A/N: Oops, I never published this and it was finished weeks ago. Anyway I needed to write h/c for the Lorax because there obviously wasn't enough.
I am a hurt/comfort fic junkie. So sue me.
Reviews would be lovely!
Obviously the Lorax had not intended for the Once-ler to head in the direction of the waterfall. Unfortunately, the gentle drift off into someplace else (emphasis on the someplace else) ended up being a one-way disaster into potential death. After scrambling to retrieve the Once-ler and the stray Barb-a-loot from the raging watery depths, and after the Once-ler had agreed to not cut down any more Truffula trees, the Lorax had actually managed to relax a bit. The Once-ler seemed sincere (albeit a bit shaky and tired, and something else the Lorax couldn't quite put his finger on), and while the Lorax definitely didn't trust him, he found it would be pretty easy to keep an eye on him if he started to back off his promise.
Yet, of course, the Lorax could never really stay relaxed for long, and the next few days made sure of that.
The day after the whole "accidentally almost killing the lanky entrepreneur" incident, the Lorax had been speaking to the Hummingfish about the new fish families that had travelled in from upstream, when he noticed the Once-ler himself strolling along the meadow from the direction of his fancy tent.
"Hey, Beanpole!" The Lorax called. "Where do you think you're going?"
The Once-ler turned to him slightly, slowing down his stride. He huffed and raised his arms to reveal empty hands. "Relax, Mustache! I'm not going to cut down anything, remember? I just want to explore for a bit. See what else is around here."
The Lorax kept curiously watching him go, the tall figure appearing smaller and smaller and finally disappearing altogether as he wove through the denser section of the Truffulas. There was something a little off about the Once-ler today, the Lorax had noticed. But after a moment, he turned back to the Hummingfish, the matter soon forgotten.
The matter resurfaced, however, when the Once-ler had been gone for at least four hours, and the pinks and oranges in the sky were melding together to allow room the for deep blue to take over. The Lorax had begun to feel a bit confused. How long could one really explore the Truffula forest without getting lost?
He had almost reluctantly decided it would be a good idea to start up some sort of search party (although a part of him still wanted the Once-ler gone, he didn't want him to starve somewhere), when the man in question stumbled into the clearing.
The Lorax started walking toward him, a few Bar-ba-loots right behind, quickening his pace when he saw the Once-ler falter.
"What's wrong with you?" The Lorax asked, frowning. As he approached the Once-ler, his face became more clear and its pallor became apparent.
"Nothing," the Once-ler said defensively, still walking towards his tent. The Lorax just stared at him, falling to step to his left (the Bar-ba-loots still in tow), not buying it. The Once-ler sighed and continued, "Okay, so I only went out there because I wasn't feeling very... um, energetic today, and I thought fresh air would help me. But I got lost and ended up walking too far. It's like a maze in there."
"I shouldn't have had you go alone," the Lorax sternly. "Besides, you're not trustworthy- who knowswhat kind of shenanigans you could pull walking around this landscape by yourself!"
The Once-ler raised an eyebrow. "Shenanigans?" he deadpanned. "What are you expecting me to do, wrestleone of the Truffula trees to the ground?" He lifted his arms as if to remind the Lorax that he did not, in fact, possess his axe.
"Don't get smart, Beanpole," the Lorax said, irritated, and was about to say something else when the Once-ler stopped walking and swayed a little, like he was about to fall down. "Hey!" The Lorax raised his hand hesitantly, not quite sure what to do. The few Bar-ba-loots that had been walking with him now gathered around the Once-ler, as if ready to catch him.
"Sorry, I just..." The Once-ler's voice trailed off. "I need to get back to my tent." He seemed to recover from his temporary dizzy spell and straightened, easing around the concerned Bar-ba-loots, and strode the final distance back to his makeshift living space. The Lorax watched him go, more confused than before.
The deep blue of the sky teemed with small brilliant stars, the chirping sound of nightlife creatures filling the air. Normally, the Lorax would have been asleep by now, but tonight the animals had been restless and had wanted a story. Which ultimately would have been fine, if they hadn't started craving those white sugar cylinder lumps that Beanpole had brought with him in plastic packages. What were they called again?
Oh yeah. Marshmallows.
"Okay, okay," the Lorax relented after a Bar-ba-loot had stared at him with particularly pleading eyes. Glancing towards the Once-ler's tent, he saw that the inside brimmed with yellow light, indicating that its inhabitant was still awake. Upon reaching the door, he knocked a bit cautiously. There was no answer. Sighing, the Lorax realized the door was open a little bit already, and pushed his way inside.
The Once-ler was sitting in the ratty green armchair in the middle of his "living room", a half-knit thneed on his lap and arms at his side. For a split second, the Lorax panicked and thought something was seriously wrong, but then he caught the slow steady movement of the Once-ler's chest and realized he was sleeping.
The Lorax creeped up on him, keeping his movements quiet, but then he realized he should probably wake him up, as sleeping in an armchair was bad for the joints. "Beanpole!" he tried to call, and reached forward, jostling his leg (sadly, he couldn't even reach over the arm of the chair in order to shake an arm).
The Once-ler, however, would not wake up. His sleep was becoming increasingly less calm, and his face less relaxed. The Lorax climbed up onto the armchair, half standing on the Once-ler himself, ready to slap him into the face if that was what it took. But upon reaching this height, the Lorax was taken aback at the red flush that covered the tall man's face. Reaching out hesitantly, he touched it. It was burning.
Well, the Once-ler was ill, that was obvious. The Lorax knew that now. And thinking back earlier, there had been signs the whole day and he hadn't thought hard enough to catch them. He'd been too busy being suspicious about the Once-ler's actions to realize he actually should have been more observant. But damn it, there was a word for this sickness and for the life of him the Lorax could not recall it. He didn't know its origins or purpose, much less how to quell it.
It was going to be a long night.
The Lorax, being a sensible creature, decided that in order to do this caretakingthing right, he needed to be orderly about it. And first things first, he had to get the Once-ler from this armchair into his bed. Point A to Point B. The fact that the Lorax was about an eighth size of the Once-ler made this job completely impossible.
So, doing what any sensible creature would do, the Lorax called for backup. Opening the door of the tent, the Lorax cupped his hands to his mouth and called to the other animals, "Hey! Get your furry asses in here! I need help moving this human stick!"
With a little help, a few lifts, shoves, and some accidental drops later (it was likely the Once-ler would be feeling the consequences of this the next day), the Lorax managed to finally get him into his bed. Worriedly, he had not really woken up through the entire tirade, but had instead undergone a sort of half-conscious delirium.
The kid was muttering snatches of something that the Lorax couldn't quite hear. He leaned in closer.
"Not... failure..." The Once-ler thrashed suddenly in his sleep, twisting the covers, and the Lorax leaped back, startled. His brows knit as he studied his face: it was flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. This was getting more cumbersome by the second, and the Lorax, unfortunately, was finding himself more and more flummoxed. Since he was, in fact, the Lorax, sickness simply did not happen to him, and when it happened to animals, they dealt with it amongst their own. Humans were another matter. They succumbed to illness easily and seemed to be incapable of taking care of themselves. Or, at least, this idiot was.
"Mom, I did it... I sold it... I made something useful. Why can't you be happy with me?" The Once-ler's face was twisted into something akin to desperate sadness, and the Lorax felt his heart drop. He didn't know the kid's family situation, but judging from the state of his dreams, it didn't sound very good. The Lorax realized he didn't know much about the Once-ler at all, save that he seemed to be a naive, careless businessman who didn't have enough respect for the land. He was untrustworthy and that was that.
The Lorax brought a furry paw to the Once-ler's forehead, alarmed again by its heat. He had to do something. Turning away from the bed, he noticed several Bar-ba-loots and Swammi Swans had lingered in the doorway, looking very unsure of themselves.
"You there!" The Lorax called, pointing to the biggest Bar-ba-loot on the left. "Go get that bowl by the sink, fill it with hot water, and bring it here! You," he pointed to another Bar-ba-loot, "get a rag. You'll find one in the kitchen." The Bar-ba-loots stood there for a second, until he angrily said, "Well, get a move on!" and they scampered off post-haste.
As the night wore on, the Once-ler's delirium was growing heavier, his fever hotter. It had started to rain heavily outside, causing the reverberation of raindrops on the top of the tent to sound like drumming, which didn't really help the Lorax's anxiety. He took the dampened rag from the Once-ler's forehead and squeezed its excess water onto the floor, wetting it anew from the bowl, and replaced it.
The Once-ler stirred, and to the Lorax's surprise, opened his eyes.
"Dad..." he mumbled, his eyes squinting, seeing a fever-induced delusion. The Lorax's mouth dropped open in a stunned silence.
"Dad, you came back," the Once-ler rasped, breaking into a smile and closing his eyes tight. God, he looked positively gleeful. Why had his father left? Why had he not come back?
"I..." The Lorax was at a loss for words, not sure if he should quell the illusion or to keep it alive by pretense. He went for the former. "Kid, it's me. You need to go to sleep. You've been getting warmer all night."
The Once-ler didn't seem to really understand him, and his eyes were still closed. His expression turned into apprehension, with his eyebrows all scrunched up. He looked like a little kid. Perhaps, in his mind, he had regressed to a young boy being taken care of by his father. "Are you going to leave again?"
Something twisted painfully inside the Lorax, and he felt his breath intake a little. "No... no, kid. I'm not going to leave again."
The Once-ler's face relaxed, free of tension. His breathing began to slow again, and he drifted off into sleep.
The Lorax woke with a start to the chirping of birds outside. Sunlight streamed through the tent's window, the smell of the night's rain still in the air. Looking hastily around him, he saw that the Once-ler's bedroom floor was covered with used rags and a handful of sleeping animals. Smiling a little, he turned to the Once-ler.
The Once-ler lay on his bed in twisted sheets, his skin slick with sweat. His breathing, however, was normal and steady, and he did not seem as flushed with fever as he had been before. Suddenly, he blinked, waking.
"Ugh..." the Once-ler moaned, bringing a hand to cover his eyes. "What...?" He brought the hand over his face and looked about the room, taking in the sleeping creatures, as well as the Lorax sitting on the stool by his bed. "I don't even remember..." He broke off with hoarse coughing.
The Lorax studied him worriedly, but his voice was gruff. "I came to see you last night and you were asleep in your chair, burning like a day in August. Some of the Bar-ba-loots and I managed to get you into your bed. Er... sorry if there's some bruising."
The Once-ler looked stunned. "I... had a dream. My mother and then my... my father..." His voice trailed off again, and he seemed lost in his thoughts and memories, his countenance a mixture of bewilderment and resigned sadness.
For a few moments, the Lorax studied the floor, unsure if he should let the Once-ler know of his delirium, unsure if he should reveal that he had accidentally looked a bit into his family life. And not a very good family life, at that.
"Listen, Beanpole," the Lorax said with a sigh, and the Once-ler looked up at him. "Don't worry about your family. While you're here, we're your family."
The Once-ler's eyebrows raised; he looked shocked. Frankly, the Lorax felt shocked that that had even come out of his mouth. But what was he supposed to do? The kid had looked ready to cry, for Christ's sakes.
"Uh, okay, don't take that too much to heart," the Lorax tried to backtrack. "I mean, we're your temporary family."
The Once-ler still stared at him, disbelief on his face. Then he smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks. And... thanks for taking care of me." His gaze trailed over the used rags and basin of water on the floor.
The Lorax shrugged, suddenly feeling embarrassed about the whole thing. He didn't do mushy stuff. "Don't get used to it. Now, should I try making those... what did you call them... panpies or whatever they were?"
"They're pancakes, and I really wouldn't trust you in the kitchen."
"Oh, please," the Lorax scoffed. "How hard can it be?"
The Once-ler sighed, reclining back into the bed, and grinned. "Whatever you say, Mustache. I'll just have to yell out the instructions and make sure you don't burn down the place."
The Lorax took that deal, and three burnt attempts and ten pancakes later, the Lorax and the Once-ler and several Bar-ba-loots and Swammi swans all gathered by the Once-ler's bed to enjoy a semi-edible breakfast, and though the Lorax could not give up his trust quite yet, he had not been able to withhold some fondness.