I've had this idea in my head for a long time. Some of it is based on my experiences with bus journeys (mainly in the descriptions of how filthy they can be, not the skeleton encounters sadly) and a lot of it is from who knows where, but I hope you enjoy it.
Big thank you and shout out to my brilliant beta readers: hi ace50 and MagicInTheStars who drew the first cover image for this fic (check MITS's work out on DA - sunnyx-xday . deviantart . com ). Without you guys, I'm sure my grammar would send people to tears.
It is one in the morning, it is dark, it is raining and you are alone... Well, sort of alone, almost alone. Your gaze unconsciously drifts back to the group of men and women who are drunkenly wobbling along the other side of the road you are waiting by.
You force yourself to look away, to stare instead at the orange glow of the electronic bus schedule, but you can't help but glance back to the group of people as they start singing. Their wailing voices are gratingly loud and off key. You're not even sure what lyrics they are trying to put together in that garbled jumble of voices. You stare at them for too long, trying to figure it out, and one of them notices you. Seeing the bright, leering smile on her face, you jolt in place and turn away, trying not to look at her directly, hoping that by doing this she will quickly lose what little interest she has in you. This hope is unfounded as the woman makes to cross the road, shouting out something as mangled as her singing. Your mouth goes dry and your palms start to sweat. Luckily, she never gets to you. The bus skids to a halt in front of you, blocking her from view. Thank god.
Your slight smile fades away as you step on and take in the familiar glower of an unfortunately familiar bus driver.
Great, it's him again, the Busbastard. He scowls at you from under thick, wired glasses as you flash your Oyster card. Thankfully, he says nothing to you this time, instead roughly jerking the bus forward and making you stumble back as you look for somewhere to sit. You quickly fall into a swaying stupor as you settle down on one of the more stain-free seats, shattered from a long night at work. It's going to take an hour or so to get to your stop with this bus but it's the only one running this late (or early depending on how you view it.)
After ten minutes, you subtly press the stop button and the bus slows to a halt, the doors clanking open and Busbastard glaring back as no one gets up to leave, trying to figure out who pressed the button this time. He eyes you suspiciously, but you stare out the window, trying not to smile. With his heavy glaring, Busbastard is distracted enough that he doesn't have time to say anything bigoted as the new passenger shuffles on, flashing his card and slouching past the spittle filled driver.
You watch from the corner of your eye as the lanky monster lumbers his way down, his heavily shadowed eye-sockets almost slits and his furry, yellow stained hood up, hiding most of his skull from view. Water is still dripping down the back of his coat as he turns and sits down a few rows ahead, and you wonder how long he's been standing in the rain. Obviously, whatever job he does must end, at most, fifty minutes before two in the morning, otherwise he would get an earlier bus. By the looks of it, he must have been there for a while. You add this to another one of the mental list of facts you know about the skeleton, just under 'heavy-smoker' and 'insomnia sufferer'.
You're not exactly sure what he does every night but he's always catching the same bus as you. You presume he's coming back from work too; he never seems drunk and you can't think of any other reason for someone to constantly be out late, other than alcohol or work. You don't know for certain though as his stop is after yours and you have never spoken to him before. You don't really care to ask either. He's obviously not interested in conversation or you. You had seen a pretty girl once try to flirt with him, only for the monster to blank them out. The girl had scoffed at this and insulted him and you had heard it:
Startled from your thoughtless daze by her loud voice, you had blinked and refocused on the world around you, on her and then him, and you couldn't help but stare. It was the first time you had paid any real attention to him and the first time that you had realised that the furry hooded man was in fact a monster. Your surprise was quickly eaten away by another, darker feeling as that girl kept talking. Her over-permed hair bounced with every spat out angered word. He was an idiot, gay, dickless, a beast, and blind apparently. The monster did not look like he heard a word of those insults, but you did. You didn't do anything though. You said nothing and you did nothing, just watching as the girl eventually ran out of words and stared at him with incredulous, over-made eyes. The skeleton was still blankly staring into space as the girl huffed and sat somewhere else.
She never really bothered with him again, just glaring at him on the rare occasion that she happened to catch the same bus. You, on the other hand, had a different reaction.
After that day, you found yourself taking notice of the monster more and more. You would notice when he fell on the bus seats like they were his filth-encrusted crutch; you would notice when certain bus drivers just sped past him if he was by himself, and you noticed the blank, bored expressions he carefully held on his face. Each day you crossed something else off your mental check list: the cracks running up and down from his right eye, the flashes of gold that replaced two lost teeth, the heavy shadows under his eyes, the way he sometimes jumped at loud laughter or sudden shouts… Tonight is no exception. You are watching him as the bus takes a corner hard and he sways to the left, righting himself just in time to not fall.
One by one, your fellow passengers depart as the bus travels through the dark and empty streets of the city. Soon there are only a four passengers left, not including yourself. It is at the stop before yours that you realise the monster is still swaying in his seat with every turn and has started to softly shudder. You click the stop button and subtly move several seats closer to the monster, still keeping a distance but getting close enough to lean forward and catch sight of his face. It's flushed orange and his eyes are half-open. His shudders are shivers, you realise. He looks ill. You want to check, to ask him if he is okay, but you don't. You sit there and watch him until the bus has slowed to a stop.
It's not any of my business, you tell yourself as you get up to go. You know you shouldn't stick your nose in where it's not wanted... but still, you hesitate, standing at the doorway off the bus, perched on the boundary between sickly bright light and the damp, inky darkness.
"Get a move on, pansy!" Busbastard spits out behind you.
Some distant, almost forgotten part of you rears its head at that and you briefly consider trying to argue back at the comment, to ask what exactly he means by that and explain why he is a fool through and through, but a heavy clattering sound puts that terrifyingly enticing thought from your mind as you look back. The monster has fallen off his seat and is sprawled face down on the ground, huffing out tight little breaths onto the filthy floor. You are next to him in an instant, carefully turning him over, hand on the back of his skull to stop it from slamming back against the hard plastic again. You check him intently, your other hand on his brow and your eyes focused on the pained grit of his teeth.
"Wake up," you tell him as you one hand to tap at his shoulders. There is no response.
"Oi! Get that drunk freak off my bus!" Shouts Busbastard.
"He's sick," you explain, not looking away from the skeleton as he pants under your hands, eyes squeezed tight, and jaw clenched like a vice.
"Fucking hell! Get it the fuck off or I'm throwing it off," snarls the bus driver. You finally look up and stare at him incredulously, then at the other passengers who are actively avoiding meeting your eyes, now that you are facing them.
"... Right," you say, standing up and avoiding looking at any of those people for a moment more. You heft the monster up under his arms and pull him into your chest, slowly dragging him off the bus and away from that man's sickening sneer. The monster is heavy and a good few feet taller than you but you think you can hold him against your frame easily enough for a little while.
The bus roars off, leaving you alone in a dark and empty bus shelter as rain patters down against the thin glass. Well, almost alone, you think as the skeleton monster lies slouched in your arms, legs sprawled out against the pavement in what would appear to be a boneless fashion if it wasn't obvious that he did in fact have bones. You shake your head of these odd, dazed thoughts and haul him over to the bus stop bench. Gently, you lower his torso and swing his legs as best you can up onto the plastic frame, your other hand on his chest to steady him and stop him from sliding off. You can feel the heat seeping through the thick yellow jumper, the warmth pooling around your fingertips and almost burning to your icy touch. You keep your hand steady though as you kneel down beside him.
"Do you have anyone I can call?" You ask. No answer. You softly run your free hand over the pockets of his scruffy jacket and ripped jeans. No phone either.
Who doesn't carry a phone with them these days? You think. You fish out your own phone to uncertainly ring for an ambulance.
Now, it is a well-known fact by the majority of people out there that monsters often have hugely different anatomies to humans, being composed primarily of magic, so it isn't uncommon for hospitals to turn them away with this excuse. At least, that's what you've heard. This does not stop you from trying though. It doesn't go well.
"-Yes, I know he's a monster but- no- wait don't hang-"
You try again.
"-just fainted there and then. I took him off the bus, I couldn't just leave him there, no one else was helping h-... y-e-s he is ... No, look! I don't know how to help him. Surely someone-... no let me tal-Shit!"
And again.
"-he's similar in size to humans so of course you can- ...no, he's not a danger. He's not even awake! Ple-ugh!"
And again...
You don't realise that the Skeleton's breathing has evened out for a moment, nor that his eyes are open and vaguely focused on you, as you mutter a profanity, take in a deep breath and try one last time.
"Look please. Don't hang up on me. I have someone with me who looks really sick and I must know what to do to help him. What does it matter if he's human or not?... Please..." you beg the new operator.
"...Monster food?" You ask, eyes lighting up and relieved smile on your face. You can do that, you think. You know you have some sea tea left in the fridge.
"Thank y-" you cut off as they slam down the phone on you but you're still smiling.
By the time you look back at the skeleton, his eyes have drifted shut once more and his frame has started to shake violently with shivers. Gently, you lift a limp, shivering arm and drape it across your shoulders as you scoop up his knees and lift him to your chest. He's very tall and awkward to carry but you find yourself grateful that he's a skeleton monster and not something with more meat on his bones.
As you start the twenty-minute walk to your flat, you struggle to one-handedly search on your phone for any more information on monster illnesses. There isn't much. Illness doesn't seem to be a big thing with monsters, or, if it is, they aren't sharing any information about it. The monster shifts again, forcing you to put away your phone or risk dropping him. He doesn't wake up during your fumbling, unsurprisingly considering how he reacted earlier to your attempts to wake him. Instead, his hood falls off as you stumble with him and his head lollops back. You stare at him in the drizzle-stained gloom, taking in the faint gleam of his two golden teeth, jutting upwards from his lower jaw as they catch the light of a lone passing car. You shake your head of your peculiar thoughts on this and keep walking, hunched over him as if to keep the light haze of rain off.
"We're nearly there," you whisper to him, shifting him in your arms as you try to bring a bit of life back to your leaden limbs. As you expect, he doesn't say anything. You think you see his eye lids shift slightly though. It is strange to see him with closed eyes. Usually they are open, if droopy and hooded, and are just blank eye sockets, kind of like the ones you see in human skeletons. But now, he really doesn't look like how you imagine a skeleton to look. He looks like what he is, a living, breathing being.
You tear your eyes away from his face as you focus on making your way up the metal staircase of your apartment block that you have finally reached, legs shaking with the weight you carry, and breath coming out hard and harsh as you push your aching arms to keep carrying him straight up past the first and second floor, all the way up to the third. There, you find yourself in a strained juggling act as you try to get out your keys and unlock the door without dropping the monster.
You don't bother with the lights as you get in, quickly making your way to your bedroom and carefully placing him down on your lumpy, single bed, before dashing back to close the front door and root around for a warm towel and the sea tea. You hesitate as you look down at the carton in your hand. You're slightly worried about giving a drink to someone who is unconscious, which is something that should not be done with humans, but you have little choice at this point. From what the operator had said, it sounded like he wouldn't get better without magical food. Not being conscious makes drinking difficult but you've done this sort of thing before for... for someone else, and you know what to do.
You grab a teaspoon and make your way to your room with all these things, turning on your dim bedside light as you sit at the top of your small, narrow bed. You gently raise the monster's head and slip under him to rest his skull upon your lap. He shifts slightly as you do so, making you feel relieved. If he had fallen deeply unconscious, he would have no swallow reflex which would mean you couldn't do this. You softly trail the towel over him to dry him off, cradling his face with it and briefly running it over his thin frame. You then pour out a quarter of a spoonful of sea tea and gently let the liquid bead and drip down into the slight sleepy parting of his teeth. You do this agonisingly slowly, frequently checking the monster's breathing and for any sign of discomfort as you unknowingly circle your free hand across the monster's skull in a comforting manor.
For how long you do this, you don't know. All you know is that by the time you have given him a quarter of the carton, you cannot feel your legs anymore, his cheeks look less flushed, and he has stopped weakly stirring, falling into a deeper and calmer state of sleep. You slowly extract yourself from under his head, kneeling down beside him to roll his body into the recovery position. You don't know if skeleton monsters can throw up in their sleep but you do know you don't want to risk him choking.
You wearily shuffle off to the sofa after that, collapsing onto the bumpy cushions, too tired to care about the rough lumps of the broken springs or even about taking out the false bridge from your mouth as you sink deeper and deeper into your weary exhaustion.
He wakes up one hour after you the next morning.
You are in the kitchen, making pancakes with splashes of sea tea in them when he lightly steps through the doorway. You jolt in place when you notice him, spinning around with wide eyes as you take him in. Usually the monster stands with a slump to his frame and a bored, unfocused expression on his face, expelling a tired aura of disinterested apathy. That's not what you're seeing right now.
"Good morning!" you blurt out, trying to regain your senses, "a-are you feeling better?"
He doesn't say anything, he just stares at you through empty, hooded eye sockets. You feel a light sheen of sweat forming on your brow as you think of something to say.
"Y-you want some sea tea or, uh, sea tea pancakes?" You try, moving to the side to show him the skillet you have been cooking on.
You can feel his gaze flicker to the stove then back to you. For a moment he just stands and looks blankly at you, his face like stone and stare like ice. Then he abruptly turns around and walks out of your apartment without a word.
The pancake hisses and spits loudly behind you in the sudden silence as you walk into the living room and watch the door softly click shut. The kitchen clock ticks loudly from behind you and the sound of the neighbour's TV drifts through the thin walls. You take in a deep hitching breath and go back into the kitchen to turn off the stove and lean on the counter.
Right. Well. You don't know why but you didn't expect that... You should have thought of some other way of helping him other than taking him back here. He woke up in a strange place with no explanation and you offered him pancakes? Why did you do that? You're such an- you- you messed up.
You wince, taking your balled up fist away from your forehead and turning back to the front door; worry twisting at your lips.
...You hope he's going to be okay.