049×035 oneshots

Cagebird

Technical prequel to 'A Bouquet of Pure Poison' in which the Foundation  dares fuck around with someone they shouldn't. AKA SCP-049 has a very bad few months

Warnings: Heavy Angst, Yelling, Toxicity, Prolonged Isolation, Mental/Emotional Strain, pining, very short singing portion (Just one chorus), repressed memory (trauma response), Positional Torture, Torture Via Prolonged Standing, Apologies/Making up, Hurt/Comfort, Drugging, Body Image Issues, Body Worship, Graphic Injury, Massages (non-sexual), Past sex, Implied/Referenced Sex, Attempted Drugged Sex, Possessive Mask Being Possessive, Possessive Mask Pampering the birb.

________

It all began with a mistake.

Of that, the Doctor was certain. It had been so good to see his old friend again, even with the blaring breach alarms that he had never so much as considered what might have been assumed.

But that was just the issue, was it not?

He'd done so much wrong. He'd made both his old friend and the research teams upset. All because he did not consider. 

The Plague Doctor had just finished a surgery and was working diligently on his documentation. The wall had started to melt. Not a common occurrence, but a familiar one. There were so many in this place that were prone to melting things that he hadn't done anything more than dip his quill back into the inkpot he'd fetched from his bag. A porcelain face that he knew well poked through the soon gaping hole in the steel, and then a greeting. He had not responded. He did not want to. It was difficult to keep all of his metaphorical ducks in a row even without the whitter of conversation. He did not ignore the mask. Such was rarely a good idea when it came to the heinous little goop creature he'd befriended so long ago. However, he did little more than wave his quill at the enthusiastic greeting he was given before he was right back to writing again, hurrying himself in the hopes that he might at least finish his sentence before the Mask butted in. 

"The chamber's open. Aren't you coming, Squawktor?" The mask had asked as though the gaping hole had not quite been obvious enough, grin widening further when the Doctor cringed at the heinous 'nickname.' 

He tapped his quill against his journal "Not today. I need to finish this."

"What?"

"Pardon?"

"The fuck do you mean 'not today?'"

That was mistake number one. He knew as much, and yet still doubled down, reiterating his desire to remain in his cell. There wasn't even a chance to defend his decision before the mask snapped, going from amicable if a little overexcited to fully furious in less than a second. He should have considered. Though his old friend was unserious at the best of times, and fully negligent towards safety at the worst, the mask's frequent breaches may not have been some game or joke meant to keep the near-hyperactive thespian entertained. Still, the start of the berating tirade shocked him still, and he  knew it was too late to double back and simply go along. The cell would not move. Surely not, but his friend... his friend... he didn't know what he would do without the mask. He'd been lost before, surely he would be lost again after. 

The yelling can't have lasted long. As good as the mask was at improvising monologues, the thespian had always found lighthearted comedy and folktales far simpler. Still, the words hurt, and not in that odd way that made the Doctor's back arch and knees weaken. It was the awful sort. Like a rabid animal tearing at his chest or  ̶a̶ ̶m̶a̶s̶s̶i̶v̶e̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶v̶i̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶a̶n̶d̶a̶g̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶l̶a̶t̶c̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶o̶n̶g̶b̶i̶r̶d̶'̶s̶ ̶w̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶p̶u̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶ ... something similar. The words hurt. They hurt, and he didn't know what to do to make them stop even as the mask gave up and stormed out before the guards could arrive. Even though the weight on his chest could be so easily solved by simply following so that he wouldn't lose his oldest friend. He should have followed. He didn't. And that was mistake number two.