hadn’t expected what awaited you underneath. His eyes were, well, missing. Scars of what appeared to be scratch marks littered the area around his sockets. The empty sockets stared from behind his eyelids; gaping wounds, oozing blood like tears.
“How did this happen?” you found yourself asking before your mind had time to catch up with your mouth. “I mean- You don’t have to tell me. It’s just… Doesn’t it hurt?”
The Host had to think on that question for a moment. Did it hurt? Could he even feel the pain anymore? As you began to tenderly dab at his eyes - or lack thereof - with the gauze, he hummed. “He does not know. The Host has adjusted to living like this for so long, he does not register the pain as any more than a dull throbbing.”
The way you so carefully wiped blood off his cheeks, away from the creases and folds of his eyelids, had his shoulders relaxing. Doctor Iplier was never this gentle. When he cleaned his wounds, he was rough and mechanical in the way only a doctor could be, spouting medical nonsense as he did so.
Instead, your softness had his head tilting back to allow you better access to his wounds, and more than once he had to force his eyelids from falling closed in relaxation. They shot open to stare at nothing when he felt the unmistakable touch of fingertips brushing along the scars around his eyes.
“If I could, I would kiss away all of your scars,” you whispered, soft as a mouse.
He wasn’t even sure if you were aware of your statement. But there you lingered, tracing his marred skin. It was only once your fingers brushed too close to his sockets that he flinched, and you pulled back, startled out of your revelry.
You stammered out apologies as you grabbed the bandages from the arm of the chair and began bandaging his eyes. He almost missed the feeling of your fingers on his old wounds.
“There,” you breathed out a moment later, stepping away as though being too close to him would burn you. “All done. The bleeding seems to have stopped, so, that’s good.”
He hadn’t even noticed. His mind, the voice that creeped out of the deepest wrinkles of his brain, was quiet. He no longer felt his vocal chords lurching out commentary and commands, nor did he feel the need to.
“The Host thanks Y/N for their help.”
You chuckled lightly, awkwardly. You didn’t wish to admit that you had enjoyed the experience perhaps more than you should have. After all, he had been bleeding and struggling with whatever abilities he possessed when you got here. It felt wrong to enjoy him at his most vulnerable.
“Yeah, of course, anytime.” You gathered the used up gauze and what was left unused of the roll of bandages, busying yourself cleaning up and putting everything away in the kit. “I mean, not anytime , because I’m sure it’s not a great experience for you, but, like, anytime you need help I’d be happy to.”
He hummed, but said nothing. For once, he did not feel the need to fill the silence in the slightest.
“Uhm, your blindfold is kinda…”
“The Host asks them not to worry on his behalf. He has plenty of extras due to situations like this.”
You nodded, but realized quickly he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll just… throw it out then.”
He listened as you moved around his desk. The crinkle of the plastic trash bag as you threw away everything bloody told him that you were on the side of his desk furthest from the armchair he sat in.
You stood awkwardly by the desk for a moment afterwards. “I should go.” You didn’t know what else to say to leave him here in the safety of his barren room. And the Host did not seem to make any arguments as he followed your footsteps making their way toward the door.
He sensed your hand touch the knob, heard it from the voice deep inside his brain, and felt his heart lurch at the same time. “Please stay,” he suddenly called out. His heart hammered anxiously against his chest. He cursed himself for succumbing to his lonely desires, but he had never been treated so softly before. “The Host would like some company.”
His mind suddenly felt quite loud once again as he waited for any response. His head tilted and turned to try to hear better, understand what was going on around him better. He stilled when he heard footsteps approaching once again. The unmistakable sound of his chair being pulled out from under the desk sounded next, along with the creaking of wood as you sat down in it.
“Okay.” His anxiety faded once more at your gentle presence. “I’ll stay.”