pawprints in the flour

tw: ptsd, trauma

Brianna was making dinner, which she usually did, unless dad got especially whiny about going out to get ramen. Which, like, valid. But he was playing his "silly videogame" with the "little animals," so probably not going out tonight.

She hummed to herself, slowly finishing chopping everything. Tonight was fried rice, aka "get all the vegetables into everyone" night, which also happened to be "be sure to slip Bumble a stray shrimp" night. This rice pulled double duty. She grabbed the eggs, beating them, turning back to the stove-

And there was a noise, weird enough to have her turning, looking over into the rest of the apartment. "Dad?" She called, setting down the bowl and heading out. "You okay?"

He was obviously not. He was sitting up, the headset ripped away, eyes red and wild, staring desperately up at Bria when she entered. "Bria?" He asked, and she moved to sit by him, pulling him into a hug.

"Ssh, it's okay, I'm here." Brianna soothed, hating how tightly he grabbed onto her, like even now something might rip them apart. She didnt know the details, and never would- but damn if some nights she didn't think about finding these people, and giving them something to have nightmares about.

"You're here, we're both at home. We're safe. The cats are safe." As if on cue, Bumble toddled over, looking up at them with her eyes huge, and slightly crossed, the left weepy around the edges from whatever ancient cat disease cocktail she had. She made a raspy whine, met Bria's gaze, and with the empathy of a chipmunk who picked a fight with a semi... wandered over to her food bowl, pointedly licking at the scraps. "Bumble's crying because its not dinner yet."