Archive of Our Own ^beta

Smartass wasn’t feeling like himself lately. That was probably due to the fact that, on a technical level, he wasn’t himself. He hadn’t been for a while.

The real Smartass was dead, dissolved into the bottom of a barrel of dip. Sometimes when he thought back to that moment, as hazy as the memory was, he could almost recall what it felt like to be there. The heat that bubbled all around him, searing deeply enough to touch his very soul. The smoke, the fire, the laughter of his brothers-- they may have briefly felt the touch of Heaven, but he’d been licked by the flames of Hell. In a metaphorical sense, that is. Really, he didn’t go anywhere. Whatever had been left of him was gone, scrubbed away like an ugly stain on his boss's nice, clean track record. He was gone before he had a chance to come up for air.

He awoke, all that time later, in between the frames of a multi-cell camera. A bright light blared into his eyes as he was peeled off the page he’d been painted on, making him believe that, for a moment, maybe he’d joined his fellow weasels in their afterlife. But no, of course not; he wasn’t deserving of Heaven. None of them were. That’s why they were all here, rejected at the gates, back in their bodies like they’d never left in the first place. They were the ones who’d brought him back. They’d decided, in a shocking display of sympathy, that if they had the chance to live on, it wouldn’t be right for them to go on without him. A part of Smartass felt proud to hear that. Knowing that, without his guidance, they’d been directionless. Who were they without him? What were they without him, when they could no longer be “The Toon Patrol”? But another, weaker part of him felt a twinge of guilt, following that explanation. Knowing that they’d brought him back so none of them would have to step into the role of leader was only amusing for as long as it was accurate. And the truth of the matter was that he didn’t know what he was doing, either. They’d saved his life in a desperate plea for someone to tell them what to do. And all they’d gotten for their effort was someone else who was just as helpless as they were.

Things hadn’t always been this way, had it? Had the man he’d used to be been the leader they’d been praying for, or had he just been better at pretending he was? Staring down at his hands-- sure they weren’t this exact shade of brown in the past-- he wanted to say he had been that authority. He had known what to do, when to do it, and how. But he’d been changed, humbled even, by what they’d gone through. Not exactly enough to admit it to the team, but almost enough to admit it to himself. He’d never been the leader, even amongst the five of them. It had always been Judge Doom.

Ever since he assembled the Toon Patrol, it’d been him. It’d always been him. Every order, every word, every thought that Smartass acted on after that point was nothing but a vessel for his godlike authority. He’d been a piece in his chess game just like the rest of them, he just had the privilege of being the king while the others were demoted to pawns. But he was still a piece, all the same. And all the pieces end up in the same place when the game is lost. Mixed up with all the others, long after the players had gotten up and left. It was true, the rest of the Patrol weren’t much without him, but what was he without the Judge? He almost couldn’t remember. Maybe they’d missed a few brushstrokes when they’d re-painted his cells. Or maybe Doom had been right about all the things he told him while under his employment. That he was nothing before he found him. Nothing but a miserable, worthless ink blot, with no one who’d care to even think of him in passing if one day he blipped off the face of the Earth. When faced with these kinds of accusations back then, he was content to bite his tongue and take it, as much as he felt he had every right to argue. It wasn’t even something he had to think about, then. Just something he could instantly write off without deeper consideration. What a privilege that was.

Maybe his own dependance had been obvious to everyone but himself. It’d been one of the first things he’d asked about, upon being brought back. ”Where’s the Judge?” He’d said, peering over the other’s shoulders as if he’d been waiting for him at the other side. The way the group’s faces contorted into frowns, and winces, and nervous glances to the floor, had been all the answer he needed. They’d had the courtesy to fill him in anyway; apparently, he’d been defeated not long after they were. Not just defeated, but Dipped. The Judge was a Toon. It wasn’t until their own revival that they’d been able to find a copy of the latest Toontown Telltale newspaper and learn that little detail. It had blindsided all of them, Smartass most of all. Furthermore, he was told by his crew that they had been planning on bringing him back too, if it weren’t for one major issue. They’d need his original cells. And how could they possibly find those, without having any idea what he looked like beneath that mask? From how little of him was left at the scene of the crime, he was a tough Toon to identify for the entire police force. They hadn’t cracked it yet. Toons didn’t exactly have unique fingerprints or DNA you could test. At best, you could test their paint, but one single can could produce hundreds of different Toons, so it still wouldn’t do much for narrowing things down. As of right now, no one knew who Judge Doom really was. And something about that shook Smartass to his core.

He couldn’t pretend as if he had some deep, intimate relationship with the man. They certainly didn’t have the type of relationship that would warrant him sharing a secret of that caliber. But as the sharpest member of the Patrol, by their late-boss’ own admission, he was a little offended that he hadn’t been able to tell. He couldn’t stop thinking back on it now. How many signs had he missed? Should it be obvious in hindsight? Why wasn’t it? No matter how much he remaniced, he couldn’t see the link that connected the two of them. When he stared up into his eyes, glassy and empty as they were, he’d never seen anything familiar. It felt like he was living in the past and it was driving him mad. Everyone else had moved on, but he couldn’t. Whenever a moment of silence fell amongst them, he was racking his brain for anything, desperate to stir up an answer that would make it all make sense. He thought back on every time they’d spoken in private, every time they’d touched. Every time he’d smiled at a joke, or straightened his tie before they were meant to make an appearance. They didn’t even have to speak to know what the other wanted to say. A glare from Doom could make Smartass shut his mouth and make his cohorts do the same. A subtle nod from Smartass could tell Doom he had a situation handled, and he could go ahead without him. How had they been close enough to nearly read each other’s minds, and he still hadn’t known what he was? Had they ever been close in the first place, if this was something he was willing to hide? If he’d known, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Even if all the others were too weak, he’d have been there, and that would’ve been enough. He could’ve saved him. He wouldn’t be alone.

All of this reminiscing was certainly stirring up…Something. He just didn’t know what it was. And he didn’t have time to dwell on it, either. Not now that he was the boss.

Their base of operations (while there were still active operations) had been built from the carcass of an abandoned office building not far from the Toontown border. The outside was dilapidated, with moss and vines growing up the dirty brick walls, crawling out of every crack and chip in the cement. The windows on the top floor were held together with duct tape and staples. The inside of the place, while not much nicer to look at, had technically been renovated as well. Something cozy enough to house the group when they weren’t busy, while also holding itself together just enough to be presentable from the outside as an actual, functioning establishment. Most of their real business was held elsewhere, but no outsider needed to know that. If someone stumbled into the front door, they’d find a front desk, dressed with a bell and two signs. One reading ring for assistance and the other reading out on break. Both were covered in a thin layer of dust, which did plenty to imply that their ‘break’ was going on forever. Because of that, and the peeling, vinyl Cloverleaf logo on the front door window, it didn’t look like the kind of establishment that would be housing some of the most important individuals in Toontown. Humans and Toons alike passed this building every day, and most had no idea what kind of delicate operation they were walking right by. Just the way the Judge had liked things to be. Inconspicuous. Hidden right in plain sight.

The main room upstairs was slightly less dust-covered than the first floor. It featured a few lamps, some rugs, file cabinets, and a large desk front-and-center. Behind it, a velvet-lined, almost throne-like chair, facing the five shoddy wooden ones on the other side of the table. No question who’s was who’s. The wallpaper was peeling, and the shades were always drawn, allowing almost no natural light, but this place didn’t exist to look pretty. It existed to serve a function, and that was all. This is where they discussed mission plans, and went over their minimal paperwork. The files and photos all over the desk was plenty evidence of that. There were two rooms to either side of the main one, each being a sleeping area. The Judge was the only one with a nice, proper, singular bedroom. He deserved only the best, naturally, so that’s what he got. Walking through his doorway felt like stepping into an entirely different home. Silk sheets and pillow cases covered by warm blankets. A thick rug on the floor. Gold-framed photographs and forged degrees hung on the perfectly-applied wallpaper. A private bath, and a deep closet. Being “human” meant requiring more upkeep and, apparently, more privacy. This meant the weasels all bunked together, in the room on the other side of the hall. Theirs was much less pretty. Five evenly-spaced cots, dressed with thin blankets and pillows. Two beds against either wall, and one at the head. A singular closet sat in one corner, and a dresser in the other, for them to share. Being Toons-- and not well-liked ones, at that-- They really didn’t have many alternatives to their usual outfits. What they did have tended to be color-coded to their individual schemes. Still, one would be impressed by how much they managed to fight over their minimal possessions. It was almost funny. But everything was funny, to them. Much to the Judge’s frustration.

That establishment, or at least what was left of it, was the home that the weasels had returned to once everything was over. Once the five of them were reunited, several things had become obvious to all of them without having to be said aloud. One, was that none of them knew what to do now. They hadn’t realized it before, when things had been easy, but none of them really had lives to return to. They’d been willing to give up everything to be in Doom’s favor, especially once they’d learned what was at stake. Regrettably, the Judge was right about something. That they’d been nothing, before he’d saved them. And, two, equally as uncomfortable to admit: None of them wanted to be alone. They had been, before. Doom had brought them together. But in his absence, the idea of going their separate ways now seemed like an impossible task. There was nothing for them, out there. No promise of a better, brighter tomorrow. At least, under Doom’s wing, they’d always known how things would end. That they’d come out safe in the end, even if no one else did. Without that comfort now, going back out into the workforce alone seemed like an insurmountable chore. None of them wanted to admit any of this, so none of them did. But they all agreed to come back here, to the one place that was familiar to all of them, until they knew where to go from here. They scratched the vinyl off the window, made a new sign for the front desk that said closed, and only came and went when traffic on the sidewalks weren’t busy.

Despite the fact that it technically was no longer necessary, they’d all elected to continue sleeping in the same room they always had. Sure, while they had the option to branch out to other rooms, even move downstairs, it was much easier not to. And, besides, it felt almost wrong to move things from the way the Judge had left them. It felt disrespectful, at least it did to Smartass. The others shared the sentiment for the most part…but they weren’t considerate enough not to go through and steal some of their boss' things. Psycho had taken his pick from the collection of Toon weapons he’d found stashed in the back of his closet. They formed such a large pile, that he’d taken to storing them all underneath his bed. The others had to be careful when walking to their cots as to not accidentally trip on a stray saw blade or get grabbed in a bear trap. Greasy had made the frustrating choice to take the Judge’s old mattress, which had been a pain in the ass to help him move. It didn’t even fit on the bed frame, considering how much bigger it was, so they’d had to make a new one out of scrap and bricks they found lying around. Maybe it was just because he didn’t get to reap the benefits, but Smartass was sure all of that work couldn’t possibly be worth it. But he wasn’t the one splayed out on a comically oversized mattress, snoring away with a sleeping mask over his eyes. If he wanted this for the sake of getting some beauty sleep, he hoped he planned on sleeping through the next couple decades. Stupid, much more simply, had opted to take just a blanket. It was far too big for his cot, draping over all the sides and dragging on the floor, while still being able to wrap around him cozily. Wheezy was much more practical. He’d taken his lighter. Solid silver, with a pair of dice engraved onto the side. No more asking for a light or digging around for a match, for him. Smartass felt as if he’d already taken too much, just by being here. Being placed into the role that he was never meant to occupy alone. His moral opposition was less out of genuine respect for the man they’d once worked for, and more out of discomfort. Being respected more than Doom made his skin crawl for reasons he couldn’t explain. He hoped to get over it by claiming something of the Judge’s as his own. While the others slept, he was lying on his side, staring into the eyes of the silver skull at the top of a long, black cane. The only thing recovered from the scene of the crime.

The only time he felt a semblance of Doom’s power is when he held it in his hands. The cane (Which apparently also doubled as a sword, as Psycho had been very excited to show off before handing it over. What else had Doom been hiding?) clearly wasn’t made for his hands. It wasn’t as comfortable to hold as it would’ve been for someone of human stature, but he made it work. At least, something about it made it easier to bark out orders. It felt like it was speaking through him. It felt like holding the weight of the world. So when it wasn’t clenched in his fist, it was here, at his bedside. And while it was comforting to be in possession of something that granted him a faux sense of authority, it was still a relief to let it go. To release the reins, silently praying someone would take them while he slept, so he wouldn’t have to keep leading. The comfort didn’t come in having it, the comfort came in knowing he could just as easily give it away. Was he assigning imaginary power to an inanimate object? Maybe. But it was all he had left of the man who once had very real power over everything he said, and did.

Most wouldn’t take comfort in being a vessel. Especially not one that caused direct harm. But he hadn’t cared about any of that-- he didn’t then, and he didn’t now. He’d do it all again and worse, if it meant he was still here. All he had left now was the cane and his imperfect memory.

Despite being members of the Toontown police force, most of their work-- and, more specifically, their bosses work-- happened on the human side of Los Angeles. From his important business deals, to the meetings with other corporations, the Judge was out most of the time, doing things that primarily involved humans. That meant it was above the weasels paygrade, or so the Judge had told them. Smartass was the exception. He was mature, and well-rounded in a way the other four clearly weren’t. He may have spent a great deal of his time bossing the others around, but when he wasn’t with them on patrol, he was with Doom, trailing along at his right hand like a well-trained dog. And like a dog, he thrived off the attention. He got a sick thrill from something as simple as being included in conversation. He’d been introduced as a Toon representative once, and the two of them shared a smile like they were in on a shared secret. All this time later, and he was only just now realizing that he’d never been in on the joke.

Smartass wasn’t sure when he closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before it felt like he opened them again. But when he did, he found that the cane he’d drifted off while staring at was gone. He sat up with a start, eyes flickering from the wall, to the floor, even leaning over the side of the bed to make sure it hadn’t fallen over or rolled underneath. But he couldn’t find it.

How ironic. Just when he’d been lamenting about the emotional weight the damn thing carried, it goes missing. It felt like a genie had answered his wish in the most backwards way possible. Or, the more likely explanation: one of the others had taken it. He furrowed his brow with a huff.

“Alright,” he sighed. “Which one’a you mugs took the--...”

The room was empty. When he straightened up, and turned his head, he saw four, identical, unoccupied cots. Two on each side. All neatly made.

Smartass blinked. Where had they gone? Surely he hadn’t slept through the night, and missed them starting their day, had he? He swiveled halfway to look at the window behind him, surprised to see the light streaming through the tattered blinds. Rays of pinks and oranges spilled out onto his face, and the floor. Early morning, no doubt; he must’ve been asleep for much longer than he realized. Still, this is around the time he tended to wake, and he usually had the honor of making sure the others followed. On the off chance they rose first, they were typically kind enough to start an argument loud enough to make him get up and shut them up. He took another brief glance around, moving slowly, as if something would pop out from around the corner at any moment. Only once he successfully grabbed his hat from the bedpost did he hop off the mattress and start walking towards the common room.

The shoddy floorboards creaked under every step. The house settling was the only sound he could make out, even with his ears perked up on attention. It was unusually silent, and something about that made his hair stand on end. For as long as he’d lived here, quiet had never been a word that described it. There was always yelling, or scheming, or laughter. This utter soundlessness was unheard of. Even when they were discussing something confidential, they struggled to keep their voices hush. It was as if the entire world had gone still for this one, fleeting instance, building anticipation. But to what? He turned the corner into the common area of their second floor. And what he saw across the room was enough to halt him in his tracks.

Behind the ornate desk in the center of the room, silhouetted by sunlight glimmering through the curtains behind him, stood Judge Doom.

He was looking out the window, body half-turned towards the wall, aware of his surroundings even when there was nothing to look out for. His square, strong shoulders were tense, and firm. Every movement he made was rigid. Calculated. It gave him the shape language of a man much stronger and tougher than he actually looked from an untrained eye. He used every piece of clothing to his advantage, as to better radiate the energy of the person he tried so hard to be. Heels on his boots that gave him height without exaggerating it to a silly or unbelievable degree. A suit black enough to put the night’s shadows to shame. Jewelry of silver, to flaunt his wealth, while also giving an air of subtle sophistication. Just the flourish of chains hanging from an exposed pocket was enough to make Toons dread the handcuffs he was about to slap them in. And that’s only if they were lucky enough to get a sentence that light. He wore glasses that kept anyone from staring too deeply into his eyes. And in his hands, a cane.

Smartass stared, unblinking. His eyes flickered back and forth-- to the cane, to his body, to his face. He surveyed every inch of the figure standing before him, so close and impossibly far at the same time. Every detail, every color, every sharp edge perfectly matched every memory he could cross-compare this moment to. He looked perfect. He looked better than perfect. Because he looked like himself.

But Judge Doom was gone. He knew that, in the rational, logical part of his brain. He knew that he couldn’t possibly be here. And yet, for reasons that weren’t immediately obvious, he couldn’t seem to accept the idea that this couldn't be happening. Because it was happening. Was further thinking necessary?

Of course it was. But he missed his chance. The Judge’s face turned, slightly, almost imperceptibly, in his direction. His lenses flared in a way that obscured his eyes.

“Good morning, Sergeant.” He said, in a voice as smooth as silk. “It’s about time.”

It felt like it had been an eternity since he’d been called that. He only ever heard boss nowadays. It was a title he wore with pride, but it had never had quite the same heft as being called Sergeant. It was hard to say whether it was the word itself, or who was saying it, that stirred up so much emotion. Regardless, it was enough to bring him back to the moment. He blinked, and shook his head.

“...Uh…Mornin’, Judge.” He answered, after a second or two of deliberation. He glanced over his shoulder, as if his colleagues would appear behind him and yell surprise at any moment. The room behind him remained empty. So he turned his attention back to the Judge. Doom had returned to his task of staring out the window, fingers drumming against the back of his opposite hand, tapping out a tune that only he could hear. Smartass took another half-step in his direction. “What are ya doin’ here?”

It was a stupid question. He knew that, the second the words passed his lips. Of course he’d be here; where else would he be? This was Doom’s home just as much as it was his. The Judge must not have agreed, or at least had taken pity on him by not chastising him for the choice of words. Instead, he simply let out a breath, and turned away from the window.

“It’s been a while.” He stated the obvious. “I thought you’d be more happy to see me. Especially considering the circumstances of my leaving.”

Smartass felt something ache inside him upon hearing those words, like someone had twisted a knife in his gut. He physically winced in response to them. The second-hand dread of the “circumstances” make him sick to think about even now. He opened his mouth to say as much, but any reasonable question died on his tongue when he was interrupted.

“Surely you haven’t been trying to fill in for me.” Doom continued, brow furrowed accusatorily. He never quite made eye contact. “I’m sure you must know what an impossible task that would be. You’re nothing but a herd of sheep without a shepherd. What have you even been doing since I’ve been gone?”

Smartass tensed. The heat of a metaphorical spotlight burned the weasels' skin. He hadn’t expected being put on the spot like that, much less so soon. His jaw, still hanging open dumbly, started to move on its own just to say something. Say anything.

“I-I…I don’t know.”

The Judge huffs. He ran a finger over the thin layer of dust on the desk.

“Clearly.”

Again, his words pierced him like a sword. Again, he cringed under the weight. But despite the harsh phrasing, there was some degree of relief that came from hearing it. You never realize how much you miss something until it’s gone. The idea of missing someone berating you seemed absurd, but everything about the current situation was absurd. He couldn’t deny that it felt good to not be the one holding the cane. Still, he bowed his head, staring down at the floor, at a loss for words. He knew right away that there was nothing he could say that would be new information to his boss.

He didn’t look at him, not even as he heard the clicking of Doom’s footsteps on the floorboards, or the tap of his cane as he readjusted his grip on it. His eyes stayed locked to the floor. That is, until he felt something cold, and smooth, settle into the groove under his chin. It dragged upwards, forcing his face to turn up with it. His head lifted involuntarily, though his pupils were much more hesitant to be picked up off the ground. His stare bounced right off the glare in the Judge’s lenses. He was finally looking directly at him, yet they couldn’t quite meet eyes. Doom tilted his head analytically.

“So you’ve been reanimated, have you?” He asked, in a tone that made it clear he already knew the answer. His fingers were wrapped around the end of his cane, the head of it being the thing that had turned up his Sergeant’s chin. He maneuvered it in such a way that cue’d the weasel to tilt his own head in just the right way, so that he could get a look at other parts of his face. Smartass kept his mouth shut so as to not interfere with the process. “Usually there’s some flaws in the process. Mistakes that come about under the hand of an untrained artist. But you look just fine to me.”

Smartass suddenly felt hot. A tint of red airbrushed his face. The Judge hummed.

“Maybe a bit off-color.”

The cane left his throat. Smarty’s head fell, hand raising to press against the spot where the metal skull had been pointed just a moment ago. As if he could hold the memory of the feeling there, just for a little longer. It had been an eternity since anyone had looked at him like that. The blush he could feel rising to his face lingered for considerably longer than he would’ve liked. And his pupils never disconnected from the Judge’s form, not even as he turned to walk back towards the desk.

“Reanimation is a cheap tactic.” He went on. “It’s the easy way out. Why should Toons get the privilege of carrying on after death, when humans don’t get the same? I made Dip to combat things like this, and yet, here you are.” He was talking in a tone that was bitter, yet familiar all the same. Back when they’d worked together, Smartass had gotten the sense that he got some sort of kick out of chastising him for things that were out of his control. Doom seemed to like to say things that were cruel in a way that made you want to defend yourself, and yet you couldn’t do so without making yourself look worse in the process. Because all of it was technically true. Like all of those times, he didn’t say anything. He knew better. Still, Doom allowed a few more seconds of silence than most others would, tempting him to fill the space with a rebuttal. When he didn’t, he went on. “I foolishly assumed you’d be above this sort of thing. But if you’re not, then why did none of you think to reanimate me?”

That was his real cue to speak, though the question left him baffled. Maybe it was just his elegant, condescending manner of speech, but for a second, it almost sounded reasonable. There was a moment before the gears turned in his head where Smartass wondered the same thing. His eyes flickered down again, choosing his next course of action carefully, as the Judge pulled out his chair on the other side of the desk and took a seat. He swiveled it so it faced the window, returning to his apparently extremely important task to stare out into nothing. He was rarely this relaxed when they were working, which reminded the weasel why exactly they weren’t working. They couldn’t just bring him back. Why was he talking about it like it was some easy, every-day occurrence? He furrowed his brow in frustration.

“I-I…We tried, boss.” He answered, once clearer memory returned to him. When Doom didn’t answer immediately, or even turn back around to face him, he chose to take matters into his own hands by taking a few brave steps forward. He crossed the tattered rug in the center of the floor. Frustration singed the ends of every sentence. “You didn’t exactly make things easy for us. How were we supposed to know where to find your cells? We don’t know where you came from. I didn’t even know you were a--”

“Don’t say it.”

The Judge held out a hand to signal him to stop, and he did. He halted like he’d suddenly come upon a red light. Smarty was a foot in front of the desk, frozen for a moment, before Doom lowered his hand and he let his posture relax. Silence fell between them. It hung in the air until Doom sighed.

“...It doesn’t matter.”

Smartass huffed. It mattered tremendously. He wanted to scream. All this time had passed, and even now, through whatever means he was using to get here, he still wouldn’t admit it? He’d been a Toon this entire time. He’d deliberately strung him along with false promises, and he hadn’t even had the heart to tell him the truth? All that time he’d spent under his wing, he’d foolishly thought that they might’ve had a genuine connection. He considered Doom a friend just as much as he considered him an employer. It wasn’t something he ever expected to be returned, but he hadn’t expected outright betrayal, either. Maybe that was his first mistake.

“I think a lotta folks would disagree.”

Doom swiveled back in his seat to face him. The cane that he’d been holding was gone. Instead, he sat comfortably reclined, his elbows on the armrests and his hands folded together. His eyes flickered up and down Smarty’s form decisively, literally reading him like a book. He must not have liked what he saw, considering the way he quirked a brow.

“Maybe.” He said. And then he smiled. Just barely-- the kind that made the corners of his lips twitch upwards ever so slightly. Smartass had deduced that those were often his more authentic displays of emotion. His wider, toothier grins were used more to intimidate than to communicate how he was feeling. Both kinds still managed to unsettle him. “Come closer. I want to get a better look at you.”

Like being pulled by an invisible leash, Smartass felt himself start walking again. Even the floorboards were silent as he passed the edge of the desk, until he was directly at the Judge’s side. It was a comfortable place to be. Familiar. Although, it became considerably less so when Doom turned, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, so they were once again eye-to-eye. It was easier to see his pupils like this. A blue so dull, that they looked more like a sad grey. He knew now, of course, that these couldn’t be his real eyes. In the past, he’d taken the glassy, lifeless look of them as an indicator to his personality. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, after all, and if a soul is something this man possessed, he was sure it’d look just as dull and hollow. He didn’t realize how “Toon-y” that kind of logic was, until now, because he’d never said it out loud. He’d never given Doom something to instantly shut down, like he did every time he did something a little too much like his species. Knowing what he did, he couldn’t understand how this man had so effortlessly scrubbed clean any trace of who he used to be. His eyes scanned his face, noticing for the first time how perfectly smooth it was. How the lines and creases in his skin didn’t quite sit in the same patterns on any other human of his alleged age. Usually, when he stared at him in the past, this sort of thing wasn’t in his mind. It wasn’t until a gloved hand obscured his vision while touching the brim of his hat, that he remembered this scrutiny wasn’t supposed to be a two-way street. He blinked for the first time since he’d moved here.

“Your clothes are a shade or two pinker.” Doom acknowledged, lifting the brim of his hat to better uncover his eyes. “Have you noticed that?”

Smarty looked down at his coat, smoothing down the breast to get a better look at himself. Now that he mentioned it, he was sure it was a much paler color in the past. Something that bordered on beige. Now, it was much closer to a blush. He had to wonder which one of his fellow weasels had done that. He understood that, even with reference, it’d be borderline impossible to re-mix the perfect shade, but they’d known him for years and still couldn’t get his signature outfit right? He’d be more offended, if he, himself, had noticed before now. How had Doom noticed first?

He shook his head. Doom felt the brim of his hat with two fingers, as if it would be made of anything other than ink and paint. Everything Toon-made still had the faux texture of whatever it appeared to be made out of. The clothes that had once felt expensive and high-class were now just slightly off, like he was wearing some kind of inexpensive knockoff. It was all made of the same thing, and still, Doom wouldn’t let him be caught dead at his side in anything less than the best, back then. He hummed decisively, but didn’t comment on it, instead bringing both hands to the lapels of his suit. He smoothed them out with his thumb, moving down and then up again, before lifting once more to pat his shoulder pads and straighten out his tie. The diamond in the center didn’t sparkle with quite the same radiance as it used to.

This level of close observation was starting to make something else stir inside the weasel. And unlike the surprise or frustration he’d felt with his boss earlier, this was something harder to name. A part of it was self-consciousness. Never before had he been so aware of what he looked like, and what others might think. There was just something inherently shameful about the slow realization of each and every one of his flaws. Or maybe it was just embarrassing to be looked at like this by someone he respected. He wasn’t sure he’d care if one of the other members of the Patrol or some stranger on the street took issue with how he looked. But, when it was him…

Doom dragged a hand up the fur of his neck, and he tensed. But his touch was gentle-- softer than he’d ever felt it on his skin-- and came to rest on his cheek. A thumb softly stroked the side of it.

It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Instantly, the heat he could feel building in his chest once again rose to his face. There was no doubt that Doom could see it-- he could probably feel it, even through his gloves, and that thought alone was enough to make him feel like he was melting. He was sure he didn’t used to be so awkward in his presence. But Doom had never treated him like this, either. It was one thing to throw him around, or hit him, in the ways he often did. If his hand touched his face before, it was just to smack him across the room. It hadn’t been something he even minded back then. He was a Toon, he could take it. It’s what he was made for. He certainly wasn’t made for this. This kind of sappiness and scrutiny was unnatural. Surely that was why it made him feel so flighty, and not any deeper feelings he was repressing. But when the hand pulled away, he missed it. He had to physically fight the urge not to learn towards it, when it had begun to retract. His ears pinned back in thinly-veiled disappointment. Neither of them said anything.

Doom was staring. He’d sat back in his chair, one arm folded on the armrest while the other remained half-hovering in the air between them for a moment too long. His head was tilted, his eyes showing the faintest pull of amusement. Like he was smiling, without ever moving his mouth. The black hole in the pit of Smarty’s stomach fluttered.

“...What?” He prompted, once he could no longer stand the silence. “Whattia looking at me like that for? Is my paint job that bad?

Doom responded “No,” and it sounded like he meant it, as he tilted his head to more comfortably lean on his knuckles. “I just hadn’t taken the time to really look at you before.”

The answer seemed both obvious and shocking at the same time. On one hand, he figured that couldn’t possibly be true. All that time he’d spent at his right hand, and he hadn’t once given him a look over? There was no way that was the case. In fact, he was sure it wasn’t; someone who’d never seen him wouldn’t be able to so expertly critique all the subtle changes he’d been through lately. On the other hand, a part of him had always known that the Judge had been looking right through him. He saw him in the form of what he could do for him, not quite as a person. Apparently, he hadn’t seen him as a friend, or a confidant. When Doom looked at him before, he’d seen his own reflection. And when Smartass looked back, he’d seen all the things Doom wanted him to see, and never anything more.

Maybe that isn’t what he meant. Maybe he was just seeing something in him now that he’d never seen before. Whatever that could be. He didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Doom pat his knee.

“Come sit.” He ordered, beckoning him forwards. “It’ll be more comfortable.”

Smartass blinked up at him, baffled. He was genuinely thrown off by the suggestion. His eyes flickered from his face, to his leg, then down to the floor, like a second chair would magically materialize on this side of the desk. When one didn’t, he slowly raised his head again, the gears visibly turning behind his eyes. More comfortable for who?

“...On your…lap?”

The Judge tilted his head and quirked a brow. Like it was a stupid question. Like he’d offered something completely normal and non-interesting, a moment ago.

“Did I stutter?”

Smarty hadn’t expected him to double down. But he also hadn’t expected him to say it in the first place. The suggestion just seemed so out of character for him. Frankly, saying that was an understatement. Just the way he’d touched his face a moment ago felt out of line, like they were doing something they shouldn’t be. Any other kind of touch seemed, not just unlike him, but a little concerning. For a second, he had to wonder if the real Doom had died back in that warehouse, and this was just an imposter wearing his outfit. It was plausible, considering he still had yet to see his real face. But this man knew things about him that no one else did. His mannerisms were spot on. If he was some body-double, he was doing a pretty perfect job. He could settle for that.

That decision didn’t mean he was any less flustered about what he was about to do. Sparing one more glance over his shoulder, as if to make sure there were no witnesses, he placed a hand on the armrest and hauled himself onto Doom’s lap. There was something inherently shameful about it. He felt like a child going to visit Santa Claus, or someone’s little purse dog that they were showing off to a room full of onlookers. But he’d done it anyway, with not enough hesitation to make it seem like it wasn’t something he actively wanted. The way his face had turned pink enough to match his coat, and his eyes were narrowed, didn’t do much to help his case, either. Doom didn’t seem put off by it either, not that he ever seemed to care about his emotional state at any given moment. But then his gloved hand reached out again, returning to that same spot on his cheek, and Smartass was forced to grapple with the worst part of being placed here. That fact, being, that he had wanted it. More than he’d realized, before it was offered.

This kind of touch-- or any touch, from the Judge-- he’d wanted. It just hadn’t been something he let himself think about, in the past, with Doom’s avoidance of anything even remotely affectionate. He’d watched him wipe his palm on his shirt after shaking hands with a Toon, as if he’d get sick just from touching one. He almost exclusively touched members of his Patrol with his cane, rather than any part of his body. Like was the case for most things, Smartass had been the exception; they’d shaken hands, put their arms around each other, or stood a little close to each other’s sides on a few occasions. But even those instances were rare. It was always obvious that Doom was making an exception for him. Just for him. Just for a moment. But never like this.

He closed his eyes. He felt heavy. The weight of days, weeks, months of longing for something like this piled on all at once. He’d spent so much time not letting himself think about something like this, the fact that it had happened so suddenly was enough to overwhelm him. He needed to pull away, to come to his senses before Doom did it first. Because surely he would come to his senses, sooner or later. And the shame that would follow being pushed away, especially if he dared to accept any kind of affection before then, would surely cling to him forever. The thought that this must be a dream crossed his mind. Because there was no universe in which he’d get something like this. But a moment later, as if to silence the thought, the hand on his face slid down his neck, and around his shoulders. At the same time, the Judge’s other arm wrapped around his back, yanking him forwards and into his chest. He’d done the very opposite of pushing him away. He’d embraced him. Smartass froze.

“Poor thing,” Doom said. “You were never meant to be left alone.”

His voice was so soft. So gentle. Smarty felt his hand stroke up and down the fur of his back, and felt his tense muscles relax involuntarily. His eyes stared at the wall over Doom’s shoulder, and his vision blurred and wobbled.

“I didn’t prepare you for this possibility. Perhaps I should’ve. You should’ve known.”

The vindication warmed his heart just as much as it worsened the awful, fluttery feeling in his gut. More and more, his words and soft touch caused him to melt into his chest, his head falling limply on his shoulder. He nestled into the crook of his shoulder, head pressed against the side of his neck. Even with his ear so close to bare skin, he couldn’t hear the blood rushing through the Judge’s veins. The only thundering heartbeat here was his own.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. It won’t happen again.”

The hand that wasn’t stroking his back came to rest on the back of his neck. Smarty tried to blink the tears out of his eyes, but one slipped down his flushed cheeks anyway. He didn’t speak, and he could tell he wasn’t expected to. So he brought his own shaking hands up to wrap around Doom’s waist, fingers gripping the back of his coat. Every exhale made his breath quiver. He ached from the inside out, and it was agonizing. He felt like a firework on the verge of exploding.

“You can let go. I’m here.”

Another tear slid from his eye. And then another, and another, until there were too many to stop. His chest heaved with a pathetic sob. All of his repressed grief, longing, and loneliness poured out of him all at once, until he was reduced to nothing more than a miserable waterfall. The weight of the baggage he’d been carrying on his back since the day their partnership started had finally been lifted, and the relief had just been too much to bear. He’d never broken like this. This scenario wasn’t even one he’d allowed himself to think about. He couldn’t have emotionally prepared. If he weren’t so overwhelmed, he’d be ashamed of how little it took to send him over that edge.

I’m here. Two words that meant more to him than anything Doom had uttered in the past. Even when they were physically together, he wasn’t really there for him. All members of the Patrol were well aware of the fact that, if it ever came down to it, it was every man for himself. And it had been, up until the very end. They weren’t the kind of men for friendship and teamwork and all of those other sappy, Toon-y concepts you saw in cartoons. They were above the need for such concepts. So he hadn’t let himself acknowledge the idea that, maybe, it was something he just wanted. He wanted companionship, at any cost. To be known. But he wanted the privilege to be known as exactly who he was, and nothing more. He’d be in the Judge’s shadow forever, and he was fine with that. He liked the comfortability of having the men who answered to him be looking straight through him and straight at Doom. All of his instruction came through him. It was a privilege to be that middle man. He’d never asked for more. And it had never been about the role he played, anyway. It had always just been an excuse to be by his side, always. To be his favorite.

Maybe there was more to that feeling than he wanted to admit. Something deeper, and uglier, and more shameful. Something he knew that, if he spoke it, would ruin whatever good thing they had going now. He wasn’t willing to risk it. So he didn’t even say it in his mind.

Smartass sniffled. He’d gone limp in his boss’ arms, conforming to the outline of his chest. He listened to him breathe, and allowed his own breaths to match, deep and slow and careful. He was still petting him softly, like soothing a worried dog, and at this point that felt like a title that he deserved. A dog. Loyal, protective, obedient. An extension of the man who owned him. He’d do anything, if it meant there was a chance he would pat his head and tell him he was good. And he’d sit at his grave forever, waiting for him to come and take him home, no matter how sorry of a sight it was to any onlookers.

The blush on his face hadn’t lessened since he was pulled up here. But slowly, as he started to recover, he felt it intensify. A heat stretched through his entire body. He felt like he was boiling. The warmth of his embrace was suddenly too hot to bear. For a moment, he swore he could feel something bubbling beneath his skin, like he was burning from the inside out. His breath quickened, and he shifted in Doom’s grasp, his head lifting to try and see what the source of the sudden rise in temperature was. He half expected to see the room engulfed in flames. But before he could get too good of a look, his sniffles rasped into a fit of coughs. And white smoke poured from his mouth.

He recoiled backwards in a panic, a hand shooting up to grab his snout, but the coughing didn’t stop. The smoke billowed out in heavier and heavier clouds, from his mouth, his nose, his ears. He could feel sweat start to bead on the back of his neck, wetting his fur. With his heart pounding, unable to catch his breath long enough to find words, he pulled back far enough to try to try and signal for help. But as their chests separated, he heard the wet sounds of something peeling. Brown, orange, and pink splotches stained the front of Doom’s jacket, connecting in long, dripping strings to the weasel’s torso. His entire body was melting, colors commingling together in ugly streaks as they ran down his body. What he’d thought was sweat, before, had turned out not to be that at all-- it was his paint. A terrified gasp jumped from his throat, but that only rasped into another fit of horrible coughs, his hand shaking as he tried to pull it from his mouth. It, too, came back distorted, smudging and smearing his face as it pulled away. That heat from somewhere inside him compounded. He felt like he was burning alive, and he just might have been. Holes began to sear their way through his skin, hissing disgustingly as he lost more and more of his defined shape. The floor was now painted, stained permanently with pinks, and browns, and…

…Yellow.

Something dripped onto his nose.

His pupils, malformed and melting as they were, still managed to snap back upwards, up to the Judge’s face. And the moment he did, he regretted it.

Judge Doom was borderline unrecognizable. The disguise he wore was rendered useless now, as it did nothing to hide the fact that he was suffering the same curse that Smartass found himself afflicted with. Something squirmed and writhed beneath his clothes, crawling its way out in the form of yellow paint that dripped from every opening. Between the buttons of his suit, the collar of his shirt, the hem of his sleeves, his inky innards spilled. But nothing was worse-- more unnerving-- than the effect it had on his mask. Whatever was inside it no longer held enough shape. He could see the faux skin writhing, as the Toon body underneath wriggled and squirmed. His eye sockets appeared empty. But from the lids, red paint poured, giving the illusion of tears of blood. They stained the pale silicone that made up his mask, following the wrinkles and contours of a face that had once looked remarkably similar to a human man, and now looked like the shoddy approximation made by someone who’d never even seen a human before. Just like him, smoke poured from his mouth, but he wasn’t coughing. He was smiling. That wide, toothy grin that unsettled him to the core.

“I told you,” He said, in a voice that no longer sounded like himself. “You won’t ever be alone again.”

Smartass felt his hand press to the side of his face and hold on tight. Paint poured over his fingertips, coiling around each digit, as if trying to tie him down. To wrap around him so tightly, that he’d never have to let go. Doom had every reason to pull away. But he didn’t. Gloved fingers curled into his back, holding onto him just as tightly, and the weasel clenched his teeth hard enough that he could feel them fuse into one.

He didn’t understand. Was this some kind of punishment? Had he wanted his company too much, and this was the universe’s idea of wish fulfillment? When he’d said he wanted to be together, he didn’t mean it like this. The red and yellow paint was mixing with his own. He could no longer tell where Doom ended and he began. He tried to recoil away from him, to escape with as much of himself as he could, but the Judge held onto him tightly. Every time he tried to grab his wrist, or shove his chest, his hands would melt into his form. A final tear rolled down his face, but it did nothing but further muddy his outline. A sudden, crushing hopelessness overwhelmed him. When he looked back at Doom, he saw nothing he recognized. So he closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again, he was in bed.

He met eyes, not with Doom, but with the hollowed eye sockets of the skull that decorated the top of his cane. The cane that was leaned up against his bedside table. Right where he left it.

“Why the hell would you let Psycho in the kitchen?!” A distinct voice yelled from the other side of the room. “Are you tryin’ to get this place burned down?!”

“It was his turn to cook.” Said another, almost incomprehensible through the filter of years of nicotine abuse. “It was either him or Stupid.”

“Yeah! We flipped a coin for it ‘n everything!” Said a third, in a tone cheery enough that it was clear he didn’t understand the gravity of whatever they were bickering about. A loud thump sound followed, and then a: ”Ouch! That hurt!”

Psycho’s hysterical giggles were his only contribution.

“You shoulda thought’a that before your little friend nearly started a fire!” Said the first voice again in a huff.

Smartass pushed himself into a sitting position. His entire body ached. The room smelled thickly of smoke, a thin layer of it coating their hole-filled ceiling. Almost instinctively, he looked down at his hands. They were fine. His paint wasn’t dripping. The colors were, for the most part, just how they always had been. He ran his thumb over his lineart, and it didn’t smudge. It’d all been a dream.

Of course it was a dream. He felt ridiculous for being convinced even for a moment. He’d accepted his bosses’ death an eternity ago, why would he let something like that stir up old feelings? Anything he’d felt for him back then had died with his original body. At least, he planned to keep pretending that was the case.

He lifted his tired eyes to look at the rest of the room. Smoke was pouring in through the doorway. Psycho was standing just outside, waving his sleeves like that would do anything to get rid of it. Predictably, it wasn’t working, and the smoke was only growing at it mixed from the stream coming from the end of Wheezy’s cigarette. Greasy, who’d been the one trying to defuse the situation, must be in the other room putting out the fire, since Smarty couldn’t see him and Stupid was still in his cot. He rubbed the growing lump on his head. Smarty huffed in exhaustion.

The desire to lay back down and pretend he’d never seen anything was overwhelming. But that wasn’t what a leader was supposed to do. Greasy returned to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, mumbling in frustrated Spanish under his breath. It wasn’t until he saw Smartass awake that his demeanor lightened up a bit.

”There you are! About time.” He huffed. “You’ve been sleeping forever. We thought you died again, for a minute there.”

Smartass didn’t look at him. His eyes had drifted back to the metal skull that was still staring back at him. The other weasels acknowledged the silence by looking in his direction for answers, the way they’d been doing constantly lately. Greasy raised a brow.

“...Hey, you alright, man?”

Smartass took a breath. He grabbed his hat-- a shade or two pinker than it used to be-- and nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” He said, as his fingers closed around the cane on the bedside table. “Never better.”