Work Text:
i'll play my fight song
this is my fight song
take back my life song
prove I'm alright song
- ‘Fight Song’ by Rachel Platten
No police officer likes working the speed trap. Despite the fact that they’re meant to catch folks traveling faster down the thoroughfare than they should be, it’s generally slow and boring work. The citizens of Purgatory know where the deputies tend to set up around town and its outskirts, and they slow down before they hit those checkpoints. Nicole doesn’t mind, though; they’re at least slowing down and being a little mindful.
Of course, she also knows that they know she can rattle off a plate number to dispatch faster than they can drive away. Most have learned not to try to pull a fast one on her.
Nicole sighs and fidgets in her seat. She dislikes working the speed trap as much as her deputies, which is exactly why she makes sure to do it at least a few times a month. Just because she’s in charge doesn’t mean that she shouldn’t do some scut work every now and again.
Her radio crackles. “Sheriff?” David’s voice comes through loud and clear, if a bit tinny sounding.
“Go for Haught,” she responds.
“Purgatory Elementary called, ma’am,” he says.
Nicole immediately stiffens with worry.
Today is Belle’s first day of kindergarten and she and Waverly had made sure to be there to see her off. They had made a checklist together last night, all three of them, with things like, Remember school supplies , Don’t forget snacks/lunch , and Bring Charlotte’s Web to class for reading. Nicole had written down the numbers to her cell phone and to Waverly’s, as well as to the main line for the cop shop, and handed the note to Belle so that she could decide where she would best remember it if she needed it.
(She had folded it carefully, taking her time to line up the edges of the index card. It went into the front compartment of the purple and pink unicorn backpack that she had shyly asked for when they were out shopping for school supplies.)
Checklists and calendars helped her feel more grounded, they discovered. They offered the security and comfort of knowing what is expected of her and when. She could know when Nicole would be working late, so as not to worry that she wasn’t coming home. Or see that Gus would be picking her up from school instead of Waverly. The structure helped, and it wasn’t a difficult system to implement with Waverly’s inclination toward planning.
“The principal, Ms. Arbour, called asking for you. Requested that you or Ms. Earp head down to the school because of an incident with your da— with Belle.”
Nicole scowls. Carol Arbour isn’t especially fond of Nicole or the Purgatory Sheriff’s Department after they had made up a cockamamie explanation for the death of her cousin Joyce. Another coyote attack or something of that ilk. She and Nedley had delivered the news, since she was the third victim to fall prey to the ‘ rabid animal ’ in town and Carol was the only next of kin within a hundred mile radius.
She had called them useless fools and shouted them off her stoop.
“Is Waverly not in the office?” she asks.
“She left with Wynonna about an hour ago. You want me to call her?”
She squares her shoulders and shakes her head — not that there’s anybody around to see her. “It’s okay, David. I’ll take care of it. Mark me as 10-7.”
“10-4, Sheriff.”
Nicole does wonder if Waverly would have a better time handling Ms. Arbour and whatever ‘incident’ that has occurred. But damn it, she’s a grown woman and she’s the sheriff of this town and it’s not as if she could have told her that a Jack the Ripper-type resurrected from hell because of a generations-old curse killed Joyce. Then again, maybe if Nicole had told her the truth back then she would have run straight out of Purgatory and wouldn’t be calling now about Belle.
“What the hell kind of ‘incident’ can a five-year-old cause?” she mutters to herself. She pulls the cruiser back onto the road after securing the laser gun that clocks the speed of passing cars.
It takes her twenty minutes to reach the elementary school, and she fires off a text to Waverly before she makes her way inside.
‘Principal Ass called the station. Sounds like something happened. Don’t worry. Going to handle it now.’
It doesn’t immediately ping as ‘Read’, so she figures the Earp sisters are actually doing work and not just playing Angry Birds with a change of scenery from the Black Badge office.
A surprised, “Sheriff Haught!” catches her attention as soon as she steps into the building.
She recognizes the beer belly and the bad hairpiece before she recalls the man’s name. “Mr. Hopper,” she says, pasting a smile on her face that she hopes doesn’t read as insincere. She’s really not in the mood to chit chat if she’s about to face down the principal in defense of her foster kid. “How are you doing?” she asks automatically and she curses her manners and the interest in the townsfolk that Nedley encouraged — not that she really needed the encouragement, especially when she kept catching glimpses of the same cute brunette around town.
Mr. Hopper takes the opportunity to talk about himself and runs with it. Thankfully, he’s the kind of man who doesn’t exactly notice when his captive audience isn’t paying attention. She lets him prattle on about teaching P.E. and trying to win back his second wife and did she hear about him winning a drinking contest against the York brothers last weekend.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hopper. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this conversation short, as I’ve a meeting that I need to get to.”
He takes the interruption in stride and waves her off. “We’ll catch up more some night at Shorty’s,” he grins and claps her on the shoulder with a meaty, sweaty hand. He misses her grimace entirely before he turns to amble down the hallway opposite the administration office. Thank god.
The radio on her shoulder beeps and hisses static and a 10-71 on the other side of town before she can turn down the volume. David will call her if a real emergency comes up and she’s needed back in service.
So she squares her shoulders once more, again without an audience, and heads toward the principal’s office.
(She isn’t having flashbacks to high school. Not at all. She was a model student and they never could prove she orchestrated the water balloon catapult in the school parking lot or the Jell-o in the swimming pool.)
“Ms. Haught,” the secretary greets her once she’s inside the main office. Nicole’s attention, however, zeroes in on the little girl on the bench with her knees pulled to her chest with her eyes downcast and her unicorn backpack on the ground in front of her. She crosses the space with three long strides and nudges the knapsack aside so she can kneel directly in front of Belle.
“Hey,” she says as softly as she can. Nicole tries not to comfort her with touch unless she reaches out first, but that doesn’t stop her hand from twitching to soothe the tear tracks and splotchy red cheeks. “What happened, Belle?” She’s vaguely aware of another door opening behind her, but she ignores it until she hears the authoritative voice of Principal Arbour.
“Ms. Haught, if we could speak in my office.”
She grits her teeth and pushes up from the ground, drawing up to her full height and matching the airs put on by the other woman. If Carol wants a pissing match, she’ll get one.
“What exactly happened today, Ms. Arbour?” Nicole questions with a cop’s tone and suspicion as soon as she’s seated in front of the large oak desk that could rival Lonnie’s workspace in a competition of disorder and mess. It makes her teeth itch. The company and her reason for being here probably doesn’t help either.
“Belle shouted at Ms. Simmons today,” the principal says calmly, steepling her fingers like some sort of bad Bond villain.
“She’s five. It’s a kindergarten class. Kids yell.” Nicole quirks an eyebrow, daring Carol to challenge her on that fact.
(Not that Belle yells. If anything, she’s too quiet when they aren’t cloistered in the safety of their home. Too resigned to a world where being invisible seems like a better alternative to anything else.
They’re working on it. It’s a process.)
“She called Ms. Simmons a ‘simple-minded dolt’.”
Carol stares at her as if waiting for her to appear shocked or angry or some other comparable emotion that she wouldn’t show even if she was experiencing it. She’s a cop. She has a pretty decent poker face.
Then again, Nicole isn’t surprised at all and maybe that’s part of the problem. Because Belle is a bright kid underneath all those layers of a shitty childhood that smothered her for the first four years of her life. And Belle is clever and maybe a little stubborn, once she feels safe enough to plant her feet and hold fast. But Belle also knows what is and isn’t appropriate behavior, and if she yelled at her teacher, Nicole would bet her badge that the reason is far more complex than a child lashing out.
“Did you ask her why she called Ms. Simmons a ‘simple-minded dolt’?” She deigns to use air quotes but they seem appropriately mocking in this situation, so she indulges the little bit of pettiness that’s bubbling up inside her.
“Children lie, Ms. Haught, especially when they’re in trouble.” The look in Carol’s eyes dares Nicole to disagree with that statement, especially when it tends to apply to adults, too.
(She’s a cop. She knows that better than most.)
“I would like to hear Belle’s reasoning, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s important to have all the facts, as you know.”
Carol narrows her eyes and Nicole refuses to blink. Refuses to yield.
A long second passes and Carol reaches for the intercom button on her desk phone. “Cindy, please send Belle into my office,” she says, her eye contact with the sheriff never wavering.
The door opens a minute later and Belle shuffles in, dragging her knapsack across the ugly, not-quite-beige carpet.
“Have a seat, Belle,” Carol instructs and she complies, climbing into the chair beside Nicole while still refusing to look directly at either adult in the room. “Ms. Haught seems to think it’s important that we hear your side of the incident today.”
Belle lifts her chin at that with an expression of fear flashing across her face.
Nicole’s features soften and she tries to convey as much love and security as she can when she whispers, “Can you tell me what happened?”
And the little girl nods and sits up a little straighter, slipping uneasily into the skin of the Belle that Nicole gets to see at home. The Belle that is learning to laugh again, who bravely fights the monsters under her bed, who is beginning to trust herself and others again. The Belle that thinks she might be able to have a home and a family that loves her.
(A family that she could love.)
So she sits up straighter and she wipes away her own tears and tells her story.
How it was book time and Ms. Simmons told everybody to go pick out a book off the shelf. How she’d read the titles and looked through some of them, and then asked if she could read her own book. How she’d shown her teacher the worn copy of Charlotte’s Web that she brought from home, only to have the woman tell her she wasn’t ready to read that. She held her ground and said that she didn’t want to read those books for babies.
(Okay, Nicole admits. Perhaps that might have been a bit of an unnecessary jab at her peers.)
Ms. Simmons had insisted. Told her that in kindergarten they read those books — the ones on the shelf that are age-appropriate because they are still learning how to recognize words and read. She already knew how to read, she argued, and when Ms. Simmons locked her book away in the cabinet behind her desk, she called her a simple-minded dolt.
Nicole shouldn’t be proud.
(She totally is, though.)
“Ms. Simmons,” Carol chides, “ —is correct in her assessment of children’s reading abilities at the kindergarten level. The book is far too advance and Belle was no doubt attempting to use it in order to get out of reading with the rest of her peers.”
Nicole’s eyes snap back to Carol , all fire and fury simmering beneath her skin. She must see the blaze behind amber eyes because she leans back in her chair, a move just barely noticeable. But Nicole is the sheriff and she’s a damn good cop and she sees it. And she keeps her anger from boiling over into an outburst that she would no doubt regret later. She shifts her tone to ice instead of fire, cool and collected but sharp and unyielding.
“Belle is an advanced student, Ms. Arbour. She is as voracious a reader as Waverly, and I am certain that you are aware of her reputation as quite the scholar in town, seeing as she was hired as a research consultant with a federal, cross-border taskforce. Belle is clever and entirely capable of reading more difficult material than the Berenstain Bears or Curious George. Waverly and I encouraged Belle to bring that book to school because it challenges her, and we tend to believe that an education should challenge and stretch the mind. Or is that not what you do here, Ms. Arbour?”
Belle looks at Nicole with awe in her eyes and Carol finally has the good sense to look appropriately chastised.
“It seems that perhaps this was simply a misunderstanding.”
Nicole doesn’t scoff. She doesn’t. And she doesn’t roll her eyes either.
“Perhaps,” Carol tries again. “Ms. Simmons was… hasty in her assumptions regarding Belle’s motivations and reading ability.”
“I will assume in good faith that you’ll be speaking to Ms. Simmons about this incident as soon as possible?” Nicole poses it as a question but her glare leaves no room for misunderstanding.
Carol clears her throat and nods. “Of course, Ms. Haught.”
Nicole glances at her watch and realizes that she’s been out of service for over an hour. She bites the inside of her cheek instead of frowning. She stands and if she relishes towering over the woman still sitting behind her big, messy desk, she doesn’t let it show.
Calmly, she says, “Seeing as the school day is almost over and Belle has already missed half of her first day because of this incident, I think I’ll take her home now.”
Carol stands, too. “I apologize for Ms. Simmon’s misunderstanding.”
Belle reaches out then and tugs on Nicole’s hand. “Principal Arbour still has my book,” she mumbles.
“Right, of course,” Carol says, and she opens one of the drawers of her desk and rummages for a moment before handing over Waverly’s childhood copy of the book that now has ‘Property of Belle’ scrawled on the inside cover, just beneath nine-year-old Waverly’s signature.
Nicole nods, almost approvingly, when Belle slides off her chair and accepts the book.
“Again, Ms. Haught, my apologies for the misunderstanding.”
Nicole is halfway out of the office with Belle a step in front of her when the little girl stops and cranes her neck to peer at the principal one last time. She contemplates the woman with a steady gaze before saying in her most clear and confident voice, “It’s Sheriff Haught, Principal Arbour.” She reaches again for Nicole’s hand, and together they leave behind a thoroughly ruffled principal and a memorable first day of school.
When she calls back in service, it’s just long enough to tell David that she’s knocking off early to spend time with Belle. And if they maybe have ice cream before dinner, well, it’s not every day that a five-year-old lands such a magnificent burn on an adult who deserves it. Because Belle is brilliant and brave and Nicole needs her to know that.
And when Waverly gets home from her adventure with Wynonna, she finds Nicole on the sofa with a book in hand and a beautiful little girl curled against her side while fast asleep.
These moments — these are the scenes that are quickly becoming her favorite sights to see. These two people that have shown her how much love she has to share. Who give her so much more in return.
Nicole looks up from Welcome to the Monkey House and whispers an affectionate, “Hey, you.” She closes the anthology of short stories and tosses it onto the coffee table beside that beloved and now infamous copy of Charlotte’s Web .
“Hey, yourself,” she says with a smile and she takes a seat on the other side of Belle. “What happened today? I got your text while Wynonna and I were talking to Greta.”
Nicole rubs at the back of her neck, a sheepish grin playing on her lips. “I, uh, I maybe went full mama bear on Carol Arbour today.”
Waverly’s brow raises and she drawls, “Oh really?” There’s mirth in her eyes, and she slips off her shoes to settle more comfortably on the couch. “Tell me everything.”
So Nicole recounts a tale of a smart and courageous little girl who stood up for herself resolutely. She talks about growth and learning and honest tenacity. She tells Waverly of the pride and joy that was almost overwhelming because she caught more than a glimpse of the little girl that Belle could be. She saw her standing tall and self-assured instead of retreating into her own mind in an attempt to become invisible.
“Belle made herself seen and heard, Waverly. I mean, we’ll probably have to talk about insulting authority figures at some point, but she did good.”
“It sounds like you both did, Nicole,” Waverly says with so much love and pride. “My two brave girls. My two best girls.”