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Deep in the forest, there stands a wooden house surrounded by the large, evergreen trees. It is a large structure with a main floor and an attic with enough space for most adult Mobians to stand upright. Based on its design and architecture, the house is a classic. It is extremely old, too, perhaps older than some of the flora that grows toward the sky on every side of it.
Despite this, the house has not been weathered by age. At least, it has been fixed in arguably recently given the timeline of the house. While not necessarily fresh, the paint along the outer walls has not faded beneath the bright sunlight. The wind has not pulled any of the shingles from the rooftop. The wooden planks making up the porch are all in order without a single indication of rot. The glass in the windows is pristine and transparent, only a smidgen of dirt here or there that comes from being so deep into the wilderness. The door handle has not tarnished, and the locks have been both replaced and upgraded. The security system, too, as there is a keypad right along the side of the threshold with shimmery keys ready for the code to be inputted.
Shadow climbs the steps to the porch at a moderate pace. When he reaches the door, he does not need to look at the keypad to press the right buttons. When it flashes green, the mechanisms in the door unlock. Shadow twists and pushes the door open. He steps into the mudroom, looking around at the darkened space and trading the warmth of the sun on his quills for a chill that sluggishly crawls through these occupied halls like a ghost. Shadow moves further into the room, granting him the space to shut the door behind him. The indirect light coming in from outside grows into a sliver until it is completely shut out. It must infiltrate the house through the cracks in the curtains along the windows. Regardless of how much light is or isn’t there, however, Shadow is able to see what a mess the house has become because of his biology.
Shadow frowns, eyes trailing from one corner to another. The interior of the house should be even more clean than the outside. While Shadow does not come to this house a significant amount of times, he always cleans when he does. His frequency should ensure that only dust collects in the intervals between his arrivals and departures. And there is dust, as expected, but there are also other cluttered areas that were not caused by Shadow’s paw, including the throw pillows and blankets from the couch being thrown away and several dishes and opened food containers in the kitchen. Given how little dust has collected on the messes and how the food still seems to be edible, the person who caused all of this was here only a short while ago, and more than likely, they are still here.
Shadow’s annoyance fades with that singular thought. He does not allow relief to ripple through his body just yet, but he can feel it beginning to thrum inside of him like a melodic song—a bittersweet reminder of a nostalgic memory he doubts he ever truly had. Shadow shakes his head. He hurries to clean the messes. He finishes within moments, far faster than any other human or Mobian would be able to. The pillows are back on the cushions, and the blanket is thrown over the back. The food containers are stored away. The dishes are washed and set back into their cabinets. He notices as he tidies the kitchen that none of the food has been eaten. It is as if someone was rummaging around for food and gave up halfway through. Shadow cares little for quitters and for those who leave behind messes, but he can’t ignore the way his heart pangs more with uneasiness than true irritation.
Shadow leaves the kitchen. He swings around into the hallway. It is darker than the other parts of the house since there are no windows. Even still, Shadow’s vision adjusts accordingly, and he’s able to see a square of light coming from the far end of the hallway. Shadow approaches it cautiously until he can determine that it is from outside. The door at the end of the hall has been opened, letting the nearby window cast its light in the room it belongs to and into the hallway. Shadow doesn’t understand why the door is still open until he reaches the threshold, putting the interior in his line of sight.
The other ‘inhabitant’ (in a word) of this house lies flat on the ground. Sonic’s arms are crossed over his stomach. His legs are spread out, heels pressed into the wood and toes pointing outward. His quills are splayed outward like a star or a puddle. His head is pointed toward the ceiling. His eyes are aimed in that direction, too, but it is clear to anyone who gives him even a passing glance that is not actually seeing it or anything at all, really. And Shadow does more than give Sonic a ‘passing glance.’ He stares for a long moment, intaking every detail he can. He tries in vain to piece together what would lead Sonic to lying on the ground in front of the threshold, tucked pitifully between the footboard of the bed and the drawers of the dresser.
Shadow steps around Sonic’s body. He stops at the azure hedgehog’s side. He kneels on one knee. He moves his paws forward. Despite seeing the rise and fall of Sonic’s chest, one paw searches for a pulse along Sonic’s neck. The other one grabs the back of his head, lifting it enough for Shadow to examine his eyes more closely. The irises are their usual emerald color, but there’s an indistinct fuzziness along the front that provides further evidence to Sonic’s unseeing state.
Disassociation, Shadow recalls from a long time ago, back when the Ultimate Lifeform was meant for the purpose of being a universal cure rather than a machine destined to live and die for war. It was part of his lessons, something to be wary of in the case of Maria. She never disassociated, but it seems that information was not entirely useless. Shadow can still help someone using it. He can help Sonic, which is a distinction that needs to be made despite Shadow not understanding why.
Perhaps it is because Sonic disappeared. He seemed fine enough in the cave that Shadow thought it would be for the best to leave and hide the Paradox Prism far from anyone’s grasp. According to the others, Sonic was fine when he was with them, too, but not even the morning after, Tails discovered Sonic was gone. Sonic’s closest friends were worried to an extent, but they weren’t going to chase after him. Sonic does this, Tails told Shadow, so it’s no cause for concern.
Shadow, of all people, shouldn’t have thought about it longer than necessary. But being away from Sonic only plagued him with visions of a graying body and a smile that would continue to adorn a corpse. Shadow needed to find Sonic for his own sanity, and as the days wore on without anyone hearing anything, Shadow felt it in his bones that Sonic needed him—not just anyone, but him —too.
It wasn’t too hard to find Sonic when Shadow began properly searching. Although the azure hedgehog could have been anywhere in the world, Shadow’s first stop—other than his usual locations—was this house in the woods. He and Sonic found it some time ago when one of their races was interrupted by a sudden rainstorm. It wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle, but Sonic hates water. Shadow relented, mainly because he doesn’t like it when his quills are in disarray. They stayed at the house. It was messy back then, and halfway to falling apart, too. Despite that, Sonic—perhaps jokingly, perhaps not—mentioned that they could fix it up for themselves. Shadow ignored it at first, dismissing it as nonsense, but their races kept bringing the two hedgehogs to this place until they finally gave in and repaired it for themselves.
A hang-out spot, Sonic would call it, even though it is also a place where Shadow and Sonic stay. It is one of the few homes Sonic has ever known. Shadow, too, sometimes considers it home when the halls are warm and the couch is comfortable and Sonic’s laughter echoes across the wood. Neither of them stay here all the time, nor do they stay for long periods of time, but occasionally, they find solace in these walls even when they weren’t just catching their breath from a race or bandaging each other’s wounds from a spar.
And, apparently, it’s the place Sonic went to when the residual effects of the Paradox Prism—of the draining process—have struck him. He has hidden himself away from all his other friends. But he came here. He came to this house knowing full well that Shadow knew exactly where it was—that Shadow would likely come here. Maybe Sonic isn’t aware of it, but Shadow is certain that his earlier feeling was correct: Sonic, if subconsciously, needs him.
Shadow might have paid more attention to that thought—simmered with it, picked it apart, analyzed everything about it—but his attention is swiftly placed on Sonic. Although his quills are as brilliantly blue as the sky and his eyes are the same color as the grass and leaves Shadow saw outside, this listlessness— lifelessness —borders too close to what Sonic was like when Shadow was carrying him toward the portal. It is eerie, and it causes Shadow’s heart to clench so painfully tight that he cannot breathe for several seconds. He was looking for Sonic to avoid being reminded of this. To spare himself the trouble, Shadow should leave. He would walk away, wait for Sonic to get better on his own.
But Shadow is here. He’s here, and against everything he stands for and wants, he cares. It is a horrible little feeling, a fire burning against his body and a poison infiltrating his mind in one fell swoop. Shadow cannot ignore it, so he softly lowers Sonic’s head back to the ground. He shuffles closer to Sonic’s eyes and ears. Shadow takes a deep breath. He prepares himself mentally before he begins quietly talking—mostly reassurances but the occasional observation that might pull Sonic into a conversation. There are few argumentative hooks that should have goaded Sonic’s ego, but Shadow finds himself talking about random topics, too, ones that would invite Sonic to monologue more than have a proper discussion with Shadow.
Shadow is so focused on finding anything to say that he hardly notices a light grip forming around his paw. But he’s the Ultimate Lifeform, so of course, he notices, even if it’s after the fact. He tilts his gaze down to find Sonic looking at him. The edges of his vision are still partially cloudy, but awareness swirls along the middle around his pupil. He tugs Shadow’s paw forward. He is not merely content to hold it. Instead, Sonic presses Shadow’s palm against his chest. Sonic’s lips move silently. Shadow waits patiently until Sonic has wrangled control over his voice to ask, “...what do you feel…?”
“My glove,” Shadow answers immediately. Sonic’s lips twitch downward into a frown. Shadow makes another attempt. “Your fur… your chest?” Sonic doesn’t seem angry or even disappointed. No, he’s treading closer to something much sadder, something that might involve tears if Shadow doesn’t figure it out soon. Shadow can’t handle anyone crying, but he knows without a doubt that he would crumple in the wake of Sonic’s tears. The surge of determination to keep Sonic from crying paves the way for Shadow to figure out what the answer Sonic is looking for is. “Your heartbeat. I feel your heartbeat, Sonic. You’re still alive. You’re here with me. Do you know where we are?”
Sonic’s face loses just enough tension that Shadow nearly sighs in relief. He keeps that exhale from leaving him even when Sonic’s attention slides away from him as gracefully as a raindrop across a leaf. It moves throughout the room, searching for his own answer to Shadow’s question. The ebony hybrid half-wonders if Sonic thinks Shadow is going to start crying, too (which Shadow is not going to do. He can’t cry. The most he’s ever done was shed a single tear. His body physically will not do more than that).
“That house in the woods,” Sonic murmurs, voice still at a low volume so different from how Sonic usually is. The exhaustion is mainly what brings it down, but there’s also an edge of confusion and hesitation that keeps Sonic from pressing forward to an excitable tone. He glances at Shadow. His eyes are filled to the brim with expectation—waiting impatiently for Shadow to either correct him or agree.
Shadow does the latter with a small nod. “Yes. Do you remember how you got here?”
Sonic’s lips twitch upward to a half-smirk. There’s a touch more amusement than before as Sonic replies, “I ran.” Shadow deadpans at him, causing a breathy laugh to depart from Sonic’s soul. Shadow looks away, trying to hide the fact that he finds comfort in that laugh. He cannot hide from himself so easily, but Sonic, thankfully, seems none the wiser as he continues with a serious note traveling along the undercurrents of his voice. “I did run. I was at Tails’ workshop when I felt… like less than my A-game. I just ran. Ended up here. I tried taking a nap on the couch. I think I failed. I tried eating. I definitely failed that. I couldn’t even make it to the bed.”
There’s a brief touch of levity as if Sonic is cheerfully laughing at his own mistakes. It’s so woefully weak that it only registers as insanity in Shadow’s ears. Even without that indicator, however, Shadow’s resting frowning face grows deeper and truer as Sonic’s words completely hit him. “If you came from Tails’ workshop, you’ve been here for a few days. Have you not eaten or slept in that time?”
“I’ve slept,” Sonic answers. It’s too quick even for Sonic. He also purposefully leaves out the fact that he is basically admitting to not having eaten anything in days. Anger flares inside Shadow’s body, but he tempers it because he knows it is only concern disguising itself as something more palatable to his mind. Yelling at Sonic right now is not going to help either of them. In fact, it would likely only push Sonic away, and Shadow needs Sonic to trust him if he’s going to get food in his system. The lectures can wait until after Sonic isn’t sleeping and dissociating on the floor with an empty stomach.
Shadow removes his paw from Sonic’s chest. He grabs onto the azure hedgehog’s paw. He latches onto both of them, ignoring how weak Sonic’s grip is and how Sonic doesn’t try fighting him—doesn’t even question him. Shadow manages to get Sonic onto his feet. It’s expected, but Shadow’s throat still squeezes when Sonic pitches into his shoulder. Shadow holds him up, ears twitching at the sound of Sonic’s whispered apology and excuse about everything being dizzy. Shadow is surprised the circumstances aren’t more dire. Most creatures struggle to survive a few days without sustenance, and even if he wasn’t running around, Sonic still burns a lot more calories than most organic lifeforms.
Shadow says nothing. He only adjusts Sonic against him to make it easier to get him to the bed. Shadow finds himself more grateful than he should be that he doesn’t have to carry Sonic in his arms. That would really set his nerves alight with emotions that Shadow would rather never feel again.
Sonic settles on the bed (their bed, technically and accidentally. Let all records show that Shadow picked the bed first. He wasn’t going to change the bed he was sleeping in just because Sonic picked it after the fact—apparently unaware that Shadow has already chosen. In the beginning, they got away with this since they didn’t sleep at the house at the same time, but the few times they have, their stubbornness doesn’t allow either of them to sleep on the other bed, creating a shared ownership over this bed and occasionally sleeping side-by-side). Perhaps due to the starvation, he is easy to manhandle into lying against the pillows and getting the blanket around him. His lips part with a half-smile and possibly a quip, but nothing comes out. The silence pangs with those unspoken words, creating a tension that Sonic physically shifts away from and Shadow mentally checks out of.
Shadow remains at the bedside for a long moment. He is not hesitating because of Sonic. It’s because of himself. Instincts that have lay dormant for so long that he forgot they were there in the first place reawaken slowly, leaving him feeling far more like a helpful medical companion than a warrior who has only known blood and violence. He knew this attentiveness once when Maria was still alive. He was so certain he buried it alongside her, but just as her ghost occasionally haunts him, perhaps these urges to comfort and heal have not died, either.
And Shadow should have predicted that Sonic would be the one to pull them from the grave. Sonic is the one, after all, who helps Shadow feel less like a weapon and more like an individual. It has always been Sonic, and it will always be Sonic. The thought should terrify him, but it doesn’t, as if some part of him has already made his peace with it.
“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere,” Shadow orders. While the sternness in his voice is familiar, there’s a gentler quality to it that neither Shadow nor Sonic misses. The former feels embarrassment color his cheeks simply because the latter’s eyes widen very slightly, almost imperceptibly. Before Sonic can gather his wits, Shadow has left the room in a flurry of chaos energy.
Shadow returns to the kitchen. Although it didn’t take much effort or time to clean earlier, a part of Shadow mourns the mess he will need to make in order to prepare a dish suitable for Sonic’s stomach. A light soup is all it will take, though, so Shadow avoids pulling out too many ingredients. He will have this done and cleaned within the hour.
Shadow makes that promise to himself, and he fulfills it. By the hour marker, he’s holding a bowl of soup in one paw and a glass of water in the other one. When he walks back into the hallway, he leaves behind a kitchen cleaner than he found it. His pride in himself is somewhat squashed by other emotions when he nudges open the door to the room to see Sonic still lying in the bed as Shadow left him, head tilted back and eyes staring out the window.
Shadow nudges Sonic to the side slightly. The azure hedgehog doesn’t move out of Shadow’s way himself, but he doesn’t put up any resistance when Shadow’s actions provide the hybrid enough space to sink onto the mattress. He sets the warm (not hot) bowl down in Sonic’s lap. Those viridescent eyes tilt down to watch the rippling in the soup settle down. His fingers move around the spoon, but he doesn’t pick it up. He still hasn’t even after Shadow has turned away enough to set the cup he brought on the nightstand. Sonic arches a brow, “What if I start puking?”
“The soup is light, so you shouldn’t do that,” Shadow reassures him. Sonic doesn’t look convinced, so Shadow adds, “If you do, I’ll bring you a bucket.”
“Not going to let me puke on myself?” Sonic retorts, eyes narrowing in a way that’s more humored than bothered.
“That’s disgusting,” Shadow plainly replies. Sonic stifles a snort. Shadow reaches to grab Sonic’s wrist. He pulls it up, and the spoon follows through with the action to bring a serving of a soup closer to Sonic’s mouth. “Eat.”
A request, a command, a plea—not quite any of these but it’s enough to make Sonic follow through with the action Shadow started. He sets the spoon inside his mouth. He leaves it there for a long moment, letting the soup settle inside. He might be savoring the taste, but it’s more likely that he’s gathering the strength to swallow. He has to let go of the fear that anything he eats will come rushing back up. When he does, Sonic removes the spoon. He lets it plink against the bowl’s rim, splashing the soup slightly. Not enough for it to leave the bowl, thankfully, leaving the blanket tucked around Sonic’s legs devoid of any wet spots. The noise, however, is enough to push Sonic into a rhythmic routine of eating the soup, spoonful by spoonful, all while Shadow passively watches, waiting for some change that would indicate vomit is rising.
“This doesn’t taste like anything.” Despite being a complaint, Sonic’s voice is too emotionless for it to truly sound like one.
Shadow frowns, taking it as an attack on his culinary skills, anyway. “It’s not supposed to taste like anything. It’s a light soup meant to ease you back into eating properly.”
“When I get better, I’m going to make you actually good soup,” Sonic compromises, a touch of emotion threading through his tone. Sonic even dares to smile at Shadow. “I’ll teach you how to make it, just like I taught you how to make all those meals and snacks for Cream. I’m sure she’ll be grateful. Cream loves my soup as much as Tails does.”
Shadow rolls his eyes. He does not, however, refuse Sonic. It is, unfortunately, true that Shadow needed Sonic to teach him how to cook. He never learned on the ARK; he wasn’t even given decent food on the ARK to even attempt to replicate. He didn’t need to learn since he technically doesn’t need to eat—he can easily subsist off his excess chaos energy—but Cream does need to eat. Shadow wanted to be a proper caretaker when Vanilla asked him to watch over the rabbit girl and her chao companion, so he went to the one person he knew loved food and at least suspected knew how to cook—Sonic. His guess was right, and no matter how shameful it was for him to ask, Sonic eagerly agreed and actually taught Shadow a few dishes. Shadow wouldn’t mind adding soup’s recipe to his knowledge.
“Focus on getting better,” Shadow eventually says, ignoring how it took him far too long to come up with a response as simple as that one. Sonic doesn’t call him out on it. He merely laughs gently, letting their conversation end there. He continues eating his soup. Shadow stops watching him as intently as he did before. When Shadow turns his head away and leans back against the wall, Sonic decides to lean against him. Sonic’s head lays against his shoulder, and most of his weight is thrust upon Shadow, too. The only reason Shadow lets this happen is because Sonic continues eating (there are no other reasons… none that Shadow will acknowledge as reasons, anyway).
Sonic makes it through a decent amount of the soup before he’s handing the bowl to Shadow. The expression on his face makes it clear that he’s eaten all he can, and anything more will actually make him puke. Shadow would rather avoid that unsavory experience, so he trades the bowl for the cup he brought. Sonic tips it back, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom soon. Shadow doesn’t deign those words with a response. He just takes the cup when Sonic is done with it.
Shadow turns to take the cup and bowl back to the kitchen, most likely to wash them and put them away inside of just leaving them in the sink. Before he can even turn his body away completely, both of Sonic’s arms circle around the closest of Shadow’s arm to them. Sonic squeezes tightly, half-burying his face into Shadow’s shoulder to prevent Shadow from seeing his expression. Shadow frowns, arching a brow. “I need to put the dishes away.”
Sonic doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak, either. Shadow tries tugging his arm away. Sonic squeezes tighter. Shadow glances back at the dishes. It would only take a few seconds to put them in the sink even if he isn’t going to wash them. He’ll be back before Sonic knows it. Shadow’s next attempt is thwarted once more, but this time, it’s by Sonic voicing a singular, whispered word, “Stay.”
It isn’t a request. There is no kindness or respect in the tone, only a faint desperation that Shadow hates hearing about as much as he hates seeing Sonic close to tears (or to death). Shadow should put his foot down. He should be stubborn. He shouldn’t give into Sonic’s demands.
But he does. He folds immediately. His resolve crumbles in instant as if it were thinner than the air itself. He sets the cup down on the nightstand beside the bowl. He leaves them both there. When he turns back to Sonic, he helps the hedgehog lie down on the bed. Though it is not his intention, Shadow puts them both on their sides, facing each other. Sonic smiles gratefully, but there’s a softness that makes Shadow almost pleased with himself for deciding to stay.
Between the warm food in his stomach and their shared body heat beneath the blanket, Sonic falls asleep rather quickly—not unexpected given how he lives the rest of his life. The only time Sonic ever goes slow is when he’s waking up. Shadow has watched him rouse from slumber enough times to confirm this fact for himself. But it will be a few hours, hopefully, until Sonic does wake up. He will remain asleep for a good while. Shadow is going to watch him, anyway, but at least he has the excuse that he’s observing Sonic’s health.
He will use that excuse to justify why his paw travels across the short space between them, brushing against Sonic’s cheek. He doesn’t linger long, only a brief touch, but even that feels like too much—feels like not enough, as well. Shadow pulls his paws toward his chest. This is all he will do. He will only wait for Sonic to wake up and double-check that he’s alright in the morning.
After that… after that… who knows what will happen after that?