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Description
Steve Fraggle was worried.

He had been worried for a while now, but hadn’t known what to do about it. Melly had told him not to be so concerned, that everything would be alright. Parents he had talked to had just smiled, patted his back, and muttered similar phrases like “My [name of child] was just like that at that age. [s/he] soon grew out of it”. Today he had gone to the Trash Heap for advice and she had given him sage words of wisdom.

“Do not panic,” she said, “You’re little boy is just biding his time. As long as you can understand one another, there is nothing to be worried about. When he feels that he is ready, it will happen. There is nothing or no one that can force him.”

“The Trash Heap has spoken,” Her shills finished, “Nyah!”

“Cute little rugrat, ain’t he?” Gunge commented at their retreating forms.

“A regular little moss-mouse,” Philo agreed.

As it was his job, they got a radish on the way back. He let his son pick, and Steve uprooted the chosen vegetable. He had carried it back to Fraggle Rock, thinking all the way. 'Of course it was nothing to worry about,' he thought, 'I can understand him perfectly well. Let it happen when it happens.'

But after a whole day, the worry started to creep back.

It came back in full force around bedtime; Steve had asked which book he should read. “The Storyteller gave me three new books today,” he said cheerfully, reading the titles, “‘The Very Hungry Woolly-Worm’, ‘James and the Giant Radish’ and ‘The Velveteen Mudbunny’.”

“Mudbunny,” Wembley chirped.

“I think we’d better read the one about the woolly-worm first, don’t you?” He began testing the waters, ever so slightly. “He might get so hungry he’d eat the other pages.”

“Pages,” Wembley agreed.

Steve lifted him up onto the bed, and handed him the soft squeaky blue caterpillar Melly had knitted. “And I think Squeet would like to hear the story as well.”

“As well,” Wembley yawned. His eyes were already beginning to close, and as his head hit the pillow he automatically snuggled Squeet closer. His eyelids fluttered, trying to stay awake long enough for the story to begin.
Steve turned to the first page, “On-”

He was interrupted when Wembley shot up straight, threw off the blankets and scrambled out of bed. He toddled over towards the other side of the cave, where he had been occupied hours before.

Paper was scattered amongst the debris of crayons and pencils. On all fours amongst the mess, Wembley apparently searched for one drawing in particular.

“What’s this?” he asked, when finally presented with the article.

Wembley proudly displayed the picture, “This.”

It was an average piece of paper, slightly crumpled by the hands of its artist. On it, in a variety of different mediums, was a small pink Fraggle-shaped blob, with a blobby brown hat and coat. He (Steve assumed the blob was a he, as it held a certain resemblance to the male Fraggle he saw in the pond’s reflection) held a blobby radish three times his size, an exaggeration of the large, not-blobby radish they had picked this morning.

“Thank you,” He said, touched at the thoughtfulness. “It’s beautiful”

“Beautiful,” Wembley parroted.

And that was his problem in a nutshell, he mused, as he made a proper parental fuss over where it was going to hang. Wembley may be able to talk, but he only ever repeats everyone else. The only words he had heard him utter on his own was “Squeet”, which even Melly had admitted was more of a noise than a word.

Halfway through The Very Hungry Woolly-Worm, Wembley’s eyes finally closed. He was asleep.

Steve set the book down, and pulled the blanket back up from where it had slipped during story time. The hand Wembley had clutched around Squeet drew the soft toy in closer to his body. It made a squeak of protest at the treatment, which was ignored by both other parties.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, leaning over to tuck in the farthest side, “Sleep tight.”

Wembley sighed, and a dreamy smile reached his face. “Daddy,” he breathed.

His daddy froze. He could have sworn he heard... He looked down at the sleeping form, and he knew, just knew, that he had heard Wembley speak to him.

Joy filled every corner of his being. This was even better than when his boy had been born, when he had first kissed Melly and when Wembley had said his first word all rolled into one. This was a Fraggle he had helped create with a Fraggle he loved, choosing to say a name of love to him.

'If this is what it feels like to hear a single word come out of his mouth, I’ll be euphoric when he can speak a sentence and blissfully catatonic when he can hold a conversation,' he thought, then grinned. 'It’ll be worth the wait.'

With that idea growing in his head, he felt the wave of worries finally wash away.

'Let him talk when he’s ready,' Steve decided, and kissed his son goodnight. 'I’ll savour every single word.'

Description
Steve Fraggle was worried.

He had been worried for a while now, but hadn’t known what to do about it. Melly had told him not to be so concerned, that everything would be alright. Parents he had talked to had just smiled, patted his back, and muttered similar phrases like “My [name of child] was just like that at that age. [s/he] soon grew out of it”. Today he had gone to the Trash Heap for advice and she had given him sage words of wisdom.

“Do not panic,” she said, “You’re little boy is just biding his time. As long as you can understand one another, there is nothing to be worried about. When he feels that he is ready, it will happen. There is nothing or no one that can force him.”

“The Trash Heap has spoken,” Her shills finished, “Nyah!”

“Cute little rugrat, ain’t he?” Gunge commented at their retreating forms.

“A regular little moss-mouse,” Philo agreed.

As it was his job, they got a radish on the way back. He let his son pick, and Steve uprooted the chosen vegetable. He had carried it back to Fraggle Rock, thinking all the way. 'Of course it was nothing to worry about,' he thought, 'I can understand him perfectly well. Let it happen when it happens.'

But after a whole day, the worry started to creep back.

It came back in full force around bedtime; Steve had asked which book he should read. “The Storyteller gave me three new books today,” he said cheerfully, reading the titles, “‘The Very Hungry Woolly-Worm’, ‘James and the Giant Radish’ and ‘The Velveteen Mudbunny’.”

“Mudbunny,” Wembley chirped.

“I think we’d better read the one about the woolly-worm first, don’t you?” He began testing the waters, ever so slightly. “He might get so hungry he’d eat the other pages.”

“Pages,” Wembley agreed.

Steve lifted him up onto the bed, and handed him the soft squeaky blue caterpillar Melly had knitted. “And I think Squeet would like to hear the story as well.”

“As well,” Wembley yawned. His eyes were already beginning to close, and as his head hit the pillow he automatically snuggled Squeet closer. His eyelids fluttered, trying to stay awake long enough for the story to begin.
Steve turned to the first page, “On-”

He was interrupted when Wembley shot up straight, threw off the blankets and scrambled out of bed. He toddled over towards the other side of the cave, where he had been occupied hours before.

Paper was scattered amongst the debris of crayons and pencils. On all fours amongst the mess, Wembley apparently searched for one drawing in particular.

“What’s this?” he asked, when finally presented with the article.

Wembley proudly displayed the picture, “This.”

It was an average piece of paper, slightly crumpled by the hands of its artist. On it, in a variety of different mediums, was a small pink Fraggle-shaped blob, with a blobby brown hat and coat. He (Steve assumed the blob was a he, as it held a certain resemblance to the male Fraggle he saw in the pond’s reflection) held a blobby radish three times his size, an exaggeration of the large, not-blobby radish they had picked this morning.

“Thank you,” He said, touched at the thoughtfulness. “It’s beautiful”

“Beautiful,” Wembley parroted.

And that was his problem in a nutshell, he mused, as he made a proper parental fuss over where it was going to hang. Wembley may be able to talk, but he only ever repeats everyone else. The only words he had heard him utter on his own was “Squeet”, which even Melly had admitted was more of a noise than a word.

Halfway through The Very Hungry Woolly-Worm, Wembley’s eyes finally closed. He was asleep.

Steve set the book down, and pulled the blanket back up from where it had slipped during story time. The hand Wembley had clutched around Squeet drew the soft toy in closer to his body. It made a squeak of protest at the treatment, which was ignored by both other parties.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, leaning over to tuck in the farthest side, “Sleep tight.”

Wembley sighed, and a dreamy smile reached his face. “Daddy,” he breathed.

His daddy froze. He could have sworn he heard... He looked down at the sleeping form, and he knew, just knew, that he had heard Wembley speak to him.

Joy filled every corner of his being. This was even better than when his boy had been born, when he had first kissed Melly and when Wembley had said his first word all rolled into one. This was a Fraggle he had helped create with a Fraggle he loved, choosing to say a name of love to him.

'If this is what it feels like to hear a single word come out of his mouth, I’ll be euphoric when he can speak a sentence and blissfully catatonic when he can hold a conversation,' he thought, then grinned. 'It’ll be worth the wait.'

With that idea growing in his head, he felt the wave of worries finally wash away.

'Let him talk when he’s ready,' Steve decided, and kissed his son goodnight. 'I’ll savour every single word.'