Chapter Text
The girl is silent and sullen in the backseat, her face pointed out the window and her hair falling sloppy and uncombed over her eyes. Nile watches her through the rearview mirror, partially out of concern for his cruiser—she’s not the first young punk he’s had back there, and if she decides to start causing problems, she won’t be the first to try and tear the backseat apart—but also with a genuine interest that surprises him. When he has a moment or two, stopped at a red light or on a long stretch of highway, he watches her, studying the lines of her face and eyes.
He shouldn’t be looking for Mike or Erwin in her, he knows; she shares no blood with the two men, is of no relation to them at all. But he can’t help it, and with every stolen moment, every quick examination, Nile sees more of his oldest friends in her: her hair is the same light, sun-kissed color that Erwin’s used to turn in the summers; her nose is sculpted and long like Mike’s; her skin is as pale as Reiner’s, the kind of skin that makes Nile want to ask if she put on sunscreen this morning. He even considers it for a few minutes, knowing he has a bottle of sunblock in the glove box, but decides against it. It would be too easy to misconstrue his concern as creepy rather than fatherly, and if the girl is going to get a sunburn, there’s little he can do about it.
His son will be wearing sunblock today, Nile knows; Marie is very conscientious and careful about making sure the little guy doesn’t burn, and will deck him out in a hat and sunglasses on top of sunscreen before letting him outside. And then he’ll wander back, scratched up, filthy, hat lost and sunglasses cracked, possibly with a frog in his pocket, but perfectly happy and content.
“You’re smiling.”
“Hmmm?” Nile looks in the rearview mirror, and the girl is watching him. He’s struck again by the ice-blue of her eyes, and how familiar they are; a shade paler than Erwin’s, but with the same intensity, the same cool interest. It’s the first time she’s spoken in over an hour.
She shrugs and looks back out the window, propping her chin in one small hand. “Nothing.”
Nile watches her a moment longer, keeping his eyes off the road longer than he should, before looking back of ahead of him and rolling one shoulder in unconscious imitation. “Thinking about my kid.”
He doesn’t think she’ll answer, and is pleasantly surprised when she does. “You have a kid?”
“A son. He’s three.” Another glance in the mirror, and while the girl is pointedly not looking at him, he can tell she’s listening. “He likes to go out in the yard and get himself good and filthy, and then he tracks mud inside the house.” He cracks another smile. “I told my wife not to go for the pale yellow color scheme if she wanted kids, but she had to have it.”
The faintest hint of movement from the backseat; the girl has nodded, and Nile bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning wider. He knows he shouldn’t be talking to her like this, and normally he wouldn’t, but this one is different. Technically, he shouldn’t even be driving her to her group home, it’s below his pay grade since he made sergeant, but Nile has always had a bit of a knack with the younger offenders, and this one could end up being a part of his family. Mike and Erwin might not be blood relations, but they’re family, have been since Nile was old enough to understand the concept of family, and he wanted a chance to spend some time with the girl. Mike didn’t ask him to—Mike wouldn’t have even considered asking him—but Nile took it on himself to volunteer his time and driving abilities. He doesn’t even feel bad about the subterfuge; screening a suspect is important, and he knows damn well that Mike tends to lead from the heart, and Nanaba has a soft spot when it comes to kids.
“What kind of colors do you think would look good on the walls?” he asks the girl; it’s a nonsense question, a meaningless one, but he wants to see how she reacts.
She looks at him in the mirror, her pale brows (so much like Reiner’s, and Erwin’s when he was her age) lifted in surprise, and then back out the window. She considers the question, which he likes, before answering slowly. “Blue, I think.”
“Why?”
The look she gives him tells him that she thinks he’s the dumbest thing to ever walk the earth. “It’s the color of the sky.”
“Mmmm.” He nods. “Maybe some green too?”
She shakes her head. “No. Windows would be better.”
“You like a house with lots of windows?” Her dad’s place, the place they’d pulled her from, had had all the windows boarded up, all the light blocked away. It had been a dank, grim little cell, hardly more than a shack, and the house she’s describing, with its blue walls and lots of windows, paints a promising picture.
“Whatever.” She scowls, but then reconsiders. “You can see the outside through windows.”
“Nothing nicer than watching the world move outside your window,” Nile agrees, and she rolls her eyes, slouching back down and pointedly looking out the window. He won’t be getting much more information out of her, but that’s okay. Nile has enough to work with.
~*~
Bertolt sits hunched in the hard plastic chair, his shoulders pulled tight around his ears and his hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie. He wishes he could pull the hood up and hide his face, hide his offensive otherness from everyone, but he knows the director at the group home would just make him take it down again. He’s already taking up too much space, occupying too much of the office with his body, and he’s scrunched himself up as much as he can, making himself as small and discrete as possible. His knees are practically gouging his chin, but at least his legs are covering the logo on his hoodie. He can’t say for sure, but he doesn’t think a ragged, third-or-fourth-hand John Deere tractor hoodie is going to do him any favors around here.
He’s been left alone in the director’s office, with Miss Rico vouching for him being good while she arranges things. Once he’s contorted himself into an acceptable position, Bertolt examines the diplomas and awards on the wall. The director, some guy named Ness, is really educated, and Bertolt feels a small spike of jealousy in his chest. He’ll never get to go to college, he knows, and it bothers him that some people can have so many degrees while he’ll never even get one.
The director has a framed photo on his desk, and after checking that he’s alone, Bertolt picks it up and turns it around. It’s a picture of the director with another man, a little girl propped up between their arms, and Bertolt frowns a little, not understanding.
“That’s my partner and our daughter.”
Bertolt nearly leaps out of his skin, fumbling the frame and coming within a few heartbeats of dropping it. He sets it back on the desk with a hurried clatter, and turns to the director with wide eyes, his heart in his throat. “I didn’t break it.”
“I know you didn’t.” The director moves slowly around his desk and settles into his chair, tenting his hands in front of his chest and watching Bertolt. “I don’t mind curiosity.”
“Yes, sir.” Bertolt has no idea what he’s supposed to say, and so defaults to the intense politeness he knows these type of guys expect.
The director watches him a moment longer before reaching across the desk, extending his hand. Bertolt stares at it, bewildered, and the director waits patiently until he figures out what’s going on. He shakes the director’s hand, wishing his palm wasn’t clammy and damp with sweat.
If it bothers him, the director doesn’t show it. “I’m Director Ness,” he says as he takes his hand back, and he sounds calm and rational, although Bertolt knows that could be a disguise. He’s known too many adults who seem normal and pleasant when other people are around, but then turn into shrieking harpies at the slightest provocation. He won’t trust Ness until he’s been given a damn good reason to.
“Welcome to the group house,” the director continues, oblivious to Bertolt’s thoughts. “We’re a small, state-funded house for young people like yourself, who need a place to stay and finish their schooling. Our rules are strict but fair; you’re not here to party and sell drugs, but to get your high school diploma. We happen to be in a very good school district, and we’ll get you registered for classes as quickly as we can.” The director fixes Bertolt to his chair with his gaze, and Bertolt can feel his face heating up in embarrassment; he knows the director has read his file, and the kinds of things that he’s found there. He waits for the inevitable question, the one people have been asking him since he was ten and the one he’s asked himself for his entire life: what’s wrong with you, anyway? You’re not an addict or a rabble-rouser or a dealer or a wannabe gangster, so why hasn’t anyone ever adopted you? Why are you still in the system at this point?
The director doesn’t ask, though, and instead launches into a spiel about the rule and routines of the house, which Bertolt listens to with half an ear. He’s been in enough of these homes to have a pretty good idea of what is and isn’t expected of him, and the rest are just minor details. It isn’t until the director mentions something about ‘home buddies’ that Bertolt lifts his head and starts paying attention.
“What’s a home buddy?” It sounds suspiciously like he’s going to be saddled with an elementary school kid to mentor or something, and Bertolt wants nothing to do with the idea. He’s not a role model and never wanted to be one.
“Another student in the house,” the director answers smoothly, clearly prepared for Bertolt’s apprehension. “Someone who, in this case, is new to the system and could use some guidance from someone who’s been there.”
Bertolt narrows his eyes. “You want me to babysit.”
“Not really. More helping your fellow man than babysitting.” The director consults a file on his desk. “Fellow woman, in this case.”
Bertolt draws his legs back up towards his chest, hiding the yellow logo on his hoodie. “I’m not very good at helping.”
“I think you’d be surprised.” As if on cue, someone knocks on the door, and the director calls them in.
~*~
Annie hates it here already. The cop—the one that wouldn’t quit talking, who told her about his kid and his wife and then babbled about colors for awhile—walks beside her, his arms loose and relaxed at his sides, and Annie wonders how hard it would be to hit him in the stomach and make a break for it. She’s a good runner, she knows she could outdistance this middle-aged police officer easily enough, disappearing into the streets… but then where would she go? They’re in Trost now, deep in the heart of the city, and she’d be hopelessly lost within moments. If they were in the woods, if they were somewhere wild, she’d probably try it, but the city intimidates her, and she doesn’t know how to find her way back to her father anyway. No, it’s better to wait, to plan, and then make her break for it later, when she knows how to track down her dad and break him loose and take him away to somewhere safe.
The house is ugly and worn down, with a scabby, half-dead lawn, and a few teenagers linger in the driveway, scattering at the appearance of the police car. Annie skulks out of the car and follows the cop into the house, aware that she’s being watched by the teenagers from wherever they’ve gone and wishing she could seek them out and make them stop.
“You’ll like Director Ness,” the cop tells her as they check in with a bored woman at the front counter. “I’ve worked with him before, and he’s a good man.”
Annie doesn’t answer; she sees no point. She won’t be here for very long, just long enough to plan her escape, and then none of this will matter anymore.
The cop knocks on a door with a brass name plaque on it, and a cheerful voice tells them to enter. The cop holds the door for Annie, and after a mistrustful glance, she slinks inside.
The first thing she sees is another teenager, a boy, with shaggy dark hair and olive skin, curled around himself in a plastic chair. He glances up, his eyes skittering across her face before fixing somewhere in the distance, and she realizes that she’s never seen eyes that exact shade of deep green before.
Annie swallows and sits down in the other plastic chair, pointedly avoiding looking at the boy. She isn’t one to get crushes, never has been, and now is definitely not the time or the place… but as the director introduces himself and drones on while the cop fidgets behind them, she can’t deny the little spark she feels in her chest, the first emotion she’s felt since they tore her away from her father and toted him away. She feels a draw to the boy with the green ones, one that she can’t explain, one she doesn’t have to words to express. All she knows is that he’s the most handsome boy she’s ever seen, and that they don’t belong here. Neither one of them should be in this place.