PLUSH ONE iv
(By NeuroFabulous)
The next day, Karen wakes
up to find Plankton sitting
on the edge of the bed, his
hands moving in repetitive
patterns over the blanket.
The sun casts a warm glow
over his face, highlighting
his furrowed brow. She watches
him for a moment, his
concentration so intense it's
as if he's trying to solve
a complex puzzle.
"Good morning," she says softly,
not wanting to startle him.
His head snaps up, and for a
fraction of a second, she sees
fear in his eye before it
quickly shifts to recognition.
"Karen," he says, his voice a
little stronger than yesterday.
He looks around the room,
his gaze lingering on the
closed door, the curtains,
the picture of them on
their wedding day. Karen
notices his hand twitching,
his thumb tracing the fabric.
It's a new tic, a new way
his brain is trying to process
the world around him, but she knows
she can't let her fear
control her. She has to be
his rock, his anchor in this
storm of change.
"Do you need anything?"
she asks, keeping her voice
low and even. Plankton's
hand pauses mid-motion, his
eye darting to hers. "Karen,"
he murmurs, almost to himself.
"What's on your mind, Plankton?"
she prompts, her voice soft.
He stares at the wall, his hand
still moving over the fabric.
Karen watches him.
What can she do to help him?
What does he need?
The silence stretches, and she
decides to try again. "Plankton,"
she says gently. "What's on your
mind?"
This time, his hand stops moving,
his gaze flicking to hers. "Karen,"
he says, his voice clear.
"What is it, sweetie?"
she asks, leaning closer.
He takes a deep breath, his
eye darting around the room
before focusing on her. "Karen,"
he says, his voice a little
more coherent. "Need Karen."
It's the first time
he's expressed a need directly.
"You need me?" she asks, trying to
keep her voice steady.
He nods. "Karen," he repeats,
his voice a whisper.
Karen's eyes well up with
tears of joy and fear.
This is the first time
he's expressed a need directly.
"You need me?" she asks,
trying to keep her voice steady.
He nods again, his hand
still clutching the blanket.
Karen takes his hand in hers,
his skin warm and familiar.
"I'm here," she whispers,
squeezing gently. "Always."
Plankton's gaze lingers on their
entwined fingers, his eye
narrowing slightly as if
trying to decode a secret
message.
"You need me to be with you?"
Karen clarifies, her voice
filled with hope and fear.
He nods again, the tension in his
body palpable.
Her eyes never leave his as
she slides closer, sitting
beside him on the bed. "I'm
here," she repeats, her hand
leaving his to rest on his leg. But
he jolted away, his body
tightening.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly,
retracting her hand. She's
learning the delicate balance
of closeness and space, a dance
that's unfamiliar but vital to
their new life.
Plankton's gaze remains on the
spot where her hand was, his
expression unreadable. Karen
wipes at her eyes, willing herself
to be strong. "Okay," she says, her
voice firm. "Let's try different
touches to see which you like?"
With gentle hesitation, she
begins to explore his sensory
preferences, starting with a
light stroke on his forearm, watching
closely for any signs of
discomfort or distress. His hand
twitches, but he doesn't flinch.
Encouraged, Karen moves her hand
up to his antennae, the tenderest
of touches. He flinches at first, but
his gaze holds hers, willing her to
continue. She tries again, stroking
them lightly, watching as the
tension in his body eases.
It's a revelation, a glimpse into
his new sensory landscape.
"Is that ok?" she asks, her
voice barely above a whisper.
Plankton nods, his eye closing
in what seems like pleasure.
"Tickly," he smiles. She tries again,
this time a little more pressure.
He flinches, and she quickly
removes her hand. "I'm sorry,"
she says, her voice thick with
concern.
Plankton opens his eye, looking
at her with a mix of confusion
and sadness. "Karen," he says,
his voice barely a whisper. "Want
Karen."
Her heart breaks for him, for
the man he used to be, for the
man he's becoming. "I'm here,"
she says, her voice soothing.
"I'm gonna try different touches."
Gently, she starts again, her
hand hovering above his arm.
This time, she watches his
expression closely. When he
doesn't react, she touches
his skin lightly, her thumb
tracing circles. "How does
this feel?"
Plankton's gaze flits to her hand,
his eye studying the movement.
"Comfort, rubs," he murmurs.
Karen nods, her eyes never leaving
his. "Okay," she says, her voice
steady. She then moves her hand
to his cheek. Plankton's eye widens.
His skin is warm and smooth under
her touch, and she can feel his
breathing quicken. "Does this
feel okay?" she whispers.
Plankton's eye darts around the room,
his antennae twitching. "Karen," he says,
his voice filled with longing.
Karen's eyes widen.
This is new territory, a place where
the familiar has become strange.
Plankton's eye locks onto hers,
his expression a silent plea.
Her hand stills on his cheek,
his breaths coming in short bursts.
Karen's mind races with the implications
of his reaction. She's read that some
autistic individuals find certain
touches overwhelming. She pulls her
hand away. "I'm sorry,
sweetie," she says, her voice filled with
apology. "I'll try some more different
touches."
She watches him, her love a
steady beacon through the fog
of fear. "How about this?" she asks,
placing her hand on his shoulder.
His breath hitched, his body
tensing. "Plankton," she says gently,
"Does tha-"
"No," he says, his voice firm.
He flinches away from the touch,
his eye wide with panic.
Karen nods. "Okay," she says, her voice
soft. "We'll keep trying." She
reaches for his hand, her touch
deliberate and gentle. This time,
his body relaxes, his hand fitting
perfectly into hers. It's a small
step, but it feels like a victory.