Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tucker groaned, stomping away from the shared sleeping area where he left Caboose to pout. He’d had it up to here with him this morning, and if Caboose ignored him one more time then he was gonna explode. He burst into the armory, not even flinching as the gun dropped by Donut fired a stray bullet. “Have you guys seen Kimball? I need to ask her something since Caboose is being pissy today,” the Red team robot didn’t bother looking up from the clipboard in front of him, handing out another gun with practiced ease.

“She had a meeting scheduled with Agents Washington and Carolina today around this time.“ Donut nodded along, turning his gaze back to Tucker enthusiastically.

“Lopez is right! We hardly ever get to leave here, why should we know where she is? She’s very busy these days!” Tucker could feel the heat of Lopez’s glare from where he stood, suddenly wishing he had learned just a bit of Spanish if only to hear Lopez no-doubt talk shit about everyone.

“Stop translating for me. You’re making others misinterpret my character. Asshole.”

“You’re right, Lopez! She should visit us here more often! It’s always when people get famous that they forget who their friends are!” Tucker soon realized he was wasting his time and opted to just check her office before subjecting himself to more torture. He ignored the greetings tossed his way as he navigated the halls, hands twitching by his side as his head began to itch in earnest. Her door was shut but not locked, so he held no qualms with bursting in there as well. Kimball and Wash looked up from a video they seemed to be watching, surprised with the urgency in his body language.

“Tucker, what’s wrong?” Washington’s voice was all business, recognizing the full body irritation on sight, whereas Kimball seemed content just watching the exchange.

“My head really itches and Caboose is being a bitch! I need someone to help with my hair!” If Kimball could possibly make herself look any more deadpan behind her helmet, she would have. Agent Washington himself was collecting every ounce of strength in his body not to sigh for fear of dislodging something vital.

“Captain Tucker, you are a… moderately decorated officer of the army of Chorus. I am confident that you can take your braids out on your own.” The level of general irritation in the room was steadily rising, bitter and stagnant.

“Fucking A, that’s what I’m saying! Like I don’t take my braids out to wash my hair or some shit! But its been growing and it fucking itches and I pissed Caboose off so he won’t help me! I’m never letting him put fucking beads in my hair ever again!” There was a collective blink around the room as Kimball and Wash tried to process what they’d been told. Seeing as they weren’t getting it, Tucker removed his helmet, the clacking of beads loud in the large room. They were some combination of wood and plastic, symbols engraved in a language unknown to him, and painted in clay paints of muted colors with the sheen of clear coating. They were obviously handcrafted, some more intricately than others, and they ranged from a third to a half inch in diameter.

“Tucker,” Kimball began breathlessly, removing her own helmet in an attempt to get a closer look at them. Her hands seemed to reach for the beads unconsciously, but still she paused, asking for permission with her eyes. He nodded, irritation vanishing as if it had never existed at the sight of Kimball’s near-reverence. “These in the middle, they’re prophecy beads,” she ran her fingers over the beads tightly woven to the middle of his scalp, bisecting his hair with a mohawk-esque line of silver beads. “They tell the story of your life, and mark you as someone of great importance. The rest of these,” she breathed, hands ghosting over the rest of the beads that made their way backwards from the crown of his head. “Are sier tule, it translates to soul piece. We make these beads by hand early in our career, when we’re young and imaginative, and we hold onto them until we come across someone who we’d follow to the death. You have over fifteen soldiers who trust you more than anyone else on the planet. It’s quite the honor.” Tucker found it hard to imagine that anyone would trust him enough to literally put their lives in his hands if the situation didn’t call for it. He didn’t fancy himself a leader, only ever stepping up in the absence of the real leaders when he had to.

“Do you know who gave these to you, Tucker?” Wash seemed to be slowly gathering his thoughts, hearing about this for the first time. Tucker reached his hand back to touch the beads, feeling a little numb.

“Caboose just...had them after I dried my hair. Begged me to use them because they were special.” They did begin to wonder if the beads had been meant for Caboose instead, but it was hard to believe he would willingly give up something made especially with him in mind. Tucker seemed to visibly shake himself out of a stupor, blinking rapidly as his full attention returned to the conversation. “Still, they gotta come out! Look at all this newgrowth! And don’t even get me started on the sweat! I seriously have to concentrate on not scratching my scalp bloody.” He paused, eyes shifting anxiously around the room as he dropped the act. “I can...have Caboose put them back in after, I guess.” It was added as an afterthought, but it was clear, at least to Wash, that Tucker had planned on putting them back before that.

“Okay! As long as you know they are special!” Tucker visibly jumped as Caboose seemingly appeared behind them, fingers nimbly working to remove the beads from his hair. “I’m glad you let me braid your hair Tucker, even if you are mean sometimes. You remind me of my sisters sometimes. I miss them.” His tone was nonchalant as usual, and it was obvious that he was reminiscing as the first set of beads began to collect in his palm. “Sometimes I wonder if they miss me, but I don’t really think I should see them again. It would only hurt more to have to leave them again.” His hands slowed to a stop, and the others in the room were at a loss for words. “But!” He began, startling the three of them with his sudden outburst. “It is okay because Tucker lets me braid his hair just like Lea and Audrey and Tinsley. But not Mattea. She didn’t like it when I messed up because her hair was reeeeaaally thick.” The second row of beads fell gently into Caboose’s palm, then quickly transferred to the pocket of his sweatpants. It was taking all of Tucker’s will not to scratch at the loose hair like a madman, the release of week long tension making his scalp itch even more.

“How...how many sisters do you have, Caboose?” Washington was hesitant to ask, worried about prompting another quiet spell from the man but wanting to engage with him. Caboose furrowed his brow, seemingly counting them in his head as his fingers worked unconsciously. The repetitive motions helped him think, easily listing his older sisters in order.

“Seven…teen.” He was hesitant only because he had to match the number to a word, but he was pretty sure he got the right one.

“Seventeen?!” Caboose nodded sagely, unbothered by Washington’s squeak as Tucker tried looking back to him.

“Tucker, please do not move! You will make me mess up!”

“Sorry buddy. Thanks for the help.” Tucker could practically feel Caboose beam behind him, and he’d never felt so warm.

“You are welcome, Stupid Tucker.”

Chapter Text

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m not, dude.”

“No, you totally are! There is no way that Caboose can lift that fucking much, Grif.” Simmons found himself in-step with Grif unintentionally under the premise that he was chasing him back to work. He had yet to notice that Grif was steadily leading them further and further away from the training grounds.

“He definitely could; I saw him do it myself,” he hooked another right turn, Simmons quickly sticking back to his side as he planned. For the sake of the argument, that is. Granted, it was a completely bullshit argument, but if Simmons got worked up, he could be persuaded to forget what they were supposed to be doing; it was a tactic that had yet to fail him.

“It’s not humanly possible! I mean, I know he’s big but two tons is a bit much!” A snort forced his way past his lips. He almost can’t believe how easy it is to string Simmons along like this.

“Not humanly possible, Simmons,” he could nearly hear Simmons’ indignation rising up before he even said it. “Caboose could be a cyborg for all we know.” The disbelieving gape of Simmons’ mouth was visible in his body language, both of them stopping in the hall to face each other.

“I’m a fucking cyborg and I can’t do that! And Caboose isn’t a fucking cyborg!” Grif couldn’t hold in his smirk. He couldn’t even begin to explain the satisfaction he felt when Simmons got squeaky.

“You don’t know that! Blue Team literally always has some weird shit going on, would you really be surprised if you found out Caboose isn’t human? And you’re only part cyborg, Simmons. Who knows what the full thing can do!” The false awe he pushed into his voice really seemed to sell it. Simmons drew back a bit, seemingly considering what was said.

“Yeah, they do always have some-- Wait. A full cyborg is just a fucking robot! And I know Lopez can’t lift two fucking tons!” Grif risked leading them into the cafeteria, snagging a few things while Simmons wasn’t paying attention and grabbing a seat, again quickly followed by Simmons.

“Do you know that, Simmons? Have you seen Lopez try and fail to lift two tons, or are you just assuming?” He snarked, reaching for a cup of chocolate pudding he snuck off another soldier’s tray. “And you know what they say about assuming.”

“Pardon the intrusion, but I think I know exactly how to resolve this tension!” Donut’s chirp was nearly enough to startle Simmons out of his skin, while Grif barely turned an annoyed eye. “Be at motor pull in ten! No, five! I'm so amped up I could just burst!” With that thought, he spun around and jogged out of the cafeteria. Grif was tempted to say fuck it and ignore Donut, but he was losing Simmons at the mention of time, and they needed to keep moving before they were discovered. The cafeteria was just about the third place they’d look.

“Let’s go now, or we’ll never settle this argument and you’ll go around thinking you’re right with your little nerdy ‘I’m right all the time’ vibe,” Simmons glared the nasally impression, stomping after Grif as he made his way to motor pool.

——-

“Ready? One, two,” a creak of metal as fingers gripped tight. “Three!” Metal again gave a sharp cry just as Grif and Simmons rounded the corner. “Can you do it one-handed? Try moving once your grip is nice and tight,” Grif was almost angry at how casual Donut was being while Caboose lifted a tank over his head, and trying to get him to do it one-handed? Fucking ridiculous. He was pretty sure that if Simmons was a bit more cybernetic then his jaw would’ve hit the floor and then some, but as it was, he was as close as humanly possible to it. His green eye was blown wide, the red one giving a small series of beeps that sounded vaguely impressed. It was almost cute. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Not even when his face shifted from shocked to child-like wonder. No, not even then.

Simmons got halfway through a mantra of “oh my god”s before it was even audible, let alone decipherable, turning to Grif and pointing like a kid at an amusement park.

Yeah. Definitely not cute. At all.

“See, I told you I’d help release the tension!” That got Grif’s attention. Caboose didn’t seem to be struggling, his hand steady as it balanced a tank as if it were a serving tray.

“.....bet you he could lift two.”

———

“Lower, lower, low- That’s good!” The motor pool was crowded with people now as they lowered a third Scorpion onto Caboose. He hardly flinched at the weight.

“Jesus Christ, remind me never to piss Caboose off,” he hoped Simmons wasn’t passed out by now because he would have to carry him the whole way back to his bunk.”Simmons? You there?”

“Is Caboose God?” His voice was dazed, and Grif couldn’t find it in himself to laugh. He looked back at Caboose as he began to look bored.

“I don’t know, Simmons. I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

As long as he could remember, his father refused to look at him. It broke his heart when he was young, and maybe it still did, to some extent, but it was more of an annoying itch in the back of his mind than a hole in his chest.

He enlisted as soon as he was old enough, stumbling through basic poorly but with enthusiasm. The war was hungry for bodies and the UNSC wasn’t picky, so it hadn’t mattered, but as the war went on, he was getting noticed more and more for his incapabilities. He was a decent enough shot, but he was easily distracted during battles. He was good at simulations, but shaky in the field. He had a sharp eye, but he was too compassionate.

When he saw his father again (for the first time in years), he recognized him by voice alone. The hollow robotic cadence filled his childhood memories, and he had hoped the man had gotten better. He hadn’t, of course. His voice was the same as he remembered, the heavy southern drawl making him feel small as it always had. He made it clear that he was disappointed in his son’s shortcomings, and that he would do better under his hand again. The video call had cut out too quickly, simply a delivery of orders and nothing else. Distantly, he had wondered about his sister.

Elizabeth was different. She was skilled and determined, nothing could stop her. She was going to impress their father if it killed her. He thought it would, at some point. The idea scared him more than he thought it ought to; his distant, prodigious, obsessive sister hardly showed him love after he reached double digits. He knew she was determined to get their father to look at her like he used to, but his father only ever looked away from the hazel of his son’s eyes: the same as his mother’s.

Elizabeth is seven years old. Dad hasn’t left his room in two days. She’s tried knocking, but there’s no answer. She falls off of a chair trying to reach the cereal on top of the fridge. Four year-old David asks her if she’s okay. She lies through her tears, making breakfast alone. They run out of milk. A big purple bruise blots her hip. She doesn’t limp, because David would notice. Dad doesn’t stir. Mom never comes home.

Elizabeth is eight years old. She isn’t even sure their father is alive until they come home early on a half day. She sees his shadow scurry back to his room as the front door creaks shut. David screams. He thinks someone broke into the house. She shushes him. She doesn’t say its their father, instead telling him it wasn’t real at all. She knows he would be more afraid to see the man who used to be their dad.

Elizabeth is ten years old. Their father is a gaunt man. He mutters to himself, but David learned to stop asking. He looks at Elizabeth like she’s a sad memory. She wants to shout that she’s still alive, but he’d never listen. He doesn’t look at David. David learns to stop looking at him, too. Elizabeth and David get their groceries from the deliveryman. He knows them by name and slips in a few extras here and there. David is seven when he starts to struggle in class. Elizabeth fights to stay afloat.

Elizabeth is eleven. Their father has been in the hospital for about six months. David doesn’t visit after the first time, but she does. She watches their father regain a bit of color and weight from the feeding tube. He looks pathetic, she thinks. Her aunt reprimands her for the thought, and takes her back to her home.

Elizabeth is twelve. Their father is released from the hospital. He doesn’t come get them. Doesn’t even see them. They’ve been staying with their aunt for over a year. David is a bit more lively but he’s behind the curve in school. Elizabeth doesn’t help him. He did this to himself. He should have studied harder. Elizabeth doesn’t stop asking about their father until she gets answers. She makes plans to make their father acknowledge her in the dark of her room.

Elizabeth is fourteen. She receives an acceptance letter from a military academy and packs her things. David is eleven. He doesn’t ask where she’s going when she leaves, only gives her a short and awkward hug before she boards. She doesn’t look back. She never looks back, after that.

David is fifteen. He hasn’t seen his sister in four years. He hasn’t seen their father in six. But his aunt is good to him, so he’s grateful. She’s getting weaker, young but sickly and pale. She whispers stories of his mother, how much he looks like her and what a great big sister she was. David huffs a laugh. He wished he could relate to that sentiment. His aunt smiles sadly at him, as if hearing his thoughts. He swallows down his guilt.

David is seventeen. His aunt has been in a wheelchair for a few years. She’s skin and bone, but lively as ever. The doctors give her a few weeks at best, but the hospice nurse tells him she’s doing well. She lasts just over a month, and David holds her hand as she goes, a trembling skeletal thing. She was cold long before she was dead, but her warm smile touched him as she told him she loved him one last time. He cries into that hand, he doesn’t know how long. He leaves a part of him with her in her cold hospice bed. He keeps a necklace with her ashes and her old photo albums. He doesn’t try to contact his father or his sister. He enlists in a matter of months.

He didn’t remember much of his mother, he was much too young when she died, but he felt her absence deeply in the void of their childhood home. The few pictures he could find of them were lively and sweet, and he only wished he’d had that experience. (He wonders, still, if simply having that experience ripped away was what turned his family to stone; if it was worse to have had and lost than never having it at all. He wished he’d had it anyway.)

His father was dead. He had complex feelings about it, but none of them felt quite like grief. For years, he believed Elizabeth dead too, but he wasn’t sure exactly how long ago. (He would’ve grieved her, he thinks, if he weren’t so wrapped up in trying to survive.) Or maybe he had grieved; maybe he’d been vying to please his father like she had in respect for her. He didn’t know. He didn’t remember much from that time.

If Elizabeth were to die now, he’d feel it vividly; the pain would grind in his bones and hum in his brain and ring throughout his ribcage with every breath. She isn’t the only one, either. He found people who helped him feel again. People who helped him learn to love his sister again. People who helped him feel like David again, who helped him see Carolina as Elizabeth again. He’d grieve them, he knows, just as he’d grieve his own sister. So he’d protect them like the precious family they were.

Chapter Text

“Captain Caboose!” Four soldiers in tan and blue armor stood behind him expectantly. The tallest, Lieutenant Andersmith, stepped forward. “We have something we’d like to show you!”

“Is it a surprise? Oh boy! Y’know, I just love surprises, they are just like being scared but with happiness!” He followed behind the soldiers on his command with a skip in his step.

“It is a surprise, sir! We just wanted to thank you for leading us so well and looking out for us!” Private Allenwell, armor accented with sky blue, chirped, wiggling in her excitement.

“Quiet, Bek, you’ll give it away!” Private Takeda, with periwinkle accented armor, was quick to shush her, glancing nervously at their Captain to see if he was suspicious. Caboose, however, was still none the wiser. Private Maksimov, also known as Max, with violet accents, sent them a glare that shut them up.

Caboose loved arts and crafts, it was common knowledge for those on Chorus, and they loved him all the more for it. So when his team approaches him with a necklace adorned with beads, he takes it happily.

“Oh boy! What are these beads for, Mr. Smith?” The smile on his face was wide, and his team couldn’t help but to mirror him. Allenwell was quick to step up, barely reaching Caboose’s elbow.

“Well, sir, these little beads are called sier tule, they’re made special by every soldier, and we give them to the person we trust most! This little one’s mine, and that one over there is John’s, and this one is Maxi’s, and this one is Takeda’s!” Caboose held the necklace impossibly gently, pointing to the bead in the middle.

“What about the big shiny one? Was it Church? Aw, I knew he loved me!” He snuggled the beads close to him, almost hugging them. Takeda felt bad for stepping in.

“A-actually, sir, that one’s a prophecy bead. It’s because Santa declared you the True Warrior!” Caboose blinked, but eventually brought the beads close to him again.

“That’s okay! I love them anyway. They are small and special like you!” Smith volunteered to secure the necklace on Caboose’s neck, careful not to touch the scars lingering there. “My first order as Captain is that we have to have group hugs.” They were happy to oblige.

“That reminds me, sir. Would you be willing to deliver some of these to the other Reds and Blues?”

“I have always wanted to be a mailman! But apparently we do not have those here.”

———

“Sargent! I have some presents for you!” Sarge tensed, in the middle of cleaning his shotgun in private. He didn’t like how vulnerable he felt with it taken apart, the least he could manage was feeling exposed in solitude.

“I keep tellin’ ya son, it’s just Sarge. I’m a Colonel now.” Still, he placed the rag and the barrel on the table and wiped at his hands. “What is it ya have there?” Caboose was happy to pull out three beads, dropping them into Sarge’s extended hand.

“These are very special presents, Mister Red Sargent, do not lose them!” The large man gave Sarge no time to answer, simply turning on his heel and jogging away. He decided not to question it, put the beads in his pocket, and returned to his dismantled shotgun.

———-

Donut found himself eating alone in the cafeteria, if only because he hasn’t seen most of the others all day. He didn’t mind the quiet, he’d gotten quite used to it back in Blood Gulch, and he really hadn’t found the time since arriving on Chorus.

“Admiral Buttercrust! I have something for you!” He was almost surprised to see Caboose’s towering figure making his way towards the table.

“Hey, Caboose! Don’t be shy, whip it out!” The chair creaked loudly under Caboose’s weight, but held just barely. He wasn’t ashamed to say it made him nervous.

“Corporal Croissant, some very special friends of mine wanted me to give you some very special beads because you made them feel very happy!” Donut gasped in surprise at the small collection of six beads in Caboose’s palm.

“Cool! I’ve wanted to get my hands on some beads for a long time! I’ve been looking for some replacements for my reading glasses! They really complete the sexy librarian look I’m going for!”
———-

“-if? Grif? Um, I would like you to wake up, please. I need to give you something.” Grif groaned as he rolled over, his head finding comfort resting on a bag of synthetic wheat grain.

“...izzit food?” He heard a small clacking sound, and he knew the answer, sad as it was.

“Uhh, no, I do not think you can eat these. But! You can wear them as nice earrings! I already made them for you. I can put them in for you? If you still want to nap?” He supposed if Caboose went to all of the trouble, it wouldn’t kill him to wear the damn things.

“Sure, Caboose.”

“Thanks, Grif!”

———-

Simmons was pretty proud of his status on Chorus. While he was a Captain like everyone else, he was also tasked with minor jobs in the small Cyber unit they had. The New Republic had been such a small faction, despite consisting of half the population of Chorus. It was really quite sad, but as a result, most soldiers specialized in more than one field. Simmons thinks it must be an obscene amount of pressure on the young soldiers, but they’d hardly be able to call themselves an army otherwise.

Since the merge, the Cyber unit grew minimally, but in still perceiving each other as the enemy, they were more than reluctant to share information. He remembers having to plead with Morgen, a former member of the New Republic, to share data files with Benson, a former Fed. Needless to say, he had to hack into Morgen’s computer and share the files himself, but he’d noticed most of the Unit was beginning to get along, or at least they managed to be civil with each other. He did wonder if it was strange, that he found it so much easier to work with Cyber than the soldiers under his command, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Jensen was a capable Lieutenant, and she was adept at communicating between himself and her fellow soldiers.

“Captain Simmons, sir? Someone’s here to see you.” Weird. People don’t come to see him. In fact, he was sure most of the other Reds and Blues didn’t even know he worked here. And even weirder still, why have Benson ferry the message to him instead of just coming in? It wasn’t really a high security unit, mostly because there were only seven of them and it wasn’t hard to notice someone out of place.

“Why didn’t they just come in?” He heard Benson shuffle nervously behind him, which was weird too. Weird enough to prompt him to turn from his work.

“It’s...Caboose, sir.” Ah. A lot of things started to make sense. Fed soldiers were still wary of Caboose, very obviously because he was outrageously large, and as observed, insanely strong (enough to carry three tanks without breaking a sweat, apparently). He decided it was probably best to meet him outside.

“Hey, Caboose, what’s up?” He was greeted by Caboose’s wide grin, once again shocked at the sight of Caboose in civilian wear. Before Chorus, he was actually pretty sure he’d never seen Caboose’s face at all, and to an extent, Simmons could understand that. He had been extremely uncomfortable when Grif had prompted him to put down his gun, but since joining the New Republic, Caboose had been more inclined to walk around outside of armor. It was interesting, to say the least.

“Hey Simmons! Some friends told me to give these to you and I see you come in here sometimes so I thought you might be in there. And I was right! Here are your shiny not-candies. Please do not try to eat them. They are for wearing or collecting only.” Simmons cupped the four beads in his palm, briefly watching them roll around as his mechanical eye produced a few curious chirps.

“Uh, thanks, Caboose. But who are these from? What are they for? Are they secretly bombs? Are you guys finally trying to kill me after faking our friendship and they sent you in because you’re the most trustworthy?” Simmons supposed, that wasn’t entirely true, considering he was suspecting Caboose anyway, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. It was a curious thing, after all; to receive small beads from someone anonymous with no rhyme or reason while there’s a war going on.

Caboose frowned in confusion, tilting his head as he watched the beads try to escape Simmons’ hand. “No, I’m pretty sure they are not bombs either. Although…you are also not allowed to eat bombs.”

“Right...that would be bad.”

———-

Tucker was tired. His arms felt like lead and he was quickly beginning to cool. He trudged his way into the room he shared with Caboose, finding the giant on Tuckers bed holding a small cup. It’s opaque, but he can see something shifting as the cup is rolled in the large tanned hands.

“Oh, hey Tucker! Since I always braid your hair the same, can I put some beads in this time?” Tucker sighed, plopping himself on the floor between Caboose’s legs and slowly (and painfully) removing the towel from his head. His arms were obscenely sore from combing and washing and conditioning and combing and rewashing and reconditioning and rinsing his hair, only to then wash his body. He’d never really been fond of putting shit in his hair, and even then he’d never been allowed to have beads in his hair, his father had insisted it was only for little girls.

But fuck that guy.

“Sure. But use a different moisturizer this time; the greasy ones make me really itchy.” Caboose took great care in running the towel over Tucker’s doused locks, before gently combing through it to get any knots. The ball point bristles massaged his scalp, relaxing all of the tense muscles in his body bit by bit. Large hands worked a sweet-smelling moisturizer into his hair, before tying off a large portion of the loose hair. He tensed slightly as a parting comb ran along his scalp, random small knots coming undone under the needle-like teeth. Tucker felt a blanket drape over his shoulders as his eyes began to flutter closed; the soothing feeling of his hair being managed drawing out his latent fatigue.

“Goodnight, Stupid Tucker.”

“Night, ‘Boose…”

Chapter Text

His memories of his mother were vague at best. Essentially, he remembered his parents fighting all the time, and then one day it was just him and his father.

Vernon Tucker wasn’t the friendliest of men, unless, of course, he was drunk. Then Lavernius upgraded from ‘errand boy’ to ‘friend at a bar’. Which was fine, as long as he didn’t mention his mother, or change the tv channel. His father only drank every so often, once or twice a month just to let off some steam.

He knew today was going to be a drinking day as soon as he left his bedroom. Two ten dollar bills were crumpled up on the coffee table, funds for him to buy dinner tonight on his way home from school. They’d have to have something really quick and easy, because making it to the store wasn’t. He’d have to miss the bus and walk to the store, and then walk home, cook, shower, do laundry, and not to mention his homework. He had a science project due tomorrow and who knows what else. He was already tired and he hadn’t even gotten dressed yet. Still, at least his father wouldn’t mind hotdogs in mac n cheese. Or maybe he’d make ramen on the stove, it might put him to sleep faster. Either way, today was going to be supremely exhausting.

But really, Lavernius had an alright childhood. It wasn’t like he was getting beat up or anything. He really just had to take over all of the things his mom used to do as soon as he was able, and while he didn’t have very sweet memories of his mother, he didn’t sweat it much. Moms were overrated anyway. He could cook and clean just fine, or at least, better than any of the women who tried taking his mother’s place. Honestly, he didn’t care what his father did, and he felt no protective instinct over the memories of a mother figure. Time and time again the women who dated his father tried reassuring him that he didn’t have to push them away, or that they weren’t trying to replace his mother, and that he didn’t have to brush them off. He thought they were pretty dumb to jump to those conclusions, considering he never felt that way and they’d never deigned to ask. He ignored them as much as he ignored his father, and he was civil when he had to be. They never stuck around though, not that he could blame them. While his father was handsome, he was stoic and rigid for the most part, and he almost felt sorry for all the women who tried to put in the effort of trying not knowing they’d be the only one.

In highschool he tried his hand in lacrosse. He wasn’t bad, and it was less time he had to spend in a stagnant home, so he thought why the hell not. Their team wasn’t one of the best, but they were alright. He was tempted to turn down the scholarship offered to him (a diversity athlete deal, but a scholarship nonetheless) but he figured it would get him out of that stupid house and he’d be able to breathe freely for once. Of course, he was wrong, and the flagrant and dismissive attitude he stole from his frat mates didn’t go over so well for him. He remembered thinking that he’d rather die than to show his face to his father empty handed after having left without a word. In hindsight though, it’s kinda fucked up that he actually enlisted during the tail-end of an intergalactic war just so he didn’t have to face his shit-hole father who probably hadn’t even noticed he was gone.