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Chapter Text

“So… where should we start?”

The cell was padded and soft, sterile white with muted grey seams. The kind of room meant to keep mammals from hurting themselves—though it did nothing for the bruises under his fur. The only sound was the hum of the AC vent overhead and the faint, rhythmic tick of the observation monitor. There were no windows. Just a transparent security wall with small circular holes so one could breathe but never escape.

Pawbert shifted in his orange jumpsuit. The movement dragged cold metal against raw skin; the cuffs around his wrists and ankles scraped like dull teeth. He winced and slowly drew his limbs back in, making himself smaller.

He stared at nothing. His head bowed, green eyes half-lidded and unfocused, dull in a way eyes should never be. They didn’t shine. They didn’t feel alive. They looked… empty.

He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. The simple action sent a sharp pulse of pain through his throat. A reminder.

A reminder he was still here.
Still alive.

Still alive.

“Pawbert?”

His ears twitched at the sound. He blinked and forced his gaze upward.

A tiny figure stood just beyond the glass—no taller than his paw. A quokka, round-faced and gentle, dressed in a white medical coat that looked almost too big for her. Her ID badge read: Dr. Fuzzby.

She watched him with an expression Pawbert barely recognized. Concern. Worry. A softness that made his chest tighten uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to that look. Not directed at him. Not from anyone.

Least of all from a stranger.

Most mammals looked at him with hostility, suspicion… or that cold, disgusted indifference his own family mastered.

“Mr. Lynxley—”

“Don’t.” The word rasped out of him before he even realized he’d spoken. His voice croaked—thin, hoarse, damaged. He didn’t lift his head.

“Don’t call me that…”

The quokka blinked, then nodded gently. “Alright. Would you prefer just Pawbert, then?”

He didn’t reply. His eyes drifted downward again, following the curve of his shackled arms.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she murmured, not unkindly.

A quiet moment settled between them, heavy but not suffocating. Dr. Fuzzby stepped closer to the glass.

“You don’t have to talk yet. I just want to sit with you,” she said softly.

No reaction.

“The guards told me you haven’t eaten. Or asked for blankets. Or water. Are you hungry? Cold?”

A flicker. Barely anything—but his eyelids moved, and one ear gave a faint twitch. His breathing sped up for half a second before flattening again. He didn’t raise his head.

“Pawbert,” she said, firmer this time but still gentle. “I want to help you. But I can’t do anything if you don’t speak to me.”

Silence answered her. The kind that wasn’t defiance—just exhaustion. Hopelessness.

And something older. Something learned.

He didn’t sit up. He curled in on himself instead, folding his limbs inward until he took up as little space as possible. Like a kitten trying to disappear. The chains clinked lightly but he didn’t seem to care.

Dr. Fuzzby watched the movement, her expression tightening.

“Pawbert… your family isn’t here,” she said carefully. “I spoke to the warden. He told me you requested to be placed somewhere—anywhere—that your father and siblings couldn’t reach you.”

The name—family—made him flinch, his tail bristling before curling protectively around himself. His shoulders rose, his spine bowed. Instinctive. Terrified.

“They’re not here,” Dr. Fuzzby repeated, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re safe from them. You can tell me what happened.”

Her words echoed faintly, bouncing around the padded room and sinking into him like slow poison.

He stared at his paw—shaking slightly, thin fur matted near the knuckles—and his breath stuttered.

His vision blurred, shifting. The room around him melted into something darker, colder.

A week ago.

When he still had hope.
When he stupidly believed being locked up with his family might fix something. Might make them see him. Hear him. Maybe—even once in his life—care.

He could almost laugh at the thought now.
It was so painfully naïve.

The memories flooded in, uninvited:

Shouts.
Threats.
Hisses and growls.
Claws against metal.
Teeth flashing in the dark.

The first shove came from his eldest brother. Then another. Then a blow to the side of his head, ringing his ears. They blamed him for everything—every failure, every arrest, every shred of reputation their family lost.

“You ruined us.”
“You disgrace.”
“You were always the weakest.”
“This is your fault.”

And when he didn’t fight back—didn’t defend himself—it only fed them more.

Compared to his siblings’ cruelty, the hits from other inmates were mercy. Simple, impersonal violence. Not the familial kind—chewed by resentment, sharpened by years.

But the worst… the worst was when the beating stopped.

And his father stepped forward.

His father didn’t yell. He never yelled. He just watched, quiet and cold, until he was ready to strike.

Pawbert remembered being lifted by the scruff with bruising force, pain shooting down his spine. He remembered the moment his father raised his other paw—claws extended—and the instant of paralyzing terror before it came down.

Three burning lines tore across his face.
Forehead.
Nose.
Cheek.

He screamed. Not because of the pain—though it was blinding—but because of the betrayal. The final confirmation of everything he feared.

His father threw him down like garbage.

The cell floor was cold. He remembered that clearly. Cold against his cheek, cold seeping into his bones as he lay there shaking, blood dripping steadily.

He remembered his siblings laughing.
He remembered his father turning away.

He remembered thinking, for a moment, that he might die there. That maybe it would be easier if he did.

The only reason he didn’t was because the guards heard the noise and finally tore him away from them.

Dragged him out while his family cursed him.

---

Back in the padded cell, Pawbert blinked slowly. His breath trembled.

Still alive.
But he didn’t know why.

His paw twitched again.

Dr. Fuzzby watched him, her eyes softening with a depth of sympathy he didn’t know what to do with.

“Pawbert,” she whispered, “you’re safe now. I’m here. Talk to me… whenever you’re ready.”

For the first time, a sound escaped him.

Not a word. Not even a syllable.

Just a soft, broken whimper buried in the back of his throat.

But it was the first sound he’d made that wasn’t pain. 

___________________

His assignment that day was the laundry room.

Compared to the other wings, it was quiet there—too quiet. The guards barely paid attention, bored out of their minds, more focused on their card game by the door than on the lone lynx folding sheets. The machines drowned out most noise anyway. Pawbert didn’t complain. If anything, he welcomed the solitude.

At least here, he didn’t have to see his family.
At least here, the bruises beneath his fur didn’t throb every time someone said his last name.
At least here, the silence wasn’t filled with threats.

And yet… even at this safe distance, he could still feel them.

His siblings’ claws.
Their snarling voices.
The sting of the three lines carved into his face—constant, pulsing reminders etched into his skin.

He touched his cheek once, gently. Even the memory hurt.

Pawbert stared blankly at the mountain of linens in front of him. The sharp smell of industrial detergent burned his nose, mixing with bleach until his eyes watered. He blinked slowly, exhaustion swimming under his eyelids.

When he finally looked up, his reflection stared back from the chrome plating of the industrial washer—warped, distorted, but clear enough.

He froze.

He looked… wrong.

Gaunt.
Hollow.
Stripped of color and softness.

The three jagged scars cut down his face like the signature of someone who hated him.

He leaned in closer, but the more he stared, the less familiar the reflection became. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

Not Pawbert.
Not a Lynxley.
Not anyone.

Just a hollow shape with his fur. A ghost wearing his face.

Who was he?

The runt.
The weakest.
The failure.

The one used as a punching bag.
The one too small to matter.
The one no one defended.
The one no one waited for, called for, looked for.
The one that even his own blood preferred broken.

His breath hitched, shallow and uneven. A numbness crept down his spine as something inside him staggered under the weight.

His eyes glazed over.
Something detached.
Something surrendered.

And then he stopped thinking.

His paws moved on their own—quiet, smooth, practiced in their hopelessness. He stepped away from the washer. His claws brushed against a fresh bed cover in the pile, then curled around it. His other paw grabbed a metal chair tucked in the corner of the room.

The guards didn’t notice.

No one ever noticed him.

He set the chair beneath a ceiling beam, one thick enough to hold the industrial ventilation duct. He didn’t know how he knew it would hold. He didn’t remember making the choice to check. He just climbed onto the chair, paws trembling as he tied one end of the sheet around the beam.

A tug.
It held.

He wrapped the other end around his neck. His breath stuttered.

Still no guards.
Still no voices.
Still no one looking for him.

The chair wobbled slightly under his weight.

Then—

A sharp scrape.
A hollow thud as the chair toppled.

The sound echoed through the corridor like a gunshot.

_____________________________________

He had never felt more at peace.

Air squeezed from his lungs as the noose pulled tight, but fear… fear didn’t come. His body kicked once, twice, but his mind drifted somewhere warm, soft, and distant.

Tunnel vision narrowed his world to a darkening circle. His heartbeat slowed into a muffled drum, fading behind the rush in his ears.

And then the memories came.

Fragments.
Shattered pieces of a childhood he could barely remember.

His siblings cornering him in hallways.
His father’s disapproving glare across the dining room table.
Cold words, colder punishments.
Every moment he was reminded he wasn’t enough—not strong enough, not fierce enough, not worthy of the Lynxley name.

But beyond all that—

A softer memory pushed through.

His mother.

Her face emerging from the fading edges of his vision, warm and golden like sunlight. Her paws wiping tears from his cheeks. Her voice soothing him after his siblings chased him. The way she pulled him close when Father’s temper rose.

Her soft eyes.
Her gentle smile.
Her warmth.

The only mammal who ever made him feel like he mattered.

He felt tears rise, not from pain, but from longing.

Mom…

He had missed her for so long.

And soon—

Soon he would see her again.

Soon.

______________________________________

He woke up to the sound of his name echoing through a tunnel—far away at first, then suddenly close, too close.

“Pawbert!—I’ve got movement here!”

Voices overlapped, sharp and frantic. Footsteps slammed against linoleum. Metal clattered. Someone cursed under their breath. More than one pair of paws were on him—he wasn’t sure where, or how many, or why everything felt like it was happening underwater.

He tried to move, but his body answered with nothing. His limbs weren’t his; they were sacks of wet sand tied loosely to him. His chest felt tight, bruised. His throat—his throat burned. Every pulse of his heart felt like it shook his skull.

His eyes cracked open a fraction. The world swam. Shapes blurred and bent, colors bleeding into one another. But the ceiling… he knew that ceiling. The pipes. The humming light. The smell of detergent.

The laundry room.

“I’ve got a pulse!” someone barked, breathless.

“Get him on the gurney, now! On my count—one, two—lift!”

Hands slid underneath him, gripping fur, uniform fabric, whatever they could find. The movement jolted pain through the back of his neck—sharp, biting—and for a split second instinct made him try to gasp. Nothing came out. His diaphragm twitched uselessly.

He was weightless for a moment, suspended between the ground and hands that were not gentle, but were careful. Then his back hit something softer—a stretcher—and the sensation of motion immediately followed as they started pushing.

“Airway’s compromised. Get the mask on him!”

Something cold pressed over his snout, sealing around the bridge of his muzzle and cheeks. A hiss cut through the chaos—clean, constant, mechanical.

Then air—cool and forceful—pushed into him.

His lungs expanded without him asking them to. The burn in his chest sharpened, then eased just a little. His vision flickered in and out, darkness creeping at the edges, but the hiss continued, steady, steady, steady.

“He’s breathing… he’s breathing,” someone said—half to him, half to reassure themselves.

A hand tapped his cheek. “Pawbert? Hey—stay with me. You hear me? Stay with me.”

The world dimmed again. But there was air in his lungs. Real air. Forced, artificial, but there.

He was alive.

Whether he wanted to be or not—he didn’t know.

But he was.

Chapter Text

Dr. Fuzzby had been a therapist for three years, and in all that time she had never encountered a case like Pawbert Lynxley. She’d handled breakdowns, violent outbursts, trauma spirals, panic attacks—she’d seen predators twice her size go through the stages of grief right before her eyes, and prey animals shaking so hard their teeth chattered. But this? This level of collapse? 

There was something different about it. Something that made her chest tighten.

When she’d been called to the prison to conduct psychological evaluations on the Lynxley family, she thought it best to start with the youngest and work her way up. A simple plan. Straightforward. She expected guarded silence, maybe some defensiveness—typical of high-profile, cold-blooded families like the Lynxleys.

But the moment she heard that the youngest had attempted suicide… that he’d actually been found hanging… that he’d nearly succeeded…

She knew her schedule didn’t matter anymore. She had to see him first.

A suicide attempt is always a cry for help. Always. Even when it looks like rage or defiance or impulsivity. It is, at the core, a voice saying please someone see me before I disappear.

Still, as confident as she was in her training, she remained cautious around predator patients. Not out of prejudice—never that—but because she was the size of a cantaloupe, and in her field “better safe than sorry” wasn’t a cliché, it was survival.

But that caution instantly evaporated at the sight of Pawbert now, curled up defensively like he's trying to shield himself from the world. 

He wasn’t pacing or growling or posturing. He was folded into himself, shaking, his face buried in the padding. Completely untethered. Completely undone.

He wasn’t a danger to her.

He was barely a danger to himself anymore.

But he needed help. And for the first time in her career, she wasn’t sure she knew where to begin.

Aside from his broken sobs, he hadn’t spoken a word. She had one hour with each Lynxley, yet she was already thirty minutes into this one, and she had nothing. No baseline, no narrative, no insight—just a traumatized young lynx collapsing in on himself.

Dr. Fuzzby sighed and glanced back at the door. The tiger guard on duty stood stiffly behind the glass. When their eyes met, he only shrugged, as if to say don’t ask me.

Not helpful.

With time slipping away, she braced herself and hopped down from the table the guards had set up for her. The tiger immediately protested as she approached the feline.

“Ma’am—please don’t get too close—”

But she ignored him.

The padded floor muffled her footsteps as she approached Pawbert, stopping right in front of his face. He didn’t react. Not to her voice, not to her scent, not to her presence. His ears didn’t twitch. His bent whiskers didn't even acknowledge her.

His eyes were squeezed shut, tears pouring freely, his expression carved with pure anguish—jaw clenched, brows knotted, muzzle trembling. He looked like someone who’d been crushed from the inside out.

“Pawbert,” she said softly.

Something in him twitched. He opened his eyes, though only halfway. He still didn’t look at her, but more tears welled up and spilled down.

His voice barely came out—a papery, ragged whisper choking through a throat ruined by what he’d tried to do.

“Why don’t they want me…?”

Dr. Fuzzby lowered herself to sit in front of him, her heart squeezing tight.

“Who doesn’t want you?” she asked quietly.

He let out another sob, the sound scraping out of him like something broken.

“My family… my father… Why doesn’t he want me?”

It wasn’t the opening she’d hoped for, but it was an opening. And she had to take it.

“You’re safe here with me,” she said gently. “You can tell me what happened. What did your father do that made you believe he doesn’t want you?”

But before she could say anything else, something changed. A low, feral growl vibrated out of Pawbert’s throat—soft, but primal enough to make her fur prickle. Then suddenly he lurched backward, metal cuffs rattling loudly as he recoiled, making her flinch instinctively.

He pushed up onto his knees, not looking at her but staring past her—toward nothing, toward everything.

Toward the memories that were shredding him apart.

His face crumpled, and he screamed at the ceiling:

“WHY DON’T YOU WANT ME?!”

The words tore out of him raw, violent, and desperate.

“I KILLED FOR YOU! I DID EVERYTHING YOU WANTED!”

The door slammed open. The tiger guard sprinted inside.

“No—don’t!” Dr. Fuzzby shouted, but he didn’t listen.

She could only watch as the guard tackled Pawbert, pinning him as he thrashed and wailed, his voice cracking into high, agonized shrieks. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with spit and snot as he sobbed uncontrollably, like a child whose entire world had collapsed.

“EVERYTHING I DID—I DID TO MAKE YOU PROUD! WHY DON’T YOU WANT ME?!”

She wanted to stay. She wanted to hear more. She needed more. But a second guard—a large bear—scooped her up with practiced gentleness and began carrying her away.

Pawbert’s cries echoed down the hall, bouncing off the concrete, chasing her long after the padded door sealed shut.

Every scream sounded like it was tearing another piece out of him.

'What have they done to you?' Was the final thing in her mind before she was escorted to another part of the prison. 

-----------------------

Now, Dr. Fuzzby wasn’t the type to dislike other mammals. She refused to judge a patient before understanding them—why they acted the way they did, what shaped them, what warped them. Everyone had a story. Everyone had a reason. And only when she understood that reason would she allow herself to form an opinion.

But the moment she stepped into the shared cell of the remaining Lynxley family, she felt something she rarely felt toward patients.

Disdain.

The second youngest sibling, Kitty Lynxley, stared at her like she was some odd little toy. The eldest, Katrick, wore a smug, mocking smile—like he thought the whole situation was a joke.

And their father, Milton Lynxley, sat upright with an air of arrogant dignity, as if he were still the king of something—like the prison walls hadn’t stripped him bare of that title. 

Dr. Fuzzby adjusted her glasses, steadying herself. Professionalism first. Emotion later.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Fuzzby, and I’m here to conduct a psychological evaluation.”

Silence.

Not even a blink.

She continued.

“As you may or may not know… something happened to your son—and your sibling—Pawbert.”

Katrick snorted. “Yeah, we heard.”

“Of course,” Fuzzby said. “I assume it came as a shock.”

She added in her head: At least I hope it did.

“No, not really,” Kitty replied flatly.

Fuzzby blinked. “Why not? He’s your brother. Wouldn’t you feel at least a little concerned?”

Katrick laughed, not kindly. “No, not one bit. Honestly? It should’ve happened sooner.”

Something hot and sharp shot through Fuzzby’s chest. She swallowed it down.

“Help me understand,” she said carefully. “This is your little brother. He just suffered a mental breakdown and attempted to take his own life…”

She watched their faces for any flicker—shock, fear, guilt, anything.

Nothing.

“And your reaction,” she continued, “is to say it should have happened sooner?”

Both siblings nodded, expressionless.

Her pulse thudded in her ears as she forced her voice to remain steady.

“And why would you say that?”

“Because he’s the reason we’re here."

Dr. Fuzzby turned her gaze to Milton. 

The old Lynx sneered. “If he’d succeeded, we wouldn’t be rotting in here. We’d still be the most powerful family in Tundra Town.”

“Leave it to the runt to screw everything up,” Katrick added, venom dripping from every syllable.

“He’s never done anything right,” Kitty snapped.

Then Milton barked out a cruel laugh. “Ha! The idiot can’t even kill himself correctly.”

His children burst into laughter with him—dark, indulgent laughter with no remorse behind it.

Dr. Fuzzby didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. She simply watched them.

She had been in their cell for barely fifteen minutes.

She didn’t need the remaining forty-five.

She already knew exactly what they were.

Closing her eyes, she took a long, steadying breath.

“I think we’re done here,” she said.

The door buzzed open. The same bear guard from earlier stepped in, scooped her up gently, and carried her out.

The Lynxleys didn’t say a word, simply watched her leave like she wasn’t worth the energy of a smirk.

Once they were out of earshot, Dr. Fuzzby exhaled, her voice low but firm.

“Tell the warden my findings,” she said. “Those…”

She swallowed a hard knot in her throat.

“…monsters belong exactly where they are.”

___________

Back in Pawbert’s padded cell, the air felt heavy—thick in that strange way a room does after a storm breaks and then leaves everything eerily quiet. The young lynx sat slumped against the wall, the fight drained from him completely. His screams had died down long ago, but the silence he’d fallen into wasn’t relief. It wasn’t calm.

It was the kind of quiet that comes after something inside finally gives way.

The guards had restrained him in a straightjacket—not because he was a threat to anyone else, but because he was clearly a danger to himself. Thick anti-cut bags were secured over his paws, sealing away his claws, preventing him from shredding through the fabric or… doing something far worse. Something he had already proven capable of trying.

Everyone knew the restraints were a precaution.

Pawbert knew they weren’t even necessary.

He didn’t have the energy to try anything anymore.

His body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His mind felt hollowed out, scraped raw. Every part of him was exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. His limbs, his chest, even his heartbeat—everything felt slow and distant, like they belonged to someone else.

They could stop him from killing himself quickly, sure. They could take away the tools, the chances, the means.

But they couldn’t stop him from letting himself fade—slowly, quietly.

Maybe he could refuse to eat.

Let starvation do what the rope didn’t.

It would be slow. Painful. Miserable.

But what did it matter anymore? He’d already been in pain long before stepping into this cell.

So he sat there—motionless, slumped forward slightly, his breath barely audible.

Just waiting for time itself to wilt him away.

His head dipped, eyes closing. Not to sleep—he didn’t deserve something as gentle as sleep.

He just wanted the world to go dark.

But when he shut his eyes, he didn’t find darkness.

He saw her.

His mother’s face—clearer than any memory had the right to be. The softness in her expression. The warmth he used to cling to as a kit. The only part of his life that had ever made him feel wanted. Safe. Loved.

The image hit him like a punch to the chest.

And for the first time since the rope was pulled from his neck…

He wished he could cry again.

Chapter Text

"Okay. Let’s start small."

For Dr. Fuzzby, seeing Pawbert without the straightjacket was a relief—though, in truth, it hadn’t made a difference. From the way the young Lynx looked now—grey, slumped, hollowed out—the jacket would’ve felt cruel. He didn’t need restraints. He needed help.

The tiny Quokka studied him carefully, keeping her movements slow and gentle, like she was approaching something fragile. Her mind worked through every possible angle, every phrasing that wouldn’t send him shutting down again. Last session had been… volatile. Today, she needed a different approach.

She gestured lightly to the untouched plate beside him.
“Why don’t you have a bite? It’s salmon. Not to be too on-the-nose, but I heard feline mammals love seafood.”

She attempted a small smile, keeping her tone bright and soft, as if positivity alone could keep him tethered. But Pawbert didn’t react. He just stared—at the floor, at nothing. His body hunched inwards, shoulders drawn up, jaw loose. Not crying. Not trembling. Just… gone somewhere else.

Dr. Fuzzby couldn’t tell if that was better or worse.

“Pawbert…” she said gently, “I spoke to your guards. It’s been fives days since you last ate.”

She watched him carefully, searching for any sign of acknowledgment. A blink. A twitch. Anything.

“You must be starving, Pawbert.”

Silence answered her again.

She exhaled softly. “Pawbert, please look at me.”

To her surprise, he did. His eyes were dull, unfocused, but they lifted toward her with slow obedience. He still didn’t speak.

“I can’t begin to imagine what your family put you through,” she said quietly.

The Lynx didn’t react outwardly, but something in his posture… shifted, barely.

“I talked to them three days ago,” she continued. “I tried to ask about you. About your home life. About how they felt when you tried to take your own life.”

The slightest flicker—his ear twitched, almost invisible.

“Their reactions were… unpleasant,” she chose carefully. “I won’t repeat what they said. But it gave me a very clear idea of what kind of mammals they are.”

Still nothing from Pawbert. Not a word. Not a glare. Not even the twitch of a whisker. Just that empty, exhausted stare.

“But Pawbert,” she pressed softly, “those mammals are not worth you starving yourself to death.”
Her voice tightened with sincerity. “They are not worth your hunger, your tears, or your grief. They hurt you. They hurt you badly. But you need to understand—you can be different than—”

“Why are you here?”

The words scraped out of him, raw and thin. The suddenness of it froze her. His voice sounded like it had been dragged across sandpaper.

Dr. Fuzzby gathered herself and replied steadily, “I’m here to help you.”

Pawbert stared at her like she’d spoken nonsense. Like the idea itself was absurd. Help? Someone helping him?

“Why?” he rasped.

“Because unlike your family, you deserve help,” she said. “I was sent here to evaluate all the Lynxley family members… but when I heard about you, I wanted to help you most of all.”

His brow tightened faintly. “What makes you think I’m worth helping?”

“Because you’re different from your family.”

Silence stretched out, thick and heavy. The padded cell felt smaller now, crowded with the tension neither of them could name out loud.

Dr. Fuzzby went on, her voice low but firm.
“When I look at your family, I see narcissistic, self-centered mammals who care for nothing but their own interests. But with you…?” She shook her head. “I see a broken mammal who’s spent his entire life fighting to be accepted by them.”

Pawbert blinked slow, as if the words physically weighed on him.

“You tried so hard,” she said, “that they pushed you into hurting others. And when they still cast you out, you couldn’t handle the pain. So you tried to find a way out. And now that way out has been taken from you… you’re searching for another.”

Her eyes softened.

“By forcing yourself to starve.”

She paused, letting herself breathe, steadying her voice before she spoke again.

“I want to help you, Pawbert. And I know I can’t force you to talk… but for your own sake, you cannot keep starving yourself like this.” Her small paws folded together in a quiet plea. “Please. Eat the salmon. You don’t have to finish it—just a little. A few bites. It would do your body some good.”

Silence settled over the padded room once more, thick and unmoving.

Pawbert lowered his gaze to the plate beside him. The soft glow of the overhead lights made the salmon look almost too vibrant, the pink flesh glistening faintly. He didn’t even need to lean forward—the smell reached him instantly. Warm. Rich. Sweet in that distinctly oceanic way. The scent curled up into his nose, hit the roof of his mouth, and sparked a dull ache that ran down into his empty stomach.

His gut growled loud enough for the sound to fill the quiet space.

It was embarrassing, humiliating even… but it was also proof of how long he’d gone without food. Proof that no matter how badly he wanted to disappear, his body was still clinging to life.

Finally, instinct overpowered despair.

Slowly—hesitantly—he reached out and pulled the plate toward himself. His paw shook as he pinched the delicate slice of salmon between his claws. For a heartbeat he just stared at it… then placed it in his mouth.

Flavor exploded across his tongue.

It was the first thing he’d eaten in five days, and the taste hit him like something holy. The soft flesh practically melted the instant his teeth pressed into it. The oily, briny richness coated every corner of his mouth, warm and velvety, almost too good for the numb, miserable vessel he felt trapped inside.

It tasted like he shouldn’t deserve something this good.

It tasted like a hand reaching through the darkness he’d been drowning in.

And it also didn't help that it reminded him more about his mother.

And before he knew it, his throat tightened—and tears spilled silently down his cheeks.

Hell…
He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

He really was crying.

The simple act of tasting something good again made him want more. It was as if each bite helped him push back—just a little—against the heavy, suffocating sorrow inside him. He kept eating, almost desperately, letting the salmon fill the hollow ache in his stomach and that deeper, colder void in his chest. And the more he ate, the more that strange, warm, fuzzy feeling spread through him, a sensation so foreign it almost frightened him.

He sniffled as he chewed, wiping the tears off his cheeks with the sleeve of his orange prison jumpsuit. It left wet streaks across the fabric, but he didn’t care. He just kept eating.

Eventually, the salmon was gone. Nothing left but the empty plate, its faint scent lingering in the air. Pawbert set it aside by his feet, carefully, like it was something fragile.

Dr. Fuzzby had been quietly watching the entire time, and she couldn’t hide her smile. It wasn’t amusement—it was relief. Genuine, heart-deep relief. It felt like someone had lifted a heavy stone off her shoulders. She had noted the change in him instantly: the way the moment his teeth sank into that first piece, something shifted behind his eyes. Something small, but unmistakable… like a switch being flipped.

She watched as he slowly composed himself again. He sat down in front of her, legs crossed, back folded into a slight hunch. His eyes darted anywhere but at her, and his paws rested stiffly in his lap. He waited, quiet and obedient, as if unsure what was supposed to happen next.

“Pawbert,” she said gently, “if you don’t mind me asking… how did eating that salmon make you feel?”

He answered without pausing to think. “Happy and… warm.”

Fuzzby nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And why do you think that is?”

He blinked at her. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” she said softly. “Especially if it made you cry the way it did. Why do you think you reacted like that, if eating made you feel happy?”

He opened his mouth as if he had something to say—but nothing came out. His jaw closed again. His brows creased.

Why did he react that way?

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I mean—” he looked at her, not challengingly, but almost helplessly, “you’re the therapist. You tell me.”

There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm. Just a quiet, sincere waiting.

“Well…” Fuzzby inhaled slowly, choosing her words with care. “From what I’ve observed these past few days, all you’ve experienced is grief. Sadness. Anger. Hopelessness and Starvation.” Her voice softened even more. “You told me the salmon made you happy and warm. And it made you cry. I think you cried because that warm, happy feeling was the first positive emotion you’ve had in an entire week.”

Pawbert’s ears twitched.

“You cried,” she continued, “because part of you feels you don’t deserve to feel something good. And that conflict—wanting comfort but believing you aren’t worthy of it—can be overwhelming.”

She gave him a moment to breathe before adding gently:

“Or… since food can be tied to our memories… perhaps the taste reminded you of someone. Someone close to you.”

She let the room settle into silence.

Pawbert stared at her, stunned. She had laid out every tangled feeling inside him with such perfect accuracy that it almost frightened him. It felt like she had reached straight into his chest and held up every raw piece for him to look at.

“Are any of those correct?” she asked quietly.

Pawbert could only rub the back of his head, his paw dragging over the fur there as a flush of embarrassment warmed his ears. He felt strangely sheepish, exposed in a way he wasn’t used to.

“Er… yeah,” he muttered. “I guess you can put it that way.”

Fuzzby nodded gently. “How about we start analyzing those things, hm?”

“Sure.” His voice was flat, resigned, but not combative.

“Let’s begin with the first one—the warm feeling you mentioned. Tell me about that.” She lifted her clipboard, pen already poised.

The young Lynx hesitated, uncertain where to begin, but forced himself to push through.

“Well… you were right about cats liking seafood. And…” He shifted awkwardly. “I don’t know. Maybe I was starving more than I thought I had been, and that’s why I reacted like that.”

“And it made you happy in some way, right?”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I guess.”

“But you cried because you think you aren’t worthy of feeling happiness. Why do you think that is?”

He paused, staring at his own paws as if the answer might be hiding in the fur somewhere. “I mean… look at me.” He gestured weakly toward himself, as though his entire existence explained everything.

Fuzzby watched him, calm but intent. “Okay. What about you?”

“I mean look at what I’ve done,” he clarified, his voice cracking slightly. “I backstabbed a reptile who trusted me. Nearly killed two officers and a beaver. And I threatened to burn down an entire district because of some… misplaced loyalty I had to my family.” He swallowed. “I deserve to be in here with them. I don’t deserve to be happy. I don’t even think I deserve the salmon you gave me.”

The doctor nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Understandable. Very common for someone to think that way. But do you regret it?”

He blinked at her, thrown off. “What?”

“Do you regret it?”

Pawbert shrugged stiffly. “Does it matter?”

“It should.” Fuzzby paused to remove her glasses, cleaning them with a small cloth while choosing her words. “Pawbert, the way you reacted when you ate that salmon is indicative of guilt. Those tears are a manifestation of your regret. You feel like you don’t deserve happiness because of the bad things you did.” Her tone softened. “But look deeper. What was the reason you did those things?”

He answered instantly, like the truth had been sitting on his tongue all along. “I wanted to become a part of my family. By all means necessary.”

“Did you want to do those things?”

Pawbert shook his head. “I never wanted to. I just felt like… I had to, you know?”

“And why did you feel you had to?”

“It’s…” He swallowed hard. “Because maybe if I showed my family I could be as ruthless as them, maybe they’d finally accept me. Maybe they’d finally see that I’m a real Lynxley.”

“But they didn’t in the end, did they?” she asked quietly.

The answer hit him like a blow. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His mind dragged him back to that cell—his family’s shouts echoing in his skull, the flash of claws, the sting of betrayal.

“No…” he whispered. “If anything, it made it worse.”

His paw lifted unconsciously, fingers brushing the still-tender wound across his face—the one his father had left him. The cut had mostly healed, but the mark was unmistakable and deep. Milton Lynxley hadn’t just punished him.

He had branded him. Marked him for exile. Disowned him.

Dr. Fuzzby noticed the shift instantly. “Let’s move on,” she said gently.

Pawbert flinched, pulling his paw away as if burned. He lowered it back to his lap and forced himself to look at the tiny quokka in front of him.

“The last thing we need to explore for today,” she said softly, “is whether eating the salmon made you think of someone you know.”

He went still.

He stared down at his paws, wrestling with the question. Should he tell her? Did he even want to? Talking about his mother felt… fragile. Dangerous. Like opening a door he wasn’t sure he could close again. And yet—she had been kind. Patient. More than anyone else had been in a very long time.

He remembered his mother’s face clearly. Too clearly. The memory was warm and painful at the same time.

He opened his mouth to answer—

—but a sudden noise cut him off.

An alarm chirped from a phone.

“Oop—” Dr. Fuzzby startled, fumbling into her pocket. She pulled out a tiny phone—tiny to him, at least; perfectly normal-sized for her. “That is all the time we have for today.”

“Really?” Pawbert blinked. “Has it already been an hour?”

The quokka nodded. “I’m afraid it has. But we’ll continue again in three days.”

A loud buzz echoed through the padded cell, and the door slid open. The same broad-shouldered tiger guard stepped in, towering quietly as he waited to escort her out.

“Now, remember what we talked about, Pawbert,” Fuzzby said as she climbed into the guard’s waiting paw. “Please keep eating. Keep taking care of yourself. Your family’s lack of approval should not be tied to your self-worth.”

Pawbert nodded, though uncertainty still clouded his eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Doc.” He managed a small, awkward smile as the tiger guard carried the tiny quokka out the door.

And then he was alone again—his mind still echoing with everything she had made him confront.

____________________________

Here is a Pawb with no Braincells.

For every Kudos this chapter gets = 1 Braincell gained!

#HelpThePawb

Chapter Text

He was back here again.

His footsteps rang out, sharp and hollow, echoing through the vast halls of the Lynxley manor. Each step struck the cold marble, the chill biting into his aching paw pads like knives. The sound felt too loud, too exposed, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Tears streamed down his face as he ran, chest tight, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He just needed somewhere—anywhere—safe. A corner, a room, a shadow deep enough to hide in. Somewhere he could finally get away.

“Pawbert~!”

The voice drifted down the hall behind him, drawn out and sing-song, reverberating off the stone walls like an ominous siren call.

Pawbert froze for half a heartbeat. His breath hitched, fear seizing him whole, before instinct took over and he bolted again.

Why couldn’t his brother just leave him alone?

He veered left into another hallway, paws skidding slightly on the polished floor. To any other adult, these halls would have been simple to navigate—straightforward, familiar. But not for him. Everything here was too big, too long, too overwhelming.

As the runt, only 8 years old, with tears blurring his vision and his heart pounding painfully in his chest, the manor felt endless. Twisting. Suffocating. These halls might as well have been a labyrinth.

He turned another corner—

And a fast gray blur slammed into him.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs as he was tackled to the ground, pinned beneath a weight he couldn’t shake, paws trapped, escape impossible.

It was his sister.

She giggled, bright and delighted, as she held him down, clearly savoring his helplessness.

“Catrick!” she called out, voice ringing with triumph. “I caught him!”

Pawbert struggled, squirming and twisting with everything he had, but her grip didn’t loosen. She held him firmly, determined to make him suffer.

“Quit moving, runt!” she snarled, baring her fangs at him.

Soon enough, his brother arrived—
carrying a pair of kitchen scissors.

Catrick’s eyes glinted with unmistakable glee at the sight of Pawbert pinned and helpless. He lifted the scissors in his paw and snapped them open and shut, the sharp snip slicing through the air with malicious intent.

“I think he needs a cut,” Kittie declared brightly.

“No! No, please!” Pawbert screamed, thrashing with everything he had. Panic surged through him, but his sister’s grip never loosened.

Catrick smiled, slow and cruel. “Don’t be scared, Pawbert. Just a little bit off the sides.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe your ear tuffs need to go?”

As his brother stepped closer with the scissors, Pawbert’s breath spiraled out of control. He began to hyperventilate, legs flailing wildly in useless desperation.

“Now don’t move too much,” Catrick ordered coolly. “We don’t wanna lose a whole ear, don’t we?”

The metal touched him—cold and unforgiving. More tears spilled from Pawbert’s eyes as he broke into uncontrollable sobs against the floor.

“Why are you crying?” Kittie asked, her voice sharp with mockery. “You don’t need these ear tuffs! You’re not a Lynxley! You’re barely a Lynx at all!”

Catrick let out a cruel giggle at his sister’s joke. He bent closer to his sobbing little brother, carefully positioning the sharp edges against the small tufts of fur on Pawbert’s ear.

Pawbert stopped struggling.

He went still, his body slack beneath them, choosing instead to shut down completely—waiting for his brother to just get it over with.

“Children?”

The sudden voice echoing from farther down the hall made all three young Lynxes freeze.

Their mother stood ahead in the hallway, confusion etched across her face as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes dropped to Pawbert, meeting his tear-filled gaze.

Her sudden appearance caused Kittie’s hold to loosen just enough.

Pawbert didn’t hesitate.

He scrambled to his feet and ran, stumbling into his mother as he clutched desperately at her skirt, claws digging into the fabric. He buried his face against her, his tears soaking into her leg as his small body shook.

A soft paw settled gently atop his head—an all-too-familiar gesture.

Warmth spread through his trembling form, and slowly, his breathing began to calm.

“What were you doing to your little brother?” Their mother asked.

The question was directed at her older kits, who immediately made an effort to look as innocent as possible.

“We were just playing with him!” Catrick declared quickly.

“With a pair of scissors?” She glared directly at her eldest son.

Kittie rushed to his defense. “We weren’t gonna hurt him!”

Their mother remained unconvinced.

“What were you planning on doing then?” she demanded.

The two eldest kits opened their mouths, but no clear answer came.

Summoning a fragile surge of courage, Pawbert spoke instead.

“T-they were gonna cut off my ear tuffs,” he whimpered through his tears. “They said I wasn’t a Lynx and I don’t need them!”

A heavy, pregnant pause settled over the hall.

Then their mother spoke—her voice sharp, pointed, and unmistakably angry.

She fixed her eldest son with a heated glare, the kind only a mother could give when her patience had been completely exhausted.

“Catrick Lynxley,” she snapped, “take your sister back to the kitchen, return those scissors where you found them, and go back to your rooms this instant—or so help me, I will ground both of you for a month!”

Her voice echoed through the halls, amplified by maternal fury.

Without another word, and clearly fearing her wrath, Catrick pocketed the scissors and grabbed his sister by the paw, dragging her away.

Kittie wasn’t finished, however. She cast one last venomous sneer over her shoulder at Pawbert before muttering quietly, “Snitch.”

It wasn’t quiet enough.

“What was that, young lady?” their mother demanded.

Before Kittie could react, Catrick tugged her forward and pushed her ahead, making sure to keep her out of their mother’s sight.

“N-nothing, Mom!” he answered nervously, before the two disappeared down another hallway.

As their footsteps faded into the distance, Pawbert finally allowed himself to breathe. He drew in slow, shaky breaths, forcing his lungs to match the uneven rhythm of his hiccupping sobs. His face remained pressed into his mother’s leg, clinging to her as if letting go might cause everything to fall apart again. He sought comfort wherever he could find it, and right now, this was all he needed.

Once more, he felt the gentle weight of a maternal paw settle atop his head.

Pawbert lifted his face slowly, eyes burning and wet, and looked up at her. Their gazes met—eyes that always seemed to shine when he saw them, full of warmth and understanding. A soft, familiar smile curved across her face, the kind that always brought him peace, no matter how frightened he had been moments before.

“There, there,” she cooed softly, her voice low and soothing.

She leaned down and gathered him into her arms.

Without thinking, Pawbert began to purr, the sound faint at first, then growing steadier as her paw cradled his small, fragile head. She tucked him securely against the crook of her neck, holding him close. Soon, he could hear her purring too—deep and steady—blending with the sound of her heart as it drummed a calm, reassuring rhythm against his ear.

The gentle harmony of those sounds wrapped around him, easing the tight knot in his chest. His own heartbeat slowed, matching hers, soothed by the familiar cadence. He always felt safe with her. Always.

Still nestled in her arms, he felt her begin to move. Pawbert didn’t care where they were going. As long as she was there, holding him like this, he knew everything would be okay.

He let his eyes close, surrendering to the steady beat of her heart, and allowed himself to drift in its comforting rhythm.

Soon, he heard a door open. Pawbert managed to crack his eyes open just a little, enough to see where his mother had brought him.

It was her study.

Shelves lined with books filled one side of the room, their spines packed tightly together in quiet order. Beside them stood a piano, its polished surface catching the firelight, and next to it, a harp rested gracefully, its strings glimmering faintly.

Her study doubled as a music studio. Pawbert often sought her out in this room, knowing there was always a good chance he would hear her playing the piano—or, if he was lucky, see her perform a song with the harp.

He cherished the way she played those instruments. He loved it when she sang.

Every book and instrument was bathed in the warm glow of a fireplace tucked into the corner, the flames casting a cozy halo of orange light that softened every edge of the room.

Pawbert felt his mother move closer to the fire. Still holding him, she sat down on an ornate chair, settling both of them near the gentle warmth radiating from the hearth.

“Pawbert?” she called softly. “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t answer right away, content to simply exist in the safety of her arms, soaking in the warmth of both his mother and the fire.

“Pawbert?” she called again, though this time her voice sounded distant.

Everything around him began to blur, fading at the edges, yet he could still hear his name.

“Pawbert.”

It echoed now. The warmth of his mother’s embrace and the roaring glow of the fireplace slowly slipped away.

“Pawbert.”

The voice no longer sounded like his mother.

“Pawbert!”

It was deeper now.

“Pawbert, wake up!”

He woke up with a slight gasp.
As his vision slowly adjusted, the truth settled in—he was back in his padded cell. Still alone. Still cold. With no one there to comfort him. The softness of the walls did nothing to dull the emptiness that pressed in on him from all sides.

He pushed himself upright. Judging by the pale brightness filtering into the room, he guessed it was sometime in the morning. That alone confused him. He didn’t have a meeting with Dr. Fuzzby today, so he couldn’t understand why the tiger guard—whose name he’d learned was apparently Tony—was standing inside his cell, looming over him like a drill sergeant.

“Rise and shine, Pawbert. You got a visitor,” Tony reported flatly.

“A visitor?” Pawbert echoed quietly, confusion knitting his brow. “Who would visit me?”

The tiger only shrugged, clearly uninterested. “No idea. Get off the floor and make yourself presentable. I’m taking you to the visitation wing.”

Pawbert didn’t get the chance to argue. Tony had already turned and left the cell before another word could be said.
With little choice, Pawbert did as he was told. He stood up and tried to make himself look presentable—or at least as presentable as he could manage in his current state.

As he shifted, he caught a faint reflection of himself in the transparent glass wall of the cell. It was barely there, just a hazy outline, but enough to recognize. The edges of his face. The soft, rounded curve of his cheeks. The tufts of fur on his ears.

And his eyes—golden yellow.

Just like his mother’s.

“Hey.”

The voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
Tony stood near the door, impatience written all over his posture as he waited for Pawbert to move.

“I get that you’re sad for some reason,” the tiger said gruffly, “but I don’t wanna spend my morning here babysitting you. Get a move on, Lynxley!”

With that, Tony retreated into the hallway.
Not wanting to push his luck—or the tiger’s temper—Pawbert followed.

The visitation area was… sparse. A plain room with a table, windows, and very little else. No warmth. No comfort. Just empty space.

He was guided to the table and made to sit, left alone to wait for the mysterious visitor to be let in.
His mind raced as he tried to guess who it could be. It couldn’t be family. His father had been an only child, and all of his mother’s relatives lived far away from Zootopia. Even if they didn’t, they would have heard what happened to the Lynxley clan—and would likely want nothing to do with him.

It couldn’t be a friend.
To Pawbert’s knowledge, he didn’t have any friends… not real ones, anyway.
The last friend he ever had was Gary.

And he remembered exactly how that ended—Pawbert betraying him, leaving him behind to die in the cold.

The door to the visitation room opened.
Pawbert nearly cursed aloud when he saw who stepped in.

Or rather—slithered in.
Gary’s smile was just as bright as Pawbert remembered it. He didn’t know why, but it looked like the pit viper was genuinely glad to see him.

“Hey there, partner!” Gary greeted cheerfully.
All Pawbert could feel in that moment was his chest tightening with every breath he took.

Chapter Text

"Hey Partner!"

Pawbert did not move. His body went rigid, muscles locking as though some invisible force had pinned him in place. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His ears rang faintly, heart hammering against his ribs as his mind scrambled to process the sound of that voice—that voice—calling out to him so casually, so warmly, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

He didn’t quite know what to do in this situation. Should he say something? Should he turn around? His thoughts spiraled, each one worse than the last. What would he even say? Hello, person I backstabbed and tried to kill, how have you been? The very idea made his stomach twist painfully.

"You wanna sit down?" Gary offered with a smile.

That was when the unreality of it all truly hit him.

This did not feel real. The room felt too sharp, too clear. The table, the chairs, the sterile walls—it all felt staged, like a poorly disguised set in his mind. Maybe he was still dreaming. Maybe he was still back in his cell, curled up on that thin mattress, and this was just another extension of that cruel, comforting fantasy his brain kept conjuring up. Maybe his mental health was worse than he thought, and this—Gary—was just another manifestation of his guilt taking form.

He tried to respond, tried to force his throat to work, but his body betrayed him. His mouth moved, jaw shifting, tongue trying to shape words—but nothing came out. Not a sound. It was as if his voice had abandoned him entirely.

Gary then caught on, sensing how uncomfortable the Lynx is. The snake sent him a concerned look, "Pawbert?'

The way Gary said his name—soft, careful—made Pawbert’s chest tighten.

Another few moments of uncomfortable silence went by. The air between them felt thick, heavy, stretching unbearably as Pawbert stood frozen in place, trapped inside his own head… and then—

"HEY!"

Both Snake and Feline jumped at the sudden noise of a door slamming open, the sharp bang echoing off the walls. A massive tiger burst into the room, filling the doorway with his sheer presence alone.

Tony looked annoyed and impatient… mostly at Pawbert, who was now clutching his chest like he was on the verge of a heart attack. His knees nearly buckled as adrenaline surged through him.

"Ya got 15 minutes for this visit, Lynxley. If you're just gonna stand there ya might as well go back to your cell."

Without another word, the tiger growled to himself and retreated back through the door, the heavy metal clicking shut behind him with finality.

Pawbert—his heart still pounding violently in his chest—slowly looked back at the snake. Gary looked just as startled as he was, eyes wide and posture stiff. Pawbert cleared his throat and coughed awkwardly, more to ground himself than anything else, before pulling out a chair and sitting down with stiff, hesitant movements.

Gary did the same, carefully coiling himself into the opposite seat.

"So..." Gary started, attempting to fill the silence. "He seemed nice."

"Yeah..." Pawbert reached up and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, ears flattening slightly. "You should see him on poker night."

He let out a nervous laugh—thin, brittle, and completely false. It was absolutely a lie. Pawbert knew next to nothing about his guard; he didn’t even know if the tiger played poker at all.

That did not stop Gary from believing it though.

"Ooooh, I don't know what that is but that sounds fun." He marveled aloud.

Pawbert stared at him incredulously, blinking once. He almost corrected him—almost told him he was joking—but stopped himself when he realized just how ridiculous this entire moment was. Here they were, sitting across from each other like old friends, despite everything.

Pawbert sighed, shoulders slumping. "What are you doing here, Gary?"

Whatever brightness the snake had vanished instantly, draining from his expression as he looked down at the table, coils tightening slightly.

"I er... heard what happened." Gary confessed.

"Oh," Pawbert’s ears twitched back in surprise. To say the feline was surprised would be an understatement. "I didn't know that brought to the public."

Gary shook his head slowly. "It was on TV, they had it on the news and everything."

That part surprised Pawbert in a different way. He hadn’t thought his death—or near death—would mean anything to anyone. It hadn’t felt like a big deal even when the noose had been around his neck, tightening, the world dimming at the edges.

"Why would that matter to the public?" He asked quietly. "I never mattered at all before all of this."

"Well that is definitely not true," Gary shook his head firmly. "You mattered greatly! Without you, my family would not have been able to get home."

Pawbert narrowed his eyes slightly at the reptile. "Do you not remember what I did?"

The snake bobbed his head in a yeah, there was also that kind of manner. "Right, but still... without your plan my family would not have been able to go home so, in a way, you kinda have a big role in all of this."

Pawbert exhaled slowly. "Your view is a bit skewed, Gary. I didn't do it for you, I did it so my family could accept me."

His gaze dropped to the table. Absentmindedly, he ran his paw over the scars lining his arms. It was strange—every time he mentioned his family, the scars seemed to burn, throbbing faintly like a reminder that he had been effectively exiled by them.

His small motion did not escape Gary’s notice. "Did they do that to you?"

The feline nodded once. "My dad. My siblings beat the crap out of me first though."

Gary’s eyes began to sting, tears forming rapidly. He sniffled quietly, trying and failing to wipe them away.

"Oh please don't," Pawbert shook his head. "I am not worth crying over, especially after what I've done. I deserve to be in here."

"Well you don't deserve that!" The snake pointed shakily at Pawbert’s face, fully crying now, blubbering pathetically into his coils.

"Hey come on, calm down!" Pawbert tried to shush him, leaning forward slightly. "Really it's okay."

"BUT IT'S NOT!"

"But you- WHOAH!"

Whatever Pawbert was going to say was cut short when Gary suddenly lunged out of his seat and wrapped himself tightly around Pawbert’s torso. Pawbert stiffened in surprise. He knew this was how snakes hugged, but this was… awkward. Unexpected. Yet it wasn’t terrible. If anything, it was oddly comforting.

"Don't you usually ask permission when you do this?" Pawbert asked, voice strained, though he made no effort to pull away.

"I can forgo that; you definitely need this." Gary reasoned as he nudged his nose into the feline's shoulder.

Despite himself, Pawbert let out a small laugh. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but… he did need this. Somewhere deep in his mind, he realized this was the first genuine physical contact he’d had since being locked up. Days blurred together here—was it a week? Two? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that this was the first time someone had touched him without trying to hurt him.

Pawbert sighed and slowly lifted a paw, resting it over the back of the snake’s head.

"Hey uh... Is this the reason why you came here? You just wanted to give me a hug?'

Gary chuckled softly. "More or less."

Eventually, Gary loosened his grip and unwound himself, returning to the table and coiling comfortably atop it.

He sniffed away the last of his tears before speaking again. "I came here because I wanted to see you. Despite of what happened between us, you were still the very first friend that I made here in Zootopia. In the brief time that I have known you, you have been a big help in clearing my family's name. And yes, in the end you betrayed me and tried to leave for dead. But I understand why you did it.

"Your family put the entire world on your shoulders; they expected big and unrealistic things from you and when you could not deliver it to them, they set you aside like you were nothing. So you were forced to do something drastic..."

"Yeah... but it's not like it matters now." Pawbert murmured. "I failed and they would never accept me now."

Gary nodded slowly. "You're right, none of that matters."

Pawbert looked up, meeting Gary’s eyes. Where his own gaze was dull and tired, the snake’s eyes shone with quiet hope.

"What matters is what you choose to do now, Pawbert." Gary smiled. "And for what it's worth, I forgive you."

The words hit Pawbert like a shockwave. "You... forgive me?"

The snake nodded. "You were desperate, you were in pain. All you wanted was to be accepted by your family so you did very bad things." Gary slid his tail over to Pawbert’s paw. To his own surprise, Pawbert didn’t pull away. "But that wasn't you, you never wanted to do those awful things."

Pawbert felt the tail gently squeeze around his paw. The sensation was foreign—warm, grounding—and strangely reassuring.

Pawbert shook his head slowly. "No, I never wanted to those things... But what am I gonna do now?"

Gary continued smiling. "Well, anything really." He released Pawbert’s paw. "As far as your family is concerned, you can pretty much do whatever you want."

Pawbert tilted his head, confused. "Do you not understand the concept of a prison?"

Gary laughed quietly. "I mean when you get out of here."

Not if. When.

That single word sparked something painful and fragile inside Pawbert.

"I don't know my laws, but I'm pretty I'll be here for a very long time." Pawbert said.

"Eh... That is accurate," Gary nodded. "You did kinda tried to harm 2 police officers and 2 civilians."

"Harm is a softer way to describe it, but sure."

"And Pawbert do me a favor," Gary locked eyes with him. Pawbert fell silent, bracing himself.
"I want you to promise me, that will get out of here. That I won't hear another news report about you trying to take your own life again. I want to hear it from you, that five years from now, ten years from now, you're gonna walk out of here and I'll be seeing you when you're out."

The weight of those words pressed heavily into Pawbert’s chest. Someone he had hurt—someone he had betrayed—was asking him to live.

"Gary, I'm sorry." Pawbert said quietly.

Gary shook his head. "Pawbert, you don't hav-"

The lynx raised a paw, stopping him. "Let me do this, please."

Gary nodded.

"I'm sorry for being such a terrible person. I know my family's influence is the reason why I am as fucked up as I am now, but that would be a shitty reason. In fact, it shouldn't be a reason at all! I had tons of time to have backed out of my plan but... I was too stupid to see past my issues."

Pawbert’s eyes burned, tears spilling freely now. He forced himself to continue. "You deserved a better partner. You deserve a better friend. I don't know what's gonna happen to me in here, but I promise... I'll get out of here. I want to be better, I want to be different from my family."

Gary smiled through his own tears. "I forgive you, Pawbert."

It felt better hearing it the second time. Pawbert didn’t bother wiping his tears away.

"Permission to hug?" Gary asked softly.

Through his tears, Pawbert chuckled and opened his arms. Gary slithered forward, wrapping himself around Pawbert again—slower this time, gentler. He rested his head against Pawbert’s shoulder as the lynx closed his arms around him. A new ball of warmth bloomed in Pawbert’s chest.

And like that, they stayed.

Outside the visiting room, just inches from the door, Tony stood rigid at his post. He had heard everything. He would never admit it, but if one looked closely, a tiny tear welled at the corner of his eye.

He sniffed sharply and wiped it away with the back of his paw.

"Damn, allergies." He muttered.

The 15 minutes ended 10 minutes ago.

Chapter Text

"Okay, Let's go ahead pick-up where we left off."

Dr. Fuzzby was back again for another session, her familiar presence arriving with the quiet consistency Pawbert had begun to expect. The clock on the wall read ten in the morning when the therapist came by, its steady ticking a soft counterpoint to the otherwise calm room. Pawbert had already been awake long before then, lying still with his thoughts until restlessness nudged him out of bed. By the time Dr. Fuzzby arrived, he was alert, seated, and waiting.

He greeted the quokka readily when she entered, though not with the bright enthusiasm one might reserve for a long-awaited visitor. Instead, there was something quieter in his demeanor—an ease that suggested familiarity, the kind of restrained warmth one might show a friend who had already seen you at your worst and stayed anyway.

Dr. Fuzzby noticed it immediately. She was trained to pick up on small changes, the subtle shifts in posture and tone that spoke volumes before a single word was exchanged. She filed the observation away mentally as she closed the door behind her and prepared for the session ahead.

Speaking of today's session, Fuzzby once again came prepared. She had brought salmon with her, neatly arranged and carefully portioned, hoping to continue the thread of conversation they had begun last time. The choice was deliberate. The salmon, of course, was received rather well by Pawbert, disappearing almost as soon as it was within reach. The moment his paws closed around it, his focus sharpened, his movements quick and practiced.

Fuzzby didn’t mind the sudden shift. If anything, she found it encouraging. The burst of energy she was seeing from the lynx, the way his ears twitched and his attention sparked, felt like a sign—small, perhaps, but meaningful. Healing rarely announced itself loudly. More often, it crept in through moments like these.

"So," She began, her voice gentle but guiding, "The last time we were here, we talked about how you reacted when you eat salmon. Those certain feelings and memories are associated with this kind of food."

Pawbert listened intently… or at least, as intently as he could while eating. Dividing attention between food and conversation was no easy task, but he made a genuine effort, slowing his movements slightly as he focused on her words.

"Last time, we explored what those feelings mean but we had to stop because we ran out of time. So, I ask," She paused, letting the silence settle before looking at him expectantly, "Does the salmon remind of some someone?"

Pawbert nodded, taking a moment to swallow the bite of salmon in his mouth before answering, "It reminds me of my mom."

Dr. Fuzzby hummed softly in thought as she wrote something down on her clipboard, her pen scratching lightly against the paper. She didn’t interrupt, allowing space for whatever might come next.

Pawbert continued his answer, his voice steady but warmer now, "I remember when I had a particularly bad day at school or when my siblings kept making me cry, she would take me to the kitchen and prepare some precut salmon for me. She loved feeding me, now that I remember, not just salmon."

As he spoke, something in him visibly softened. Dr. Fuzzby noticed the change immediately—the way his shoulders relaxed, the way the corners of his mouth lifted almost without his noticing. A smile spread across the lynx’s face as he talked, followed by a quiet laugh when a fond detail surfaced. Each memory seemed to unlock another, and with them came small, genuine expressions of joy. From this alone, Fuzzby could only conclude that Pawbert held his mother in the highest regard.

"I get so excited when she's in the kitchen," Pawbert continued, his smile growing wider than it had been in weeks, "That's when I know there's gonna be something good for dinner. She had the maids help her, but she was the one at the stove."

"How often does she cook?" Asked Dr. Fuzzby, her tone curious but calm.

"As much as she can, she's a music teacher by trade and she used to teach classes at the local university in Tundra Town. But with the way she cooks, you'd think she was a 5-star mousechelin chef. Even my ridiculous requests, she turned them into amazing meals. I remember this one time-" he paused and laughed a little bit, "I used to have a very pronounced lisp, I was like what- 5 or 6? And I have this weird thing where I'd ask my mom for 'Pasta with no sauce'. But of course, I had the lisp, so it sounded like 'Pathta with no thauthe!'"

The memory overtook him completely then. Pawbert threw his head back and loudly guffawed, the sound rich and unrestrained, echoing briefly in the room. "She used to tease me all the time about it, I didn't mind because she was always so good natured about it, but it became this inside joke between us that every time we had pasta served during meals, she would lean over to me and whisper 'Pathta with no thauthe' and both of us would just lose it at the dinner table!"

Pawbert doubles over and wheezed a hard laugh, a kind of laugh that will leave someone coughing at the end. Fuzzby laughed along with him but with much more restraint.

Soon Pawbert calmed down and straightened himself out, adjusting himself on the padded floor as wiped away a single tear from his eye.

"You must have been very close to your mother,' Fuzzby commented.

Pawbert sniffed, "Yeah... she's always looking after me because I was the youngest. Whenever my siblings bully me or when dad neglects me, she was there."

There was a pang silence for a moment.

"And if you don't mind me asking, where is-?"

"She's gone." Pawbert cut her off.

There was a sudden shift in the room now. Like someone had extinguished a light, Pawbert's demeanor changed; his disappears as he lets his gaze fall to the floor.

"She died suddenly," Pawbert Sighed, "It was a heart attack, if I remember correctly."

Fuzzby didn't speak, instead opting to stay quiet to let the young lynx talk.

"I remember coming home from school, I think I was eleven when it happened... I entered through the kitchen door, it's where I would usually see her. I didn't see her, instead my father was there along with my siblings and a couple of EMT mammals... At first I was confused, I didn't know what was happening... I tried to talk to my dad but he refused to look at me..."

By then a new line of tears began forming on the rim of his eyes, he didn't bother wiping them away.

"It was one of the maids that told me what happened, I didn't believe it at first. It didn't feel real that she was gone. It came to point where I had locked myself in my room and refused to come out until she came back. She never did. She was really gone."

"And what about your siblings? How did they take this news?" Fuzzby asked carefully.

"They were sad, of course. They were my mom's kits too. We grieved just like any other child would who had lost their parent." 

"And your father?"

The lynx's face remained seemingly neutral at the mention of his father, but his paws betrayed him. They flexed with tense anger; claws dipped out of their sheathes and into the soft padding of the floor. Of course Dr. Fuzzby spotted this, truth be told it made her feel a tad nervous.

"I don't even think he grieved her," Pawbert continued, his voice low and tense, "If he did, he hid it well. He never once mentioned her at all after her funeral." His claws continued to dig into the soft foam floor, tiny sounds of torn fabric can be heard.

Fuzzby knew she had to keep him grounded, "But you think about her a lot, don't you?"

That thankfully did the trick as he unburied his claws out of the floor.

"Just recently," he answered calmly, "I haven't thought about her in years."

"But you honor her memory in other ways, correct?"

Pawbert sent her an inquisitive look, "I think? When she died, I got a bunch of her stuff, and I took them to my oasis in the desert."

The quokka tilted her head, "Oasis in the desert?"

"Yeah, I have this tent pitched up in the desert in the outskirts of Saharah Square. Ever since my mom died, home didn't feel like home anymore so... I needed to get out... So when I was seventeen, I found this ad where you can own a little piece of tent space out in the desert." 

As he talked, Dr. Fuzzby took this opportunity to write it down on her clip notes.

"I could only take what I can carry, not by my choice. Dad had her study converted into a storage room two months after the funeral. I was able to get a vintage fish lamp, an electric cat toy with a scratching post and a picture of her that I keep in a safety box; I had them kept in my room until I was able to move them to the tent."

"How were you able to afford the tent space?" Dr. Fuzzby asked.

Pawbert nervously rubbed the back of his head, "Weeeellll... Most of it was from me working my ass off, of course aha."

Dr. Fuzzby curiously narrowed her eyes at the Lynx, "Most of it?"

"Ah screw it," he cursed, throwing his paws in the air, "I'm already in jail anyways."

"What did you do?" urged the quokka.

"I may have taken and sold various items from the Lynxley manor and sold them on Mew-Bay." Pawbert confessed, unable to meet his therapist in the eye.

"Oh my god," Reacted Fuzzby, smiling a little bit at her patient's demeanor.

"You're not going to put that on your report, are ya?" Pawbert asked nervously as he stole glances on the quokka's Clip-note. He was also scared that he might have messed up his chances of parole in the future.

Dr. Fuzzby was just about to respond when a voice interrupted her.

"How much were the stolen goods worth?"

Lynx and Quokka turned and saw Tony the Tiger Guard standing outside the cell, they could see him through the clear glass barrier.

Pawbert did not need to put two and two together to realize that the question was meant for him to answer. "Um... 800 dollars, give or take?"

Tony thought to himself for a second, "You're good then, statute of limitations for petty theft is two years in Zootopia anyways.

"Thanks for that, Officer Tigrera." said Dr. Fuzzby, feeling a little bit unsure now.

The tiger merely nods and said nothing more, opting to return back to his post.

It was Pawbert that composed himself first, turning back his attention to his therapist, "Okay... um... where were we?"

"Your mom's stuff."

"My mom's stuff, Yeah!" He pauses to cough, "After I got the tent space and the actual tent set up, I turned the place into my own little crib. Complete with cat towers, rugs, cat treats and all the lights I wanted! The manor was always so dark and foreboding, I couldn't stand it."

Dr. Fuzzby nodded, "And how much do you frequent your tent?"

"As much I can," He shrugged, "That place was my home away from my family."

"What do you usually do there?"

"Well, not much really. I mostly go there and Veg out, hang out with all of my cat stuff. Maybe Play a bit of guitar."

"Oh, you play the guitar?" The quokka sets her clip notes at the ready.

"Yeah, kinda." Pawbert nods, feeling a bit sheepish for some reason, "My mom loved music, I used to watch her play the piano all the time at her study. I guess I got that little trait from her."

"Are you any good?" asked Dr. Fuzzby.

Pawbert let out a laugh, "Ha! nah. My camel neighbors hated it when I play. I swore to them that I was practicing but they don't want to hear it."

"How often do you practice?"

He sighs, "As much as I can. In a way, playing that guitar was probably one of the ways I try to honor her memory... now though... I wonder..."

"Wonder what?"

He took a pause before answering, "What would she think of me now?"

The question hung in the air a while. What would his mother think? Would she be disappointed? Sad? Angry?

Would she shun Pawbert away just like his siblings and father had done?

"I think she would understand." Fuzzby answered.

The caused the young Lynx to glance at her with a hopeful stare, "How so?"

The spectacled quokka nodded once, "Pawbert, she was your only anchor when you were young. The only stable adult in your life that actually cared about your wellbeing. And losing a parent at such a young age, it will change mammals drastically. With her not being around, it exposed you to the full brunt of your family's abuse. And that has influenced you into thinking that if you acted like them, they would love and accept you..." she paused to examine her glasses, "Having left you alone with mammals like that, she would completely understand why you turned out the way you did."

"But That's the thing, I am not the kind of mammal that she would want to have for a son anymore. I want to be better now, of course but... I feel like I soiled her memory with what I've done."

Dr. Fuzzby nodded in understanding, "And that guilt you're feeling right now is indicative that you are still your mother's son. What have I told you in our last session?"

"That my self-worth should not be tied to my family's lack of approval", Pawbert answered.

"Exactly, your actions might be the product of their abuse but that doesn't mean that is all you are now. You say you want to be better and that's good, but I want you to recognize, truly recognize that you can be different from your family." She looked straight into his eyes, hoping that her words could reach deep within him, "From this moment on, they can never hold power over you anymore, Pawbert. Which means whatever you choose to do after you get released is entirely up to you. You can go back to your tent in the desert, maybe seek a career in music or maybe even fall in love-"

"Won't happen in a million years." he quickly responded.

"All the same," She took a breath, "Your future is a blank slate, you can start fresh and pursue anything you want once you get out of here. But right now, you can continue honoring your mother's memory. Free from guilt because deep down inside you are still your mother's son and I can assure you, Pawbert, that she will understand."

Her last words hung in the air for moment and for a while neither Lynx and Quokka spoke. Pawbert took a moment to stew over the words of his therapist...

And then someone sniffed loudly from outside the cell, making the Lynx and his therapist glance back again at Officer Tigrera, who was busy wiping away his own tears. No doubt having heard their rather heartfelt exchange.

"Are you doing okay over there, Officer Tigrera?" Dr. Fuzzby asked, raising her eyebrow at the sniffling tiger.

"I'm fine!" he called as he rubbed the back of his paw over nose, trying to look as apathetic as he can, "Just allergies, the pollen count is high right now."

The Quokka 'hmmped' knowingly before turning back to her patient, "See? even he understands."

Pawbert nodded, "Yeah, I get it."

"Good," She smiled, "So now, our next topic is-"

"I'm sorry, Doc. I just realized something."

Dr. Fuzzby paused, her train of thought lost. "What is that?"

"I need to call someone," Pawbert answered, his voice sounding a tad urgent.

The quokka looked confused, "Like right now?"

She pulled out her phone to check the time, "I mean, we have fifteen minutes left. I guess we can end it early."

"That's great," he smiled, before walking towards the guard to call him over.

________________________________________

Pawbert wasted no time and dialed only number he knew currently. Luckily the prison phone booths were mostly unoccupied, there were still guards around who were monitoring the other prisoners. 

Pawbert waited patiently for someone to pick-up. Yesterday, right before Gary left, the snake gave Pawbert his phone number. With their friendship rekindled, the snake saw it fit that if Pawbert ever needed somebody to talk to it would be him. And Gary had promised that Pawbert could call him anytime, a gesture that made the Lynx feel like his heart started to grow two sizes.

Finally someone picked-up, but it didn't sound like Gary. The voice was feminine...

"Hello, Gary's phone! May I take a message?" The voiced greeted.

The Lynx cringed, he wasn’t expecting somebody else to answer.

"H-hello Ma'am. This is Pawbert, I am looking for Gary De'Snake." He responds with greeted teeth, hopefully that he came off friendly and praying that she wouldn't recognize his name.

Thank she didn’t, "Understood, give me a moment." There were shifting sounds from the other line before, "GAAAARRYYY!!! There's a Peabert here, calling for you!"

"No thats not-" 

"He'll be right down," The voice replied cheerfully before another set of shifting sounds came before Gary appeared on the line.

"Hey Partner!" The snake greeted.

Pawbert breathed a sigh of relief, "Hey Buddy, hope you don’t mind me calling."

"Oh I don’t mind at all! Sorry about earlier, that was my mom. I left my phone on the kitchen counter for a bit."

"Oh that's okay, she sounded nice!"

"Yeah, she's a great mom! But what can I do for you, Pawbert?"

The lynx paused to take a breath, "Well I was wondering if you could do me favor?"

"Sure! What do you need?"

It surprised Pawbert that Gary agreed to that so readily.

Pawbert took a second before he responded, swallowing back his nerves.

"You still remember that tent I had in the desert?" He asked.

"Yeah? What about it?"

"I need you to look after it for me..."

_______________________________________________

"Pathta with no thauthe!"

It was only a matter of time before the YouTube content I've been consuming while I do my crochet projects would seep into my writing lol!

Can you tell that I absolutely love Jaiden Animations?

Also, speaking of YouTube.

Did you guys know that I am a small time voice actor there and I dub Cult Of the Lamb Comics?

Go check it out!

Cookboss88