#but the minute he's disrespectful towards Rebecca oh boy oh boy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

skieswords · 3 years

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Pull Through Part 6

Please read the warnings in Part 1❤️

Trigger warning, mentions of physical abuse, self-harm, vomiting.

They pulled into the driveway, Becca's hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Alex placed a hand over them, nodding at her, before stepping out of the car, and coming round to let her out. He took her hand again, and walked into the house by her side, kicking his shoes off as she did the same. Becca took a deep breath and dropped Alex's hand, stepping into the kitchen, and blinking under the sudden light. "Rebecca, happy birthday. Did you have a good day?"

Becca nodded at her dad with a weak smile, and made her way to the fridge, taking out a bottle of water. "Yeah it was pretty good. I got an A in my english exam, by the way." Graham nodded from his seat at the table, his tie resting beside him and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. A few empty beer bottles sat on the table in front of him, another one in his hand. "Fine. What about math? And science?" There was a slight sneer in his voice, and Becca looked at her feet, shuffling awkwardly. "I've got those exams next week. I'll pass them though, promise." Graham snorted quietly, and polished off the beer in his hand, slamming it down on the table with a little too much force. "Yes, you will." Becca nodded and turned to leave, but he spoke before she could. "Grab us another beer, hon." She looked back at him, taking in his dishevelled hair and glassy eyes. "Dad, don't you think you've had enough?" Alex took a deep breath from where he was standing outside the door. Obviously she was feeling brave. "Who are you to tell me when I've had enough? God, you sound like your whore mother." Alex flinched, and took another step towards the doorframe, trying to build up the courage should he need to intervene. Becca's voice, strangely confident, filled the kitchen again. "Don't talk about mom like that. She deserves more respect." Graham's chair scraped against the kitchen tiles, and he stood up, frothing at the mouth. "Don't talk to me about respect in my own house. You're all the same, you, your mother, that boy. Disrespectful, ungrateful bastards, the lot of you. Don't know why I stick around. And you, throwing all of my hard work back in my face, failing your classes? I'm embarrassed to call you my kid." Alex's heart sunk at his dad's words, the words scarily reminiscent of the speech he'd recieved when he came out. Becca clenched her fists and grit her teeth. So much for best birthday yet. "God, I'm so sick of you treating us like this! I try my ass off, dad, but it's never good enough! You've stopped acknowledging Alex's existence all together. He's still your son! Just because he'd rather kiss guys, doesn't make him any less Alex than he was before. He deserves better than you." Graham was seething, stalking towards Becca with his empty beer bottle in hand. "Shut up, little girl. No-one cares what you have to say." Becca scoffed and drew back her shoulders, standing up tall. "You know what? Yeh, they do. And one day, you're gonna realise that. And then you'll be sor-" She was cut off by a sickening crack, and Alex jumped into the kitchen just in time to find Graham standing over Becca's kneeling form, her forehead cradled in her hands. Blood was seeping through her fingers, and Alex noticed the shattered beer bottle with a look of horror. "Get out." Graham was in shock, looking at the blood dripping onto his kitchen floor. He looked up at Alex, almost afraid. "Get out. You heard me." He fumbled for his keys, and ran past the Mercer kids, not sparing Becca a second glance as she whimpered quietly. Alex listened for the sound of tires against the gravel, and felt his shoulders relax as the familiar crunch sounded through the house. He fell to his knees and placed his hands on Becca's shoulders. "Bex? Bex look at me. Let me see. Bex?" Becca groaned and looked up slightly, wincing as her hand brushed against her forehead. She pulled her fingers away, and Alex hissed as he saw the nasty gash across her forehead. He struggled not to panic, forcing down the overwhelming sense of terror in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he reached out for her hands, helping her to her feet. "Fuck. Okay, come on, up you get. We gotta get you to the hospital." Becca leaned on Alex heavily as he helped her out the door, folding over in her seat when they reached the car. Alex watched her out the corner of his eye, clenching and unclenching his fists around the steering wheel. Becca's whimpers were only just audible, her shoulders trembling slightly. He was grateful for that at least- the only thought circling his head was the fear she might pass out.

They pulled up to the hospital, and Alex wasted no time, helping Becca out of the car and through the front doors, his hand round her waist. "Hey, is our mom working?" The receptionist looked up at him in surprise, taking in Becca's appearance. "Another skating accident honey? We told you to start wearing a helmet after the last one, didn't we?" Alex bit his tongue, remembering their last visit to the hospital 6 months ago, when Becca had needed stitches after being thrown down the stairs like a rag doll by their dad. The feeling in his stomach that night, seeing her body lying at the bottom of the stairwell, sprawled out, while blood trickled down her forehead, was one he'd never forget. She'd been knocked unconscious, and for a moment, Alex had feared the worst. But luckily having a mom for a doctor came in handy sometimes, and she'd gotten them straight to the hospital, with strict instructions to call it a skating accident. Alex was tempted to tell the truth, but wasn't given the chance, as Becca smiled weakly and nodded. "Yeah, sorry Naomi. I thought I'd be fine but, guess not!" The dark haired woman shook her head fondly, and brushed down her purple scrubs, before picking up the phone and dialling a number. "Hi, is Julia there? Can you tell her her kids are down here? Her daughter needs some stitches by the looks of things." Becca leant into Alex, his arm now wrapped protectively around her shoulder. Naomi set the phone down and looked at the two of them with kind eyes. "Go to room 211- your mom will meet you there. And, by the way, happy birthday sweetheart!" Becca forced a smile to the kind nurse, before turning away with Alex, and stumbling down the corridor, biting back her tears. As soon as the door was shut, she folded over and started moaning, clutching her forehead desperately. Alex stepped forward and rubbed her back, pulling her hair back and tying it with a scrunchie she had round her wrist. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight, guiding her to the bed and sitting her down. "I don't know where you find the guts to stand up to him, Bex. He always manages to hurt you." Becca sniffled, and leaned into her brother, releasing her forehead and feeling the warm blood trickle slowly down her temple, already sticky. "I'm sick of him treating us like this, Alex. Why are we never enough?" He bit his lip, and felt tears well up in his eyes. "I don't know, Bex. I really don't know." They sat in silence for a few more minutes, Becca's occasional whimpers the only sound in the room.

"Oh my god, Rebecca, what happened?" Julia came rushing in, and placed a hand on either side of her daughter's face, lifting it gently. The entire right side of Becca's face was covered with a light coating of blood, and her eye was screwed shut, blood coating her lashes. She sighed, and stroked her forehead, glancing at Alex. "He did this, didn't he." Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, and she continued stroking Becca's hair as she spoke, making a noise like an injured puppy when Alex nodded. "I'm so sorry baby. I should've been there." Becca shook her head, wincing as she did so. "Keep still. Let's get that sorted." Alex watched with a heavy heart as Julia fetched a suture kit, flinching everytime Becca whimpered at the new sutures. As she washed off the blood with an alcohol wipe, he felt angry tears rise to the surface, the bruise and swelling around his little sister's eye already painfully obvious. Julia pressed a kiss to her youngest child's forehead, before looking to Alex, who had his arms crossed over his chest, his body language radiating anger. "Alexander, hon, can you take her home? She should be fine. I don't want people asking questions." Alex scoffed and shook his head at her. "Really? What if she's got a concussion?" Julia sighed and peeled her gloves off, trying not to look at the red stain of her daughter's blood all over them. "Alex, please. Just do as your told." Becca looked pleadingly at her brother, wincing as she ran a finger over the bumpy stitches in her forehead. It was a nasty cut. About 4 inches wide, and pretty deep, she was going to have a beauty of a scar. "Fine. Come on, Bex." Alex reached a hand out to her, and sent one final disapproving look at his mom, before guiding Becca along the corridor with their hands intertwined. "I promise, Bex, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna get you out of there." Becca laughed mirthlessly, waving as they passed Naomi. "Bye honey, I don't wanna see you in here for at least another 6 months, you hear me?" Becca smiled forcefully, before disappearing into the carpark, tucked under her older brother's arm. They got home, and Alex went straight to the kitchen, running a cold towel under the tap. "Here, hold that over it." Becca took a seat at the kitchen table, pointedly avoiding looking at the collection of beer bottles on the table. She watched as Alex soaked another cloth, before kneeling down and collecting the shattered glass from the floor. Binning it, he returned to the floor, grimacing as he started wiping the red splatters off of the tiles. He scrubbed furiously, until he let out a pained groan, and slumped onto the floor, leaning his back against the fridge. Becca ran to him, holding him as he cried, letting her own tears fall. "How many times am I going to have to clean your blood of the floor, Bex?" Becca felt a tear drip off the end of her nose, and ran a hand through Alex's hair. Just over 6 months ago, they'd been in almost this exact situation, only there had been a lot less blood and glass to clean up. "Can I sleep with you tonight?" Alex nodded at his little sister's request, finding her hand and squeezing it tight.

The next morning met the Mercer kids with a silent house, a clear sign that neither their mom or dad was home. Alex rolled over and looked at his little sister, fast asleep with the covers pulled up under her chin, her hair spread across his pillow. She looked so peaceful, the ugly black of her stitches covered by her hair, and it was almost possible to imagine her as any other 16 year old girl, about to wakeup and go to school as she should, to then come home, and go out for her first driving lesson. But of course, the reality was not quite like that. She woke up not long after him, and after accepting a much needed hug for 5 minutes, legged it to the bathroom, closely tailed by Alex, who held back her hair as she vomited for 20 minutes straight. Totally wiped out, she groaned, before feeling Alex pull her against his chest, holding her tightly and rocking her back and forth in his arms. "How you feeling?" Becca groaned in response, resting her head against her brother's shoulder. They were leaning against the bathroom wall, Becca sitting in between Alex's legs with her head on his shoulder, carefully avoiding her stitches. They sat in silence, staring at the wall with blank expressions. There was nothing to be said.

Alex stirred eventually, pushing Becca off him gently, and helping her to her feet. "You need to eat. Cmon, I'll make something." Becca nodded, and walked over to the sink to get her toothbrush. "I'll be down in a bit." Once Alex left, she turned the faucet off, and looked at herself in the mirror. She ran a finger over the jagged black stitches, and touched the skin around them, wincing. A nasty bruise was already forming around them, and she knew she was going to have a killer migraine for the next few days. Becca touched the scar above her eyebrow, only an inch or so below the new stitches, and smiled sadly. Another one to add to the collection. She dropped her hands to her sides, rolling up her hoodie sleeve. She ran her right hand over the small collection of white and purple marks on her left wrist, frowning. Skating accident didn't quite cover these ones. She pulled her sleeve back down, rubbing her arm. Once again meeting her own eyes in the mirror, she drew her shoulders back, and sniffed. She was going to be okay. She had to be.

The smell of burnt toast carried up the stairs, and Becca laughed as she walked into the kitchen, finding Alex standing over a stack of charred bread, a hopeless frown on his face. "Leave it. I'll just have cereal." Alex groaned and jumped onto the counter, swinging his legs as she got the milk from the fridge. He reached in to the top cupboard, and held his hand out toward's Becca, who glared at him, and shook her head. "No, Alex." He raised his eyebrows at her and jumped down, setting the orange bottle down next to the orange juice he'd left out for her. "Take them, I don't care what you've got to say. Just do as your told." His voice told her not to argue, and she groaned, but unscrewed the cap and swallowed back two pills, gagging, before sticking her tongue out at Alex. "You done torturing me for the day?" Alex rolled his eyes and ruffled her hair, pointing to the milk. "Eat. I'm going downstairs." He shoved his hands in his pockets and left the kitchen, stopping outside the door for a moment to make sure she was actually eating. Satisfied after hearing her grab a bowl, he continued on his way down the hall, opening the door to the basement and disappearing down the stairs. The basement had been Alex's sanctuary for years, his safe space, his only escape from his parents. When he came out, he'd basically moved in, only coming out at night to go to his room. They'd soundproofed it when he picked up the drums, turning it into a sort of studio, so that he could go mental without disturbing the entire neighbourhood. His anxiety had been okay recently- it had been months since he'd had an attack. As Becca and their dad started fighting more and more, he'd felt his chest getting tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Becca was the only thing keeping him going. He knew he couldn't break while she was still at home, he had to have his head screwed on straight so he could keep her safe. One more year, that's all she needed, and then she could get to college, and she'd be safe. Their dad was terrifying. But he was also the only person in the world that Alex would stand up to- because he'd do anything not to see his little sister get hurt.

Becca cracked open the door to the basement, and sighed as she heard Alex going at it, fill after fill after fill. She knew he was hurting, and she knew it hurt him to see her hurting. But there wasn't much either of them could do about it. They'd just have to stick it out for a little longer. She pushed the door shut with a click, and ran upstairs, settling down at her desk. She had multiple pieces of homework due by the end of the week, and an impromptu day off meant she'd have lots more to catch up on the next day. But the minute she opened her history textbook, and started to scan the page, her mind started reeling, and she had to clutch her head with her eyes closed in an effort for the dizziness to go away. "Well that's a no to that then." She sighed and closed her textbook, collapsing onto her bed instead. The house was silent, Alex's frantic drumming silenced by the soundproof walls in the basement. Becca fiddled with her fingers, looking around her walls. The usual urge to suddenly change and redecorate the entire room was more dull than it normally was, almost like it was blurry, not quite defined. Her mind was reeling, struggling to work out reality and her thoughts. She groaned and buried her face in her pillow. She almost preffered the constant talking in her head to this. This feeling of uncertainty, not being able to tell the real from the fake. She was going insane.

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softest-cinnamon-roll · 4 years

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reddie + 50 💕💕💕

50. There’s a statue of our school’s founder in the quad on campus and as a joke, I’ve been dressing them up in sweaters and dresses and you’re the journalist determined to find this prankster.

* * * * *

Eddie adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder as he walked onto Yale’s Campus after Winter Break. After spending two weeks with his mother, he couldn’t wait to get back into his regular routine and meet up with his friends. Eddie had forgotten just how much of a pain she was, and even though New Haven, Connetticut wasn’t that far from Derry, Maine it was still far enough for him.

“Eddie! You’re back!” The voice of his close friend Mike called from behind him. Eddie turned around just as MIke reached him, pulling him into a tight hug. “Happy New Year, did you have a nice Winter Break?” Mike’s smile was unusually large, which screamed to Eddie that something exciting had happened to Mike over the two weeks they were seperated.

He shrugged, stepping back as they both fell into step with one another, walking further into the campus. “It was alright, mom was her usual self and I spent most of it in my room, writing.” He cocked his head to the side. “What about you? You’re smiling very brightly right now, did something happen?”

Mike blushed and that basically confirmed it to Eddie, “Okay, fine. I keep forgetting that you have an eye for that kind of thing. Nothing gets past Eddie Kaspbrak.” He bit down on his lip. “So you know how I decided to stay on campus this year, as my parents were on that couples cruise?” Eddie nodded his head. “Well, Stan Uris, from my History class also stayed behind and we...got talking. We went on a few dates and uh, now we’re dating.”

“Mike, that’s amazing!” Eddie grinned, pulling his friend into another tight hug. Eddie knew Stan Uris, he was in his English Lit class and he was presentable, kind and very friendly. He was also friends with Yale’s resident ‘jokester’, Richie Tozier. Richie Tozier lived in the same dorm block as Eddie, and ever since they met had been nothing but a total flirt towards him. Yeah, he was hot, but Eddie really didn’t want to be another notch on his bedpost. “I’m so happy for you.”

They turned the corner into the main area of the campus, only to stop short as their eyes cast upon the statue of one of Yale’s Founders; Abraham Pierson. His statue was surrounded by students, which was the first weird thing since everyone avoided it, but it soon became clear why they were focusing now. The statue was wearing a dress, a pink frilly dress. Eddie blinked a few times, looking at all the students videoing the mess of their founders statue.

“Seriously? Is it just me or do you find this really disrespective?” Eddie asked Mike, feeling him nod next to him. Before he could say anything else about the matter, they were joined by Stan and none other than Richie Tozier. “Hi Stan, Richie. Good Winter Break?” Stan moved to Mike’s side immediately, while Richie inched closer to Eddie.

“I had a great time off, Eds. What about you?” Richie asked, raising an eyebrow at him and Eddie hated the way it made his stomach flutter. “What do you think of the statue? I mean you are the president of the university newspaper, I’m guessing you’re going to do your best to find the culprit?”

Eddie crossed his arms, “I’m guessing you had nothing to do with this? Considering you’re being so cool about it?” He asked and Richie broke into a wide smirk, moving closer to Eddie and he had to try his best not to blush.

“I’m not going to give away the game, Eds,” Richie whispered into his ear before pulling back and winking right at him. “You gotta put those journalist skills to good use and figure it out for yourself!” He took a step away from Eddie, that stupid smile still on his face until he turned his back to him and walked towards the student rec building.

Why did Richie make Eddie’s blood boil and at the same time want him to pull him into his arms and kiss him senseless? He let out a breath and reached into his bag, pulling out his notepad before walking through the crowd towards the statue. He looked around it, making notes of the type of dress that was used, as well as the fact that the tag was still on. It was clearly bought on the cheap, and the makeup used on the face on the statue was clearly borrowed. By the time he was done, Mike and Stan had gone and he packed up his evidence, heading inside to begin putting his story together.

A few weeks passed and every few days, Eddie would update the paper with new evidence in regards to the prankster who was violating the Founders Statue. The dress wasn’t just a one off, but in fact something that happened every night. Eddie tried to catch the culprit in the act, but they would change up their schedule so he was always too late by the time he arrived. However, Eddie was pretty confident that he knew who the perpetrator was.

Richie. It was Richie.

He figured it out the day he stopped by at Stan and Richie’s apartment to see Mike. Richie had red spray paint sitting on the counter as well as a feather boa and the following morning the statue was covered in red spray paint and adorning a feather boa on its head. Yet, Eddie wasn’t ready to expose him yet, as the whole running around each other was starting to be way too much fun.

“Eds, hey wait up!” Richie called out to him as he walked to his final class of the day. It was Friday and Eddie was looking forward to heading back to his dorm and getting into his pyjamas. He turned around, a rare smile on his face when he was chatting with Richie. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

That took Eddie by surprise and he raised his eyebrows, “Uh, I don’t have any plans...why?” He asked, holding his books closer to his chest. His heart was racing a little faster than it was a minute ago, and he was smiling just a little wider.

Richie ran a hand through his hair, a nervous smile on his face, something that Eddie had never seen in relation to Richie before. “I was wondering, and you have every right to say no, but would you want to maybe get dinner with me tonight?” He was looking down at the ground until he had finished the question and he looked up to meet Eddie’s eyes, hopeful.

“You want to take me out to dinner?” Eddie asked, tilting his head to the side as he stepped a little closer to Richie. He was hoping that it would make Richie a little less nervous and he smiled softly as Richie nodded his head. “Sure, pick me up at seven.”

The expression on Richie’s face changed from nervous to elated, “Really? You want to go out with me tonight? At seven?” He moved his hand down, brushing his fingers against Eddie’s softly. It took Eddie by surprise, as he had never seen Richie be so...careful around him before. It was cute and endearing if Eddie had to be honest. In fact, it only made Eddie want to kiss Richie all the more.

He smirked and nodded his head, stepping completely into Richie’s space and setting his hands on his shoulders. Richie was significantly taller than Eddie, therefore he had to push up on his toes so they were face to face. “You better not be late, Tozier.” He bit down on his lip before pulling out one of Richie’s moves, moving his lips to his ear. “Oh, and I know it was you vandalising the statue.”

Richie let out a squeaky sound, leaning back a little with worry in his eyes. “Are you-”

“Just don’t be late,” Eddie grinned, leaning up and pressing a kiss to Richie’s cheek before stepping back and walking towards his final class of the day.

His Friday was suddenly looking a little more exciting.

* * * * *

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#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #writing tag

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sher-soc-the-famder · 6 years

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MIRACULOUSLY THEIR OWN- CHAPTER 8

Not Every Card’s A Trump Part 7

Word count: 5904

Pairings: Romantic Royaltiy, Platonic LAMP

Warnings: Child abuse, Homophobia, Violence, Racism

Notes: I’m totally slaying at this being productive at writing thing lately, have yet another thing from me XD This chapter’s a dozy so feel free to come scream at me on the Discord that Milo set up! They also drew an awesome banner that y’all should also scream about! Art by @the-pastel-peach? yeah that’s relevant now

ANYWAYS huge thanks to @wisepuma23 for being best Alpha and @my-happy-little-bean for being best beta! Enjoy!

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The lobby stood silent. Roman just breathed for a long moment, glaring down at Ms. Trumpbull. Dillan's hand still touched his arm lightly, and it was only years of working with the man that kept Roman from shrugging it off in his anger. Lauren's hand covered her mouth, Kai on the other hand looked darkly satisfied about the outcome.

"Assault!" Trumpbull screeched, breaking the silence. "This is assault! How dare-!"

She took a step towards Roman, who bared his teeth, more than ready to accept her challenge to throw down. Dillan's hand on arm increased in pressure before Dillan moved to stand in front of him. Roman breathed deeply, staring at Dillan's dreadlocks rather than the accursed woman.

"Hey, hey, let's all calm down," Dillan suggested. Roman couldn't see it but he knew the mild smile that would be on Dillan's face. One that wouldn't quite reach the anger in his eye. "We wouldn't want the manager to get involved."

Kai snickered from Roman's left. "Oh, please. Let's get that bastard involved with the bitch. You could sell tickets for the ensuing cat fight."

Lauren elbowed him in the side. Roman felt some of the anger and stress flow off of his shoulders at the familiar banter. No matter what came of this, his theater crew- apologies Kai- Pirate Crew would have his back. Kai smirked at Roman, and Roman felt his lips twitch into a real smile at the action.

"No!" Trumpbull shouted. "Let's do get the manager involved! I demand to speak with the imbecile in charge of a circus like this!” She pulled herself up to her full height and her arms clawed through the air, not so different from the dragon he had compared her to once. “How dare you speak to me like that, boy! How disrespectful! Who’s in charge of this place? I demand to speak with him!"

Roman could see the tension along Dillan's back at her words. His blood boiled, and it took all he had not to snap back at the woman. He could get away with so much more than Dillan and Roman knew that. He had already taken advantage of that already. Violence now could get Dillan in trouble. That and Rebecca's arm ghosting over his right arm as she entered the scene held him back.

"Dillan," Rebecca said softly, "Larry wants to know why he's missing half his cast with only fifteen minutes until opening curtains."

Dillan didn't look away from Trumpbull. He swept his hands out in a 'look here' gesture.

"Well we have a rather rowdy audience member," he said in the same smooth tone. "She wants to see the manager of 'this circus' is how she put it?"

"Ah," Rebecca said. Her shoulders straightened as she turned to face Trumpbull. “I am a manager. What can I do for you tonight?”

“You?” Trumpbull screeched. Her eyes racked down Rebecca, catching on her hijab. Roman’s eyes flickered between the two women. “You’re a manager? No wonder this trash heap is falling apart if someone like you is in charge.”

Rebecca quirked an eyebrow up and Roman heard Dillan whisper from next to him, "Oh shit. Don't forget to leave something to bury 'Becca."

"Not the manager I was thinking of, but tear her to fucking pieces Rebecca!" Kai shouted, crossing his arm. Lauren hissed something at him; Roman couldn't catch it through his pounding heartbeat. Dillan reach down to grip his wrist and Roman almost wanted to cry.

He hadn't meant for this to happen. He should have been able to control himself. It had been years since he lashed out at anyone, and god, Patton was going to be so disappointed in him. They were never going to let them see Logan again. Any progress they made was chucked right into the bin because Roman couldn't hold his emotions back for a full stupid thirty seconds.

"I have to ask you to refer to this work space and the employees that work here with respect ma'am," Rebecca's calm voice cut through his thoughts. Her eyes flickered over to him for a moment before returning to Trumpbull, "We accept people of all walks of life here, being a community theater. I am more than happy to speak to you about your complaints, but if you continue to yell I will have to ask you to leave the premise."

Rebecca paused, a shark scenting blood in the water. "There are children present after all."

Trumpbull's heavy breathing echoed through their lobby. One brave man inched past her with a look of contempt as he went to his seat. Her hands opened and closed into fists and Roman tensed up again. If she attacked Rebecca then he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions.

Rebecca, on the other hand, looked unruffled by the threatening actions. She stood her ground, waiting for Trumpbull to speak.

"Your employee–” Ms. Trumpbell shot a sharp glare at Roman– “assaulted me. I demand that he be dismissed on the spot for this transgression!" Roman thought he could hear her teeth grind from the way Trumpbull growled out her words. She pointed at him and he stiffened.

"He attacked me out of nowhere, and having such a violent individual on the premise has to be a danger to your customers!"

Rebecca nodded, and Roman's heart sank.

"You have a point," Rebecca said steadily. "And we do have procedure for dangerous individuals." She turned, winked at Roman and then addressed-

"Kai, could you, perhaps, tell me what happened here?"

"Excuse me-!" Trumpbull's screeched, and Rebecca turned back to look at her with a hard stare. Trumpbull's jaw clenched in frustration but her volume dropped. "Are you saying that my word isn't good enough for you?"

Rebecca waved her hand in a soothing motion.

"I am simply getting the full story," she said, her eyes glittering with something fierce and steady. Roman had seen that look directed at him once. He tried not to let it ever happen again. "We wouldn't want there to be a misunderstanding, would we?"

Trumpbull whole body shook, and it took everything Roman had not to step in front of Rebecca. He trusted that she could take care of herself, but he was never quite satisfied with that. Not when Rebecca and Dillan tended to walk home together for safety, and not when Trumpbull looked ready to throttle someone.

“No,” Trumpbull gritted out. “No, we wouldn’t.”

Rebecca nodded sharply and turned back to Kai. He looked over the scene with lidded eyes, a cat having found the perfect moment to pounce.

“I have no fucking clue what the bitch is going on about,” Kai said lazily. “All I saw Roman do was make a bomb-ass kid’s night with Lauren’s makeup.”

“I would say it was more than the makeup,” Lauren said with a grin. She nudged his side before threading her fingers through his. Roman stared at the two of them, confused, but heart fit for bursting anyways. “Just because you refuse to acknowledge their acting doesn’t mean it’s not here.”

“So you didn’t see anything?” Rebecca pressed.

“Will it get you off my ass if I say I did?” Kai asked dryly. Rebecca shot him a hard look before turning to Dillan, who leaned into Roman’s side. Fuck, what did he do to deserve friends like these? Dillan clearly didn’t need any more prompting from Rebecca, opening his mouth right away.

“I came in later, but all I know is that Ro’ was upset. He’s a chill gay- I mean guy, you know that ‘Becca. Anything that can get him riled up isn’t good in my books.” He waved his free hand, face incredible steady for what Roman knew was a bald faced lie. Roman got worked up over everything and everyone. “I just wanted to defuse the situation because high emotions can lead to bad acting.”

Rebecca stared at them all for a long moment, and Roman could have sworn that her lips twitched upwards before settling back into her smooth unworried expression. She turned back to Trumpbull.

“Unless you can find someone to collaborate on your story, ma’am, I am inclined to believe that you are making things up in order to harass one of our employees,” Rebecca said, hands folded in front of her. “Which, I should point out, is grounds for us to remove you from the premises.”

Trumpbull gapped at them, mouth opening and closing as her face turned back to an angry red. She pointed at Kai with a shaking finger, then Dillan, then Roman, and then back to Kai. Roman wondered if her head was literally going to explode.

“You’re all lying!” She shouted, eyes wild. “Slander! They want to slander me with these lies! It’s all a conspiracy! You just want- want to attack me because you think that he-” She jabbed her finger at Roman again- “is an actual decent person! He’s a monster! A- a- a-”

She cast her eyes about, skittering away from their stone cold faces. Roman fought against the urge to bite his lips. The Crew would support him no matter what, but he didn’t know about the audience. They could fall either way.

Then, very quietly, from his side, the mother of the boy he had been talking too spoke up.

“Excuse me? Ms, uh, manager, ma’am?” The woman stiffened as all eyes turned on her, but she threw back her shoulders. “He was only talking to us when she came up to harass him. I didn’t see anything… untoward happen to her, only to him.”

Rebecca smiled at the woman, as an agreement rippled through the remaining crowd. Roman’s chest ached as he caught sight of the mother’s gentle smile, and he looked away before he did something embarrassing like burst into tears then and there. He didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t this.

“Then that it is all I need to know,” Rebecca said gently. She turned to frown at Trumpbull, steel in her eyes. “We don’t welcome people like you here. Please vacate the premises before we are forced to take drastic actions, such as calling the police.”

Trumpbull stared at them all. Roman’s shoulders crept upwards the longer that Rebecca stared her down and the matron didn’t move. Trumpbull sent him one last nasty glare, her black eye just starting to turn purple before turning on her heels and storming out of the building.

“Please let the door hit your ass on the way out!” Kai shouted after her, and Lauren snickered. Dillan’s hand slipped down to grip Roman’s. Roman could see Patton hurrying towards them through the crowd, worry clear on his face. Rebecca tsked under her breath.

“Such an unpleasant woman. I hope there isn’t anyone like that at Daliah’s new school.”

“Yeah, let’s hope so,” Roman agreed through his tight throat. Rebecca grinned at him, fleeting and bright before clapping her hands together.

“Five minutes to curtains, let’s get a move on actors!”

Patton threw himself into Roman’s arms. Roman pulled him tight against his chest. He buried his face in Patton's hair, taking comfort in the familiar scent and feel. He would have loved to stand there with Patton forever, but it was almost curtains.

“I have something to tell you,” Patton said quickly as Roman pulled back. He hesitated.

“Later,” he said, gesturing to the stage. “I have to-”

Patton squeezed his hands. Bright eyes searched his own. Patton gave him the sweetest smile before nodding.

“Later then.”

Logan tried to enjoy the more relaxed atmosphere that was around the group home that night. Trumpbull had gone to do something on her day off and the relief of the other children was an almost physical thing. Logan wanted to enjoy it like they did. He wanted to read his book in true peace while he had the chance.

Only his peace had been shattered and Logan wanted nothing more than to scream. Scream or cry, he wasn't sure quite yet. He wouldn't. He refused. He wasn't going to let anyone, let alone an adult, control his heart. He struggled to keep his attention on the book in front of him, shoving thoughts of Pat- adults away.

His eyes scanned over the words, not quite processing them. He stared at the picture of a family before shaking his head violently. He slammed the book shut, glaring at the far wall. Shrieks and shouts from the other room drifted through his open window. He didn’t need a family. He didn’t need anyone.

Logan stood up stiffly, and shoved the book back onto the shelf. He winced at the soft thunk and ran a finger over the spine in quiet apology. It wasn’t the book’s fault. He probably shouldn’t have been reading a fantasy based plot anyways. Tuck Everlasting was nice, but wouldn’t help him in the future. He needed to set aside fiction to be the best he could be.

Logan would need it to get out of here as soon as he could.

He swayed towards the wind that blew through the window. His eyes drifted to the flag that he knew marked the local school. Only a month and a half until he could return to the only place that felt marginally safe in his life. He would impress whatever new teachers he had and maybe, just maybe he would be able to get them to move him up another grade.

Logan leaned against the windowsill. He tried not to put too much weight on his cut arms. They had only just reached the point he didn’t need to bandage them anymore, and he would rather not have to come up with an excuse for more. The stock that he kept stashed in the back of his closet was starting to run a little low. Logan made a mental note to make his way to the nurse to swipe a few more when he had the chance. It was better to be prepared than to be caught off guard and have to come up with an excuse as to what had happened.

He closed his eyes and let the breeze ruffle his hair. His shoulders felt tight enough to snap, but Logan was determined to at least enjoy the last of the time without Trumpbull before she came back. He needed to center himself, to be ready for whatever came next.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, raising as a heavy weight settled on his chest. Logan opened his eyes, and he blinked, looking around for the source of his discomfort. His eyes landed on the subject of his thoughts, Trumpbull, glaring at the window he was in before storming into the group home.

The hair on his arms joined his neck in standing up straight. Logan shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest. He took a shuddering breath, hoping that she wouldn’t come up to find him. It wasn’t likely; it was foolish to expect anything else, but Logan wasn’t ready. He frantically wracked his brain, searching for what he could have done to set her off.

He had time to hide. The thought was a selfish dangerous one. She could end up even angrier at him for avoiding her. She could take her anger out on a different child who would turn the rest of the home against him. She could find him and punish him for avoiding what he had done to avoid discipline.

The closet taunted him.

Logan whimpered, biting down on his lips. So much for ignoring his feelings. He could feel the pounding of his heart beat against his chest, the way that his hands twisted in his sleeves to keep from shaking. He didn’t know what he had done wrong.

He didn’t know.

Logan hated not knowing. Power was knowledge, and power kept him safe. Knowledge and learning kept him safe. If he knew her habits, he could avoid the worst of her. If he knew what set her off, he could brace himself every time he broke one of her rules. If he knew, then he could act.

Logan felt his shaking increase. He hadn’t spoken back to her. He hadn’t sasses another matron, hadn’t been with anyone so he couldn’t have failed to live up to her expectations. His nails dug into his arm. He had done his chores. He had kept curfew and had put all books away at the time she had wanted him too. He had followed all her rules to the letter.

The shouts from the room over fell silent. Logan could hear the footsteps approaching his room. He backed up, shoulder slamming against the open window. He flinched and scrambled to close it. His fingers fumbled at the latch, his brain screaming at him that he was taking too long, he was taking too long, he was taking too long-

The window fell shut with a click. The door knob rattled. Logan struggled to swallow, his heart pounding in his ears.

The door slammed against the wall; the only noise along the entire hall. It echoed in Logan’s ears as his eyes zeroed in on Trumpbull. He couldn’t feel his fingers twisted in his sleeves. He could see the way her chest heaved. He bit his lip. He traced the way her hands flexed.

He couldn’t breathe.

Logan waited for the usual mocking words, the ones that would let him know what he had done wrong. He would be able to go from there. He braced himself, digging his nails into his arms until the cuts hidden there stung. His eyes caught on the bruise that bloomed blue and purple across her cheek into her eye.

He only had a moment to wonder what had happened before his head snapped to the side.

Logan could feel the heat bloom on his cheek from the slap. His hand flew to the spot in surprise as he stared at Trumpbull with wide eyes. Her face twisted, her eyes glittered with anger, and Logan’s feet tingled with nerves. She hadn’t said anything.

She had never hurt him without telling him why first.

Trumpbull wanted to feel like she could teach him to be better. She never shut up about how it was for his own good. Logan had taken comfort in the fact he could predict her most days because of how much she ran her mouth. He had thought silence would be a good thing. He would have thought it meant he hadn’t done anything wrong.

Terror crept into his chest and made its home there. He couldn’t stop his shoulders from trembling. He tried to shuffle a step back to give himself time to put his scattering thoughts together. His heel bumped against the bed frame. The bed rattled, just enough to draw attention, and Logan closed his eyes in horrified resignation.

The taunts he expected didn’t arise. Her hand snapped out, wrapping around the hand still cradling his face. She wrenched it away and Logan tripped over himself as she dragged him towards the door. He twisted in her grip. His skin pinched at the action, and Logan felt tears gather at the edges of his eyes. He couldn’t fight her, not really, but it gave him a false comfort to try.

He hiccuped, trying to hold his sobs back. Trumpbull shot him a glare. Logan brought his free hand up to try and muffle the sounds he was making. He hoped that one of the other matrons came to check on him. They never had before – not when he had proven to be perfectly independent on his own – but the terror making itself known in his chest cried for the opposite.

Her nails dug into his wrist. Their footsteps echoed in the halls. Logan thought he caught sight of some of the other kids scrambling to get out of sight. One almost met his eyes before slamming the door shut. Logan wanted to blame them. But he would have done the same in their place.

He squeezed his eyes shut as Trumpbull dragged him towards the basement. She yanked at his arm. He yelped at the pain, eyes snapping back open as he tried to keep from falling over.

Logan stared at the door to the basement, biting back sobs as she hurled it open. The doorknob hit the wall with a deafening rattle. Logan shrunk back. He didn’t know what he had done wrong. He didn’t know what to expect.

She yanked on his arm again, pulling him towards the gaping darkness. He tripped over his feet trying to follow the path she wanted. He reached out with his free hand for the rail.

Later, much later, Logan would guess that Trumpbull simply wanted him to hurry up. At least, that’s what he would always want to believe. That she hadn’t thought about what her action could cause. Even in his worst times, he didn’t want to contemplate the worst of that moment.

Trumpbull let go of his wrist. Logan took a single step down the stairs. A large hand pressed against his back and shoved.

The world spun on an axis; Logan had read that in a book, had learned that in a science class. He couldn’t keep track of which way it spun anymore as his fell. His heart leapt as his hands snapped out in an attempt to catch himself. He felt something crack as his right wrist hit the first stair. The air knocked out of his lungs from the pain, leaving him unable to scream.

His feet flew over his head. His hand flew out, scraping against the wall as he tried to grab the rail. Fire bloomed along his fingertips. Distantly, he saw the flecks of blood he left behind.

A crack rung through his head. The world exploded into the stars. Logan curled into himself. His good arm coming up to protect his head as he rag-dolled down the rest of the stairs. His stomach twisted, and Logan had to fight down the urge to throw up as he slammed against the door at the bottom of the stairs.

His shoulders shook, and the smallest motion sent sparks up his arm and head. He sobbed, curling even more, until he was the smallest ball he could manage. He cradled one hand to his chest while the other covered his head. Blood dripped down his temple and Logan tasted tears on his lips.

Trumpbull’s calm steps down the stairs echoed in his head, doubling and tripling like his sight. He watched her descend with growing horror. The fire in her eye hadn’t dampened in the slightest. That, at least, he knew. She wasn’t done yet.

He couldn’t force himself to move.

“You could have killed me,” he whispered, the sound almost non-existent, a simple movement of his lips. “I could have died.”

Trumpbull leaned over him. The door to the basement unlocked with a soft click. Everything in Logan screamed as she stepped over him, calm as her normal days. He thought that he had seen the worst of her. He had thought that he would finally escape, that Patton and Roman would take him away.

Her hands reached down for him, and Logan tried to stop thinking at all.

It was warm. The summer stars shone overhead and Logan traced constellations against the window. A paradox of something that felt completely natural to do, almost mindless, and something that he needed to think about in order to make sure he got them right. Hercules, Libra, Big Dipper, Little Dipper.

He hissed as his left arm jostled his right. Pain radiated along the length of his arm and he curled into a tighter ball in an attempt to alleviate it. It wasn’t rational. It wouldn’t actually help. It was simply his body trying to protect his most vulnerable parts. The way his ribs ached with every breath declared that it had already failed at that.

He breathed, shallow and pained, squeezing his eyes shut until he could gather the energy to peel them back open. His hand shook as he turned back to tracing the constellations. If he wasn’t thinking about the way his arm had cracked against the wall when-

His breath shuddered. Logan glanced away from the window. He tugged his legs up to his chest carefully, biting down on his tongue as his ankle protested the movement. The crackling of his dried blood sounded all too loud in the silent entrance. But he could prop his right arm up against his legs, allowing his shoulders to finally relax.

Even if relax was a bit of a… hyperbole.

For all that Logan tried to occupy his mind, he still flinched at every noise. The crickets outside refused to fade to white noise. The wood of the group home groaned with the changing temperature. His ears strained as he thought he heard someone shuffling in their bed. His fingers on the window pressed down hard enough to turn white.

The cuts from the closet caught the moon light and Logan jerked his hand back. A sob caught in his throat. He brought his good hand up to scrub at his face. He winced as the action pulled at his black eye.

Logan didn't know why. Trumpbull always had a reason, but he couldn’t find it. He couldn’t figure out why, after being so careful, she would hurt him so obviously. His ears rang, and bile clawed at his throat. His thoughts had scattered from the moment she had thrown him down the stairs and it had only gotten worse after-

He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the thought before it could fully form. He already knew that shaking his head was a bad idea. Logan wondered if he should have read more about head injuries.

More tears welled in his eyes and he scrubbed even hard despite the pain. Tears only brought more pain. Logan’s breath stuttered in his chest, his ribs screaming in protest at the action. He shouldn’t cry. Crying only made things worse.

He pressed his hand against his face, struggling for control.

A single thought crept through his mind and Logan shied away from it on principle. Maybe Trumpbull was right. He bit down on his lip, shoulders shaking even more. He hated the very idea of agreeing with her. She was a monster, inhuman, an alien, anything that lacked compassion and empathy.

-- But where had compassion and empathy gotten him?

Anger flooded his chest, washing away his pain for a glorious moment. It wasn’t fair. He tried and tried and tried. If he was too smart, they hated him. If he was too dumb, they hated him. Too loud, too quiet, too unnerving, too normal. No matter what he did the world hated him. Well he was done.

They wouldn’t make him play their games anymore.

Not when it was such a stupid one.

Logan’s hand dug into his chest. He didn’t want to feel anymore. Caring only got him hurt. Anger was useless when he couldn’t stand against the people who made him feel that way. Dreams were only his brain compressing memories from the day. Love only set him up for failure. There was no rational reason to keep hoping. To keep extending his pain the way he had all this time.

The wood of the home creaked above him, and his anger fled. His shoulders slumped and he leaned his head back against the window frame. He closed his eyes and could imagine the gulf that he stood over. No one would catch him if he fell.

Fine then. He’d been catching himself this long.

He tipped over, letting his heart disappear into the void below. He wouldn’t need it anymore. From now on, Logan would focus on what was logical; on what made sense and could be predicted. He’d protect himself by getting rid of the reason he needed to be protected at all.

A door opened, squeaking with unoiled hinges. Logan's head snapped up, eyes scanning the hall for whoever would be approaching him. Trumpbull had never come back after her "discipline" but then again, she had always said something and she hadn't. It was reasonable to assume that with so many of her other habits, her own little rules broken, that she would break even more.

Or it could be one of the other children.

There was always one on the Bad Days.

Logan's shoulders relaxed at the small footsteps, not heavy enough to be an adult. Which meant that he was safer -- not safe, never safe, but at least in no danger of getting hurt more -- until the morning. They only came to check on him once Trumpbull's snore started to echo down the halls.

Logan turned to stare out the window, trying to come up with what he would tell them this time. The world had shattered beneath his feet. What could he possibly tell them to explain how different things were? Seeing was believing but Logan didn't think that they'd believe him even with the blood caked along his neck and temple.

He'd always been the exception after all. The one that made Trumpbull's blood boil over no matter what he did. He was never going to be enough-

Logan shoved the thought and the feelings that came with it back down. He wasn't going to feel anything any more. It didn't matter. He needed to focus on the coming days.

A small head peered around the corner.

"Logan?" Emmet whispered. He inched closer and Logan watched him dully. Emmet shuffled his feet, eyes glued more on the door than Logan himself.

"You wouldn't make it far," Logan said dully, thinking about his own wish to run away. They were too young to not attract attention. Nine and eight. Someone would notice; someone would call the police for their reputation if nothing else.

"O-oh," Emmet startled, eyes glancing wildly around the dark, "I was just- I mean, you know that-" Emmet drew up short and stared at him with wide eyes. His freckles stood out on his pale face. His whisper dropped to more of just his lips moving. "Are you alright?"

Logan shrugged his shoulder, biting back a whimper as it moved his right arm. Emmet flinched at the noise, wringing his hands together.

"Ri- Right, stupid question, uh, right, stay there, I'll just-" Emmet spun on his heels and ran back into the hallways. Logan watched him go, blinking slowly. Because of course not even the other children could behave the way he expected them to. He had just about figured out what to say too.

He leaned his head back again, listening to the flutter of a bird outside.

Whispers echoed down the hall, overlapping the pattering of feet. Logan sighed. They would have been quieter coming in one by one. He wondered if they were even bothering to avoid the louder floorboards. Not that it mattered with the noise they were making already. If they were lucky, the matrons were as exhausted as they normally were and would sleep through it all.

Emmet's head reappeared, and he gestured at whoever was behind him before hurrying over to Logan. He hopped over the one floorboard that they all knew creaked too loud, landing lightly on his feet before stopping in front of Logan. He chewed on his lip; Logan stared at him dully before turning to the other.

Amelia caught his attention immediately, whispering to one of the younger girls and adjusting the box she carried. Half a dozen kids spilled into the entrance and a familiar voice broke the near silence. Logan blinked.

"So bookworm," Edgar snapped, stalking closer to him, "What's this about you finally getting the Bull to snap?"

"Does it count as snapping if she's been on the edge for years?" Logan murmured, and blinked again at the silence that reigned. Logan glanced up as something flit through Edgar's eyes. Edgar sighed heavily, scrubbing at his hair.

"Oh fuck you," Edgar said, flopping down to sit next to Logan. Close enough that Logan could feel his body heat but not quite touching. "I don't know why I bother with shit- don't look at me like that Sarah, a few curse words aren't gonna hurt the younger ones more than the Bull would."

A couple of the kids giggled. Edgar cut a glance at Logan, who stared back at him. Edgar sighed and Logan wondered why he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck bookworm, at least tell me that you learned something useful while being beat to all hell and back."

"No," Logan replied.

Everyone froze. Edgar's teeth grit almost audibly. Logan idly hoped that his teeth would crack from the force of it before reminding himself that hope went nowhere. Statistically though, grinding teeth ended in damage, and Logan let his mind drift in that direction. Someone snapped their fingers near his face and Logan jerked back.

"Hey Ed, I don't know if now's the best time-" Amelia started to say. Logan's eyes drifted from Edgar's hand to Amelia's face. She clutched the box in her hand tightly, knuckles an almost glowing white in the dark.

"If we don't talk to him now, he won't remember anything in the morning," Edgar snapped. "He may not have the sense to stay on the Bull's good side, but I'm not going to be the reason more kids end up like him!"

"You might not have a choice," Logan whispered. Edgar's head whipped in his direction.

"What did you just say?" Edgar demanded.

Logan's body trembled, and he tried to will it to stop. His control slipped from his fingers, his attempts to not think about what had happened falling through his barricades like sand. The whispers of the other kids sounded too distant and unreal. They didn't understand. They couldn't understand.

Their reality was about to get so much worse.

"I said," Logan croaked out, "you might not have a choice."

"Bullshit," Edgar snapped. Logan leaned back as Edgar leaned in even closer. Edgar's eyes looked him over, slowly almost like he cared which Logan knew was a lie. He was like a book to Edgar. Useful for his knowledge and nothing more. Edgar scrubbed at his face again. "Let's just get this over with, bookworm. The faster you talk, the faster the others can feel good about themselves by wrapping you up like a mummy."

"There isn't anything to say," Logan said simply, and plowed forward when Edgar opened his mouth again. "She certainly didn't say anything." His trembling worsened. "She didn't say anything. I don't know- I don't- I didn't do anything-"

He sucked in a sharp breath and ignored the clattering of Amelia's box falling to the ground. He shoved his emotions back into a small box. He could control himself. He chucked the box at a metaphorical wall and let his voice fall back into a near monotone.

"She's not following her own rules." Edgar's eyes pierced through the dark, intent and determined at Logan’s words. "It's like she's so mad that she just doesn't care anymore. There- There's no more cheats or shortcuts. She doesn't- doesn't care."

Logan's good hand snapped out to grip Edgar's arm, willing the older boy to understand.

"There are no rules anymore."

Tag list:

@notveryglittery @milomeepit @ab-artist @i-read-by-lamp @honeythanvinegar @confinesofpersonalknowledge @bangthekobrakid @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl @unknownsandersfan @quietwords-loudthoughts @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @beach-fan @mirandatheangel @yourhappypappypatton @fandoms-winkitywonk @1totally-not-an-alien1 @nerd-in-space @sunshine-in-a-petal @selfdestructivecoward @probably-to-many-cheesesticks @lizziepopanime @darkle-elkrad @thatvexingvexen @the-kiwi-ghost @sanderstalker @himrachel @creepyfloof @tmntmlpandtfa @your-average-outcast @karmels-stuff @many-muses-many-loves @unknownpuppet @midnighttalex12 @idkaurl

#Sanders sides #Adoption AU #Logan Sanders #Royality #MTO #Roman Sanders #Patton Sanders #Child Abuse #Violence #Homophobia #Racism #Trumbpull being Trumpbull #Women being awesome #Frisk I love Rachel so much #Please don't kill me for this #I feed of tears that's all #miraculously their own

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mousedetective · 7 years

Text

She’ll Always Be Loved (An “A Little Holmes” Story)

So this is both a belated present for @iloveforensics and one of the Sherlolly claimed fics (D1) for @mollyhooperish. It’s a little angsty and there’s mention of past Sherlock/Irene but for anyone familiar with this series it’s to be expected since Sherlock’s oldest daughter is also Irene’s daughter. But it’s a relatively sweet fic overall, so I hope you enjoy it.

She’ll Always Be Loved - Molly and Mary encounter quite the adorable sight in Baker Street, and once Mary leaves Sherlock and Molly have a heart to heart about the state of their family.

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper

Characters: Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes, Original Adler-Holmes Child(ren)

Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Sherlock is a Good Parent. Literal Sleeping Together, Napping, sleeping children, Parenting Discussions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sherlock Makes A Good Pillow, Step-parents, Being Called Mum, Never Forget Irene, Dead People, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Past Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes

Read @ AO3 | Send Me A Prompt? | Buy Me A Coffee?

“...and that was how the twins ended up with the adorable portraits. Victoria said she couldn’t believe her son had proper pictures of Abigail but not them.”

Mary laughed as the two made their way up to the sitting room, but what she was about to say died on her lips as the two women stared in amazement at the elaborate structure that took up both chairs and the sofa. “Now that looks like that took all day,” she said.

“I bet it did,” Molly said with a smile. “The case must have been a one or a two.”

“Actually, Sally had it solved before Lestrade even finished asking for our help,” Sherlock said, his voice coming from somewhere within the blanket fort that stood in front of the two women. “It will be quite the pity if she isn’t promoted soon. I mean, the imbecile was in the process of divorcing his wife when she got pregnant, which meant that they were legally separated.”

“Yes, dear, we all know you like Sally but despise Phillip,” Molly said, shaking her head. She set down her bags and studied the structure. “Is John in there with you?”

“No, just the children,” he said. “John had an emergency call from the surgery about a patient with pneumonia who had to be hospitalized. He said when you brought Mary around we were to have her for tea and he’d be back as soon as he could.”

“It’s all right,” Mary said. “I have some surprises for the nursery I’d like to put in place before he gets home. You’ve kept him too busy to help me decorate so Molly and I took it upon ourselves to do that today.”

“Boy or girl?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ll let John tell you. Or maybe Molly when she can keep your mobile out of your constantly texting fingers.” She leaned over and gave Molly an awkward fun. “You should keep that up a few days. Have some fun in it.”

“We’ll see,” Molly said with a chuckle. She watched Mary turn and head back the way they’d come, then went to the opening to the blanket fort. “Is there a secret password?”

“How much do you love me?’ Sherlock asked, popping his head out to look up at her.

She squatted down. “As much as you love me, which isn’t quantifiable because it’s too much to hold in any one container.”

“I’ll have to remember that answer,” he said with a grin before opening up the flap to let her in. She crawled in and saw he had strung up some of the white Christmas lights they had all around, and also brought in the smalls radio and set it softly play classical music. She hadn’t even heard it when she had come in. Abigail, James and Rebecca were all on the carpet, sound asleep. “It’s been peaceful for nearly an hour.”

“How on earth did you manage?” she asked as he pulled her against him.

“Dry chocolatey cereal for Abigail to snack on and warm bottles for the twins until they were sated and sleepy, then violin concertos and back rubs, alternating between children every few minutes,” he said.

“I suppose I should give you high marks towards the Father of the Year award?” she teased.

“A kiss would be just as nice,” he replied.

“I can definitely do that,” she said, turning and kissing him softly. He let his fingers run through her hair as he kissed her back. Intimacy had not been lacking since the birth of the twins, she knew, though it was different now. It wasn’t as though there was a lack of confidence; she knew when Irene had returned before her death she had looked stunning and he hadn’t given her a second look, and here she was after carrying twins and Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop touching her. But there’s seemed to be more of a sweetness to their intimacy now, in that he seemed to treasure her in a way he hadn’t before. One day she might ask him about it, but for now she would simply enjoy it.

Their kissing was interrupted by a whimper that she knew was coming from Abigail and she pulled away, hanging her head with a smile on her face next to Sherlock’s head. “Oh, you jinxed it, you know that, right?”

“Who says I jinxed it?” he said, leaning back to pick up Abigail and then bring her to them. “You missed Molly and Daddy, didn’t you?”

Abigail nodded, and then yawned sleepily, curling into her father. “Mum nap.”

“I think she wants us to join her,” Molly said, smiling as she ran a knuckle down Abigail’s cheek.

“Perhaps that might not be a bad idea,” Sherlock said. “Should we nap with you too?” Abigail nodded, and Sherlock carefully laid down with Abigail next to him. Molly scooted over to the twins, scooping herself around James, looking over at Sherlock and reaching over for his hand across their children. “Molly?” he asked.

“Yes?” she answered.

He played with her fingers for a moment. “Do you think you would ever feel comfortable with me referring to you as Mummy in front of Abigail? I know I will in front of the twins, but…she really, truly is your daughter. Even Irene knew that, in many respects, she was more your daughter than she was hers.”

Molly was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps. I know I don’t stop her from calling me Mum. I just...I was worried you would feel it was disrespecting to Irene.”

“She can have two mothers,” Sherlock said. “The one who gave her life to save her, and the one who chose to be here to raise her. And I’ll make sure she knows that Irene had good qualities, before the world tells her she was a bad woman. She’ll know Irene loved her. And I know you’ll make sure Abigail knows you love her too.”

“Then I can live with it,” Molly said, her smile widening a bit as she squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Then she let go and ruffled Abigail’s hair. “I promise, she’ll always know she’s loved.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, giving her a grin of his own, and she was glad that they had had this talk. They should have had it long ago, but now it was out and talked about and she felt they could all live with it. She’d be the mum who chose Abigail, and chose her father too, and loved them with all her heart.

#Sherlock #sherlolly #sherlock holmes #Molly Hooper #mary morstan #my stuff #fanfiction #fanfic #my au: a little holmes #christmas gift #iloveforensics #mollyhooperish #mollock #queuel beans

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tcfuselier · 7 years

Text

Someone Else's Problem

Life is fickle and meaningless. Sounds morbid, yeah? Well, that’s because it is. The universe is 92.8 billion light years in diameter, and you don’t matter. Multiply your biggest dreams and most horrifying fears tenfold and they don’t even register as a drop in the cosmic ocean. My wife just left me. She’s keeping the kids. I still don’t matter, not to her or this Goddamn universe. These Baltimore roads are too bumpy and winding. They should’ve had smarter people design them all those years ago. I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t stand the sight of the wretched woman anymore. If I had stayed I probably would’ve killed her. You probably took that for hyperbole, but no. I would’ve killed her. I had to leave. The streets are decorated with ignorant people living happy lives. They don’t understand they're meaninglessness. Not like I do, at least. The pub is in sight now. I figure I might as well get hammered before I do it. No sense in being sober, that’s what I always say. O’Henry’s isn’t anything special. Four brick walls, a green roof and door, and a green neon sign that reads the pub’s name greet me as I park my café racer outside. The door is heavy but I’ve opened it many, many times before. It doesn’t slow me down. The room is warm and humid. Cigarette smoke and sexual tension cloud the space and make it difficult to take in. A full-length bar lines the left side of the room while tables and booths fill the space to the right. Waiters and waitresses scurry to and fro, doing their best to please the sad, lonely people so that they might receive the last of their drug money as a tip. A tall, muscular man stands behind the bar. He sports facial stubble and sharp features. I’ve always envied him. He’s what women would call “classically attractive.” That’s Peter Goodman, the bartender. As I approach the bar, his face lights up. “Hey Freddy, what can I do you for?” he says in his Bostonian accent as I take a seat next to a bearded man in glasses. He smelled of wine and cheap perfume. “Well, Rebecca is leaving me, so whatever will get me really drunk really fast.” “Jesus, Fred, what the hell happened?” “Jesus? He's got nothing to do with this, I promise you. She didn't like my habits,” I said, eyeing my rum and coke. “Well okay then, don't you think drinking these problems away seems counterproductive?” “Peter, shut the hell up. I don't need life coaching from a bar monkey. I'll let you know when I do.” I hopped off the rickety barstool and headed for one of the two-person tables across on the right side of the bar. I sat down with my head hanging solemnly, my fingers tracing the grain of the wooden table. Behind me I heard two men arguing over their card game. In front of me, two young lovers held hands. Disgusting. I had half a mind to go off on them; tell them it wouldn’t last. Eh, it’s not my place. They’ll figure it out eventually. Finally, after twenty minutes of waiting, the waitress arrived. Boy, did she arrive. Approximately 5’3, maybe 130 pounds, brunette, nice figure and stunning features. “Hi, my name is Victoria. Is there anything I can help you with?” I was stunned. I could barely croak out an, “I’ll have a rum and coke.” She smiled and walked past, the scent of autumn and warm berries trailing behind her. She must be new. This is my usual bar and I’ve never seen her before. I would’ve noticed her. I promise I would’ve noticed her. Moments that seemed like eons pass and Victoria comes bouncing back, my liquor in hand. “Thank you.” I manage as she bounces away as quickly as she came. Suddenly thoughts of my wife subside, what a wretched witch, and are replaced by sweet, young Ms. Victoria. I have to find out more about her. She has to be mine. She will be mine. Days pass, weeks. Each day I return to O’Henry’s and each day, Ms. Victoria serves me my rum and coke. She never says anything more to me than to ask for my order, but she never has to say more. She says it with her eyes. I love Ms. Victoria and I know she loves me too, I can see it. She must love me. She will. She creeps her way into my fantasies. I dream of her every night. My mind begins to wander, and where it goes there too I am. Increasingly it is drawn to her, so with her I am. My favorite is picturing our future together. We’ll live a lovely life with our children. I’ll no longer struggle with alcohol. She will replace my desires. I want her. I need her. I will have her. I decide that I no longer can keep these feelings to myself, but I certainly cannot share them with Ms. Victoria. I cross the room to find Peter at his usual post, wiping down glasses behind the counter. Why are bartenders always wiping glasses? What an odd trope. “Say Peter, what say you about the brunette?” “Who?” “The brunette across the bar,” I said, motioning ever so slightly towards Ms. Victoria so as not to alert her to my talking about her. “I believe her name is Victoria.” “Oh Victoria? Yeah she’s pretty new. Very sweet girl. Not a bad looker either, if I do say so myself.” said Peter, eyeing Ms. Victoria up and down. I did not like that. In fact, I hated that. Peter always pisses me off. I do not like Peter. “Goodbye, Peter.” I said pushing open the large green door and exiting the pub. “Goodbye, Mr. Frederic.” he replied. I returned to the motel I have been staying at and pulled my laptop from my bag and proceeded to find out everything I could about Ms. Victoria. Victoria Long, age 23, attending the University of Maryland as a journalist. She’s a wordsmith like me. I like that. I wonder if she writes about me like I do about her. That’s preposterous, she doesn’t know me. We are in love, however. Very madly and deeply in love. Finally, the words that I have been looking for scroll across my screen. 8260 Westmeadow Dr. Her address. Now I know it seems mad. Maybe it is. Maybe I am. But what if something were to happen to Ms. Victoria? I have to know where she lives. I have to protect her. I continue to frequent O’Henry’s. Days turn into weeks and I’m rapidly falling more deeply for her. By now I’ve mapped every inch of her face; her everything. I know her better than her own mother. Peering into her eyes is like peering down the rabbit hole and into Wonderland. I feel like the Mad Hatter and she is my Alice. I cannot wait for her to be mine. She is mine. I can’t help but notice, however, young Peter Goodman behind his bar. I see the way he looks at her. The way he flirts with her. It’s disgusting, really. He doesn’t even know her! Not like I do. I wonder if her writes to her like I do. I wonder if he thinks about her like I do. I wonder if he loves Ms. Victoria as much as I do. He can’t. There’s no way. How dare he disgrace such elegance and beauty with his tainted stare? I cannot allow such disrespect any longer. Peter must be dealt with. Peter will be dealt with. I never really liked Peter. The next day came. I sat in my usual seat with my rum and coke. 2 AM rolled around and it was time for Peter to lock up. The rest of the staff had gone home and only Peter and I remained in the smoky establishment. “Alright, Mr. Frederic, it’s about that time. Why don’t you go ahead and finish up your drink and we can head home.” said Peter, ignorantly. “Sure thing, Pete.” I said, slamming the last of the liquor. “Say, Pete, you mind if I ask you something strange? About Victoria?” The hatred must have been clearly evident on my face. “Ummm, yeah, what’s up?” “What’s with the way you’ve been eyeing her? She’s mine.” “What? Vic and I have been dating for a few weeks now, what’s your problem?” “She’s. Mine.” I said, quieter and more forcefully this time. “Listen, Fred. You’re drunk and starting to get belligerent with me. I’m going to have to call the police.” He reached for the bar phone, but I had other plans in mind. In one fluid motion I smashed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s sitting on the counter and drug the jagged bottleneck across Peter’s neck. He reached for his throat, clenching as blood began to seep through his fingers. He tried to scream, but only garbled grunts seemed to come through. I had made sure to sever the vocal cords. Peter collapsed, eyes agape, behind his beloved bar counter. I made quick work of the body, throwing him into the dumpster out back. I was never one for proper burials, especially for pricks like Peter. Now to find Ms. Victoria. I locked up the pub for Peter (obviously he was slightly preoccupied with, you know, death) and took off on my motorcycle. I made quick work of the winding Baltimore streets until I finally came to a stop outside 8260 Westmeadow. It was a small, 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom home. She lives alone, I know that. I sneak in through her bedroom window. There she is, fast asleep. I stand and watch her for what seems like a few minutes but is more like 2 hours. “You’ve been a naughty, naughty girl, Ms. Victoria.” She shoots up in bed. “Fred? From the bar? What the hell?” She yells, still slightly groggy. “You’ve gone and cheated on me with that prick Peter, you whore.” I walk toward her bed. “Fred, listen--” “No you listen, bitch. I’ve had enough of you playing with my emotions.” I reach into my bag until my hand finds purchase on my 9mm. I draw the firearm and chamber a round. “Fred, please--” “SHUT UP!” I yell. “I loved you, and this is how you treat me?” “Fred I don’t--” is all she managed to whimper before I pulled the trigger. I emptied 8 of the rounds of the 9 round capacity magazine into Ms. Victoria. She deserved it. All she had to do was love me, but she couldn’t even get that right. I fled the house as quickly as I could. I don’t bother to clean up. It doesn’t matter anymore. I return to the motel. Inside my room I sit on the neatly made bed. The room was old yet well kept. A small bathroom to your left as you enter the room, the bed to your right with a T.V. across from it. Simple. Quaint. Enjoyable. I held the firearm in my right hand. She was the only reason I didn’t do it all those weeks ago. She was gone now. Dead to me and to the world. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does. Big universe, remember? I figure this gun is the best way. It’s quick and virtually painless. I suppose I’ll be a messy clean up. I’ll once again become someone else’s mess. I’ll be someone else’s problem. I’ve never been one for poetry, but I think that’s pretty poetic. “He died how he lived: as someone else’s problem.” I raise the gun and place the barrel in my mouth with the muzzle facing the sky. It’s cold. I pull the trigger.

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