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Schlatt is not normally in the business of dealing with kids . This is a problem, seeing as he currently has a son. Well— not a son, technically. A nephew. But the kid looks more like him than his sister, and he knows Schlatt more than he remembers his own mom. It would be kinda funny in its own fucked up way if it wasn’t his nephew saddled with mommy issues and it wasn’t his sister sitting in a jail cell for child abuse and various drug charges.
It would be kinda funny if it wasn’t the only reason Schlatt isn’t drinking himself to death each night like he used to. The kid can barely stand the sight of liquor. When he was real young, he would forget to breathe when he saw Schlatt actually sneakin’ a sip. So. No more getting drunk (without good reason).
Three years (somewhat) sober, and this “temporary home” thing he’s got going with his nephew is looking a lot more like a permanent home, which would be fine if he could just stop fucking thinking about it. Because, here’s the thing. If his sister could lose her head and start whaling on her own son for just existing, what’s to stop Schlatt from going off the deep end and doing the same thing? It sort of runs in the family. And it’s not like he’s been perfect so far. He still drinks, sometimes, on days when any one of his various business ventures don’t go as planned. He knows it fucks the kid up, but he still does it. Sometimes. And he raises his voice a lot . It’s just how he speaks, you know? He yells at everyone, everything, he thinks it’s funny to act disproportionately mad. The kid doesn’t think it’s so funny.
So, he’s not perfect. That’s fine. But he’s not even good a lot of the time. It’s not like he doesn’t try— he’s never hit the kid, ever . But some people are just made to be parents. He is definitely not one of those people. Not that he’s the kid’s parent or anything, but he’s supposed to fulfill that role and he’s just not good at it.
He’s really more of an uncle, is the thing. Every part of him just screams cool uncle. The ineptitude at dealing with small children, for one. Giving the kid random expensive gifts just because he can and also he doesn’t know how to show affection any other way. Being generally okay with pretty much anything his nephew does, so long as it doesn’t directly bother him in any way. The kid could cuss out his teachers and Schlatt would honestly be more proud than anything.
Look. Bottom line is, he’s a shitty dad. Good uncle, because that’s all he is , shitty dad, because a father is something he is not .
That being said. Sometimes, he sort of has to do a good job. Most of the time, he can scrape by on instinct and hope the kid gets out with minimal trauma. It’s a tricky business, an operation held together by duct tape and hot glue, but it works. Usually. He can be emotionally distant most of the time, fly by the seat of his pants, and at the end of the day, he’ll still be better than his sister. He can get away with guessing what he should do, generally speaking.
And then, sometimes, his nephew comes home crying and Schlatt does not know what to do. Full-stop. He’s never been very good with emotions like that. Quiet grief is hard enough, the days where his nephew is silently stuck in the memories of his mom. Tears, though? Wailing? He’s got nothing. He doesn’t know what to fucking do when the waterworks start. It’s a nightmare.
This particular nightmare starts like this: Schlatt decides to work from home. Fast-forward a solid seven hours later, give or take, and the door to his fancy penthouse apartment clicks shut just loud enough for him to hear. There is silence where his nephew’s voice would normally break the relative peace of the apartment. “Hi, Schlatt!”, “I’m home, Schlatt!”, “Are you here, Schlatt?” and a hundred other variations saved for the days when he’s actually at home around the time his kid is. Schlatt leans back in his big guy leather chair, happy to ignore the paperwork scattered on the table beside his laptop.
“Tubbo?” He calls into the quiet of his apartment. “That you?” Silence rushes in again, for a moment. It’s fucking creepy is what it is, and Schlatt says so. “Hey, you’re creeping me out! Answer the fucking question, kid.” He’s always used fuck like a filler word. He’d thought the kid would be used to it, by now. But he hears Tubbo drag a raspy, harsh breath through his teeth like he’s fighting back a sob.
“It’s me,” He says, quickly. The words burst out of him, wobbly. All in one breath, like if he takes any longer they’ll be cut through by a sob. Schlatt stops leaning back in his chair abruptly, dread sinking like lead to the bottom of his stomach. He stands, despite the weight of it, and starts (reluctantly) towards the front door. The way his apartment is laid out, there’s a sort of short wall jutting out just on either side of the door. Tubbo is hidden between them.
“Are you good?” Schlatt asks. Tubbo must realize his voice is closer because he takes another one of those short, raspy gasp-breaths.
“I’m fine,” He says, just as abrupt and weirdly fast as before. And then he fucking books it, away from the door and up the short flight of stairs separating the main living area from their bedrooms. “I’ll be in my room!” He calls, and then the door slams shut. And he doesn’t come out.
And that’s how Schlatt ends up standing outside his kid’s door six hours later, contemplating his three-year foray into substitute fatherhood. The kid declined dinner a couple of hours before, citing homework. Homework . Like he doesn’t jump on every opportunity to not do his homework and instead spend ten minutes complaining about yet another English assignment that’s all reading . And now, three hours later, he was still alone in his room. Crying.
At least, Schlatt thinks he’s crying. The kid has got a weird fucking cry. All high and shit. Maybe it’s because of his accent. That being said, Schlatt doesn’t, like, laugh about it or anything. Maybe he would if he knew for sure that it was some dumb shit that was making him cry, but for all he knows the kid could’ve been jumped or something on his way home. That’s what he gets for trusting a nine-year-old to take the subway to and from school. Quackity said no, Schlatt, the subway is fucking crazy man, he’s gonna get mugged— well. Looks like he was right, the prick.
Christ. He’s gotta stop drinking to prepare himself for shit like this. “Shit like this” meaning any important conversation, ever. How long has he been standing outside this kid’s door, again?
He knocks. Hard. Maybe he should be a little more gentle with it, but he’s not an expert here. He has a Master’s in business , not knocking. That would be his sister. Knocking as in getting knocked up . Fuck, he’s good.
The maybe-crying stops suddenly. A perfect cut, save for one final sniffle. The silence is absolutely fucking deafening.
“Hey, kid, what’s up?” Schlatt says to the door. Christ, he’s really no good with things like this. Never has been. “I’m sorry I said fuck before, if that’s what set you off. And I’m sorry I kind of yelled it, too. I know you don’t do great with shit like that. I mean, fuck, not s— wait- ” The door opens. Tubbo stands with his hand on the knob, looking up at Schlatt with an odd expression. His eyes are all red and puffy.
“Are you drunk?” He asks, voice light and words blunt. They waver a bit, the way sentences always do after a nice cry, but he manages to get the sentence out without bursting into tears. He’s not much of a crier, anyway. Oh, wait, Schlatt thinks as his brain catches up with what the kid just said. He’s offended, actually.
“I’m offended,” He begins, “That you think I’m drunk. It’s a Wednesday.”
“So? It’s you .” Tubbo says, and damn, he’s got a point. Nine-year-olds shouldn’t be so quick to assume someone is drunk, though. Schlatt’s got his sister to thank for that little instinct. And Schlatt himself, but he is, honest to whatever’s up there, mostly sober these days.
“I’m not even tipsy ,” Schlatt corrects. It’s not even a lie. “And I’m not usually drunk on weekdays. Or even most weekends! I know it freaks you out.” He was shitty with this stuff a couple of years ago, but he’s improved.
“It’s not really a problem.”
“It’s definitely a problem,” One he’s got to be better about. “I’m sorry, I mean it. The bottle is put away, in case you want to talk downstairs. And we are talking, by the way. About…” He gestures, loosely, to Tubbo’s general appearance. “This.” The puffy face, the rumpled clothes, the general aura of distress.
“I’m okay,” The kid replies, in that way kids have of implying they definitely aren’t and would also like to be asked about it. “I don’t want to go downstairs.”
“Well, we can talk here or I can come sit on your bed with you.” The real father shit. Not that he’s anyone’s father (as far as he knows) but that’s the sort of energy he’s gotta bring to this whole thing. Cool uncles can only do so much, afterall. Tubbo pauses for a moment, seeming to consider his options carefully. Finally, he nods and walks deeper into his room, perching himself on th edge of his bed. Schlatt follows, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“Okay,” He says once he’s situated on Tubbo’s bed. “Spill. What’s your deal?”
“School was bad,” Tubbo replies. He pauses, turning something over in that little head of his. “Awful, actually. I hated it.”
Schlatt nods. “Only losers like school, Tubbo. You gotta remember that.” Tubbo nods back. They’re silent for a moment, but it’s better than the previous silence. Less tense. He wracks his head for what exactly he should say next. He’s definitely worried about the fact that school has been upgraded from “boring” to “awful”, but he can’t just say that. He decides to placate his initial fears, instead.
“So you’re not all sad because I said fuck in front of you?” He asks. Tubbo shakes his head no. “And you didn’t get jumped or anything on the way home, right? You got any stab wounds I should know about?” Tubbo shakes his head no again, but this time, he cracks a small smile. Schlatt feels embarrassingly proud for making a kid happy, but hey, it’s better than tears. “So what happened at school, then?”
Tubbo’s smile falls from his face instantly. Was that the wrong thing to say? But he needs to know, right? In case anything actually, genuinely worrying happened. “Your little friend was there, right?”
“Oh, yeah, Tommy’s fine,” Tubbo replies quickly. Good, that’s good. Schlatt’s pretty sure this Tommy kid is Tubbo’s only friend, so every day he’s not at school for whatever reason, Tubbo has a pretty shitty time. At least, that’s what he figured out from the few times he’s actively participated in Tubbo’s Tommy Talks ( when he talks about Tommy). He’s a real sleuth, Schlatt is.
“So if Tommy’s fine, what’s happened?” Schlatt asks. Tubbo looks down at his hands. He likes doing that when he gets all nervous and emotional.
“I had to read in front of everyone today.” He mutters, not looking up.
“Oh, shit,” Schlatt replies without thinking.
“Yeah,” Tubbo laughs. “Oh shit .” Schlatt nearly laughs out loud. Little kids cursing never gets old. Then he remembers what they’re talking about, and he pulls himself together. “It went really poorly. They were all sort of — um, complicated words? And I kept having to wait for the teacher to say them before I could. And— and it sucked a lot .” He brings his knees up to his chest, setting his chin on them. Beside him, Schlatt starts to seeth. Don’t those fuckers know the kid is dyslexic? Who the hell did that teacher think they were, making him read in front of the entire goddamn class?
“And the teacher was so mean!” Tubbo continues, tears building in his eyes. Schlatt freezes.
“The teacher was mean? You mean, beyond just making you do that in front of everyone?” He asks. His voice has slipped into something he doesn’t really use at home, not if he can help it. It’s reserved for business meetings, for clients and employees who get a little too ballsy. Tubbo sniffs.
“I normally wouldn’t care! It’s just— it’s usually not teachers . The other kids say stuff sometimes about how I can’t read, but-”
“Wait, other kids say shit about you?” Schlatt asks, eyes narrowing. Tubbo nods. Fuck . He fucked up. He really, honest to God, fucked up. His kid is getting bullied . “Why the fuck didn’t I know about this?” Too loud, too loud. Too angry. Tubbo shrinks back from him, eyes wide and nervous. The way they always are when Schlatt does shit like this, shit he knows he shouldn’t do. And the kid knows he’s been drinking a little, too— God. God , he’s gotta straighten up here.
“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says instinctively.
“You’re fine,” Schlatt replies, sighing. Quieter. “I gotta watch how loud I get, I know. I’m just— I want to know when you’re gettin’ picked on, Tubbo. I’ll handle it for you.” And by handle, he means walk into that school and strangle a certain English teacher. What kind of sick fuck got a job in teaching just so they could torment some kid?
“It’s not that bad,” Tubbo replies. He picks at his comforter, still further away from Schlatt than before but not actively flinching away. “Tommy is loud, and he kicks really hard even though he’s eight. If he’s with me nobody says anything.”
Well. Schlatt likes this Tommy kid a lot more, suddenly.
“Good, that’s good. I’m glad you got friends.” He says. Friends, plural, because ‘a friend’ is a little too much of a bummer.
“So am I,” Tubbo replies quietly. That being said, Schlatt’s still gonna walk in there tomorrow and throw a fucking fit. Not that he’s really the type to blow up on teachers , but. Well. Special circumstances. In the meantime, however, he’s got something more important to do.
“Listen, kid. Look at me.” He orders. Tubbo looks. “Everyone who’s a dick to you can go screw themselves, okay? Fuck them. You’re a brilliant kid.” He puts a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, just to emphasize the point. Again, the real father shit . Tubbo ducks his head, smiling shyly. He really is a good kid. Schlatt means that.
“Thanks, d— Schlatt,” Tubbo says, looking at his knees. “You’re right. Fuck them.” The swear sounds weird coming out of him. Schlatt chuckles and lifts a hand to ruffle his kid’s hair, standing up from the bed.
“Alright, pal. You need food. You want some mac n’ cheese?” He has. Eighteen boxes of Kraft Macaroni And Cheese (The Original Taste You Love) . Yes, he can afford something nicer. No, he’s not about to give up a lifetime of Kraft just because he’s a fancy businessman with a penthouse now. Plus, Tubbo likes it.
“Yeah!” Tubbo says cheerfully. Case and fucking point. Tubbo follows him downstairs, finally starting to speak a little more as he’d normally do after school. It’s kinda nice, the way he never shuts up about anything, ever. White noise is the term for it, Schlatt’s pretty sure. It’s also pretty nice to curl up on the couch and watch The Bee Movie for the third time this month. Well, no, that’s not really true — if he has to hear Jerry Seinfeld flirt with a human woman for a fourth time this month, he’s going to snap the CD in half. What’s nice is his kid slowly edging towards him on the couch, until Tubbo’s head is on his shoulder without Schlatt even realizing it. What’s nice is shutting the TV off before the extremely loud end-credit pop music gets the chance to wake the kid up. What’s nice is scooping the kid up and carrying him up the stairs to his bed, pretending like his arms absolutely do not hurt like hell. What’s nice is tucking him in and ruffling the hair between his horns.
What’s terrifying is the soft “Goodnight, Dad” he hears after.
It’s quiet as hell and Schlatt knows, logically, that Tubbo wouldn’t call him that if he were fully awake and aware. He just wouldn’t. He’s weird about this whole thing, unsure— just like Schlatt. And listen. He’s not a dad. He’s not . He’s still got so much shit to learn and he doesn’t know, even three years into this train wreck, what he’s doing. He just… wasn’t made to be a dad.
But. He’s starting to think that the universe doesn’t care about that. Tubbo doesn’t care about that. And, well, maybe. He doesn’t have to care about that.