Rating: White Cortina
A/N: Pure, pure crack. Written very quickly because I'm sneaking this in under the wire.
Sam woke up because someone was shaking his foot.
On opening his eyes and staring blearily down the bed, he readjusted ‘someone’ to ‘something’.
“Mr Tyler, sir, wake up, I need your help!”
Sam looked at the television, which was most definitely off, and back again. Blinked.
“Please…we haven’t got much time!” said the little voice. Sam didn’t know how it could speak. Its mouth didn’t move, but its little arm most certainly was moving, wrapped gently around his ankle as it was.
“But…you’re a clown.” Sam said stupidly. “How can we be talking? No, hang on, you’re her clown.”
“Yes, I am, sir, and that’s my problem!”
“Why did you never speak to me before?”
“Mistress keeps me under strict rules, Mr Tyler, sir. I’ve only just managed to get away for a few minutes and I pulled your plug out!” The little clown let go of Sam’s foot and repositioned itself so that it was sitting up, pointing at the plug on the floor.
Sam drew his own legs up and away from the clown. “Why should I trust you?”
The clown brought its two little knitted hands together in a bizarre gesture that could have been either contemplation or an aborted clap. It gave its best approximation of sadness as was possible with a painted-on smile, and offered: “Because you’re the only hope I’ve got.”
Quite how carrying the clown into work with him was ever supposed to help, Sam didn’t have a clue. It – Sam refused to call the clown ‘Bubbles’, no matter how many times the little stuffed toy insisted – kept talking to him all the way down the road, exclaiming at the big world outside the telly, and how it (he?) had always wanted to see it, and how Mistress would never let him. Sam, for once, had the common sense to ignore the nonsensical babblings of an overexcited clown. He locked it away in his desk drawer with a whispered order to be quiet.
He then promptly forgot about it for the rest of the day until he sat down at his desk again late that evening, ready for paperwork, and heard a tiny little tapping coming from inside the wood. Sam rested his forehead on his papers for a moment, wondering if his life could make any less sense, and then cautiously undid the lock.
The clown all but sprang at him from the confines of its temporary prison.
Sam yelped in horror as the little arms clamped on round his neck and Bubbles began to wail, huge sobs, without tears.
“I thought you’d left me there for ever, sir!” He whined, having calmed down enough to speak again. “And don’t ever lock me away without fresh air again!”
Running out of suitable reactions, Sam simply replied: “But you’re a toy, you’ve been living in my television! Why on earth would you need air?”
In response to that, Sam found his airway constricted. “I need air, same as you!” snapped the clown, and that was that.
“Okay, fine. Do you think…could you let go… of me now?” Sam croaked, fingers at his neck attempting to loosen the chokehold.
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course, sir,” said Bubbles, letting go of Sam and jumping down onto his desk. This was a very bad thing for Sam because the clown immediately began throwing all his papers into the air, messing up the neatly alphabetized files and the witness statements he was supposed to be transcribing. Work, normal work, sane work, instead of looking after a newly-animated ball of fluff.
“Stop that!” But Bubbles wasn’t listening; everything went flying, Sam frantically attempting to clean up after him.
It was just going to be one of those days.