#(so pancakes and sweets are also associated with his mother. which only complicated his feelings even further) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lovelylogans · 4 years

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love light gleams

masterpost | chapter one | next chapter

christmas eve will find me where the love light gleams i’ll be home for christmas if only in my dreams

-bing crosby, i’ll be home for christmas

part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, teenage emancipation, emotional abuse, mentions of being disowned, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, classism, mentions of past underage drinking, crying, religious content (church, going to confession), remus cameo, mentions of choking/killing someone, something similar to the canon “have you thought about killing your brother?” monologue, please let me know if i’ve missed anything!

pairings: gen

words: 57,686

notes: the way i came up with virgil’s dad’s name is, in fact, the nerdiest naming shortcut i’ve ever used. also, i used a middle name generator to come up with virgil’s middle name and That popped up and then i went back and did it again and that popped up and i Literally Couldn’t Resist. many thanks to @teacupfulofstarshine and @ for talking this work through with me!!!

virgil checks the time, again. yep. still 8:27 in the morning. still three more minutes. still he’s just sitting here, waiting, staring eagle-eyed at the last remaining people having breakfast or the people on coffee runs to see if they need anything else, just to have something to fill the time.

he ends up just restacking the donuts in the little cake stand—it seemed a little crooked, and sure, the rest of the diner has been polished up nicely, but it’s just—they’re uneven. it’ll be noticeable if someone looks closely.

how many times have you seen dad rearrange the donut stand, he scolds himself. they won’t care, you’re overreacting. it’ll be fine. they’re your parents.

he doesn’t really stop, though. once he’s started it, he may as well keep going.

it takes all of a minute and thirty seconds. 8:28. two more minutes. maybe he should wipe down the counter again, even though he did that five minutes ago. or top off the coffee pots, even though he did that seven minutes ago.

he ends up going back into the kitchen to see if they need to add anything extra to the usual supply run that happens each week, checking the fridge and the freezer and jotting things down on the notepad he’s got hanging up on the kitchen wall—they should probably get more condiments—when he hears the bell jangle, and a familiar voice booms, “taylor, you old tightwad, you better not have done away with my son to buy our lot next door, i haven’t forgotten those threats!”

virgil grins. he hears taylor spluttering irritably at his mom. just like old times.

"where’s my son?” she calls.

“kitchen!” virgil shouts, finishing his scrawl as soon as possible, capping the pen and darting to the door of the kitchen, catching the doorframe and leaning so the diner comes into view so he doesn’t look like a little kid running to see his parents, even if that’s how he feels.

his mom is already crossing behind the counter, his dad trailing in her wake, and he steps forward in time for her to wrap her arms around him.

“there’s my baby,” she says, and virgil closes his eyes, really, genuinely feeling like a kid for a second, just for a second—she still smells like cinnamon and lemon-scented cleaning supplies, even after not working in the diner for half a year, and she’s wearing the same soft plum sweater he’s seen her wear hundreds of times with the same puffy black coat she wears in the winter.

“hi, mom,” he says, muffled by her shoulder.

she draws back, smiling, and keeps her hands on his shoulders. she still has the dark hair that virgil inherited from her, the bright blue eyes that virgil didn’t, the mischievous smile that got passed to his siblings. “happy birthday, bunny.”

“ mom,” he grumbles, ducking his head, and she laughs, ruffling his hair.

“i’m allowed to embarrass you, i’m your mother,” she says.

“virgil,” his dad says, mild as always. still with the brown eyes virgil got from him, the brown hair that’s just enough lighter than virgil and his mother’s that it’s a noticeable difference, tanner skin, from the italian side of the family (his last name used to be palmisano, before he changed it to danes after he got married to virgil’s mom, virgil is technically a family name, along with one of the... other parts of his name) the calm demeanor that virgil really wishes he had, sometimes.

“hey, dad,” he says, and his mom tugs virgil closer so that his dad can hug him, just for a moment, before he places a hand on his cheek.

“are you all right?” he says. “you look peaky. pale.”

“i always look pale, ” virgil points out.

“not coming down with anything?”

“no, dad.”

“sleeping eight hours a night?” he says, narrow-eyed, and virgil hesitates for just a moment too long.

“ cinnabun,” his mother scolds.

“i’m running the diner!” he says defensively. “if anyone should know how busy that is, it’s you two, but i’m fine!”

his mom pinches his other cheek, so now each of his parents have a hand on his face, framing it. “no, you’ve definitely lost weight. three meals a day?”

" yes, mom,” he says.

“prove it,” she challenges. “sit down, we can have breakfast.”

“in a second,” he says. “i’m just gonna make sure everything’s set before i take a break. you can make the rounds and dad can go sit in a booth and gossip with mrs. torres about how i’ve been doing lately, i’ll bring you some coffee.”

his father looks mollified—which is fair, mrs. torres is a pretty frequent diner customer and a prolific gossip and as such will probably know a lot more about virgil than virgil might even know about himself—so with their coffee in hand, his parents go to make the rounds. since a lot of virgil’s regulars are their old regulars, they’re saying hello to everyone and catching up on all the happenings of the town since they’d moved away.

his dad is deep in conversation with mrs. torres (probably somehow trying to ascertain the exact amount of sleep he’s been getting based on how often the diner’s been open early or late) and his mom is cheerfully picking a fight with taylor over all the associations he’s part of in an attempt to rise in power in the town.

virgil inhales deeply, smelling the coffee, the bacon, pancakes and syrup. it’s just—it’s nice. it’s back to the old times. it’s just like how things were before.

he serves some breakfast, and tops off coffee, and he’s hauling a tray of pancakes and french toast and omelets to a table full of businesspeople when the bell jingles again. he glances over, balancing the tray on his shoulder.

“hey,” virgil says to patton gruffly, and patton smiles at him—logan’s hidden by the way he’s been placed in the baby carrier strapped to the front of patton’s chest, but he can see the massive pom-pom on top of his winter hat moving, so logan’s probably awake and not crying, which is frankly miraculous.

“morning,” patton says. “um—happy birthday.”

virgil blinks. “how’d you—?”

“maria,” patton admits. “plus you mentioned it when we met. twenty-three, right?”

“right. well, thanks,” virgil says, and gestures to the dining room with his free hand. “you two settle in, i’ll bring you some hot cocoa/coffee?”

patton nods, and heads for a booth as virgil heads for the table and finishes serving breakfast, checking that they don’t need anything else, and virgil heads back behind the counter.

just in time to see his parents both wandering slowly over to patton’s booth, zeroing in on the baby. they probably think they look subtle. virgil quickly fills up a mug with hot cocoa/coffee, so he can rush over and make sure his parents don’t steal logan.

“i haven’t seen you, are you new in town?” his mother is saying by the time he drops off the mug.

“he is,” virgil says, leaning his hip against the booth. “patton, sorry in advance, these are my parents, mark and meredith danes.”

“oh!” patton says, and shakes hands with his mom, and then with his dad. “very nice to meet you both.”

his parents are exchanging a glance, one of those Married Couple looks that no one else can understand.

“so, how long have you been in town?” mark asks.

“um,” he says. “a month or so?”

“why sideshire?” meredith asks, and patton exchanges a slightly panicked look with virgil. virgil clears his throat.

“um, so, patton, look out, they’re definitely going to try and steal logan because they’re desperate for grandchildren.”

“you should have some kids,” mark says.

“ dad,” he says pointedly. “i’m twenty-tw— three, plus i’m single, i’m not about to have any kids. i’m busy dealing with the diner.”

“well, they could help out,” mark says.

“half the reason we had you is because of the free labor,” meredith says fondly, and virgil rolls his eyes.

“if you want grandkids, bug wyatt, he’s oldest,” virgil says pointedly. “or essie! she’s getting married, bug her!”

“aw, it’s cute that you think we aren’t doing that too, bunny,” meredith says.

“ mom,” virgil groans.

“bunny?” patton says, amused.

“we all have food-based nicknames,” virgil grumbles. “they ran out of material by the time they got to me.”

“ cinnamon bun has the good fortune of offering even more nicknames, mister,” meredith says.

“oh, sure,” virgil says. “wyatt and essie and silas all get relatively normal ones, but by the time you got to freddie and i it’s snickerdoodle and bunny, this definitely isn’t eldest child favoritism.”

virgil isn’t just talking about nicknames here, but he digresses.

“why cinnamon bun?” patton asks, glancing between virgil and his mother, a smile on his face.

“he always fell right to sleep whenever we swaddled him, so we basically always swaddled him,” meredith says. “and he just looked like the sweetest little bun of a baby.”

“as such, he became cinnamon bun,” mark adds.

“that’s—”

“don’t—”

“ sweet,” patton finishes, and sticks his tongue out at virgil, who lets out a theatrical groan at the pun, mostly because patton gets very satisfied with himself when he does.

his parents look thoroughly charmed. logan, however, makes a squalling noise of protest.

“oh, hey there,” patton says. “hey, i just fed you, you okay?”

he frees logan from his carrier, and holds him in his arms, and virgil sees both his parents melt, absolutely weak for the presence of a baby. he’s pretty sure the reason for his and freddie’s existences were partially about, yes, free labor, but also they wanted to have a baby around the house.

his parents are exchanging another one of those Married Couple looks. virgil wants to ask, but patton’s making comforting noises at logan, and he quiets a little.

“you just wanted attention, huh?”

“oh, he’s precious,” mark says.

“how old is he?” meredith asks.

“two months on the third,” patton says. “so i guess a month and a half, give or take?”

his parents make the appropriate cooing noises, though virgil’s pretty sure that they’d react the same way if patton had said any passage of time from birth.

patton rocks logan a little, more and more, until logan’s quiet again. his parents are Looking At Each Other like that again.

“patton, would you like to join us for breakfast?” meredith says, and patton looks up, startled.

“oh, you don’t have to,” patton begins.

“i’m honestly trying to figure out the best strategy to get you to let me hold the baby,” meredith admits breezily, no shame, and patton laughs.

“well, you can now, if you want?”

so meredith swaps seats so she can slide in next to patton in the booth, and carefully starts cradling logan, and mark gets up too, straightening the hem of his sweater vest.

“virgil,” mark says. “why don’t i follow you back into the kitchen, to help get things settled before you take a break? i want to see how it’s doing.”

that makes sense—his dad’s domain was the kitchen, while his mom had been out front. so virgil nods, and he gestures vaguely back toward the counter.

“don’t steal logan,” he tells his mom.

“no promises,” meredith says without looking up from logan, and virgil and his father fall into step together.

“i didn’t really change much,” virgil says, when they’re in the kitchen. “just rearranged the cabinets a little, and—”

“virgil,” his father says, voice serious and quiet. “how old is that boy?”

virgil hesitates, looks around the kitchen—mostly empty—and pitches his voice as soft as his dad’s. “sixteen, but he turns seventeen next month.”

his father lets out a slow breath, and says, “his parents?”

“he’s a runaway, so i don’t know them,” virgil says. “but from what i hear, it’s not good. he moved here because when he was running away he happened to come into the in the diner, and it was—”

he breaks off, remembering it, and all the things that had happened since; how patton hands had been shaking for ten minutes on either side of his first attempted call home, which he’d hung up on before the phone had even gotten through its first ring, and how virgil had made the excuse of taking a break to sit with him when he called and the way patton’s voice trembled after. how he’d used a burner phone he bought in the city to be sure they couldn’t track his call to sideshire. how he’d held logan tight afterward in an attempt to calm himself down.

how scared patton had been. of losing what tenuous new start he’d had in sideshire, of losing his newfound independence, of losing logan, of any legal action his parents might take. how helpless virgil had felt to comfort him.

so virgil might not know what his parents are like, but jesus, if patton’s that scared of going back—

“it’s not good,” virgil repeats.

“not—” his father begins, looking incensed.

“no,” virgil says quickly. “no, no—i mean, they sound like assholes, but i don’t think they were abusive.”

his father’s face smooths back into its usual placid expression.

“and he’s living... where?”

“at the inn,” virgil says, and scowls. “in the poolhouse.”

“in the—?”

“not maria’s choice,” he says. “she offered him a room, or at least somewhere that’s at least inside, but he didn’t want to take away business. i mean, i offered—“ he gestures above their heads. “but, i mean, i don’t blame him for not taking it, it’s for one person, not two people plus a baby—”

“not the lot next door?” he says.

“dad, that’s no place for a baby, it’s under construction,” virgil says, and his father sighs.

“i know, it’s just—“ his father frowns. “it gets too cold here, in the winter, and i can’t imagine a pool house has much in way of insulation.”

“we’re trying to work on it when we can,” virgil says. “but—i mean, it’s been a pretty mild winter so far, thank god, maria and i have been planning on tugging them in for a sleepover when it gets too cold.”

a familiar voice coos, “oh, what pretty eyes—i know it’s not everything, but he really is a cute baby, patton.”

“well, thank you, ma’am,” patton says, and the kitchen door opens to see patton holding logan again, his mom staring lovingly at the baby.

“we’re eating back here, aren’t we?” meredith says.

“i—yeah, yeah,” virgil says. “um—just here, i don’t think all of us will fit into the office, what do you—?”

“no,” meredith says, cutting him off. “you’re not working, it’s your birthday.”

“ you’re not working, you both retired,” virgil says.

“ none of you are working, it’s family time,” sarah says exasperatedly, sweeping past them with a tray, and his parents laugh.

“retired?” patton asks, glancing between them.

“well, relocated,” meredith says. “we’re making a new diner but taking a step back from running it day-to-day, you know.”

“not open yet, but it will be soon,” mark adds.

“what’s the estimate on that again?” virgil says. “you wanted all of us to come down for the opening, right?”

“all of us?” patton says.

“siblings—wyatt, esther, silas, winifred, and i,” virgil says. at patton’s startled look, he gives his parents a Look. “yeah, virgil doesn’t sound so out of place with all that, does it?”

“we like old-fashioned names,” meredith says, unrepentant.

“i mean, i can’t talk, my name is patton,” patton says.

“and what a lovely name it is,” meredith says.

“well, thank you,” patton says. “i thought so too.”

“speaking of all those old-fashioned names,” mark says dryly, “virgil, do you know when your siblings are coming to town?”

“freddie’s coming tomorrow, silas and essie and annabelle are coming on the twenty-third, and wyatt can’t get off work until christmas eve, so he’ll be there in the morning,” virgil rattles off.

“ah, wyatt,” mark says.

“darn wyatt, coming in late for family bonding time because he’s held up by being a surgical resident,” meredith quips.

“whoa, really?” patton says. “what kind?”

“orthopedic,” they all chorus.

“still a resident,” virgil adds. “but he’s doing well.”

“that’s great,” patton says sincerely. “a surgeon, wow.”

“we knew as soon as he kept picking out operation for game night,” meredith jokes, and patton giggles.

virgil’s found himself trying to make him laugh a lot, over the past month—when he does, it seems like the new bags under his eyes and the almost-always-furrowed brow disappear, and the transformation’s practically magic. eyes crinkling at the corners, smile wide and bright, carefree and happy. he looks like a kid, just for a moment. like he should.

it seems like, after seeing patton laugh, his mom picks up on that mission too.

she’s cracking jokes left and right—telling old diner stories, resorting to puns and knock-knock jokes, at some point, which patton sure doesn’t seem to mind—as sarah ends up taking their orders and his dad takes his turn on holding logan.

mark danes is usually a pretty straight-faced, non-reactive kind of man, but every time he holds a baby, it gets pitched out of the window. virgil basically sees his dad melt into a puddle of syrup as he coos softly at the sleeping logan.

he kind of pouts a little when he has to put him down to eat.

after sarah darts off, meredith asks, “so what are you two planning on doing for the holidays?�� and virgil freezes, just a little. he has been very carefully Not Asking that exact question, but now—

“oh,” patton says, and laughs a little nervously. “um, i’m not sure yet? working, maybe, i think maria mentioned something about holiday overtime pay—”

“you can’t work on christmas,” meredith says, aghast. “maria wouldn’t make you—“

“well, no, but since i don’t—i mean, i’m not really—“ patton fumbles.

“right, so, work is a potential plan,” virgil cuts in, mostly out of pity, in an attempt to take some of the attention of patton. “could you pass me the syrup?”

patton does, obligingly, and by the time he’s set the pitcher in virgil’s hand it seems like he’s a bit less spooked, a bit more settled.

“i guess i haven’t thought about it very much,” patton says. “it’s not very—i mean, i’m not much of a christmas person, i guess.”

virgil frowns. “you’ve been singing logan christmas songs since december started.”

which is true—logan does not seem to be a fan of “frosty the snowman” or “i saw mommy kissing santa claus,” considering he cries whenever patton tries to sing them, but he likes “deck the halls” and “god rest ye merry gentlemen.” virgil’d had no idea a baby could be so opinionated about music.

patton flushes, and virgil immediately feels bad. patton clears his throat.

“i don’t know my plan, really,” patton finishes in a mumble.

“well, if you’re looking for a plan,” meredith says, “surely virgil’s brought up—”

virgil could kick her—he would, if the counter wasn’t in his way—and hisses, “ mom, he doesn’t have to—”

“did you not offer? virgil danes, we raised you to have manners , for god’s sake, don’t tell me—“

“—well i didn’t know if we were still doing that, there isn’t as much space in the apartment as there was in the house—“

“—oh, and you expect the diner will be open on christmas, we’ve always done it in the diner, don’t try to pass off lack of space as an—“

“—well i didn’t know, usually you’re in charge of christmas stuff—!”

“—we’re having it in your diner this year, virgil, it’s not ours anymore—”

“ dear,” mark says, equable even as patton squirms a little in the face of virgil getting a parental lecture, “let’s remember that it’s virgil’s birthday, he has a friend here, and there’s still almost a week to christmas, shall we?”

meredith settles back with a huff, picking up her fork and knife to pointedly cut a triangle of pancake, and virgil, feeling his face heat, nudges at his hashbrowns with his fork, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“i was going to bring it up once i knew the whole plan,” virgil mutters, and his mother sighs—a familiar sigh, one that’s been decreasing since his teen years, but one that still grates anytime he hears it—and takes a sip of her coffee before she speaks.

“it is your first time planning the family christmas,” she says. “sorry. long night of travel. you know how it is.”

he does. his mother, impetuous and quick-tempered and a direct inverse to his coolheaded father, was quick to snap but quick to calm—these kinds of squabbles with his mom tended to look bad, from the outside, but most every member of the danes family knew these fights are over and forgotten as soon as someone says sorry.

at least, it’s over and forgotten as soon as someone said sorry with his mom. mileage on that ranged when it came to the other members of the danes family, considering all of them have been called some variation of “an impossible, bitter, surly, stubborn, infuriating killjoy” by taylor doose at least once in a continuation of the “doose vs danes” family feud that had been going on for two generations. granted, those two generations consist of taylor, meredith danes, and meredith danes’ children, so it’s not as impressive as it sounds.

“it’s fine,” virgil says, and it is, mostly. since he’s the only member of the danes family who’s prone to keeping arguments in the back of his head and running them over and over and over to see if the thousandth time he thought about it meant that he’d suddenly discover exactly why they hated him and why he was bound to be disowned. he’s also the only member of the danes family with anxiety. so. even though he might think about how everything is about to go wrong and collapse around him—

“it’s fine,” he repeats, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. or at least, he thinks that, but his mother relaxes her shoulders and smiles at him, sheepish and apologetic, and... and it really is fine.

patton, observing this, seems to relax a little, too.

“patton,” mark says, cutting through any of the remaining awkwardness, “you wouldn’t happen to know maria’s christmas plans, would you?”

“she said she was going to visit her son, i think?” patton says uncertainly, and both mark and meredith make noises of recognition.

“oh, i wonder how john’s doing in—was it santa fe?”

“santa barbara,” virgil corrects absently, and the rest of the breakfast continues with virgil catching up his parents on the latest of the sideshire gossip, patton chiming in, when he can.

when they’re straightening up the dishes once they’re done, and virgil offers another refill for everyone, patton checks the time and says, “mine better be to go.”

“right, work,” virgil says, making sure that his cup is half-caf—he’ll probably notice, he always does, somehow, but honestly, the kid should cut back on his caffeine intake, it’s ridiculous—before he hands it over.

“well,” his mother says, offering her hand to shake. “it was very nice to meet one of virgil’s friends, patton—“

“— mom —”

“—and since i’m apparently still in charge of christmas plans, if you find yourself free, we’d love it if you and logan stopped by,” meredith says, chipper, and patton blinks.

“um—?”

“only if you want to,” virgil says hastily, but his father raises his voice just slightly to say, “well, since all the kids are coming and none of them have blessed us with grandchildren—“

“— dad—”

“consider it?” mark continues. “especially since maria won’t be in town, and it’s baby’s first christmas, and all. i know he won’t remember it, but a parent does—”

“ dad, seriously—“

“well, think it over!” his mother declares, as she ushers patton toward the door, “and have a wonderful day, and no matter what you decide, i would love to see your precious little logan again—“

"o kay, thanks, mom, i think patton gets it,” virgil says loudly. “you don’t need to walk him all the way back to the inn, you can go back to interrogating mrs. torres now.”

virgil takes over the ushering and ends up ushering both himself and patton (and logan, by proxy) right out the door.

“uh,” patton says. “so. those are your parents.”

“i am so sorry,” virgil says. “i think their social filters skipped a generation and then all got crammed into me for an overabundance of filter, or something. i think that’s what anxiety is, right?”

patton laughs, soft. “they were nice,” he says reassuringly. “really, i liked them.”

“seriously, you don’t have to feel pressured if you don’t wanna come,” virgil says. “they can be kinda pushy, but if you don’t wanna come, i can—”

“virgil,” patton says. “i—just let me think about it?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “yeah, of course. um. i hope you two have a good day at work.”

“you too,” patton says, and virgil watches close enough to make sure that he and logan cross the street safely, to take a deep breath, and to re-enter the chaos that is having part of his family in town.

oh, great. now he gets to look forward to everyone in his family in town.

⁂

“ah, patton!” maria says, and patton comes to a stop, smiling the best he can at her. she’s nice. she’s incredibly nice. patton is still a little nervous around her, but that’s because she’s, you know. his boss? and landlord? even though he knows that she’s incredibly nice.

“hello, ma’am.”

“oh, when am i going to break you of all that ma’am nonsense?” maria says warmly, before handing him a slip of paper. “now, i’ve got your schedule for the day written down, here, but if you wouldn’t mind meeting me in my office for lunch?”

“oh!” patton says, and winces when his voice cracks. “um, okay. did i do something wrong—?”

“no, no, nothing of the sort!” maria says hastily. “you’ve been a model employee. since you’ve been here a month or so, i just want to talk about how you’re settling in, that’s all. very routine.”

“oh,” patton says, and tries for a smile again. “um, okay! sure. when should i drop by?”

“noon will work just fine,” maria says, and smiles warmly at logan before patting patton on the shoulder. “now, pip pip! we’ve got a lot of work to do. it’s a new day!”

“yes, it is,” patton says, and opens up the schedule. he thinks that they’re made only for him because one, he’s newest, and on decreased hours since maria had pointed out that patton wold still be on paternity leave if he’d started working at the inn before logan was born, but two, he’s just been really forgetful lately, probably since he doesn’t sleep that much anymore. he isn’t sure how much of it is logan crying, or general insomnia, or being kept up at night by his head, or the fact that his “bed” in the poolhouse is a busted old pull-out bed that was a reject from one of the rooms; maria keeps telling him that she’ll get him a mattress, but he made her promise not to rush it, or anything, so he’ll get a proper bed when a customer damages one. but, anyways, he’s been very forgetful, and he really only remembered that it’s virgil’s birthday because maria mentioned it on his way out the door.

which he feels terrible about. sure, virgil didn’t mention the exact day of his birthday, when they met, but he still should have asked people. he didn’t even get him anything, and with how fast his funds are depleting, even with a job, he isn’t going to be able to get him anything nice. and virgil really deserves something nice, because virgil’s been so kind to him.

really, everyone in sideshire is being kind to him. it’s kind of weird. because they’re not like his parents or his parents’ friends' version of kind, the “i’m being nice to you now so you’ll do something nice for me later” kind of kind, but real, genuine kindness.

cindy in the kitchen had given him a ton of old baby clothes that might last logan until he’s two, swearing up and down that they’d been meaning to drop everything at goodwill for ages now and really patton was doing them a favor if he just swung by their house and picked it up, their wife would be glad to see them gone, she’d been lecturing cindy about it for ages.

hector with landscaping had been sealing up all the drafty parts of the poolhouse during his breaks, winking at patton and making him promise he won’t tell maria, because apparently hector was supposed to do that three summers ago and he’s really just catching up on late work, and patton doesn’t want anciano hector be in trouble with the big boss, now, did he? plus he’s promised to take a look at the clawfoot bathtub in the poolhouse where patton bathes, where the water never really heats.

pauline with the front desk had sniffed at his hair and said he looked like an unkempt puppy and given him a haircut, for free, and then a ton of her husband’s old sweaters, because patton had to at least look like he was proud to work at the inn, saying all of this sternly, even though when patton left he’d found three twenties slipped into various pockets that she refused to take back every time he’d tried to confront her about it.

rafael with repairs, after hearing he was trans, had donated some of his old binders for patton to use once he’s done with nursing logan, since he didn’t need them anymore, and had promised patton that this was a good place for trans people and if he needed anyone there was a group of trans or otherwise non-gender-conforming people in town who met up at remy aserinsky’s coffee shop once every month and he could give patton some of their numbers if he wanted and patton had nearly cried . (well, patton’s close to crying a lot these days, but all the post-partum research he’s been doing says that’s normal. even without.... everything else.)

and that’s just people at the inn alone, the big things they’d done, not even counting all the small, little kindnesses along the way—saving him a seat at lunch, making sure patton got whatever kind of cookie he wanted, helping pick up the slack with any rooms patton had forgotten, before he’d had a written schedule, picking up logan and bouncing him and cooing at him, and now logan has a cadre of honorary aunts and uncles and godparents.

not even counting the store-owners who point patton to where to find sales or coupons or tell him when to swing by so he gets the old food they discard and donate at the end of the day. not even counting just the neighbors, who always wave or say hello or murmur at logan, and—

and virgil. god, virgil, who’s feeding him and helping with logan and now inviting patton and logan to his family christmas, who’s there to listen and hug patton, if he needs it, and patton—

patton’s overwhelmed, is the only word for it. he’s bowled over by the level of kindness here. it’s a level of niceness that patton would have thought impossible, like it’s a completely unattainable utopia. people are kind here like it’s a given, like it’s thoughtless to be good, kind, gentle. they’re kind in the way that patton wants logan to see, growing up, to learn about helping people and being nice like it’s a given, and not an exchange of services. they’re kind in the way that patton desperately wants to be, but he knows he falls short every time, and—and he doesn’t even know how to start paying people back for everything they’re doing for him.

so that thought’s rattling around his head all morning along with everything else—really, it’s been knocking around up there for the past few weeks—so distracting that it’s nearly noon before he remembers that he’s due in maria’s office and he nearly swears before he hastily finishes making the bed of the latest room and dashes up the stairs, swinging around the doorframe, one hand bracing logan’s head.

“hi!” patton pants. “am i late?”

“right on time,” maria says and gestures. “please, take a seat anywhere you like.”

patton hesitates, eyes going to one specific spot, and maria laughs.

“i put that there on purpose,” she says reassuringly, rising from her desk and settling on the patterned, childish rug with, well—a nice spot for logan to lie down, really.

“um, okay,” patton says, and lifts logan from his carrier, unbuckling it, before he gently sets logan on his back. logan blinks up at him, considering, before he sticks his fingers into his mouth. patton sits back, and tries to make eye contact with maria, just for a moment. well. tries.

“adorable,” maria murmurs, eyes soundly fixed on the baby.

“sure is,” patton says proudly.

“and he’s doing well?” maria checks.

“other than the colic? healthiest little baby there could be, the six-week doctor’s appointment was a few days ago,” patton says. he’d swapped the appointment’s time three times to make sure that he wouldn’t have any surprise parent drop-ins, but they might have been notified by the insurance company that he’d gone, so. “he’s eating plenty, gaining weight, growing even more to make up for how small he was, since he was a preemie, you know—on track for all his milestones. early, for a few, actually.”

“oh?”

“yeah! apparently, it’s a bit weird that he started vocalizing early, that isn’t supposed to happen until about two months. oh! and i think he’s starting to recognize himself, yesterday he kept smiling and babbling and waving at whoever that strange baby in the mirror was. he seemed a bit confused that there were two of me. i think he’s due to start laughing any day now, too!”

“how wonderful,” maria says warmly.

“yeah, he is,” patton says, beaming.

“and the... other part, of that day?” maria asks, arching her eyebrows. “you were hoping to meet up with logan’s other father. christopher, wasn’t it?”

“yeah,” patton says quietly, looking down at logan, who removes his fingers from his mouth and waves an arm at him. “yeah, it’s christopher.”

mostly, kind of stunned to see patton. mostly, kind of stunned that patton had told him that yes, running away was a serious, permanent thing. mostly, kind of stunned that patton had a job, and a place to live, and no intention of returning home. mostly... well. mostly, stunned that out of the pair of them, it was patton who was going to legally sever himself from his parents. but... well. patton probably wouldn’t have to grocery shop for diapers or formula or anything a nearly-two-month-old baby could possibly need for about three months, along with a few things that logan is distinctly not old enough for—he’s pretty sure that the stuffed animals are okay, but the toys with little parts aren’t, and also that the brandy christopher got him (”you know giving a baby brandy to help with teething is an old wives’ tale, chris.” “didn’t say it was for him, mac.”) is going to turn into a christmas gift, or a donation to the inn’s kitchen, or something.

bittersweet. that’s what it was. it had felt so distinctly like an ending, for the two of them. patton and logan had both started crying during the drive home— home . to sideshire. patton guesses this is home now.

“he was good,” patton says. “supportive of, you know. the plan.”

maria surveys him for a few seconds, before she says, “well, that’s good, i suppose. do you have a preference for lunch? i can’t remember what’s on the menu today.”

“i don’t have a preference,” patton says quickly. he doesn’t want to put anyone at the inn out any more than they need to—who cares if he doesn’t like cassoulet, it’s food that they’re giving him, right? he doesn’t want to be ungrateful.

maria smiles at him, says “all right,” and buzzes for cindy to bring in some food and coffee.

they drop off a tray of sandwiches, and chips, and some cut-up fruit. okay. patton can stomach that. it’s unexpected, sure, considering the usually fancy menu that the inn boasts, but—but patton can stomach it.

“so, patton,” maria says, picking up a sandwich. “how have you been liking it here, so far?”

"it’s been fantastic,” patton says honestly. “everyone here is so nice.”

“i’m happy to hear it,” maria says, and she continues to ask him questions: does he knows his way around now, are his hours are good, would he like to switch up his schedule to better care for logan, now that he’s nearing the end of both paternity leave and shadowing the other housekeepers, have any guests given him any problems, is there anything he’d like to suggest to better the inn?

she and patton eat their way slowly through about half of the sandwich platter (turkey bacon, basil chicken, ham and cheese, italian deli) and maria continually pushes fruit in his direction.

“i swear you and virgil are ganging up on me,” patton says ruefully, accepting the grapes she’s nudged toward him, shortly after the melon, strawberries, and cantaloupe that he’s already eaten.

“you’re a growing boy,” maria says, blasé, and patton smiles a little at that.

“now,” she says, picking up yet another sandwich, “tell me about your plans for the future, what you’d like to do here.”

“oh,” patton says, startled. “um. to tell you the truth, i haven’t really—i haven’t really thought about it very much?”

“well, rightfully enough, you’re sixteen,” maria says. “plenty of things you could do, if you wanted, and you’ve only been here a month.”

“do you have any advice?” patton asks, because sure, he may have only been here a month, but he knows that maria is smart.

“well,” maria says. “i’d wager you don’t want to be a housekeeper forever.”

patton smiles sheepishly. “no, i don’t think so. i mean, it’s great here! but—”

“but you have quite a life ahead of you, i can tell,” maria says. “you’d be capable of plenty, you’re an intelligent young man.”

patton looks down at logan, face burning, and pretends to occupy himself with making sure that logan’s comfortable. intelligent. right.

“well, i don’t know about that,” he mumbles.

“well, i do,” she says firmly.

she’s just being nice, patton thinks.

“i’d like to keep you on, for as long as you like,” maria continues. “if for mostly selfish reasons.”

“i—i would like that,” patton says. “thank you.”

“now,” maria says. “i know i mentioned working on christmas, but i’m afraid that won’t be an option—there aren’t many guests staying, so it’s down to a skeleton staff. it will be up until after new years, i’m afraid, but christmas day seems like it’ll be out of the question, in terms of pay. it’s first come, first serve, and we have some employees who volunteered for it rather early this year, i hope you understand.”

“oh,” patton says.

“i hope you have plans,” maria says.

“i—well,” patton says, “i mean, virgil invited me to his family’s christmas, but—”

“oh, good!” maria says. “you deserve a nice christmas break. i’ll let cara know. their christmas dinners are wonderful, you’re in for a treat.”

“i—i’m sure i am,” patton says.

“on another piece of christmas business,” maria says, and digs around in her suit pocket, handing over an envelope. “we did very well this year, so here’s your christmas bonus.”

patton hesitates. “i—i can’t take that—”

“well, of course you can!” maria says. “everyone else is getting one too—”

“but everyone else isn’t living in your pool house,” patton says. “i mean, i-i’m grateful, of course i am, but i’m not paying enough for rent as is, and—”

“i take your rent out of your paycheck,” maria says softly. “the pool house is in disuse anyway, the most we were using it for was storage and we have a unit for that, regardless.”

“but—“

“patton,” she says, and then, firmly, “if you won’t take it for yourself, then take it for logan. put it toward toys, diapers, his college fund, whatever you like. children are expensive.”

a beat, and then she adds, “and if you won’t take it, i’m afraid i’ll have to use the check to buy logan a drumset when he is old enough, and you will think back on this conversation and rue allowing me to keep it.”

patton huffs out a laugh and, reluctantly, takes the check.

“thank you,” he mumbles to the ground.

“you’re quite welcome,” maria says, and then, “some mail came for you today.”

she reaches up onto the desk, and hands patton a manila folder.

patton’s mouth goes completely dry as he takes it. “oh.”

he swallows, and opens it just enough to slide out the sheaf of papers to see the heading— PETITION FOR EMANCIPATION —and swallows again, suddenly feeling dizzy and very grateful that he’s sitting on the floor.

“now, i know you didn’t want my john tangled up in it, but he has a friend who’s still in a firm in-state who knows this kind of law, and is willing to do it as a favor,” maria continues. patton slowly slides the papers back into the folder so he doesn’t see the heading.

“right,” he says.

“i know you’ve been struggling with whether or not you want to do this, but whatever you decide is right for you,” maria says gently. “do not let them change your mind. you will have help here, always, and not just from us in town—you can apply for temporary family assistance, if you like. but i looked into it and it would be much more likely if you were living with a relative—”

patton’s already shaking his head.

“state administered general assistance, then, i think it’s called,” maria says. “the lawyer—rachael, i can’t remember her last name—could probably help walk you through anything to get any help you and that sweet boy might need. i could give you her number.”

“right,” patton says, voice barely a whisper. “okay. thank you.”

maria sighs, before she reaches over and gently pinches the squishy part patton’s cheek.

“oh, my baby,” she says, “i know this will be hard for you, and i am so sorry. there is not a person in the world who deserves this level of heartbreak less.”

patton sniffles and swallows. he feels the strong urge to look away, to bury his face in his hands, and he could—maria’s hand on his face is in no way restrictive—but the cool, reassuring weight of maria’s hand is too comforting to discard. maria gently swipes her thumb across his cheek, erasing whatever tear track there might have been.

“whatever you decide, just... just know that you and that baby will be able to stay here for as long as you like. all right?” maria says softly.

“all right,” patton whispers. “thank you.”

maria smiles at him, sad, before she pats his cheek. “all right. would you like some cookies? chocolate is the fastest way to defeat sadness, you know.”

patton sniffles, again, and picks up logan, just to hold him close. “i—yeah, okay. sure. i’ll have some cookies.”

⁂

virgil has a morning routine half because routines and habits help with virgil’s anxiety, and half out of necessity.

he rolls out of bed and drags himself into the shower. he gets dressed in whatever combination of purple, plaid, and black that he wants to wear for the day. he gets a cup of coffee, because the timed coffee machine that he got himself after he moved into his apartment was frankly a blessing. he eats breakfast—usually a protein bar or an apple or something small, which his parents would probably disapprove of, but it’s fine because he makes up for it by having an early lunch to beat the usual lunch rush—and then descends the stairs to the diner, where he kicks on all the coffeemakers downstairs and turns on the lights and then unlocks the front door, for all of the workers on morning shift, and then retreats into the kitchen to start, well. cooking.

he’s on his way to unlock the front door when he draws back and tries not to shriek.

there’s someone sitting there, leaning back against the door, so he can’t see their face, with a winter coat and scarf and hat so he can’t even see their hair or skin color or any identifying factors.

virgil hesitates, before he moves to unlock the door and knocks gently against the door. please move please move please move please don’t be someone who died of exposure on my stoop—

they get to their feet before they dramatically spin and throw the scarf away from their face, revealing an impish grin that has haunted virgil since he was born, basically, and virgil slams his hand against the door as soon as he notices that she’s laughing, before he throws open the door.

“you asshole, i thought you were someone who decided to camp on my stoop and die of hypothermia to make some kind of anti-junk-food statement!”

“aw, i love you too, v, the most babiest of brothers—“

“—i am not a baby, i’m twenty-thre—”

“—gimmie a kiss!” freddie sings, attempting to box virgil in with some kind of hug. “kiss, kiss, kiss—“

“—ow, get off , you’re demon sent straight from hell to torment me—”

“—do not make me jump on you i will jump on your back and hang on until you acknowledge that your favorite sibling is back in town with some outward display of affection—“

“—okay first of all saying that you’re my favorite sibling is a stretch—”

“—well, it sure as hell isn’t silas, we both know wyatt is an alien, and considering essie is further from you in age, this means that you’ve clearly bonded the most with me—”

“—and second of all, if you jump onto my back i will throw you onto this tile floor, you see how mom and dad aren’t here to stop me and this is my diner now?”

“what are you, a professional wrestler?” freddie says, and virgil manages to squirm free and makes a hasty retreat to the counter. or, well, he tries. freddie is hot in pursuit.

“you realize that if you don’t now i’ll start this again during breakfast rush!” freddie taunts.

virgil weighs these options, before he heaves a massive sigh and, making a show of how grudging he is, leans over to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

freddie gasps, and clasps her hands under her chin, making a show of beaming up at him with a loud “ awww!”

virgil looks like a more even blend of their parents—dark hair, brown eyes, pale—whereas freddie much more favors their mom, dark hair, blue eyes, that same mischievous smile.

“aw, you do love me.”

“i said nothing of the sort,” virgil says, scowling.

“and that i’m your favorite, which i totally expect to be reflected in my christmas present,” freddie continues, bouncing behind the counter. virgil makes a sharp noise at her, making a cutting motion with his arm, as if to make a barrier to prevent her from following him.

“bar!”

freddie looks offended.

“unless you’re volunteering your services in the kitchen, in which case—“

freddie scuttles to a barstool, and virgil stifles his smile. freddie’s loudly and frequently expressed distaste for kitchen-work meant that she was always out front waitressing or handling orders with their mom.

“coffee!” she demands.

“absolutely not,” virgil says. “you’re already like this at five in the morning—“

“yeah, because i haven’t slept for twenty-seven hours,” freddie says.

“how is that my problem,” virgil says, “and also, what is wrong with you?”

“if you don’t give me caffeine, i’m tattling,” freddie says.

“if you keep complaining, i’m tattling,” virgil says, “guess which of ours is going to go over better?”

“you’re a snitch,” she accuses.

“who brought up tattling first?” virgil demands.

freddie then resorts to the deeply mature and time-honored tradition, a response that frequently gets shared between siblings—she sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry.

virgil rolls his eyes, and he’s about to keep this sibling bickering thing going, except the door opens and sarah walks in, yawning, so that gets put on pause as sarah wakes up enough to see who’s sitting at the counter, so virgil gets to escape into the kitchen as the whole reunion thing goes down.

if the theory that virgil inherited an overabundance of filter is wrong, then he thinks that whatever social butterfly gene that usually gets distributed, freddie stole his in the womb, absorbing enough of it that there wasn’t any left for him nearly two years after she was born. she’s always been gregarious, noisy, chatty, managing to talk to anyone about anything. virgil thinks that freddie probably doesn’t know the meaning of the words shy, subtle, or embarrassment. she has no fear of making a fool of herself when she talks to anyone, and virgil means anyone.

case in point: she’s friendly with isadora prince. virgil would say friends, but he thinks that remus is closer with her than freddie is, especially since freddie’s been... god, who even knows where freddie’s been lately? virgil’s sure he’ll get his ear talked off about her various exploits since he’d last seen her.

and she does—between ducking back into the kitchen and running out orders, freddie keeps a stream of constant chatter going like she doesn’t really care if virgil’s there to listen or not. apparently, she was last in atlanta for a casting call, which she says was a bust with a grin and a shrug like it doesn’t really matter, and she’s been awake for twenty-seven hours because she’d gotten on the wrong bus and had a detour to st. louis—

“fred, even hearing you talk sometimes just skyrockets my blood pressure,” virgil says, trying not to cringe.

“what doesn’t?” freddie says pointedly.

“how did you confuse sideshire with st. louis?” virgil says.

“oh for god’s sake, i didn’t confuse them, it’s not my fault the bus depot doesn’t know how numbers work—“

the bell jangles, and then, “is that my snickerdoodle?”

freddie rolls her eyes at virgil, not quite able to tamp down her grin, and spins around to see their parents.

now that he’s not the center of it, virgil can appreciate that it is kind of funny to watch their parents fuss and fret over freddie; is she eating, is she sleeping—

“she was just telling me that she hasn’t slept for twenty-seven hours,” virgil says, fake-innocent, and squints at the clock in the corner. “twenty-eight now, i bet.”

freddie dramatically cries out “TRAITOR!” as their father immediately nudges freddie’s coffee cup toward virgil to take away and “winifred jane,” their mother scolds, and virgil cackles.

“i told you what would happen if you kept complaining!”

“what are you, a cop?” freddie demands. “what happened to youngest sibling solidarity?!?!”

“payback for scaring me.”

“ everything scares you!”

“scaring me on purpose, then!” virgil says, and ducks into the kitchen to dump out freddie’s cup when she starts looking murderous.

when he risks peeking out again (silas may not be his favorite sibling but freddie is definitely the one to look out for when it comes to retribution) his parents and his sister have clustered away into a booth. freddie, upon seeing him looking, proceeds to flip him off under the table, so he can see, but mark and meredith can’t. virgil tamps down his grin.

another time-honored tradition started back up, then.

not that he’d ever tell her this, but. it’s nice to have freddie home.

#my post #text #the sideshire files #my fic #my fanfic #sanders sides #love light gleams

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