Work Text:
You are not expecting the kid outside your door. You are expecting the exact opposite of the kid at your door. You wanted someone that wasn’t a minor, who wasn't as curve-less as a 180 degree line, whose smile wasn't forced, and who maybe had some breasts and was a bit handsome. It wasn’t like you’d fantasized about having a woman in a French maid outfit to go about cleaning the little things you had no time or patience for.
But it wasn’t like you weren’t going to fantasize about a handsome lady cleaning your house, and now you have a kid at your door holding up your flier, eyes hidden behind shades that he got out of an anime.
"How old are you?" is the first thing you ask him.
“You didn’t have an age requirement,” he says, fast, like he knew you were going to say something about it. He’s sweating, and it doesn't seem to be just from the heat.
You sigh, and wave him into your house. “Alright, come in, the least I can do is give you a job interview.” You ignore the small excited ‘yes’ he breathes as you let him in. Like he thinks he’s got the job just because you let him in. No, you just don’t want a prepubescent teen getting a heat stroke outside your house, and have his mom come yelling after you. Or his dad. Mom’s tended to be worst though.
He sits on your couch when you gesture at it. You have a pitcher of lemonade in your fridge, and you pour him a glass because he looks like he could use the hydration, and you pour yourself a glass because you could use something to occupy your attention when you turn him down like a responsible adult.
He’s looking around your living room, which is tidy, and white. Too much like your dad’s, but you just moved to Texas to be the director of the biological research division of Echidna Labs, a rising scientific research development company. You couldn’t turn it down, even though it meant moving away from your home state.
The biological research division is new, and for the past month you’ve spent most of your time at the company trying to get the files under some sort of organization, and getting projects started, and learning the names of everyone beneath you. Most of your belongings are still in their boxes. You haven’t even unpacked your TV, and your table is a mess of papers, files, and take out boxes. You're in a state of disarray, and you thought maybe a housekeeper could organize your home while you organized your division. At least until things smoothed out and you were able to keep track on both sides of things.
“Alright,” you say, setting the lemonades on the coffee table. You sit heavily in the chair opposite the couch, and set your hands on your knees. “What’s your name?”
“Dirk,” he says picking up the lemonade you set in front of him, but not drinking out of it. “High school junior. 16.”
“Junior in the fall?”
He nods, trailing his index finger up the glass catching drops of water.
“You realize that your job is basically going to be my maid,” you say, bland.
Dirk smiles, and it’s not the cute awkward one he gave you when he stood at your door. “Sir, where else would I be able to make over 200 dollars a week? At least this is legal compared to sucking dicks to get 200 dollars a week.”
You splutter. “You’re a minor.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think cleaning required you to be eighteen years old. Probably a good thing, or my place would be infested with mold in a week.”
“It’s not a requirement, I’d just like to be safe. I’m in a large position of responsibility, and if there was a scandal, it’d look really bad for my company,” you say.
“So, you were basically expecting the person you hired to have sex with you? Wow, what a douchebag,” he says, and you groan.
“No! What sort of person would expect that? Haven’t you even heard of consent?” you sigh. “What I’m saying, is that you’re a minor who’s going to be spending large amounts of time by yourself in my house, or with just me. Isn’t your mom going to worry?”
“I’m like batman,” he says. “I don’t have a mom or dad, and I stalk the night correcting the wrongs of evil people with my little bro as Robin.”
You stare at him for a second, then stand up and walk to your kitchen. You kind of wish you had a door so there’d be more of a wall in between you and the boy in your living room who is a fucking orphan, has a little brother, and lives god knows where. He’s obviously not in social services, but they’d have a field day with him, and you wonder if you should call social services yourself. You know, stall him in your living room until they had enough time to arrive, lead them to his brother, have a nice family adopt them. He graduates, goes to a private school, and his little bro follows him with starry eyes.
It’s a false dream because you know that social services would probably split them. Dirk is almost old enough to get out of the system, and his little bro would be separated from him for a very long time, and he’d kill you. You can feel it. Your only other option is to let him work for you and make a decent amount of money for him to survive off of and not kill himself working because McDonalds obviously wouldn’t pay a decent wage.
You rub your hand across your face and you know. You know you have that spare room upstairs that you’d planned on making into a study. But you know that Dad would give them that room, give them food, buy them new clothes, and take care of them like they were you, and leaving little notes about how proud he was of them.
You are so screwed.
And not in the good way. You sigh wistfully as your sexy dreamboat maid sashays away into the dark depths of your brain and is replaced by the zitty, freckled kid in your living room.
When you walk out there, you sit in your chair, watching the kid as the condensation on the lemonade drips down his hands, accumulating until it falls from the tip of his pinky. You almost expect him to make a saucy comment about how you left him in the living room all by himself.
“Dirk, you’ve passed the interview,” you say, trying to be professional. He doesn’t say anything, and you frown. The glass of lemonade in his hand tilts disconcertingly to the side, the grip of his fingers loosening around it. You rush forward to grab it out of his hands before it falls to the ground, banging your knee against the coffee table in the process. You hiss. Dirk tilts forward against you, and you hold his shoulder, setting the lemonade on the table before easing him back against the couch.
You take off his sunglasses and set them on the coffee table next to the lemonade. His eyes are closed, a puffy, bruised coloration underneath them, like bruises of endless nights. Your eyes look the same. You lay him down on the couch, making sure his head rested on one of the little pillows.
Then you go searching through your boxes for the afghan your nanna knit you before she died, and drape it across him. You puff up your cheek at him, and hope his little brother won’t be too worried about him not making it back to wherever they’re staying at soon. You plan to wake him in an hour with bacon. He could probably sleep for two days straight, but you don't want him to try and kill you in your sleep for not waking him up earlier.
You wake him up by wafting a piece of bacon in front of his face. His mouth snaps onto the strip, and he’s chewed and swallowed it before his eyes open. Then they do open, and he’s searching around for the next piece like a wild animal. Until he squints in the light of your living room. Your windows face the west, and the sun blazes through at this time, especially since you haven’t gotten around to putting curtains up to block it.
You haven’t had time to. He gropes his face and you hand him his sunglasses. He relaxes with them on, and grabs two pieces of bacon stuffing them in his face.
“How long was I out?”
“I let you sleep for an hour. Figured your little bro would be worried about you if you didn’t return home at curfew.”
He nods, and you hold out the plate of bacon that you made. You deliberately made more than two people could eat in one setting. He licks his fingers, hesitates, before lifting the ends of the paper towel the bacon is nestled in.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he wraps the bacon in the paper towel.
“Snack for later,” he grumbles, stuffing the paper towel gift of bacon in his pocket. The pocket was too small for it to even fit, but he tried. Then pretended like it wasn’t a hilarious sight to see the paper towel pooling out of his pocket like the stuffing out of a teddy bear. He was going to get bacon grease on his pants. “I guess I’ll be going then. Sorry for not meeting the age requirement.”
You let him get to the door before saying, “Hey, you didn’t even ask how the interview went.”
“Dude, I fell asleep, and you left me in the room by myself. What was I supposed to think?”
“That maybe you’re hired?”
The room expands in utter silence. Then he’s in front of you, nose against nose, Kamina sunglasses pressed up against your face so close that you can see the pupils of his eyes through the dark lenses. He’s so serious, brows furrowed down as if he can’t believe you.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” you say. He nods, and presses his lips against yours, insistent and unrelenting, and you’re bewildered enough to allow it for a second before pushing him off you. “No. No, no, no, no. No, Dirk, bad Dirk,” you say, giving him a stern look your father should be proud of.
He freezes, hands caught in the space between you. Then he grimaces, “I’m not a dog.”
“No, you’re not. And I’m not a pedophile.”
“Dude, I’m 16. I’m pretty sure I know what it means to consent to sex.”
“What if I’m not consenting? Would you still force your way onto me?” you say, too sharp.
Dirk’s shoulders slump, and his hands drop. “No,” he says, a low whine of a voice.
“Good,” you say with a smile. “Now, onto the terms and conditions.”
“Is this going to be as boring as the iTunes’ terms and conditions?”
“Nope,” you say. “First rule: no forcing yourself on the older guy.” Dirk rolls his eyes. “Second rule: I want you to bring your things and your brother here. I have a spare room that you can sleep in. I’m not going to have someone I’m hiring sleep out in some great unknown.” Dirk opens his mouth, hands fisted at his sides. You silence him with a look. “It will be really inconvenient for me if the people I hire are not able to make it to work because the place they live in isn’t safe. If you don’t agree to this term, you can just leave and not come back, but you’d be denying your brother food and shelter.”
He can’t argue against that, and he slumps down like he’s lost a battle. You pat the space beside you on the couch, and he grudgingly sits down.
“Now, I’m going to be responsible for you two,” you say, kind of hoping that you know what you’re getting in to. You don’t make as much money as you expect a sugar daddy too, but, then again, you’re not expecting to buy them 30,000 dollar cars, either. Just basic necessities. You’re also not planning on doing all those other things a sugar daddy does. Honestly, you’re more like a guardian than a sugar daddy. You don't even know why you used sugar daddy as an analogy. “So, I’ll provide food, shelter, school supplies, and basic necessities, however, that means I’m going to dock your pay by five dollars to make up for those things. So instead of 13 dollars an hour, it’s going to be 7 dollars an hour. You’ll work four hours during the week, and on the weekend, the rest of the time is yours to spend how you wish. Do you understand?”
Dirk nods. “That’s fair enough. I,” he pauses. “Honestly, with everything you’d be providing, you shouldn’t have to pay me. It’d be more than enough. Way more than enough.”
“You’ll still want money for the things you enjoy. Basic necessities are nice, but being able to buy your own shit is even better,” you say. “Also, are you in school?”
He freezes, but shakes his head no.
“Alright, since you’re not in school, how about we bump up the work time to six hours a day. I’m sure that you’ll be able to get most things done in less time, but that way you’ll feel like you’re pulling your own weight. Is your little brother still in school?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have him drop out for nothing,” Dirk says, teeth clenched.
“Good. Maybe we could work on you getting your GED while you’re here. That’s something you’re going to need no matter what,” you muse to yourself.
“Why are you doing this?”
You look over at him, his hands are fisted in a tight ball above his knees, his frame so brittle that if you touched him, you feel he'd break. Only a thousand hugs would put him back together.
“I think you should go get your brother now,” you say, standing up. “Do you want me to come with you to help?”
He shakes his head, and stands like an old man, stiff and sore in the joints.
“Will you be able to find your way back?”
He nods. He looks tiny and frail, and you’re tired of keeping him at a safe distance, so you draw him into a hug, which makes him freeze before softening against you. If he makes any snuffling noises, or if there’s a wet spot on your shirt, you don’t mention it when you let go. You lead him to the door, and he flashes away into the night going to his other home for the last time.
When Dirk returns it’s much later than you expected. You weren't deliberately keeping track of time, but you had a routine of going to sleep at eleven. Now, it was past midnight, and you were sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the sound of your door opening from the kitchen.
He knocks on your door, which is unexpected. You kind of thought he’d just barge in, mi casa es su casa sort of thing. You go to the front door, and open it. Their bags are on the ground, and Dirk is hunched over at his shoulders, and the kid beside him is clinging hard to his hand. The kid looks up at you with something between fear and awe. You don’t let them linger outside much longer, instead shuffling them in as fast as you can, grabbing their bags so they don’t have to carry them anymore.
You get a good look at them after you shut the door. Dirk has a split lip, and a puffy eye that is sure to turn black in the morning. The younger boy is thinner than a rat, and his clothes are ripped and worn. Their clothes are faded, but pretty decent and look clean. You hadn’t even noticed with Dirk, which was probably the point.
You juggle the luggage, unsure of what you want to do with the kids now that they’re in your house. You kind of didn’t think about it, and they’re staring at you like you’re going to steal their bags and kick them out. Like hell. You don’t want their stuff. You don’t even want half the things you own.
“Alright, well. Let’s get you to your room,” you say, crossing the living room to the stairs. They follow you like lost lambs. “You two okay with sharing? ‘Cause I only have two bedrooms, and I’m sure you’d like to share a room with each other, rather than with me.” You chuckle under your breath.
Dirk tries to take one of the bags away from you on the staircase, but you just shrug him off because you’re stronger and their bags are light. The spare bedroom faces the gulf. The only reason why you didn’t claim it as your room is because your's has a skylight. It's small, but it beats a view of the ocean when you can see the sky.
You don’t have much in the empty room except your desk with your computer haphazardly set on it. You really haven't had time to organize anything. You’re going to have to buy them some beds. Maybe bunk beds? You’d always wanted a bunk bed, and these two are brothers, they’d probably enjoy that. At least, the younger one will. The kids will have to sleep in your bed tonight. You can sleep on the coach, and then order some beds tomorrow.
“Alright, this is your room,” you say, dropping the bags on the floor beside the wall.
“I always wanted to sleep on a desk,” the little kid says, sarcastic.
Dirk goes in to smack the kid, but you just ruffle his hair, and gently push Dirk away. “You sure are a cynical little kid. Okay, so I’ve been a bachelor for like, five years now? I don’t have guests over that much, and even if I did have someone stay over, the couch was good enough for me. So, I don’t have beds for you, yet. However, tonight, you can sleep in my bed.”
“I don’t want to sleep under your spunk crusted sheets,” he says, slapping your hands away from his head. A disgruntled little kid. You don't blame him for it.
“Not so glad to tell you that they’re not,” you say, with a wry grin. “But it’s either that or the floor, and I’m sure you’d be happier sharing a bed with your bro than not. What do you say?”
The kid eyes you suspiciously, glances behind you at Dirk, and gives a small “Yes.”
“Great. Now, I’m John, and what’s your name?”
“Dave,” he says.
“What grade?”
“Sixth.”
You think for a second, adding up numbers in your head, “11?”
“10, but I’m going to be 11 in a couple of months,” he says grinning. Then, so fast that you almost laugh, he sucks down on his lips until they’re a pruned line.
“Good, and I know this is a new place and all, kind of exciting, but you have school tomorrow, right?”
He nods with a petulant air.
“Yeah, I know buddy, but bed time is bed time,” you say, shuffling him out, and towards your room. You turn on the light, and show him where things are at. Then you give an extremely brief tour of the house, just showing him the way to the bathroom. He yawns, and you leave Dave on his own to get ready for bed while leading Dirk down to the kitchen. You give him an ice pack for his eye, and a wash cloth for his busted lip.
Then you sit at the kitchen table, nudging your papers out of the way, and putting them into piles at the edge of the table, grabbing a blank one to write some notes on. You click your pen, flipping it between your fingers as you figure out where to start, and what to say.
“Okay. We’re going to have to get the desk out of your room, and my computer. Before tomorrow. We can wait until Dave goes to sleep? Then get it out,” you mumble to yourself. You look up at him, and he’s a bit pale. “Uh, don’t worry about lifting the desk. I mean, I got it up there by myself. I can carry the whole thing by myself. I’ll just need your help with holding up the one side.”
“I’m not weak,” he snaps.
“I wasn’t saying you were. Anyway, let’s see. I’ll have you guys a bed tomorrow… what do you think of bunk beds?”
“Sure?’
You look up at him from your hunched over position, ice pack pressed against his eye. He looks more tired now than he did before. “You sure? I can get two twin beds instead of bunk beds. I just thought Dave might like the novelty of having a bunk bed.”
Dirk nods.
“Okay, now. Are you Dave’s legal guardian? Is that something the school knows?”
He nods again, hands fisted around the table’s edge, clenched so hard that you can see the white’s of his knuckle.
“Great,” you breathe out a sigh of relief. “I was worried I’d have to put down that I was Dave’s official guardian or something. If you think you can get up in the morning, we can all take Dave to school, and figure out a bus route for him. I mean, I could just drop him off, and pick him up, but what if I get held over at work? He needs something he can rely on to get him home even when we can’t. What school does he go to?”
“Uh, the Peterson Elementary School, it’s on Dalmatian Drive, east of Buffalo Speedway, but west of Aimeda Road.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s quite a bit aways. Where were you guys staying?”
“It wasn’t too far from the school. Dave could walk there and back each day without much trouble.”
“How the fu—heck did you guys manage to travel that far in such a short amount of time?” you ask.
Dirk shrugged. “It wasn’t too hard. We hitched a couple of rides over, too.”
You groan, dropping your head on the table. “Dirk, we can’t have him go to that school anymore. It’s too far away. School district things or whatever.”
Dirk’s quiet for a moment. “So, are we not taking him to school tomorrow.”
You ruffle your hair as you straighten up. “No, we are. We’ll have to talk to the principal or whoever, and talk about the change in your situation or something. Ugh, I hope they don’t think I’m like a pedophile. Maybe I can just say I’m a friend of your parent’s, and they asked me to watch over you guys, but I was a douche and didn’t keep in contact, and didn’t know they died. And now I’m taking you in. Do you think it’ll work? I really don’t want to go Hallmark channel on this shit.”
“I don’t know. I barely got custody on Dave, and I had to throw in some lines about getting a stable job. That’s when I came here.”
“So,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “Your parent’s haven’t been gone that long?”
Dirk shrugs. “It’s been a couple of months. I was able to kind of keep it under the low-down for a while, but Dave…”
“Hey, it’s okay,” you say. “You did what you thought was right, and Dave’s young. He did what was best for him, and that’s okay, too. But, for now, you have a stable home, and we’ll get Dave into a school nearby.”
You yawn, and look at the oven for the time. “Holy fuck, I have to be up in four hours. Okay,” you say, placing your palms flat on the table as you stand. “For now, we are going to just relax. We'll get the desk tomorrow. Once you guys are settled in, I’ll tell you about your job. Refrigerator and cabinets are open. Feel free to eat whatever you need. I…don’t have very many groceries, but I’ll run by tomorrow after I pick Dave up from school, if he’s allowed to still go there for the day. Um, anything else you need before I hit the couch?”
“Wi-fi?”
You squint at him. “Really? We're going to be up in a few hours.”
He squirms under your gaze. “For…tomorrow. You might forget.”
“Oh, uh.” You grab at the scrap of paper and pen. “The wi-fi name is GhostBustin’ and the password is mcC0n4ugH3y,” you say, writing it down and making sure that he can tell where the caps are.
“That ‘ugh’ in your password is well placed. I can’t even complain about how simplistic it is because no one can ever write that godawful last name.”
“Hey, now. No bashing McConaughey. He is a brilliant actor, and,” you yawn. “We are not arguing about this. Don’t diss the Conaughey or the Cage. Now, I am going to bed, and you should, too, but I’m not going to tuck you in,” you say, heading out of the living room. “I’m not a light sleeper, so don’t worry about noise, but please don’t turn on bright lights. That was my father’s personal brand of early morning torture, and I won’t have any of it.”
You don’t bother to see what he’s doing when he doesn’t come out. Maybe he’s hungry. Instead, you get settled down on the couch, fluffing up the decorative pillow that Dirk slept on earlier. You’re kind of glad you got the afghan out for him because it means that you didn’t have to go searching through all the boxes before going to sleep.
Dirk leans over the back of the couch. “You’re really going to sleep in your clothes?”
“Yup, I’m not waking Dave up for something like sleep wear, now I’m going to bed. I don’t care what you do, but good night,” you say, curt. You wrap the afghan around you, and Dirk sighs as he gets off the back of the couch.
You hear him tread up the stairs, soft footsteps. It’s oddly comforting having other people in the house. You’re not alone, and they’re not either.