It Followed him Home

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I got cling a couple times for Oscar, one by himself and another with another character that I will work on next. For now, have a cute little story that’s pretty much canon for Food and Monsters Oscar as well as Brothers Together Oscar and any au where he grows up in the Knight’s Inn motel.

Reading time: ~5 minutes


Oscar rarely had to improvise his hiding places like this. Normally, he made sure he took as few risks as he could, to avoid situations where he needed to. He trusted certain hiding places in the room every time: under the dresser, behind the nightstand, and, in a pinch, under a bed.

Just inside the cuff of a discarded sweater on the floor? He hated it.

His heart pounded as the floor shook. The human that stumbled around, occasionally grumbling with a headache, had come in the night before very drunk, and now he was paying for it. Oscar didn’t know what it felt like to be drunk or hungover, but from what he’d seen of the kinds of people that stayed in his motel, he wasn’t interested in finding out.

Usually they stayed asleep for much longer. Oscar had crept into the room in the dark well after the human flopped onto their bed, hoping to capitalize on the food spilled on the floor when they came in. They had never noticed that their takeout box didn’t land on the table when they put it down.

Of course, he couldn’t predict that they’d lurch off of the bed towards the bathroom. Oscar was lucky that the sweater was there while he stuffed his bag full of vegetables and pieces torn from a piece of soft bread.

He had to wait it out while the human figured out what they wanted to do, all from within the thick sleeve of the knit sweater. He counted their steps in the earthquakes and sighed. At least they weren’t cognizant enough to turn on the lights. He was out of sight.

The human knocked something over in the bathroom while they were in there. Oscar sighed heavily. Shampoo bottles, maybe an away kit or something like it, clattered to the floor. Then, following that, the ground shook all the way out into the motel room as the human dropped down to their knees to scrabble at the fallen items. In the dark.

This was an easier one. Oscar shimmied back out from his hiding place, peeking out across the floor just to be sure. He could see in the dark better than any drunk human could with the lights on.

With a huff, Oscar pulled himself the rest of the way out of the sleeve. He was glad no one had seen his startled dive.

Tufts of green fuzz from the sweater stuck to him. Oscar brushed them off and jogged towards the dresser. The human was muttering to themselves about how tough it was to find things in the dark. So far, they hadn’t thought to turn the light on and help their search along. Oscar let himself smile as he ducked out of sight and approached his wallpaper entrance to get into the walls.

He was halfway home before he noticed it. A tuft of green fuzz, the size of his head, clung to his shoulder. The static kept it there, but it was so light that he hadn’t noticed it. Oscar frowned and reached over to grab it. The static cling changed to his hand instead.

“Hey,” he muttered, shaking his hand vigorously. The fuzz moved to the back of his hand instead, resolutely sticking to him. Oscar huffed and stared at it as though it were a mischievous mouse pup. “Getoff.”

He grabbed the thing in his other hand and held it out in front of him, as far as his little arms could reach. When he let it go, it drifted downwards, but only for a second before veering back towards him. Oscar was startled, and he fell backwards in the dust.

The fuzz clung to his chest now.

Oscar pushed himself back up with a frown, and brushed the dust from his pants. The fuzz still clung to him. Static was powerful for someone so small. Trying to brush the thing down to the ground only got it stuck to his hand again, and shaking it off sent it drifting back to his side.

“You’re trouble,” he accused it in a hushed voice. Then, since it insisted on clinging to him despite all his efforts, Oscar continued on his way home.

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