Chapter Summary:
Brahms hates when it storms, it's so loud in the walls and it's not good noise like his music or someone reading aloud to him. So he does the only thing he can think of, and goes to his nanny's room, thinking it will help him feel less overwhelmed.
Too bad she's a light sleeper. Canon-Divergent/AU to the movie.
Notes:
I got the inspiration for this while reading The Boy fanfics, so I decided to attempt to write a short fic for Brahms and my OC Ruby. I'll likely write more about Ruby and Brahms going forward, since they're an interesting pair to say the least, and I have countless ideas for them. This is set in an au in which Greta never found the ad, and Ruby has no ex she's running from. Ruby's nickname for the doll is quite simply something French children call their favorite toy, according to google. I'm not French myself- but Ruby is-so if I'm wrong please correct me. My intent was to show that Doll!Brahms has become a sort of comfort to her since she arrived in the manor, as he's someone to talk to.
He'd hoped she'd been wrong. Listening to her that morning as she ate breakfast, she'd made a comment that they might need to change the schedule a little, checking the traps outside before his lesson, that it looked like a storm was coming and she'd rather they not get caught in that.
She'd smiled though, and added that if they did that they'd be okay- she'd get him nice and warm, and in dry clothes, and once she'd done the same herself she'd make them hot cocoa and they could sit together and she'd read to him more than usual, because rainy days were meant for curling up with a warm drink and a good book. What would be better than sharing that with him?
Then she'd paused, like she always did, as if waiting for him to reply- she'd done that from the start, it's one of the things that had warmed him to her so quickly. Sometimes he mouths replies in the walls, soft enough she won't hear but loud enough he'll feel like he's talking to her.
He does so now, a soft whisper that no, routine was best, and storms were the worst.
She seems to get her answer, or at least pretends she does, nodding with a soft hum and tucking a lock of her bright colored hair behind her ear. "Staying close to the routine it is, then. I know it's quite important to you, and I'd hate to change it without your approval, especially so suddenly."
She was so sweet, to ask- to act as if he'd replied and she'd heard him, and to know how he would have answered, how he did answer- that the routine was a routine for a reason, and she'd yet to break a rule or change it yet.
But he hoped she was wrong, and that there'd be no storm. He hated storms- he always had, but it was worse after what happened.
It was far louder in the walls when it stormed.
She was right, of course. It didn't start off too bad- a little drizzle as she was heading back in with the doll and the bag of rats, causing her to speed up to a slight jog to get inside before it got worse, sliding off her shoes at the door and hanging the coats up before carrying him upstairs in her socks.
She kept her word, making sure he was in dry clothes and so was she. Pausing in her room, she digs in the trunk where she'd started storing the blankets she knit at night to find one that hadn't gone 'missing'. That was his fault, they were warm and soft and a part of her, he had more than one on his bed even now. He didn't know what she thought about it- she'd never said anything, simply knit more.
With that and the doll in tow, she breaks one rule- just a touch, not enough to anger him. She settles the doll under the blanket on the couch, giving a promise to 'be right back, doudou' before she goes to the kitchen, making the hot chocolate she'd mentioned and adding a plate of cookies- though he notices she leaves a second mug and plate of cookies in the kitchen.
He waits to see if she returns, but she doesn't, her voice drifting through the house as she begins to read. She was always so good at projecting her voice without losing that gentle softness, making it easy for him to hear her even without the tubes in the walls.
She won't notice- she has no reason to. Who's to say she'll even know the mug is gone, or question it when the plate is returned to the icebox? It will simply be another among dozens, after all.
So he slips out of the pantry and takes the mug and cookies, quickly returning to the walls and moving as close as he can to the living room, where she's now curled up under the blanket with the doll held close, reading with occasional pauses to sip her drink or take a bite of her cookies.
It's nice, in a way. Like they're having a snack together- her on the couch, and him in the walls.
Maybe next time he'll be on the couch with her.
He can only hope.
The storm only worsens as the night goes on, and by bedtime, it's raging. It's enough that he's restless, even back in his bedroom- but it seems his nanny doesn't have the same dilemma- he hasn't heard her moving about in a while.
It seems safe enough, he thinks- the storm doing one good thing by covering for him moving through the walls to where a panel opens into her room.
It's dark, only the flashes of lightning illuminating the room- and her figure under the blankets, chest softly raising and falling with her breathing. With that confirmed, he slowly eases the panel open and steps into the room, shutting it behind him and moving to sit on the floor against her bed- he wants to lay next to her, to be held like she holds the doll- but he knows he can't.
What he can do is tug the blanket she'd brought back and folded at the bottom of the bed off, wrapping it around himself- though he freezes when she shifts, one hand limply dangling off the side of the bed right by him.
He stares for a moment- long enough to insure she's still asleep- before he moves to lace his fingers with hers- her hand looks so small, so delicate next to his. She's always seemed tinier, but to compare so closely-
His thoughts are cut off when her hand shifts, tightening ever so slightly- as if she's tightening her grip on him. But no, a look confirms her eyes are still closed, her breathing still even- she's still asleep.
He's safe to rest, at least for the night.
She's not asleep.
She's merely a skilled pretender, aware of how to keep her breathing even and gentle, her eyes closed with just a sliver of sight through her lashes- and she's grown familiar with all the usual creaks and groans of the walls.
But even the storm doesn't fully cover the sound of footsteps, not this close to the wall- but she doesn't show it.
She senses someone walk to her bed, and still she pretends.
She hears them take a seat on the floor, and still she pretends.
She feels them pull the blanket she'd knit from the end of the bed, and still she pretends- though not quite as well, the thought clicking in her head that whoever this is, it's the same person who has been stealing those blankets since she arrived. One mystery solved.
And so, she does something reckless, and dangerous- allowing her hand to dangle off the side of the bed, hiding it as simply shifting in her sleep, to see what they'll do.
She half expects them to grab her wrist and pull her down to the floor, but instead feels a hesitant touch, the soft lacing of fingers- they're holding her hand. It's gentle, and innocent- or at least, it seems that way.
So she does what she hopes is right- and she tightens her grip just enough to show she's there, and she's holding their hand, and everything is ok.
She can worry about what this means in the morning, in the sunlight.
Stormy nights are best spent with others, after all.
This absolutely got a lot longer than I intended, but I had a lot of inspiration. Hope you enjoyed! More than one fic I've read during pauses writing this have the Heelshires fearing Brahms, and all but shunning him to the walls-which likely means he's had to be sneaky about comfort he gets growing up, or when he has moments where he's overwhelmed or upset. This fic was intended to give him a sort of comfort that had no expectations, and only implied sneakiness. Ruby's aware someone is there, and gives the comfort willingly-if admittedly a bit cautiously.