Chapter Text
It starts with a phone call. When Schlatt picks up the phone, he’s expecting it to be work-related. Business has been looking pretty good, lately. Better than it has in years , in fact. He’s got this fancy new billboard on the highway, put together by a professional graphic designer and everything. And yeah, he can afford those now. His dingy apartment is starting to not look so dingy, and his nice business suits are finally being put to use. He’s successful , now. Who’s proving their parents wrong, eh? Him .
So, anyway. He’s expecting a work call. New client. Old client, maybe, or even his shiny new secretary . What he isn’t expecting is a man’s voice, sharp and professional, demanding to know if this is the private residence of one Jay Schlatt.
“This is he,” Schlatt replies, because just saying ‘yes’ is how scammers steal all your money. That’s a little something he learned from his pal Quackity.
The caller says he’s from some agency Schlatt forgets the name of immediately. He also forgets the address, and the contact number, and the email. What he does latch onto is the fact that the caller is calling on behalf of Schlatt’s sister— the oldest one. Who’s apparently in jail.
“We tried to get in contact with your other sister — um, Puffy , I believe? Apparently, she’s overseas at the moment, and you are listed as the other godparent, so we are legally obligated to contact you instead.” The caller explains. Schlatt had no idea Puffy was overseas. They don’t exactly talk, much. But hey, he also didn’t know his oldest sister was just thrown in jail for a variety of charges, ranging from awful to really awful, so maybe it’s just a family thing.
“I’m a godparent?” He asks, instead of unloading his family baggage onto the guy.
“...Yes? To your nephew, Tubbo Schlatt?” The caller says. Like Schlatt’s the one not making any sense.
And who the fuck names their kid Tubbo? His sister, apparently, which is honestly another crime she should’ve been arrested for.
Okay, fucked up joke to make, admittedly, but how the hell is he supposed to process this shit otherwise? He’s sitting on a faux-leather couch he and Quackity stole from some guy’s porch, learning from a complete stranger that one sister is across the world and another is sitting in jail for fucking child abuse, among other things, and oh, yeah, and apparently he’s a godfather, now.
The caller says a lot more things. Most of them slip from Schlatt’s mind the moment they’re said. Until the guy gets to the fucking point.
“Sir,” the guy says, “You’re currently his only viable legal guardian. As his godfather, you are obligated to take over legal custody temporarily as we search for a more long-term solution.”
Well. What the fuck is Schlatt supposed to say to that?
“Do I have to?” That, apparently. The man on the other end of his phone line sighs.
“It would make things much easier for Tubbo.” He explains. “He would benefit from being with another family member during this time in his life, just for the transition period between losing his mother and finding a new home. Plus, it makes it easier for us, as we don’t have to worry about finding another family or facility to take him in immediately.”
Schlatt does not reply. He can’t take care of a fucking kid , he wasn’t built for that.
“I’m sure you know,” The man adds quietly, “How difficult it can be for hybrids in the foster care system. Especially rams. Factor in that he is coming out of an incredibly abusive household, and—”
“Is it permanent?” Schlatt cuts in. Fuck this guy, honestly, for bringing hybrid shit into this. For assuming Schlatt is a ram just because his nephew is. But whatever, it fucking worked, so good on him for looking like a jackass and getting results .
“We’re just looking for a temporary home, Mr. Schlatt.” the guy replies.
Well. Al-fucking-right, then.
Schlatt is sitting in a McDonald’s. The guy on the phone said that they should meet up in a non-threatening environment, and one where the kid would have something to do. In a public place, with bright colors and fun activities, and clearly available food. Schlatt personally thinks that the home of the Wretched Clown is the furthest thing from comforting — the place is absolutely crawling with kids, sticky hands, and screaming toddlers galore — but whatever. He orders a Happy Meal for the kid and a burger with fries for himself and waits, leg jumping impatiently. Sipping his diet coke . He ordered a sprite for the kid. That’s what kids like, right?
God, he is so fucked .
At least the agency guy doesn’t seem to think so. Or he’s a pretty good liar. He asked all these questions, while Schlatt was still talking to him on the phone. What Schlatt’s job is, his annual income, any serious medical conditions, what his current housing situation is. Nosy bastard. It seemed like he was pretty much sold when he heard Schlatt has a guest room and enough money to buy the kid some food, so. Low bar, apparently.
“You seem like a perfectly suitable candidate,” He’d said.
“But I don’t like kids,” Schlatt replied. That was sort of the chief problem, here. “I’m not good with them. I just treat ‘em like little adults.”
“If it’s any consolation,” The man had replied, ridiculously earnestly, “You sound like you’ll be a fine legal guardian to me. And besides, you’ll be better with him than your sister was.”
…Very low bar.
The whole conversation hadn’t exactly instilled Schlatt with much confidence. And now he’s sitting here with a cold Happy Meal on this sticky little booth table, shoveling fries into his mouth like an animal. The burger is gone — was gone like ten minutes ago, when he ordered and promptly ate the entire thing in like two bites — so now he looks like a creep who just ordered a giant thing of fries and a Happy Meal.
Then, the door chimes. Schlatt knows it’s the kid. His kid. Or, well, no. Absolutely not. His sister’s kid. He knows because the kid’s got all the same signs of a ram hybrid that Schlatt does, and there aren’t exactly a lot of little rams running around L’Manberg. He’s got a little tail, the ears, and — if Schlatt really strains his eyes — the very beginning of two horns, just barely sticking up out his ruffled brown hair. He’s also wearing a puffy green coat that is way too big for him. Beside him is someone Schlatt can only assume is the agency guy, who he locks eyes with immediately. The man has green hair, which is a weird contrast to literally everything else about him, and a gold tie. He nods in greeting.
Schlatt grabs the Happy Meal and shakes it, just enough to call attention to it. The agency guy nods again before leaning down to talk to the kid. Tubbo . He points directly at Schlatt — or maybe at the Happy Meal — and mutters something inaudible beneath all the screaming children. Tubbo looks at Schlatt, all wide-eyed and curious and shit. Christ, his eyes are huge . And blue . And decidedly human-looking , aside from the pupil. Schlatt’s got no idea where that came from, given his own very non-human hybrid eyes.
The little duo makes their way over to Schlatt’s booth, increasing his heart rate with every step. He straightens his posture and tries to maintain his general vibe without looking too threatening. He’s not going to bother altering his behavior too much for this kid. He raises an eyebrow as the kid stumbles slightly before arriving directly in front of Schlatt, staring up at him with those big eyes. Schlatt has no idea how to guess a kid’s age, but he’s pretty sure Tubbo here is six. At least, if he’s remembering what the agency guy told him correctly. Speaking of which—
“Hello, Mr. Schlatt,” The agency guy says.
“Schlatt’s fine,” Schlatt replies. He looks at the kid. “That goes for you too, bud.” His ‘bud’ only blinks up at him. The agency guy nods, holding out a business card.
“Sam,” He says. Schlatt looks down at the business card as Sam slides himself into the seat across from him, dragging the kid along. The card has a contact number, the name of the guy’s agency, his own name, and an email address. All the shit Schlatt forgot immediately during the call and will forget immediately now. He looks up from the card and— yep, all that information disappears from his head like a fine mist.
“I’m assuming this is for Tubbo?” Sam asks, gesturing to the Happy Meal. The Tubbo in question is slipping off his overly large green coat, revealing a thin-looking yellow t-shirt.
“Yeah,” Schlatt replies. “But it’s probably kind of cold, now. I got it like fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’m sure it still tastes great,” Sam says, annoyingly optimistic. He pulls the Happy Meal towards Tubbo, smiling slightly. “Did you hear him, Tubbo? He said he ordered this for you. What should we say?” He asks. Tubbo looks up from the Happy Meal to Schlatt.
“Thank you,” He says quietly. He’s got a fucking accent. Schlatt wonders how that happened, given the fact that he doesn’t and his sister definitely doesn’t. Well. That’s apparently just what happens to kids growing up in L’Manberg .
“Yeah, no problem,” Schlatt replies dismissively. They sit in silence for a few moments as Tubbo tears into his Happy Meal and immediately focuses on the toy, trying and failing to free it from its plastic-wrap prison. Schlatt is kind enough to tolerate it for about five seconds.
“Eat the food, kid.” He orders. Not unkindly , just… a little impatiently. He doesn’t really care what the kid does, but the plastic crinkling is annoying. The kid immediately freezes, staring at Schlatt like he’s expecting something bad. And when nothing comes, he just drops the toy onto the table and finally starts eating his dumb little chicken nuggets that Schlatt already stole three of. Hey , maybe he’s not so bad at this after all.
Sam sighs. “We should probably establish a few things,” He says, and Schlatt gets the feeling he fucked up somehow.
“Okay,” He replies. Sam nods.
“Good. Tubbo, make sure you pay attention, okay?” He glances down at the kid. Only when he receives a muffled ‘Okay’ , said around a mouthful of nuggets, does Sam continue. “As you know, Schlatt, Tubbo came from a highly stressful environment.”
Christ. “If that’s what we’re calling it,” Schlatt replies dryly. Listen, Schlatt always sort of liked his older sister. Well, loved her, technically, but like, outside of the emotions society likes to assign to certain relationships automatically, he was pretty much just fine with her. He doesn’t even hate her now. It’s just— what the fuck. She was abusive . Like, bad enough that someone called CPS abusive. And she’s an alcoholic, which. Well. Schlatt can’t disparage her for that, because he’s no hypocrite, but he will say that her other, more illegal habits, aren’t exactly great for a kid to bear witness to. Hell, most drug shit is legal in L’Manberg, so Schlatt doesn’t even know what the fuck she was buying to get thrown in jail for it.
“That’s what we’re calling it while Tubbo is listening,” Sam says. Firmly. Right, okay, good call, though Schlatt’s pretty sure his nephew is probably pretty used to hearing people talk about it. “Anyway, coming from a household like that inevitably gives a child, uh, expectations, I guess, about what a child-parent relationship is like.” Schlatt glances at Tubbo, who is looking firmly at the food in front of him. “So, what we like to do for situations like this is establish some rules with the legal guardian, the child, and a social worker. Just so kids like Tubbo know what to expect from their new home. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Schlatt replies shortly, trying desperately to think of ‘rules’. He’s not really a rule type of guy, himself, and if he knows his family — which he absolutely doesn’t, but a guy can make an educated guess — this kid won’t be either. The issue is, when Schlatt gets put in a position of power, his two options are to be completely lax and uninvested or to become a tyrant. Those are his two modes in daily life. And he’s pretty sure neither Sam here nor his nephew will appreciate that.
“Are we really doing this in a McDonald’s?” He asks, stalling.
“We can go to my office or your home if you’d rather do this somewhere more private,” Sam replies. “But, as I said over the phone, it may be helpful to have this discussion in an open, public place. Mostly so it feels less stressful for Tubbo.” Tubbo tunes back into the conversation at the mention of his name, tilting his head to the side in slight curiosity.
“Uh, I think we should do this at my apartment. I can’t hear myself think in here,” Doing this whole thing at a McDonald’s might be less stressful for Tubbo, but doing this at his apartment will be less stressful for Schlatt . Besides, the kid is pretty much finished with his Happy Meal, aside from a few cold-looking fries sitting in the bottom of his little smiley-face box. He’s just looking at his toy, which is still encased in plastic. It looks like a shitty little bee or something.
Sam sighs. “Alright, then. Tubbo, we’re going to head to Schlatt’s apartment, okay?” He says, looking at the kid. Tubbo nods in response, hair flopping into his eyes. Christ, the kid needs a haircut. “Throw away whatever trash you have, alright?” Nodding again, the kid scoots down the length of the booth before hopping out, grabbing the little box as he goes. Schlatt watches him run the length of the restaurant to dump his stuff in the garbage. Across from him, Sam gathers up the little coat.
“You said he’s six, right?” Schlatt asks, sliding out of the booth. Sam follows suit.
“Yes. It was his birthday just a few weeks ago, actually.” He replies. As he stands up beside the booth, Schlatt notices for the first time the briefcase hanging down by Sam’s knees. Sam must notice Schlatt’s noticing because he lifts it slightly in acknowledgment. “This just has a few files in it, some paperwork. Everything you’d need to put Tubbo in school, find a doctor, et cetera.” Right. Documents . Luckily for both of them, Schlatt knows his way around shit like that. “Oh, I’ve also got a bag in my car with Tubbo’s things.”
“...Things?”
“Toys, clothes. The few personal items we were able to collect from his home.” Sam glances at the kid, who is standing by the entrance to the play area on the far side of the McDonalds. Like hell is Schlatt letting him go in that thing. Normally he’d jump at the chance to dump a kid on something that would keep him out of sight, out of mind, and thoroughly entertained, but even Schlatt has standards for that sort of thing. He’s pretty sure that every square inch of any and all McDonald’s jungle gyms is covered in, like, eighteen different diseases.
“Are you listening?” Sam says, suddenly. Schlatt blinks. He definitely was not . Sam seems to pick this up without needing a reply and he sighs, again, before repeating what he’d been saying. “He didn’t exactly have a lot at home.” He explains, still eying the kid. “You’re definitely going to need to buy him some new clothes, some toys, a second pair of shoes at least .” He turns back to Schlatt. “That’s still financially viable, right?”
“...You mean since our conversation from earlier today? Yeah, it’s still financially viable.”
“Great,” Sam says. Then he calls for Tubbo, who swivels around fast enough that he nearly stumbles. Sam holds the coat up. “Time to go, buddy.”
The kid runs back over to them. Sam immediately starts putting his coat on for him, slipping the sleeve onto one arm and then the other. He asks the kid questions as he does so — “Did you like your meal?”, “Have you ever had McDonald’s before?”, “Do you like your toy?” — dumb shit like that, to which he gets the same mumbled response: Yes, yes, yes.
“Let’s head out, then,” Sam says, letting Tubbo zip the coat up himself. “He can drive with me,” He adds, and Schlatt has literally zero problems with that. The kid grabs his plastic-wrapped toy and they make their way outside into that crisp late November air. “Alright,” Sam gestures to a sleek-looking black car on the far end of the parking lot. “That’s us. I’ll follow your car, so we’ll wait for you to head out first.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Schlatt replies stiffly. He’s a shitty driver, so this will be a really fun experience for everyone. Sam nods and heads off, letting the kid hold his hand. The kid himself just won’t tear his big human eyes away from Schlatt as they walk away, clutching his dumb bee to his chest. Someone should really tear that plastic wrapping open for him.
The drive home is (mostly) uneventful. At the very least, it gives Schlatt some time to think about this whole thing.
The good news is, the kid seems pretty quiet, which is contrary to Schlatt’s past experience with children. He only speaks when spoken to, by the looks of it. He listens to what people tell him. He seems like a good kid. That doesn’t make Schlatt any more eager to live with him for who knows how long. The agency guy, Sam, said it could be anywhere from a month to a few months, which is just terrifying. At least he doesn’t have to worry about school anytime soon.
“You should give him at least a week at home to get used to all these big changes,” Sam had said on the phone earlier. Schlatt’s planning on just waiting until winter break starts and ends, because he’s a busy guy and he’d rather not have to worry about school for the first time in years. In the meantime, he’ll take time off work. And he’s got pals he can call in for when he inevitably has to head back to the office. It’ll work itself out, hopefully.
He gets to his apartment complex about ten minutes after pulling out of the McDonald’s parking lot. He pulled some risky fucking manuevers on the highway, but hey, he’s home in one piece. He waits for Sam and Tubbo on the sidewalk right before the front door to the building, hands shoved into his pockets. His breath comes out clouds and hovers in the air. Christ , it’s freezing out.
“Hello,” Sam greets as he walks up. The kid is still clinging onto his hand, shivering in the cold like a poster child for neglect.
“Hey,” Schlatt replies. “Let’s get inside.”