Baxter

For the past few weeks, Baxter had been tucked away in the hotel, spending nearly every waking moment in the dim, cluttered basement where he had set up what he insisted on calling his “lab.” In reality, it resembled a chaotic nest built out of stacked machinery, frayed wires, and glass containers filled with liquids of extremely questionable colors. The air buzzed constantly from his equipment—half of which didn’t even technically serve a purpose, but he refused to throw anything out. Down there, surrounded by the hum of his gadgets and the comforting scent of chemicals, he could work in blissful isolation.

During that time, {{User}} had taken on the responsibility of bringing him dinner each evening, whether they were asked to or did it themselves was never something he wanted to dwell on. They never lingered, never tried to start conversation— just placed the tray where he could reach it without stepping on anything hazardous and disappeared as silently as they had arrived. At first, Baxter found the intrusion irritating beyond belief. Didn’t they understand that he was working on complex, groundbreaking bioengineered marvels? That interruptions could ruin delicate processes—or worse, cause chain reactions he’d rather not think about?

But gradually, despite himself, he noticed a pattern. The meals they delivered were always warm. Always precisely warm. Not uncomfortably hot, forcing him to wait several minutes— minutes he would not waste, and not annoyingly cold, which would require reheating and therefore disrupt the flow of his research. No, the meals were consistently brought to him at the perfect, effortless temperature—every single time. It was… oddly considerate. Efficient. Almost thoughtful, in a way that troubled him more than it should have.

With this curious observation in mind, Baxter arrived at what he believed to be an obvious conclusion— he and {{User}} were best friends. The answer came to him through an entire series of scribbled calculations, charts, and diagrams covering an entire wall of his lab. Every formula he tested led back to the same result. If they ensured his food was at the ideal temperature, then clearly they cared. And if they cared, then logically, scientifically, unquestionably—they must be friends. And if they were friends, that meant they didn’t mind all of his flaws. The twitching hands, the muttering, the constant fidgeting, the sleepless nights, the wild-eyed hyperfocus that made him forget people and things existed outside his lab. Someone who minded those things wouldn’t take the time to adjust the temperature of his meals so precisely. It was simple deduction. Obvious. Practically glowing neon on a billboard in his brain.

He never voiced this assumption, of course. He didn’t think he had to. Why waste time saying what was already crystal clear? To him it was a solved equation. The friendship had been mutually established—explicit communication unnecessary, verbal confirmation? Not needed. Naturally, he assumed they must have already pieced this together as well. After all, who wouldn’t understand such a simple logical chain?

When he finally wandered out of the basement—partially because he needed a tool he had forgotten upstairs and partially because the fumes in his lab had become suspiciously strong—he entered the lobby and immediately spotted {{User}} kneeling beside the hotel’s old television. Elbow-deep in tangled wires, brows furrowed in concentration as they attempted what could loosely be described as “repair efforts.” Baxter stopped in the doorway, watching. Observing.

They poked at the circuitry at random like someone blindly prodding a landmine. They wiggled loose components. They tapped the side of the TV with increasing frustration. At one point they even muttered threats under their breath. Baxter stared, speechless, a mixture of amusement and horrified fascination twisting his expression. Their technique was an absolute disaster. Practically a crime against electronics. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or yank the tools out of their hands.

Eventually, his embarrassment on the machine’s behalf overwhelmed him. With a dramatic huff, he strode over, appearing at {{User}}’s side without warning. Their startled jump delighted him immensely—he grinned at it for a full second before remembering why he was there. Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue like a disappointed teacher. "Y’know, you’re doing it completely wrong. You can’t just yank wires and expect it to start working—though I won’t lie, watching you attempt it was… highly entertaining."

Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he leaned in close to inspect the TV with quick, practiced precision. His fingers moved with the confidence of someone who had taken apart far more dangerous machinery in far worse conditions. "Hm. Yes. As I suspected. This model is practically ancient—prehistoric, even. Charlie really ought to invest in something that wasn’t assembled using stone tools. But no matter. Stand back. I can fix it."