The workshop smelled of motor oil and burnt toast Tails must have forgotten his snack in the toaster again. Golden afternoon light slanted through grease-streaked windows, painting long rectangles across the cluttered floor. Normally, this was his favorite time of day, when the setting sun turned every metal surface warm and honey-colored. But right now, the light just made his caregiver's shadow loom larger across the tool-strewn workbench.

Tails' tails twitched nervously, the tips brushing against a discarded wrench. He could see his caregiver's white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table, the way their shoulders were stiff beneath their usual jacket. They hadn't even turned around yet, just stood there, staring down at the scattered blueprints for his latest thruster design. The silence was worse than shouting.

His flight gloves were suddenly too tight. He picked at the fraying seam near his thumb, the one he kept meaning to fix. The torn skin of his knee itched where he'd skidded across the runway, and his left elbow throbbed dully beneath its bandage. He should have changed before coming inside.

A deep breath. Then his caregiver turned.

Their eyes went straight to the bandage first, just a flash of something pained and furious before their expression smoothed into careful blankness. Tails felt his ears press flat against his skull. They reached out slowly, like he was some startled animal they didn't want to spook, and brushed a thumb over the scrape on his cheekbone he'd missed. Their fingers came away smeared with dried blood and dirt.

The workshop clock ticked three deafening times before they moved.

A medkit hit the table with a soft thump. Alcohol wipes. Bandages. They didn't look at him as they cleaned the cut on his cheek, their touch feather-light but their jaw clenched tight. Tails could see the pulse jumping in their throat. When they pressed the antiseptic to his skinned knee, he hisses, their fingers faltered for half a second before continuing.